CHAPTER XIII

From the Sublime to the Ridiculous

There is but a step from the sublime to the ridiculous, and we are often forced to take that step all along through life. I am driven into this extremity at the present writing by the importunity of certain friends who beset me on sight with gentle reminders of some of the “jokes” at my own expense, which they hold treasured up against me, and as my reminiscences proceed, they grow more and more uneasy lest I should fail to recollect and record these important (?) facts.

Hence, from the toils, sufferings, fatigue, and dangers of army and prison life, I would bring my friends to the quiet and comfort of my boyhood home, and proceed to relieve my mind by satisfying theirs, assuring them that I have no intention of shrinking from the facts in my life, even though they may expose laughable blunders. After all, what is better than a good hearty laugh?

First, there is that everlasting old story of “The Buttons.” It is not only queer, but exceedingly vexatious, how these downright good jokes, no matter how we try to crush them to the earth, will rise again and continually confront us, demanding recognition and acknowledgment at all times and seasons. We can neither outgrow nor kill the recollection of these absurd mistakes and blunders of other days, and whether we choose or not, will have to “face the music” throughout.

Now, there are practical jokes—capital jokes, so called—whose perpetrators almost deserve capital punishment, and whose victims often suffer untold horrors of agony and pain. Of all such “crimes” I would wash my hands, but where a man originates and perpetrates the fun, and is the butt of his own joke, whether intentionally or unconsciously, why all men everywhere can afford the luxury of a good laugh.

This “button” incident occurred back in our young days, when the only store in Bastrop was a little old elm log house, kept by Dr. [Thomas Jefferson] Gazley, and the entire stock of goods might have been carried on one horse. Though little, it nevertheless did quite a thriving business. Butter, chickens, eggs, indeed all home produce, was taken in trade; and while our men were on duty abroad, our good women could carry on this exchange in their own peculiar province. My experience in the field and forest had been rather more extensive than in trade and commerce, and even now I am somewhat more comfortable on a camp hunt than in shopping, a fact of which I think my friends are right well aware.

I was a mere boy, and Bastrop was comparatively an infant. Mother sent me one morning with butter to Dr. Gazley’s, at the same time telling me that I must bring her back some buttons. Catching my horse, I asked just as I rode off, “How many buttons?”

Misunderstanding my question, she answered, “Four pounds.”

It never entered my head once to be surprised or puzzled at the immense quantity of buttons she demanded, but going on to Bastrop and delivering my butter, I informed Dr. Gazley that my mother wanted four pounds of buttons.

I will never forget his look of amusement and surprise as he protested, “Surely, you are mistaken! Your mother cannot want four pounds of buttons!”

I stood my ground firmly and vehemently; indeed, I grew downright mad when I found myself unable to convince him that she really wanted the specified quantity of buttons.

And finally he became more serious and somewhat puzzled as he remarked, “Probably your mother is trying to make fun of my small store and still smaller stock of goods!”

At length he prevailed on me to carry home two dozen buttons, and I left feeling almost furious as he said, “Why, John, there’s not a store in New York containing four pounds of buttons!” How my mother laughed when I went in with my little card of buttons and very indignantly informed her that, “I tried to get the four pounds of buttons, but Dr. Gazley would not let me have them!”

This is the true story, now, friends, and the obvious reason was that I simply thought she said four pounds of buttons when its was four pounds of butter. From boyhood until now in my old age, the memory of those buttons has abided with us, and at this late day one may occasionally hear in our household the caution, “Now, don’t go and get four pounds of buttons!”

Secondly and lastly, long after my marriage, when Billy [William Edward Jenkins*], my son, was quite a good-sized boy, I committed the absurd blunder from which arose the standing joke of “The Auger Handle,” which has been and is still repeated with endless preludes, interludes, and variations. Nearly every time I ride into town some one of my interested (?) friends asks a question, or makes a remark, which seems to insinuate that I will take care not to record that incident among my reminiscences of the past.

