CHAPTER X

Recollections at Random

In the remainder of my personal reminiscences of Texas history, I will say that I do not henceforth confine myself to Bastrop County, but will speak of men and circumstances as they came into my life, were connected with my experience, and now come into my memory. Perhaps they may come with irregularity and confusion, but they are none the less vivid and true, and this record is given with the double desire of casting a mite into the Treasury of Truth and rescuing from threatened oblivion incidents of interest connected with the history of Texas.

I will first tell of the Karankawa Indians,¹ whom I have never mentioned, and whose career among us was not without interest. They might well have been termed giants, for they were most magnificent men in size and strength, seldom below six feet in height. They lived for the most part along the coast and were most remarkable in their skill as fishermen.

When on the warpath their costume and general appearance were quite peculiar and striking. Each warrior painted one-half of his face black and the other red. Then he was entirely naked except for a breechclout or apron, with its long sash, bordered with tassels and fringes, almost touching the ground behind.

He carried a bow as long as he was tall, with arrows of proportional length, with which he could kill game a hundred yards distant. I knew an instance of the terrible force of these arrows which is worthy of note. Aimed at a bear, three years old, that had taken refuge in the top of a tree, it went through the brute’s body and was propelled forty or fifty yards beyond.

It was said by early settlers that they were cannibals, and I remember the experience of one man which corroborated the truth of this report. He was a large, fleshy Scotchman, John Lawrence by name, who worked on Mother’s place, and I have often heard an account of this adventure from his own lips. A band of Karankawas having captured him, they immediately began preparations to eat him, declaring, with evident sincerity, that he was, “A nice fat man—good.” The fire, which was to roast or broil him, was beginning to burn and, being securely tied, Lawrence was already anticipating the excitement and novelty of such a death, when he was rescued by a party of white men. He always believed that they would certainly have feasted on his huge form, and felt, as it were, that he was snatched from their jaws.

They frequently came to Matagorda and other interior points, and generally assumed a friendly attitude toward the Americans, but were always bitter in their hostility against Mexico. This was not without cause, for in the early settlement of Matagorda many of them were murdered and cruelly treated by the Mexicans, and it is a well-known fact that an Indian seldom forgets or forgives an injury.

A company of Mexicans came into Matagorda for the purpose of trading, without fear or any evil design. They barely escaped with their lives, for a band of these Karankawas, under their old chief, Hosea Marea, all painted and armed for battle, appeared upon the scene and would have killed the entire company of traders without delay or mercy, but for the timely intercession of the Texans.

At length, they began to show a spirit of hostility toward Texas. I cannot now give details of all the murders and invasions of which I knew them guilty, but two of them are especially fresh in my mind, and will serve to mark the cause of their defeat and subjugation.

Five men had brought a boatload of supplies for immigrants, and were lying near the mouth of the Colorado, when they were surprised by a band of the Karankawas and all killed except one, a Mr. Clark,2 whose escape seems almost a miracle. Receiving a shot which broke his thigh, he crawled out of the boat into a canebrake, and lay there alone and defenseless, bleeding terribly. In this condition he was striving to stop the fearful flow of blood from his wound, when hearing a slight noise, he looked out and saw two dogs coming upon his trail. His chance for escape seemed indeed a desperate one now, for he felt confident that the Indians had put the dogs upon his tracks, but his relief may be imagined as time passed and no pursuers came. He was in a short time picked up by Americans, and lived to engage in many of the after-struggles of our country, being alive at the close of the Confederate War, when last heard from.

Again, Indians fell upon a white family by the name of Cavina³ and massacred the entire household except the father, who made his escape unhurt, and a little daughter five or six years old, whom they left for dead, having first shot her through the body with one of their tremendous arrows. She recovered, however, lived to womanhood, and as far as I know is still living.

The citizens took prompt measures to avenge and subdue this spirit of cruelty and hostility. Captain Aylett C. Buckner raised as large a force of men as possible and went out in pursuit of them. He attacked them on Battle Island, four or five miles from where Matagorda now stands, and, after a considerable fight, defeated them, forcing them into a treaty. Williams, a participator in this battle, gave me the particulars. He said that after the struggle a squaw with a baby on her back sprang up from some drift where she had been concealed. The women were very large, and he mistook this one for a warrior, so without pausing, shot. Great was his surprise and regret to find he had killed a mother and her child—the bullet having passed through both. The treaty made on Battle Island was religiously kept by the remnant of this giant tribe, which, I believe, is now almost extinct.

