CHAPTER III

Mexican Invasion

We come now to the fall of 1835, when without reservation or mercy Mexico threw aside all obligation involved in the treaty of 1824¹ and became so despotic in her dealings with Texas, as to venture to seal her authority even by force of arms at Gonzales. This unwarrantable piece of tyranny and oppression of course aroused every loyal Texan, and there was a general rallying to arms and preparation for war.

I was a boy in my fifteenth year,² but was remarkably large and stout for my age. Besides, by constant practice, possessing by nature a good eye and steady nerves, I was an extraordinary shot, and as our citizens one after another took up arms and left home to face the Mexicans, I began to use every effort to gain my mother’s consent for me to enter the army. It was all in vain, however, and she positively refused to give ear to such a thing until the siege of the Alamo, when a new call came for men. Then, with several friends to intercede in my behalf, we finally overcame her scruples and objections, and she consented. Since I have grown older, I know it must have been a trying ordeal for the lone woman to give up her oldest boy.

I enlisted in Captain Billingsley’s company,3 which was organized about ten miles below Bastrop, at what is now known as the “Old Burleson Place.”⁴ About the first of March, 1836, we struck out for the appointed rendezvous, which was Gonzales. Ah! As I found myself among old friends and acquaintances, with all of a growing boy’s appetite for good beef, bread, and adventure, I thought there had never been such fun as serving as a Texas soldier marching against Mexico.

Reaching Gonzales, we joined Edward Burleson’s regiment, which was already encamped there and awaiting recruits. In about two weeks our commander-in-chief, General Sam Houston, came, marking quite an era in my life. I thought I had never seen so perfect a model of manliness and bravery, and my admiration knew no bounds.

Calling the men together at DeWitt’s tavern in Gonzales, he delivered a short speech setting forth in stirring words the complications of troubles that threatened our Republic, finally closing with a rousing appeal to every Texan to be loyal and true in that hour of need and peril.5 I yet consider him about the finest looking man I ever saw, as he stood over six feet tall, in the very prime of mature manhood. Things began to wear a more serious aspect now that I comprehended more fully the situation in all of its bearings, and in the still hours of the night as we lay and listened to the low ominous rumbling of cannons at San Antonio, I felt that we were engaged in no child’s play. I now began to take in all of the responsibility, danger, and grandeur of a soldier’s life.

While at Gonzales awaiting recruits, tidings came to us of the fall of the Alamo on the 6th of March, and of the terrible loss of 180 men, besides the band of 27 Texans who during the siege made their way into the fort and were all slain.⁶ Many of the citizens of Gonzales perished in this wholesale slaughter of Texans, and I remembered most distinctly the shrieks of despair with which the soldiers’ wives received news of the death of their husbands. The piercing wails of woe that reached our camps from these bereaved women thrilled me and filled me with feelings I cannot express, nor ever forget. I now could understand that there is woe in warfare, as well as glory and labor. Immediately after these tidings we were removed to the east side of the Guadalupe River, where the soldiers were at once set to work throwing breastworks and making every preparation for battle.

A heavy gloom seemed to settle upon our men after the fall of the Alamo, and the oldest, most experienced soldiers could be found at all times collected about camps discussing the situation of affairs, and it would have been amusing to note the widely different views of the various questions under consideration, if they had not been of such vital importance to our Republic and her citizens.

It was a generally conceded point that the oncoming of the Mexican army was simply a question of time. Some thought Houston’s most prudential course would be a retreat, while others more daring and impatient, clamored to “stand and fight unto death! Never retreat!”

One evening Mrs. Almaron Dickinson was sent to our troops from San Antonio—she and her child were the only white persons who were spared in the terrible massacre at the Alamo. She came to warn us to be in readiness for the advance of the Mexican army. Our spies corroborated her testimony by stating that they had seen three or four hundred cavalrymen approaching.

Houston at once dispatched a reconnoitering party to discover how strong and how near were the approaching forces. At the same time, collecting our men, he proceeded to draw them out in battle array. Here and now I first took my stand in the ranks for impending action, and the prospect of immediate battle had but the effect of increasing my ardor. I felt equal to any charge with my big rifle, and grew more eager for the conflict as it seemed nearer. I remember I stood beside Sampson Connell,* an old soldier who had weathered the storms of many years and had stood at the front in many struggles. He had served under Andrew Jackson back in revolutionary times, giving from personal experience and observation all the details of the famous Battle of New Orleans and others. I can never forget the expression of countenance and the tone of voice with which the veteran soldier addressed me. Looking down almost pityingly upon me in all of my boyish inexperience, he said, “John, you are too young for this kind of business! You ought not to be here. You stay in camp and take care of the baggage!” I felt that this appeal was almost an insult to my dignity as a soldier, and looking him straight in the face, I answered zealously, “No, sir, I am here to fight, and would sooner die than leave my place in the ranks.”