But I will record it freely and fully here and now. Behold, these are the plain facts in the case:

I bought an auger—a fine auger without a handle, and procuring the good solid heart of a post oak, proceeded to make a stout handle, a splendid handle. By the way, it was a considerable job, requiring some little time, labor, and patience, “quartering out” the timber, fitting it to the auger, etc., but after a while it was finished, and I was very complacent at the idea of having it ready for the first emergency. Near time for plowing I needed a rake, which with the help of my new auger I soon made, and proceeded to try it immediately. A worrisome round with unruly steers, and lo! I had put only half enough teeth in my rake, needing just as many more, a tooth between all the other teeth.

I was very tired, very warm, and very mad when I sent Billy in a run for my new auger and waited impatiently, taking no inventory of plan for the necessary work until he came.

Then throwing the rake over on its back and placing the auger, I tried to bore a hole. It would not turn all the way around because it would strike the teeth. The brilliant conclusion that the handle was too long exasperated me, and snatching an ax I cut it off short enough to revolve between the teeth. Then I finished my rake and worked on the stubble field until noon. After eating dinner, while resting, I remarked to my wife, “I ruined my new auger handle after all my work!”

“Why and how?” she asked. I explained how it was too long to turn between the teeth, and I had to cut it off.

“Why, John,” she said, “Why didn’t you turn the rake over and bore from the topside?”

Springing to my feet I poured forth unbounded abuse upon my head, making an oft-repeated statement, which she always hears with an appreciative smile, “I never did have one particle of sense anyhow!”

Well, there is some shadow of consolation and allowance to be found in the remarkable fact that many famous men of genius and power struggled hard and in vain to conquer that “abstraction or distraction known as absence of mind,” which is not only an affliction to its possessor, but often an infliction to his friends. It is said that the famous Ben Jonson once failed to recollect even his own name.

By previous appointment and arrangement I lately spent a day gleaning some facts from the memories of a few of my dear old veteran friends, and desire to chronicle informally the pleasant and interesting data and items gathered as they talked in free and familiar terms of the olden times, when they were young and Texas was in danger and they stood ready to dare even death for her welfare and safety. It is like an interesting dream to thus drop out of the present and let the mind fall back into a forgotten state of affairs which existed a half-century ago. Last Tuesday at Captain Grady’s home in Bastrop, we were found wandering away back fifty or sixty years as two old soldiers talked it all over, with occasional comment and suggestion from Sarah, which added no little to the value and interest of their recollections.

“Time brings many changes, John!” It was a trite remark but its full force came home to me as I tried to imagine what they were thinking. From the white hairs, somewhat enfeebled frames, and the scenes of hardship and danger and fun through which they had passed, I caught a faint glimpse of them as they stood in the wilds of young Texas, revealing the strength and hope and life of a vigorous youth and a broad field of adventure around and before them. Troubles and trials, like all of life, die and yet come to be only a memory and after fifty years men bring into an hour’s conversation the most terrible suffering and the most comical situations.

First came a hearty laugh over a false alarm, and exclamations upon how a man can run when he realizes that death is hard behind him. It occurred along in 1841 when previous depredations had been frequent and daring, so that the settlers were constantly on the outlook for the Indians. Captain Grady and a friend were traveling between Gonzales and La Grange, and stopped for the night at young Vanham’s house, which was only a short distance from his father’s home. After supper they suddenly noticed a bright light, evidently a large fire, seemingly upon the identical locality of the old home. All grew much excited and the son cried out in alarm that he knew the Indians had killed his mother and father and were burning up the place. They made all possible speed in reaching the scene, but the mail rider who formed one of the party, went a nearer route. He soon discovered that the flames were simply from burning brush and started back to quiet the fears of the boys behind. Riding along, while yet out of sight of the excited trio, he suddenly launched forth with all the power of powerful lungs into a curious kind of French or Dutch song, filling the night air with a most unearthly yell or chant. Thinking it was the triumphant war song of the savages coming on to finish or continue their work of destruction—all turned, and then came a merry race for life. Captain Grady being unable to keep up, hid at the roadside and watched the “fun.” He declares that no man ever turned more quickly or ran faster than young Vanham when the strange song burst upon their ears. He actually leaped over bushes as high as a man and seemed almost to fly.