I have seen the defeat and subjugation of three tribes here in Texas—Lipans, Karankawas, and Tonkawas. The first named, I believe, are now totally extinct. They possessed finer, more regular features and were the most intelligent and ambitious Indians I ever knew; they were second only to the Karankawas in physical size and strength. The Tonkawas were small and comparatively insignificant, though stronger in number, and living among the white settlers more than other tribes.

In the foregoing description and account of the Karankawas, my memory has lately been somewhat refreshed and aided by conversation with Judge N. W. Eastland, who in an early day lived near this giant tribe, and was thereby familiar with their peculiarities of form and custom.

In the interim between 1839 and 1846, the section of country in and around Austin was the scene of many deeds like this, and nearly always the perpetrators would go unmolested, for never could thieves and murderers find safer refuge than the mountains and cedar brakes about Austin.

There was a man by the name of Schriff killed near Barton Springs in 1837 or 1838.4 He went riding out one evening and did not come home, so immediate search was made for him. From signs, they found where his horse had run, and could trail the animal all through the country, but for some time were unable to discover sign of the missing man. At last, coming back to the place where the horse had first taken fright, they made more thorough search and found him dead and scalped in a hollow on the roadside. He had evidently been going up a steep hill when shot, and, had fallen and rolled into the hollow, and therefore all effort to find the body was, for a time, in vain.

The county judge, by the name of Smith, was another victim. Taking his little son behind him, he rode a short distance out of town to see about stock or something and was killed in a little mot of timber by Indians, who carried off the child.⁵

Again, an old man by the name of White, who once lived in Bastrop County, was forced to abandon his home out on Shoal Creek and move his family into town through fear of Indians. He continued work, however, on his land out there, and with two other men went out one morning to work. He was somewhat used to the tricks and dangers of the times, cautious and nearly always prepared. In the evening, taking his rifle, he walked out to look around for game and to see that the coast was clear. In a few minutes the two men heard a report which they recognized as the crack of his rifle—a very fine, large-bored gun, and immediately another firing followed. His two friends hastened into town, reported, and soon a crowd was upon the scene, finding signs of a considerable fight, but another man lay dead and scalped.

A Mr. Joynes, living in Austin, was standing out in his front yard, holding his little child in his arms, when a band of Indians came riding up to the house and introduced themselves as Tonkawas, “friendly Indians.” He stood till one of the warriors made a grab at the little child and tried with all his might to pull him out of the old man’s arms. The father held to his child, however, and at length succeeded in wrenching him from the Indian, and ran for the house, whereupon they shot, killing him at his own door.6 I received the particulars of this from Colonel Joe Lee, who was the first man to reach the scene of the tragedy. He says he found the mother trying in vain to pull an arrow out of her child’s arm, while her husband lay dead at the door.

A widow, Mrs. Simpson,7 who lived at the edge of Austin, suffered greatly. Her little son and daughter were out at play not far from the house and were captured and carried off by a band of Comanches. This occurred only a day or two after Hays’s fight on the Guadalupe, and the Indians of course had vengeance and wrath in their hearts, so that people naturally expected that little mercy would be shown the children. As quickly as possible, however, a body of men went out from Austin to overtake the Indians, and, if possible, regain the captives. On the trail as they went up the river through the mountains, they occasionally found pieces of the girl’s dress, which had been torn off by thorns and branches in the flight. These shreds of calico were all, however, and finally the trail was lost, so the men were compelled to return to the bereaved mother with no tidings of her little ones.

Some time afterward the boy was regained. He gave a touching account of what he saw and felt while in the hands of the savages. He said his sister seemed to be crazed from terror, and would persist in fighting the Indians most furiously all the time, despite his repeated warning and begging her not to provoke them, assuring her that they would certainly kill her if she did not become calm and less troublesome. Still the poor child fought and struggled, till, when five or six miles above Austin, two Indians dragged her off over a mountain. They returned to the band bearing a fresh scalp to tell the tale of horror concerning the fate of his sister. Guided by his description of the locality, the neighbors once again took a search for her body, and found a skeleton which was supposed to have been that of the little Simpson girl.