The preparations were in vain, however, and my courage for the time being remained untested. The reconnoitering party, after a short absence, returned and reported the alarm entirely false. A large herd of beef cattle, which were being driven beyond the reach of Mexican invasion, had in the distance assumed the appearance of an advancing army. Houston now made another short speech to his men, and I can recall the ring of confidence contained in its closing words, “Why,” he said, “three or four hundred Mexicans would be as nothing to this force of Texans!”

Between ten and eleven o’clock that night, we were ordered to get us a day’s rations and make ready for retreat. After a very brief period of bustle and confusion, each soldier fell in line with “knapsack on back and rifle on shoulder.” My knapsack consisted of about two pounds of bacon wrapped in a large Mackinaw blanket. We took the road leading into what is called the Burnham neighborhood in Fayette County, and after a tedious march camped the first night on Peach Creek only about ten miles from Gonzales. Now, after one day’s steady march, carrying rifle, ammunition, and rations, tired and sleepy, I began to realize what endurance and fortitude are required in a soldier’s life. Immediately after early breakfast the next morning we were once more formed in line of battle and then ordered to fire, prime, and reload our arms, whereupon we again took up the line of retreat.

Here occurred my first disappointment in General Sam Houston, and some may regard it a small matter, but the sensation of surprised and wounded pride, mingled with indignation returns to me even now, when I recall the circumstances. I suppose he must have noticed how very young I was, and how tired I seemed, for having a Negro riding along behind him, he ordered him to dismount and told me I could ride a while, at the same time bidding me to ride immediately in advance of the army and not get too far ahead. Ah! Being tired and footsore, I mounted the horse and felt that I would be willing to die for Houston, who was thus proving himself not only a great general, but also a kind friend to his men. The horse was very spirited, and I, becoming absorbed in the scenery and my own thoughts, allowed him to go a little too fast, and was rudely aroused and shocked by the voice of my hero saying, “God damn your soul! ! ! Didn’t I order you to ride right here?” Of course he had cause to rebuke me, and I was thoroughly aware of the culpability of my carelessness when it was too late, but his passionate harshness and curse insulted and outraged my self-respect, young as I was. Turning and dismounting, I gave the horse to the Negro’s charge, declaring that I would rather die than ride him another step; at the same time I again took my place in the ranks.

With those few harsh words, General Houston completely changed the current of my feelings toward him, and my profound admiration and respect was turned into a dislike I could never conquer. In the subsequent history of our State, when he was candidate for her honors, my vote was never cast in his favor, for memory was ever faithful in bringing back that loud curse and my feelings as I listened.

After a steady march of three days, on the evening of the fourth day we reached our destination, the Burnham neighborhood, where we lay encamped, still ever and anon receiving recruits. General Burleson occupied a twofold relation to me, being not only my commander, but also he had been my guardian since my father’s death.7 After a few days’ stay there, he detailed four of us: Greenleaf Fisk,* Edward Blakey,* Walker Wilson* and myself to come back to Bastrop and look after the families, which had been left there, and among which was my mother. At the Grassmeyer place⁸ we met eight or ten families, others having already gone on. Here I set in as a regular hand, driving cattle and helping in all the “ups and downs” of refugee life. And a terrible life it was, especially to the women and children. Exposed to the most disagreeable weather, wading by day through mud and water over the very worst of roads, and tentless at night, it was tedious and hard beyond description.

In Washington County on the Brazos River we met some of our neighbors, who having left the families safe at old Washington were on their way back to Bastrop County to collect and run off stock from the invading Mexicans. Sam and Andrew Neal,⁹ Bob Pace, and old Hugh Childress* composed the party, and they brought word from my mother that I had best turn back and help them.

I was relieved to try anything new, for the work of moving the families was not only hard, but exceedingly monotonous. We came in great haste to Bastrop, fearing we might find Mexicans already there. We found Colonel [Robert McAlpin] Williamson,* or Three-legged Willie, as he was called, with a small company of men, stationed there for its protection. I remember my shoes were worn almost entirely out when we reached Bastrop, and Colonel Williamson presented me with a pair of good boots which were indeed acceptable.