Then the chat drifted backward to 1834 or 1835 and they told of an interesting adventure or event of that period, all regretting their inability to recall names. Two men with their families were traveling on Little River, in the bottom lands, when they were stopped by a band of twenty or thirty Waco Indians, who made every sign of friendly conciliation, begging for tobacco, provisions, etc. The two travelers were not inexperienced in Indian warfare and kept a strict watch on every movement. At length, one of the warriors, waxing over-impudent and bold, climbed into the wagon, whereupon the white man knocked him out. It was rather an imprudent act, but the Indians went their way showing no sign of resentment or anger. On a little further, however, they shot from behind trees upon our travelers, giving one of them a severe wound through the body. They fought on and kept the cowardly savages at bay, though their chief did manage to slip around and steal a lead horse from one of the wagons. Mounting this he beat a hasty retreat, lying down on one side of the horse to evade or escape the flying bullets which pursued him. Reaching the river he plunged in, and was nearly across when curiosity or a sense of security got the better of his prudence, and he raised his head, just a little in order to look back, when a ball struck him exactly in the center of his forehead, and he sank under the dark waves, and as usual his followers fled, panic-stricken at the loss of their chief.

On the old folks talked, soon bringing up a tragedy of later date, occurring in 1860 or 1861, probably. Wofford Johnson was well-known all through here, having lived in this country for a number of years. He had with his wife and children been spending the day with a friend and was on his way home in the evening. He was entirely unprepared for danger, unarmed and unsuspecting. Suddenly a band of Comanches came upon them, killing the wife, husband, and one child, throwing the other into a thicket near the road. Next day neighbors and friends went to bury the dead and were puzzled to find no sign of one of the children. Hoping it might possibly have been spared they sought and called eagerly and constantly but could get no answer. The fate of the missing child was a mystery. Finally, Mina, the Negro boy who played with and watched over the little ones called aloud and alone. The familiar voice roused the child and quieted his fears so that he answered from his brushy hiding place, where he lay more dead than alive, from fear and the exposure of the night.

Then Mrs. Grady gave an interesting account of some troubles and adventures of which she was thoroughly cognizant at the time and which I think are worthy of mention in this irregular chronicle of early times. Mrs. Wheat, wife of one of our old fellow countrymen, moved from these parts and settled about seventy miles above Uvalde County where these thrilling scenes were enacted. It was about 1850. Her father was killed by Indians and her life was surrounded by fears and tragedies. Some of her nearest neighbors, the entire family again, had been visiting, and in the evening were quietly wending their way home. Coming to a point where the road diverged, the wife with the little ones took the nearest way home, while the husband went the other in order to find and drive home the cows. Upon reaching home, he was filled with surprise and dismay to find no wife and little ones awaiting him. Hurrying back along the road they were to come, he soon came upon them dead, cruelly murdered by the Indians, who, “thus upon the spots most wild and lone and fair, when peace seemed resting in the very air, would gorge their battle-ax with blood,” and slay “e’en wailing babes and shrieking maids, and matrons brave and calm.”

A rare bit of local history came up as the talk went on and I learned all about the first grave ever dug in Fairview Cemetery, at Bastrop. A child of old Marty Wells was buried first on that hill which now bears record to so many sad hearts and still homes around. The little grave was dug by Bill Duty and Bob Pace.