Sometimes the citizens would arouse themselves and make extra effort to secure peace to their homes and security to their lives.

In 1840 or 1841 the Indians made a raid of unusual atrocity and a squad of men went out in pursuit. They followed a plain trail all day, and could note signs of gaining upon the savages as they advanced. At dusk they found the water still muddy and unsettled in a branch which the Indians had evidently just crossed. It was too dark to discern the trail further, so they decided to wait and watch for the gleam of a campfire.

After a while a ray of light flashed down on them from the top of a bluff close to the river. The men waited a little longer, so that the savages might be asleep and at their mercy. Finally, the time for action being at hand, they slipped cautiously around and almost had the entire band in their power when one of the horses neighed and betrayed them, so the Indians fired the first shot, severely wounding a Mr. Black, though none of our men were killed. Nearly all the Indians were soon killed, and in the excitement one of the warriors spurred his horse off the bluff, down a height of fifty or sixty feet, and the mangled body of the horse was afterward found below, but no sign of the desperate rider was ever discovered.

Then in August of 1842 a company of about thirty men attempted to procure provisions and ammunition for an extended Indian campaign. We camped at Shoal Creek, about three miles above Austin, awaiting recruits and supplies, and sent to the arsenal for ammunition, but the man in charge refused to open, declaring that the store of ammunition was very small. Upon this some of our men threatened to enter the arsenal by force. He said that such a move would be made at the risk of their lives, as he had muskets so arranged that at the slightest touch of violence they would fire into a keg of powder. After a good deal of talk he told us that, having no authority from Houston, it was impossible for him to take the responsibility of admitting them, at the same time assuring us that if we took the key out of his pocket by force, unlocked the door, and went in, he would be clear and no harm done. We found only a few pounds of old musket balls and very little powder. See the store of ammunition at the capital in 1842! Our enterprise had to be abandoned, but we lingered through there till next day.

In the previous spring, while on the Vasquez campaign, the Texas army had camped there, and in priming their guns the soldiers had fired a great many shots into the trees around, and now some of us walked about cutting the bullets out of the trees, where we had lodged them in the spring. The day following our departure for home, the Mr. Black who was wounded in the fight on the bluff, was riding through there with a friend, and both were killed on the very ground where, twenty-four hours sooner, William Barton and I had wandered cutting out rifle balls.8

In 1843 two young men, Coleman and Bell by name, were riding in a buggy just below Waller’s Creek, and suddenly found themselves surrounded by a band of Indians. The horse became frightened and upset the buggy, and the savages killed Bell and captured Coleman. Several men, among whom were Joe Hornsby, James Edmondson,* and a Mr. Johnson, were just starting out of Austin for home when they came upon the Indians driving young Coleman along, who was almost naked, and bleeding from a lance wound in the back. They immediately made a dash and rescued him, at the same time giving the Indians a considerable chase. Several shots were exchanged, but nobody else was hurt.9

Joe Hornsby was riding a fine horse belonging to Anderson Harrell,* which was shot through the nose just below the eyes and died from the wound. At dark the chase ended; the little squad of men returned and found two horses saddled and tied, which they carried with them into Austin. Their owners were never discovered, so they were both given to Anderson Harrell to somewhat pay him for the loss of his fine animal.

All these tales of wayside murder and desolated homes may seem out of harmony and far removed from the scenes and people of the present. Yes, many who looked upon the grand parade and ceremony attendant upon the laying of the cornerstone of our capitol (March 2, 1885) may fail to see the connection and may deem this record of old-time tragedy and suffering simply “a tale that is told.”

There are a few of us, however, who can never forget how much it has all cost—this prosperity and development in our land. Of course, Wealth, Enterprise, Intellect, and indomitable Energy, have contributed their part.

There were noble men, who lived to lead in the great work, and justly “achieved unto themselves an undying glory.”

But we knew of others. Aye, we knew them well, whose blood helped pay for all these advantages. Theirs was no unimportant part in changing the little Waterloo into the prosperous capital city of Austin.