We crossed the Colorado and collected all our cattle at Judge Smith’s place, a mile west of the river, then they went back to the town, leaving only Andrew Neal and myself to guard the stock. We felt the full danger and responsibility of our position and kept a close watch around us, to be ready for any emergency. Very soon we saw a man whom we decided was a Mexican spy coming on the Old San Antonio Road—just the right direction for the advance of the Mexican army. We shut the doors and pulled out a chink in order to see and to shoot if necessary. Soon we saw five or six more men and what seemed like a large Mexican force approaching. We left the house and broke for the river bottom. Immediately the army seemed to charge or rush after us, and lo, upon a nearer approach our Mexican spy proved to be a Delaware Indian who had been trapping out on the San Saba and again the advancing army was a herd of cattle being driven beyond the reach of invasion. The Delaware was fresh from the woods and knew nothing of the existing war. He had a horseload of beaver hides, the first I had ever seen.

Our men soon came on from the prairie with the balance of our cattle, and next morning we swam the river, and moved on with them. I recall a remark of Hugh Childress here, which while it was a droll and original one, seemed almost prophetic in the light of subsequent events. He called out to us in a hurry, “I smell the Mexicans now.” Sure enough, we just did get away in time, for the very next day Cos’s Division ran Williamson’s company out of Bastrop, taking possession of all cattle and everything that had been left there.10

This, the “First Runaway Scrape,” as it was justly called, ruined the prospects of our people and left us literally broken up. In the first place, most of the men were in the army and wagons or ways of transportation were very scarce indeed.

When we reached the families¹¹ at old Washington-on-the-Brazos with our cattle we found them in great alarm and confusion, having heard that the Mexicans were at Bastrop. Immediately the work of moving commenced, and such moving! That spring of 1836 was the wettest I ever knew. First, after crossing the Brazos, we had to raft across two or three bayous, and all along we worked to our knees in mud and water. It was pitiful and distressing to behold the extremity of the families, as sometimes a team would bog down, and women with their babies in their arms, surrounded by little children, had to wade almost waist deep in places. One very large lady, Mrs. Wilson, bogged completely down and could not move until pulled out by others.

It took us a whole day to traverse that Brazos bottom, a distance of only four miles! As soon as we reached dry land, we camped, and after one day’s rest, struck out for the Sabine—getting near the United States. The road was simply terrible, and upon reaching the Trinity River at Robbins’ Ferry,12 we found that stream five miles wide and the bank was literally lined with families waiting to be crossed over, there being only one small ferryboat. Following the old, just rule of first come first serve, we had to wait a week before our turn came to be put across.

Just as we were getting on the ferryboat, we heard news of the Battle of San Jacinto on the 21st of April, but doubts were entertained as to its truth, there being so many false alarms flying through the country all the time. Going on five or six miles farther, however, we learned the particulars of the battle—the capture of Santa Anna, etc., which relieved us from present dread of Mexican troubles. After a week’s rest, the refugee families scattered, some going farther east, while a few, among whom was my mother, came back to our same old home in Bastrop County on the Colorado. We had a pretty hard struggle getting along about then; two houses in the town had been burned and the country was sacked of everything except a few hogs.

It was now about the first of May, but the settlers hustled around and soon had good prospects for a late crop. Then we occasionally had good beef. Some of the settlers, among whom were the Hornsby, Duty, and Rogers families, moved out of Bastrop and on to their respective localities above, and were trying to make a late crop. But now after a singular session of quiet in that quarter, Indian troubles began once more. The first tragedy occurred in the Hornsby neighborhood.

Messrs. Williams, Haggett, and three Hornsby brothers were at work in a field about a half-mile from old Reuben Hornsby’s house. Williams and Haggett were working some distance apart from the Hornsby brothers, and seeing a band of ten or fifteen Comanches riding up, were naturally alarmed, but as they came nearer they saw that the warriors bore a white flag, which was always a token of friendly intentions. They therefore stood and were brutally shot down, after which the wretches made a rush for the Hornsby brothers, who ran for dear life, swam the river, and lay concealed in the bottom until dark, then crawled cautiously up to their home, expecting to find the inmates all dead, and Indians perhaps still there. Upon their approach, they found everything quiet. Fearing some trick, they hesitated a moment, then by way of a venture threw a stick at the house, whereupon their father spoke, and upon going in there was indeed a joyful meeting, for all were safe.13