Then Captain Grady went over the time when our men were called to San Antonio in view of Mexican invasion. He told how Vasquez captured all our spies except Ben McCulloch, who escaped, and sent in proposals of a cessation of hostility till four o’clock—how before that hour orders were issued for all ammunition to be destroyed and preparations be made to evacuate the place. All was chaos and confusion. Kegs of powder were thrown into the river. Liquors and cigars were plentiful and very soon many of the soldiers were dead drunk, while nearly all were in a mild (?) state of intoxication. Jim Kincannon gave rise to an amusing excitement which might have resulted seriously for some. Mounted on his horse, he seized a powder keg under his arm and rode along pouring out the gunpowder in a stream behind him. Jack Bibb, with reckless and grim humor, sang or said in a loud and distinct tone, “Hark from the tomb!” and at the same time touching the lighted end of his cigar to the stream of gunpowder. A wild scene of panic, confusion, and laughter followed, but no damage was done. Then came some wrangling and division as to how to dispose of the artillery, but finally they decided to remove them with ox teams. When ready to take up the line of march, lo, some of our men were too drunk to move and were lashed to the cannons and thus borne out of San Antonio.1

Marching to Seguin and finding no sign of invasion they returned to San Antonio to find it literally sacked and in a terrible state of desolation. It was then that the banker, John Twohig, burned up his splendid storehouse and valuable stock of goods rather than see it fall into the hands of the Mexicans.²

I have promised Jack3 a chapter on panther hunting, but since there is little of interest or excitement in such sport, I will just add what I know about them to this chapter. My experience in connection with this timid animal will doubtless seem very tame to the children, for all of us can remember how our early years were haunted with terrible tales of terror—cruel, horrible fears as we in imagination could hear the strange wild cry which was said to be very much like the wail of a child or the scream of a woman in distress. Yes, we all used to hear how they would by their weird wailing decoy people and destroy them. A great deal of experience with them in later years taught me the fallacy of such tales, for I always found them very wild and timid and easily killed.

Once on the trail of a panther the work of hunting and killing was about as simple and exciting as squirrel hunting, and I never knew one under any circumstances to show fight—always running a very short distance and taking to a tree, whence one could easily shoot and kill. As to the weird wail like the cry of human distress, I recall only a loud, hoarse mewing like the me-ow-w-w of some tremendous cat—a doleful sound, however, and rather terrible to young and inexperienced minds. This was quite a familiar sound among our woodland echoes years ago, and was considered no sign of danger except to hogs, colts, and other small animals.

I have known only a very few instances of men being hurt by them—I remember one Tonkawa whose body bore scars from wounds caused by a panther. An animal of the same species used to haunt our woods—the “Marsh Tiger,” so called—a large bobbed-tail wildcat which was justly considered much more dangerous, but it would be a rare accident for any of these to straggle in here now, so our children will not likely ever see one. The young panthers, like a fawn or leopard, are spotted, but as they grow older the spots disappear, leaving them of a light, brownish-red color—very much like the color of a deer in the “red season.” They rarely ever were lean or poor, for being skillful and incorrigible hunters, they feasted upon the fat of the land. They were very powerful, as well as active and quick, and would often kill horses, hogs, chickens; even a full-grown buck was killed as quickly and easily by a panther as a mouse is dispatched by a cat. I never saw one being weighed, but a full-grown panther would measure at least nine feet from end of nose to tip of tail—the tail alone measuring from three to four feet in length. In appearance, they are simply a specimen of huge house cat.

Our earliest settlers were much troubled with their raids upon our small animals. Col. Wylie [Abraham Wiley] Hill* and I lived near together and owned good dogs, and we used to have frequent occasion to meet and go panther hunting. I remember an incident which occurred on one of these little hunts, which was indeed a hairbreadth escape to me. One of his finest hogs had been killed by a panther. He sent for me. From all signs there had evidently been two of them—an old one and one just grown. We soon treed and killed the old one and then the dogs started and treed the young one. As we galloped up to the tree I proposed that we dismount and shoot at one and the same time. He agreed. As we struck the ground his gun hung on his saddle and in some way went off—the ball passing through my shirt sleeve and the powder burning my arm. The shock to us both was considerable, and Colonel Hill was much excited and relieved to find the accident had not produced serious results. I waited until he reloaded and we took our simultaneous shot, killing the panther instantly. The old pecan tree still stands on the banks of Sandy Creek and reminds me of how narrowly I escaped being killed by a good friend.