There were brave men who dared the dangers all in vain and fell in all the vigor of hope and courage, leaving helpless women and children amid the wild lawlessness of an unsettled country. Ah! To my mind they served most faithfully, and paid by far the highest price for the glory of Texas.

I myself commenced in my fourteenth year and served through the siege of 1874, during Coke’s administration.10 At that time I was captain of Company D of Jones’s Battalion.¹¹ We encamped about a mile below Menardville on the San Saba River. My wife was with me. Our tent was about two hundred yards from the main encampment. One night a considerable force of Indians came along right at us, even riding over my hack tongue. My wife woke me with the information that she heard Indians crossing the river. I had some scouts out and thought they were coming in. I listened for the song or laugh or whistling which usually accompanied the march of American parties. The silence of the force was evidence enough they were Indians. A number of Dutch wagons with bells some distance off had attracted their attention and they positively failed to see us as they moved steadily, almost noiselessly forward with their shields glittering like diamonds in the moonlight. I took my gun and stood guard while my wife and boy went to alarm the main campers. Next morning we started in pursuit, running about twenty-five miles, but we never could overtake them. Evidently something must have aroused their suspicion for they were wide-awake and in a hurry. They turned back without committing any depredations, leaving the Dutch campers with their jingling bells to go on in peace.

That night we moved camp to Elm, a small stream running into the San Saba River. Scott Early and William Fravick were sent after beef. They soon came upon a party of Indians and returned, reporting at once. Lieutenant Dan Roberts12 with a squad of men was immediately sent out in pursuit. They struck the Indians’ trail, pursued it about ten miles, and came up with them; then a running fight ensued. Results: five Indians killed and one captured, the celebrated Little Bull. He ran on foot and hung on to the horses’ tails until he was almost exhausted. Finding both flight and fight impossible he threw up his hands and turning, ran to meet Lieutenant Roberts. Not one of our men was hurt. Roberts and another man had horses shot from under them. Major Jones’s escort came up just as the fight was over and we chased the Indians into a cave. Insufficient guard gave them opportunity and they made good their escape. A moccasin was found shot through and a great deal of blood all around proved that one had received a serious wound. From all attending circumstances we were satisfied that not one Indian ever reached his destination.

In about one month another party of nine Indians made a raid in between the San Saba and the Llano. We chased them out, killing three of the little band. I was sixty-seven years old in August [1889] and the very thought of those stirring old times makes me feel a degree of excitement even now.

During the administration of Lamar and Burnet the situation of our Republic was one of intense and almost unabated excitement. Early in 1839 Canales succeeded Filisola in command at Matamoros, and strove in all possible ways to incite the hostility of the Indians against Texas. In March came the Cordova Rebellion, which has already been described. Then came the attempt to establish the Republic of the Rio Grande, in which not a few of our Texas soldiers took part, and which resulted in the famous betrayal and triumph of Colonel S. W. Jordan and his 260 men at Saltillo, on the 23rd of October.13

President Lamar was not only opposed to annexation, but also to all conciliatory treatment of the Indians, and changed the policy of kindness as advocated by Houston into one of hostility and exclusion, proposing to “mark the boundary of the Republic with the sword” if necessary. Of course, this tended to increase the complications and arouse the hostility of the savages, whose hunting grounds were so rapidly passing from their possession.

In 1840 came the treaty with the Comanches at San Antonio, resulting in the killing of the warriors, which has also been described. Then in August came the atrocious raid resulting in the Battle of Plum Creek. And now, in October, Colonel John H. Moore* made his second raid14 against the Comanches, more telling in its effects than his previous one, wherein nothing was accomplished. An advantage at one time secure and promising was ignored, and like all neglected opportunities, brought disaster, defeat, or nothing. It is not only by the mistakes of others, but also by their own past blunders that wise men rectify and improve their lives. So Colonel Moore had some light from the raid of the previous year to guide him now.

He commanded between eighty and ninety Texans, and was accompanied by a small band of Lipans under their celebrated chief, Castro.¹⁵ All necessary preparations for an extensive campaign had been made, the army carrying along about sixty beeves. Going up the Colorado and on to the Red Fork, they noted frequent signs of Indians in the curious pictures and hieroglyphics on the rocks. Even a rude, uncultured savage toys with art, and unconsciously pays tribute to various branches of science, proving it to be one of the natural instincts of humanity to find pleasure in mental exercise.