Immediately after this a second murder occurred, equally cruel and unprovoked, and of course, the excitement and alarm increased among our citizens. Reuben Hornsby, in moving back to his home after the Runaway Scrape, had thoughtfully taken a supply of ammunition and it became generally known; the neighbors would frequently go to him for ammunition. Jim Craft,* Joe Rogers,* and another man had been there for ammunition and were on their way home. Within a mile of Joe Duty’s house,14 they looked back and saw a band of Comanches charging in full speed upon them. There was a terrible race and they, at length, overtook Joe Rogers and killed him with a lance, in sight of the house.

Again, Conrad Rohrer went out to saddle his horse and was shot at his own gate¹⁵ by an Indian who had crawled up and awaited his opportunity. At the firing of the gun thirty or forty Indians ran off. The excitement became so intense and the Indians so bold in their outrages that all the families again left their homes and got together in Bastrop. Men went out from town in armed squads, and worked their farms together, still tugging away at their late crops. Even this did not afford security from the savages, however, who seemed constantly on the alert.

Matthew Duty* and Mike Hornsby were driving cattle into Bastrop, when, noticing the cows in front raise their heads and give sign of seeing something unusual, they suspected that Indians were coming, and just did get home in time to escape a band of Indians who were pursuing hard behind them. Soon after this, Matthew Duty, who belonged to a squad working the Duty neighborhood, rode out one evening to look over the crop. He was just out of sight when guns were heard and in a minute his horse was seen coming back at full speed, without his rider. Blood on the saddle corroborated the dark truth suggested by the shots, and runners springing upon their horses broke for Bastrop. A squad of men went out and found him killed and scalped.

In the midst of all the excitement and horror of these Indian outrages, news came to us of another Mexican invasion. A fresh panic at once seized the families, and we had the Second Runaway Scrape. All of the families had gone in this escapade except the Woods, Berrys, and Harrises,16 and they had crossed the river and camped at the Cunningham place,¹⁷ about fifteen miles below Bastrop. At sunrise the next morning eighteen or twenty Comanches stampeded the horses, running them off, and one of our men, Alex Harris, barely escaped being taken by them. Realizing the danger of the route, they decided not to go on by the Gotier [Goacher] Trace as first intended, but to come back and go down the river to La Grange. Arriving at the Barton place, three men, among whom was Monte Woods, had to go back to the Cunningham place for some stock or something that they had left behind. When about three-quarters of a mile from the house, they heard loud calling and screaming from their friends, and looking back, they found that the Indians were behind them, having come between them and the house. Now came a race for life, and a rough race it was, too, for the ground was just newly plowed. Several shots were fired, though nobody was hurt.

We suffered a good deal of uneasiness concerning some friends, Mr. Grassmire [Frederick W. Grassmeyer*] and Mrs. Orkenbor, who had already gone down the river in a flat boat, taking what plunder they could to La Grange. We thought the savages would surely find and kill them, but somehow they, too, escaped and reached their destination in safety.

Some of the Crafts had moved their families into the Cole’s settlement in Washington County and were on their way back to their farms in Craft’s Prairie. In three miles of home, coming to what is known as the J. D. place, a small cabin situated on a bluff belonging to J. D. Morris, they stopped to have lunch. While eating they heard a low peculiar hum of a song, but could not tell from whence it came. It aroused them, however, and they got their guns, when lo, a band of about eighteen Indians came up the hill. They evidently were not expecting to find white men there, for upon seeing them, they whirled and retreated in double-quick time. Old Captain Jim Craft shot and one warrior fell, or pretended to fall, then jumped up and ran on, whereupon there was a hardy laugh among them. They stopped across the creek in the prairie and a few shots were exchanged; then, seeing the Indians were too strong for them, the white men retreated. There was a half-mile run through an open prairie, then seeing the savages in pursuit, they dodged into a thick post oak country and escaped unhurt.

The Second Runaway Scrape did not affect us as much materially as did the first, for it was not so wet, and when in fifteen or twenty miles of Washington-on-the-Brazos, we received news of Mexico’s interior war, or war on herself, which quieted our fears from that source, and having brought our cows with us, we stayed awhile very comfortably. At length, however, Coleman and Billingsley brought companies up the river to protect the families, and we came on to Bastrop with Coleman’s company.18

Once more the families stopped in town while the men came out into the prairie planting and working the farms, again in squads. In the fall of 1837 three families—the [Elisha] Bartons, Aliens, and ours, the Jenkinses [Sarah Jenkins Northcross*], moved across the river back to our old homes, where we found good crops awaiting us.