So many interesting things used to happen, that even in this connection I could spin out incidents ad infinitum. About forty years ago now, Wylie Hill was at his gin, which stood near the big springs, and hearing something catch one of his hogs, he called his dogs. Setting them on the trail they treed something immediately, whereupon he holloed for me to bring my gun. By this time it was dark and I could barely see the outlines of a large panther as it crouched in the darkness and leaves of a post oak. I shot and the animal fell as if dead, but in an instant it rallied and we heard signs of a fresh and furious fight, as the dogs would bark and howl and yelp in the gloom. The night was a very dark one, and that hollow in that cedar brake could come nearer illustrating “a darkness to be felt” than any place I ever saw. True to the native fearlessness of his character, Colonel Hill went into the thick of the fight, in the thick darkness of the cedar brake, and killed the panther with his knife.

Another instance in his life was equally unusual. He happened to be in the pine hills across the river accompanied by his dogs, but without a gun. They jumped a large bear and treed it. He pelted it out of the tree with rocks and with the dogs soon killed it.

A few years ago I overheard a young man—rather inexperienced in such matters, talking of having spent the night with the brave old soldier, and he laughingly alluded to these two adventures, declaring, “Mr. Wylie Hill must have been a wonderful hunter in his time!—to kill a panther in the dark with a knife and a bear with rocks!” He was a stranger to us all and evidently thought these adventures rather too marvelous, but I assured him that I knew them to be positive facts, being an eyewitness—at least being present. It was too dark for eye witnesses when the panther was killed.

In going over these little experiences of our early times here I am reminded of a familiar old acquaintance of those days, who was famous for barbecuing meats and serving fine dinners. He had been complimented upon this faculty, till he felt very complacent upon the subject, and once triumphantly asserted that he had more experience in that line than anybody, adding, “I know I have prepared and superintended at least four hundred Fourth of July dinners!”

Along in those times it was reported among us that “a Mexican Lion” haunted Iron Mountain, on the head of Sandy Creek, and we were all anxious for an opportunity to kill it. Jonathan Thomas McGehee4 had been over at Gonzales on business with a Mr. Bonner and was coming back through the hills at the head of Brushy Creek. He had a splendid rifle and was on the alert, and was much excited when he heard a roaring or growling, which he was sure came from the Mexican Lion. Venturing toward the noise he saw the animal, but it was so terrible he was afraid to shoot at it, and allowed it to go unmolested. Coming home, he met me first and said in some excitement, “I saw that Mexican Lion, John! Its tail was as long as that rail (ten feet), and its legs were as big around as my body!” I tried to persuade him to go back with me in search of the formidable creature, but he was compelled to go on home. As quickly as possible, my brother, Judge Eastland, and I, with dogs were upon the scene. Watch immediately struck the trail of the supposed Mexican Lion—treed it and I shot, killing it instantly, but it proved to be only a tremendously large panther. McGehee still believes that he saw the Mexican Lion, however.

When Colonel John S. Ford held his company of Rangers on the Rio Grande in 1858, he detailed a small squad of men under young Edward Burleson, Jr., to come in on the waters of the Nueces for the purpose, I think, of collecting money to defray the expenses of his company. Having attended to the business assigned them, they were on their way back to the Rio Grande, traversing an open country, when they discovered not very far away a band of Indians—a force about equal to their own. They advanced upon them, meanwhile trying to arrange or agree upon some plan for the impending fight. The Indians had only one or two guns and one of the Texans, James Carr,5 a noted marksman, was appointed to do all the shooting, while his comrades were to load and hand him their guns. In this way they hoped to keep out of range of the enemy’s arrows. As the little squad advanced, the Indians halted and prepared to meet their attack.