Noting their grotesque drawings and further on finding pecan hulls just lately scattered, indeed, the signs became so abundant and fresh that the command, concluding that the Indian encampment was very near, stopped in ambush under a mountain, while Castro sent out a few of his warriors to reconnoiter. The little detachment started early in the morning and was gone nearly all day. Our men grew restless and impatient as the hours dragged along without alarm or adventure. The old Lipan chief gave special signs of uneasiness, and when evening came with no sign of his scouts, he went out on the mountain top and stationed himself “like the watchman on the tower,” eagerly waiting and watching.

At length, he called to the men below, and pointing westward, said his scouts were coming, and moreover, he said they had discovered an Indian village. Afar off, two or three miles, he had seen and understood their shield signal, and thus knew with what success their efforts had been crowned long before they reached the army. Sure enough, they came, ready to lead the way to the enemy, and the army immediately took up line of march, reaching the Comanche village in time to make the attack by daylight next morning.

The charge was made on horseback this time, taking one item from past experience—i.e., never to leave horses behind without guards. The savages were completely surprised, but made some resistance as they were driven into the river, falling as they fled before the determined Texans. Some were shot in the water and were drowned, while others lived to reach the other side of the river, where pursuit and search were still continued, for the Indians hid themselves with their characteristic cunning and quickness.

Judge Eastland and Charles Shuff of Fayette County had quite an amusing little adventure in this battle. They came upon an Indian lad about fourteen years old, who instead of surrender or flight made bold and persistent efforts to defend himself. Their first impulse was to shoot him, but seeing that he was a mere boy, they concluded to take him alive if possible. But even when they had closed in around him, snatching up a mesquite limb he kept them at a respectful distance, flailing right and left as they endeavored to catch him. Another gun was raised to shoot him, but Judge Eastland interposed and knocked it up, claiming that the boy deserved to be spared for his bravery and pluck. So, after some time, he was captured, together with thirty or forty others, while a great many were killed. Indeed, it was impossible to estimate the number they lost, many being killed in the village, in the river, and in the prairie across the river. It was said that the water was red with human blood, but the waters of the Red Fork of the Colorado are always clay-dyed. However that might be, the slaughter was terrible, and this raid was a considerable blow to the Comanches, the most deadly and most persistent of all our savage foes.16

A great deal of the plunder found in this Indian village was recognized as that taken from Linnville the previous summer, and this was doubtless the identical band which had made that raid.

A curious relic of civilized government and times was also found here upon one of the slain warriors. A silver medal, anchor-shaped, bearing date and seal of the United States to an Indian, but hardly to a Comanche, for that tribe cherished eternal hatred and hostility toward the white man, and it is a subject for curiosity to think how came this memorial from the highest power in our land to be treasured by one of our most bitter foes. Strange, with their cruelty and inhumanity, they possessed a rude idea of beauty, and were fond of displaying their taste for trinkets and trumpery.

The wounded Indians were left in one large wigwam in care of a few squaws, and our men, after destroying the rest of the village, struck out for home. All the way back to

Austin they were troubled by small bands of Indians, who dogged them incessantly, but skillfully escaped being caught. The Indians strove in every way to get some revenge or satisfaction, and when on the Pedernales even dared to crawl in through the guards, stealing four horses, including the fine saddle mule of Colonel Moore.

As soon as they had gone out of line of danger, they gave a keen and triumphant yell, which aroused our men, but being unable to find any Indians, all retired again, resting under the impression that they had acted under a false alarm. In the morning, though, the missing horses revealed the theft of the night, but it was too late for pursuit, so they came on, arriving at Austin with plunder, horses, and prisoners—and no loss of life in the fight.

One of our soldiers, however, died on this campaign, being seized with sore throat. This man, Garrett Harrell17 by name, developed a choking “quinaz” [quinsy?], something very similar to, if not identical with, diphtheria.

The citizens of the now thriving young capital city were exultant over this successful campaign and gave a splendid ball in honor of the returning soldiers, nearly all of whom attended. A ditched field below Waller’s Creek was selected for penning the horses, and as they were at home, guards were stationed only at the gate. While the ball went merrily on and the sentinels at the gate stood at their post, feeling secure in their vigilance, the persistent savages slipped around, filled up the ditch, and stole thirty or forty horses! So our men were partially foiled at last, and once again quite a number were compelled to walk home.