And still Indian assault and murder constantly threatened us. About now a man was moving a family of Negroes to Bastrop by way of the Gotier Trace, which lay through a perfect wilderness. When in about a day’s travel of the Cunningham place, seeing some Indians and becoming alarmed, he drove very hard to get to the settlements that night. Failing, however, they had to camp on the Gotier Trace. They used every precaution, to be ready for the Indians, first tying their horses, and he or a Negro standing guard. Sometime in the night an Indian was discovered behind a tree with a bearskin extended, which he would shake, trying to get the Negro to fire off his gun at that. But the Negro was too smart, so the Indian finally concluded to kill him. Again he was foiled, however, for the Negro being wide-awake noted his every move and fired at the same time, both shots taking effect, the Negro’s arm and the Indian’s thigh being broken. All ran off and left an old Negro woman asleep in the wagon. Coming on, they reported the attack. General Burleson took a squad of men and hastened to the scene. They found the woman unhurt, but the wagon plundered. Striking the trail, they followed it a short distance, when they were startled by a gun snapping near them. Looking around they found the wounded Indian, who was pluck to the end. Killing him they came home, without further pursuit.

Robert M. Coleman along now held a small fort19 on Walnut Creek, and one night from this fort our men saw a bright fire blaze up, away over on the west side of the river, near where Austin now stands. Immediately our light was put out. The soldiers knew the hill from which the light gleamed and after watching shadows come and go between them and the fire, they decided to go and investigate the matter, being very certain that the light was an Indian campfire. Lieutenant Wren, with a few men, was dispatched to the hill, near which they came upon eighteen or twenty horses staked out. Now came a dilemma. Of course, they knew Indians were very near, but in the deep, still darkness, who could tell where? Having secured their own and the Indian horses, they commenced crawling around, looking for the sleeping warriors. As good luck would have it, an Indian coughed in his sleep and thus revealed their whereabouts. Wren then got his men together and crawling near waited for daylight. Just at dawn, before it was light enough for action, these savage children of the woods lay and answered the hoot of the owls and the whistling of the birds, all unconscious of their impending danger. Suddenly, as if suspecting or hearing something, one of the Indians arose to his feet and seemed listening. Joe Weeks had been appointed to fire and signal for attack, and an Irishman, Tom McKarnan, thinking it time to shoot, said in a loud stage whisper, audible all around, “Plug him, Weeks!”

Seeing they were discovered, Weeks did “plug” him, whereupon all fired and the Indians broke for a thicket close by. Just as they were entering the thicket one of the warriors, turning, fired one shot, which struck one of our men right in the mouth, killing him instantly. This ended the skirmish and bearing their dead man, our men came home without further action.20

Burleson, having heard nothing from the Gotier family in some time, grew uneasy, and went to see about them, fearing Indian assault. A terrible sight met his eyes upon arriving there. Five members of the family lay dead, and the rest gone, supposed to be prisoners. I will give the particulars of the horrible affair just as they were given to me by a surviving son, who was among the captives and still relates the tragic story.

Old James Gotier [James Goacher*] and two sons were at work in the field a short distance from the house. Mrs. Jane Crawford, a widowed daughter of Gotier, was in the house while the old lady was rendering out lard in the yard; the children were at play nearby. She sent a little boy and girl to the creek after water and very soon she saw an Indian coming from the creek holding the girl by the throat to prevent her from screaming. They had choked the girl until she was bleeding at the nose. The old lady screamed to Mrs. Crawford, “Jane, the Indians have got your child!” and running into the house she seized one of the guns, which the men had very carelessly gone without. Jane begged her mother to let the gun alone, knowing that if the Indians saw her with it, they would kill her, but she raised the gun to fire and was killed in the act. The men in the field, hearing the gun, rushed in upon the scene unarmed and were also killed. The Indians then captured Mrs. Crawford, two brothers, and a little girl three or four years old, and struck out on foot for their village, making the captive woman carry her child and a bundle of salt. She became so tired that she concluded she would have to leave her child, and putting her down, started on, but hearing her call, and looking around, she saw the little one tottering along, trying to follow her. She turned to go back, and the Indians whipped her with quirts, or bowstrings, to her child and back, literally cutting the flesh with their blows.