In excitement men sometimes forget or disregard everything, and instead of abiding by their decision or arrangement there was wild confusion and disorder, for the instant Carr dismounted, every man did likewise and made ready to fight. Seeing this, the Comanches charged right in among them, and a most terrible hand-to-hand struggle followed. Bow and arrow, six-shooter, and rifle—all were wielded with vigorous bravery, till finally all the Indians were killed except three or four. We lost only one man killed, Baker Barton, but all of our men were wounded except Warren Lyons,* some of them receiving several wounds.6 James Carr, who still lives, was wounded three times—first through the thigh, then an arrow pinned his hand to the breech of his gun, and finally an arrow struck him in the side, which would have killed him had not a plug of tobacco in his roundabout pocket broken its force. Seldom have men fought more desperately, and never were soldiers more sore, or more exhausted, than these were after the struggle.

Warren Lyons, the one Ranger who escaped unhurt, did so by reason of his remarkable skill in dodging the arrows—a skill acquired by long association with the Indians.

Lyons had quite a romantic and adventurous experience in his early life which is very interesting. I think it was in the fall of 1836 that Warren, a mere boy seven or eight years old, accompanied his father to the field where he was plowing. A band of Comanches came suddenly upon them and killed the father and captured the son. Time rolled on, and nothing being heard from the boy, he was almost forgotten, or at least seldom thought about. Nevertheless, the woman who was so suddenly bereft of husband and child watched and waited and hoped all along the dreary time, for surely nothing but positive proof could ever make a mother give up her child as dead.

Years afterward, when it was all “forgotten as a dream,” a party of surveyors under William S. Wallace went out on the San Saba, and having worked up the river several days, a few of them—Wylie Hill, Richard Cheek, George Hancock,* James L. Jobe,* and perhaps one or two others—separated from the main party, with an appointed place of rejoining them. One evening as they were riding along they saw in the distance something bright and shining, that at first perplexed them, as it gleamed and glistened in the sunlight. Very soon, however, they recognized the shields of Comanches, and we may perhaps imagine their feelings when a nearer approach revealed fifty or sixty of these warriors standing and apparently watching them. As quickly as possible the little body of men secured a good position for self-defense, and by the time the Indians were in gunshot they were stationed in a thicket under a steep mountain, awaiting the attack. Instead of the anticipated charge, however, the Indians halted and signified that they wanted to talk, asking for the captain of the white men. George Hancock was appointed to act as captain and went out to meet their chief, although some violently opposed his going, as they feared foul play.

The old chief, dismounting, met him on “halfway ground,” making many demonstrations of friendliness as he advanced, and gave him an earnest hugging when they met and declared him “Big Chief.” Meanwhile all of the few whites came to the front in full view and prepared to fire at the slightest hostile movement. They soon realized their utter helplessness, though, for hearing a slight noise they looked around and were surprised to find that the brow of the overhanging mountain was almost covered with Indians, and thus they found themselves literally surrounded by a savage and hitherto merciless foe. No advantage was taken of the situation, however, and the chief proceeded to question Hancock very closely as to the number and whereabouts of the main body of surveyors, and at length proposed to accompany them on their way. So the little company of men found themselves riding along all mixed up with a large band of Comanches, and their sensations may have been somewhat peculiar as they realized the overpowering numbers of their volunteer traveling companions.

They accepted the situation as became brave men, and for a while proceeded upon their journey as if nothing unusual was transpiring. Darkness was fast coming on and the outlook was indeed a gloomy one, as no sign of Wallace and his company of surveyors cheered the hearts of our men. At length, hoping to receive an answer. Wylie Hill gave a keen, shrill halloo or whoop peculiarly his own. Seldom can the human voice make a sound which could be heard at so great a distance. I can hear him now in memory, and believe I would have recognized the signal as his own anywhere in the wide world.