The French Minister, M. de Saligny,¹⁸ who lived on the edge of Austin, taking a great fancy to the young Indian lad who had wielded the mesquite brush so vigorously, received him as a present from the Texas soldiers. His subsequent history furnishes a somewhat amusing instance of the cunning and daring of the Indian, even in childhood. The residence of the minister was on a hill commanding a good view of the surrounding country. Gradually the young Comanche grew into his new life, until he seemed to feel at home and satisfied, so that he was allowed many privileges. His apparent content and good conduct won confidence, until he was trusted almost anywhere. In the evening he would ride the fine saddle horse of De Saligny all around, while the French consul would sit on his gallery and watch him without thought of fear or suspicion. Thus for a considerable time he would ride gaily around day after day, coming in every time.

One evening, however, he rode his usual round, then enlarging his circle, he went round again, and still enlarging the circle further and further, until he circled out of sight, and was never more heard of.

Judge Eastland brought home from this raid another bright, fine-looking Indian boy, eight or ten years old, whom he named Sam Houston. His succeeding history was not without interest.

Arriving at home all very dirty and very tired, Judge Eastland and Captain Dawson went immediately to the creek for a bath, taking the captive boy with them, who watched them with evident distrust at every turn, but not knowing English he could neither understand nor be understood. The weather was very cold, and they put some water in a pot on the fire to be heated; meanwhile the boy evinced greater alarm and uneasiness all the time, as he watched with increasing excitement their every movement. Months afterward, when he had learned to speak our language, he gave an account of his fear and its cause. He said he felt absolutely certain that they intended boiling him in that pot. They cut off his hair and then dressed him in shirt and breeches, and it was indeed comical to notice how awkward he seemed in his new garb.

He was very apt, soon learning to speak English with perfect ease, and became much attached to the family, calling the judge “father,” as did his own children. After he had been here for years and was quite a large boy, he was demanded by his tribe after a treaty and exchange of prisoners. He seemed very much distressed, even weeping bitterly, and when finally forced to go, he declared that he would not live among Indians; he said he would stay with them a while, then steal some fine horses and come back to “father.”

Years afterward Colonel [John R.] Baylor, who was government agent among the Indians, saw a Comanche warrior whom he recognized as Sam. The Comanche at first feigned not to know him, but at length acknowledged his identity with the little captive boy. Now he was grown and married to one of his own tribe, with neither the intention nor the desire of ever returning to civilization.

Some time later, Colonel Baylor heard a great sound of wailing and lamentation among the Indians. Upon inquiry he learned that Sam Houston with his entire family had gone out on a thieving expedition, and all had been killed except one who escaped to tell the news, and hence this loud distress.

The oldest man I ever saw, at least judging from appearances and every available sign, went out under Castro with this command, and I think often of the poor old Lipan warrior, known as “Pole Cat.” He seemed completely dried up; he was bald-headed except for a few scattering hairs, which were long and as white as snow. He scarcely seemed like a living man, entirely within himself. He went along unarmed and took no part or parcel in the questions and pleasures which agitated his comrades. At length, one of our men asked him why he came on that campaign, so old, so feeble, and without arms.

The broken-down old Lipan, pointing long, bony fingers to the mountains and valleys around him, answered slowly and with effort, “I came to take a last look at my old hunting grounds!”

Ah! Old warrior, you felt that your dim eyes would soon close forever! You thought of the wonderful changes you had known and would know as you gazed upon the wild scenes, amid which you had reveled when your heart was young and strong! But these mighty changes were not confined to your own waning life and strength. You are gone to your “happy hunting grounds” and so, too, that prairie and wildwood are among the things of a dead past, hewn down and buried by civilization and progress! Many of us cannot repress a sigh of something like regret or sadness as we watch new worlds of action and of life rise above them, while the resources of our land are being developed, and we are justly proud of Texas, yet we can understand something of the feeling which impelled that warrior to toil along that dreary march of near three hundred miles “to take a last look at the old hunting grounds!”