They kept the unfortunate woman with her two children for several years, often treating her most cruelly. At last, however, deliverance came for them. An old trapper by the name of Spaulding found her, bought all of the family from the Indians, and married Mrs. Crawford—bringing them all back to Bastrop.

I will now give another little Indian raid, merely as an illustration of Indian cunning and running ability. Thirty or forty Wacoes and Tawakonis made a raid on the Ebbins neighborhood about twelve miles below Bastrop and robbed the house of J. D. Morris, who would doubtless have been killed if he had been at home. Burleson, with fifteen or twenty men, took their trail, soon tracing them to a cedar brake on Piney Creek, about four miles above Bastrop. He then sent three men, Jonathan Burleson, Hutch Reid, and another man ahead as spies. The first thing they knew, they rode right into the Indian encampment, and were fired upon. They wheeled to run, but Jonathan Burleson was hemmed on a bluff nearly thirty feet high and made his horse leap the tremendous height. They all made their escape and got back to General Burleson “without a scratch.” They reported the Indians too strong for our small force and said they were in a cedar brake only three miles from town.

Burleson at once sent out runners for more men, and in a short time a few recruits came in. The trail was very easily found and followed. The men rode at half-speed sometimes and in a lope all the time except over bad hollows.

On the waters of Yegua Creek, about an hour and a half by sun, they came in sight of the Indians, who stopped in a steep hollow, tied a horse they were leading, and pretended to make ready for a fight. A shot or two were exchanged. Our men were ordered to dismount and get into the hollow just above them. They struck down the hollow, expecting every minute a volley of shots. Upon coming to the spot where the savages were first hid, they found nothing—all were gone. They mounted immediately intending to pursue them, but could find no sign of a trail anywhere, only here and there a moccasin track, showing where one had been running, and no sign of their ever coming together again could be found. Mrs. Spaulding, formerly Mrs. Crawford, who was at the time a prisoner with this band, afterward told us that nearly all of these warriors died upon coming into camps. They had killed and eaten some fat hogs on that trip and that, together with their terrible run, had killed them.

The next Indian raid was a very bold one. A band of Comanches came in daytime and rounded up about fifteen horses belonging to our citizens. As many as could secure horses mounted and started after them. Following them about eight miles, they came upon the thieves just in the act of changing horses, i.e., riding the stolen horses and resting their own. Immediately a running fight commenced, and the Indians were at last forced to run off and leave their own horses, which we secured. Nobody was hurt on our side, although Dick Vaughn’s* horse was killed beneath him. It is strange that men could be so careless and could neglect matters of such vital importance. It might almost be called criminal carelessness, for knowing the dangers to which the families and property were exposed, they never held themselves in readiness. In this particular instance men were charging upon Indians with rusty guns that would snap and flash and fail entirely. Out of a company of ten or fifteen men only two could fire! Hugh Childress ran right on an Indian who was riding a fat pony and his gun snapped, and he had to see horse and thief go together. Why, sometimes, when a call for men came, they would find themselves compelled to mold bullets before they could move!

In 1838, William Clopton went hunting in the pine hills near Bastrop, and found unmistakable and recent signs of Indians—saw where they had killed and cleaned a deer. Coming back to town immediately, he tried to raise men to see about it, but could get no help, some claiming to be too busy, while others were too indifferent even to render an excuse. That night Indians came into town and shot two men, Messrs. Hart and Weaver. Then men roused Clopton and were loud in their talk of following the murderers when it was too late, as he very justly reminded them. No effort was made to catch the wretches, and the unfortunate men being buried, the citizens pursued the even tenor of their way, ignoring the fact that such deeds of violence if unnoticed would pave the way for others of greater daring.

Very soon after this Samuel Robertson and a man named Dollar were out making boards on the Old San Antonio Road, about three miles from Bastrop. They had stopped to rest a while, when suddenly about fifteen Indians charged upon them, killing Robertson, who fell over on top of Dollar, giving him a terrible shock or jar. The Indians then chased him to a steep hollow near the river, where they hemmed him in. Jumping from his horse and swimming the river, he made his escape. The poor man was fortunate only to be unfortunate, it seemed, for he was doubtless killed by Indians, or by someone soon afterward. Determined to leave this country and go back to his old home in Tennessee, he bought a horse and disappeared, and was never more heard of, but through letters from Tennessee, we learned that he never reached home.

Robertson was buried, and still men took no pains to find and punish the murderers.