It delighted and amused the savages greatly and they insisted on his repeating it at intervals all along, at the same time trying to imitate the sound. Thus they rode on, and at last, as night settled upon the crowd, the burden of suspense grew unendurable. Hill but spoke what was passing in every man’s mind as he said, “Boys, they are going to kill us certain, and we had better take the main bulge on them.” Hitherto they had supposed that not one of the Comanches understood their language. Imagine their surprise when one of the warriors, speaking very good English, answered, “No, these Indians are not going to kill you!”

Turning in surprise Hill inquired, “Who are you? Where did you learn our language?”

Warren Lyons, for he it was, then gave them a brief account of his life among the Comanches—a life to which he had become not only reconciled, but even attached. So great is the power of habit and nature itself.

Finally Hill’s halloo was heard and answered by Wallace and his men and guided by the sound all went into camp together. They collected about the same campfire, and “the lion and the lamb,” as it were, lay down in peace together, although one man, Ben Heines, refused to trust either Providence or Comanches and sat up the whole night long.

In the course of the conversation the chief, pretending to be entirely ignorant of their business in those parts, asked “What do all these hacks or blazes on the trees mean? Why do you cut them?” Upon being told that they had been bee hunting, he, in a kind but somewhat threatening manner, advised them to leave the woods alone and go home, saying, “This is our hunting ground, and you had better leave at once.”

Our men talked a good deal with Warren Lyons, who partially remembered his native tongue, but his long exile had dimmed all recollection of mother, home, and friends, and he seemed quite indifferent. Wylie Hill and others who knew his mother and relatives insisted on his at least making a visit home. The thought of leaving the Indians appeared to be a sad one to him; indeed, he would make no promise, and next morning went his way with the warriors, turning his back upon those of his own race without sign of hesitation or regret.

Not many months after this, Waymon Wells, a friend of the family, met and recognized Warren Lyons with a band of Comanches in San Antonio, and again every effort of argument and persuasion was used to induce him to come home. Pleading was more successful this time, and at last he consented to accompany Wells to his mother. Wells described their journey and the reunion of mother and son to me. As they came in sight of his old home, Mrs. Lyons was sweeping the front gallery, and the scene aroused emotion in the son, as he exclaimed, “That is my mother now! I remember her right there, sweeping in that way!”7 Even then, however, in the strange and intense joy of such a meeting, he seemed shy and embarrassed, half-afraid of his own mother, as she gave him the welcome which only a mother could.

And now he stayed a while with her at the home of his infancy, settling, or trying to settle, into a new life, which was entirely out of harmony with his taste and habits as formed by his long and intimate association with the savages. Soon mother and son went into La Grange together, he clad in his Indian garb, which she replaced with a suit of clothes. He could not take all on at once, however, for out in the street, finding his new shoes not altogether comfortable, he took them off and resumed his moccasins.

Thus it was with regard to his later life. He could not all at once settle from a Comanche warrior into an American citizen, and for some time his life was a struggle between nature and habit. Once the power of habit prevailed, and he went back to the Comanches, but amid their wildest scenes of sport and strife, and in the calm night hours, I think the face of his mother would constantly come to his mind, until the warrior grew homesick and once more, this time of his own accord, came home, living in Texas ever afterward as a good soldier and an honored citizen.

In the case of Thomas Coleman, who was captured at the time of the Battle of Brushy Creek in 1839, the power of association prevailed, and strange to say he grew up to love a life among the people who had murdered his own mother and brother. His family spared no effort to recover him, and securing the celebrated chief of the Delawares, John Connor, as guide, his cousin looked all through the Indian Nation, till finding him, they almost forced him to come home. He could never, however, adapt himself to civilized life, and soon returned to his wild companions for good.