Produced by Eric Eldred
[Illustration: 01 TEXAS RANGERS HOLDING UP CHAPPARAL BANDITS]
CROOKED TRAILS
By Frederic Remington
Illustrated By Frederic Remington
Author Of “Pony Tracks”
First published in 1898
CONTENTS
HOW THE LAW GOT INTO THE CHAPARRAL
THE BLUE QUAIL OF THE CACTUS
A SERGEANT OF THE ORPHAN TROOP
THE SPIRIT OF MAHONGUI
THE ESSENTIALS AT FORT ADOBE
MASSAI'S CROOKED TRAIL
JOSHUA GOODENOUGH'S OLD LETTER
CRACKER COWBOYS OF FLORIDA
THE STRANGE DAYS THAT CAME TO JIMMIE FRIDAY
THE SOLEDAD GIRLS
CROOKED TRAILS
HOW THE LAW GOT INTO THE CHAPARRAL
“You have heard about the Texas Rangers?” said the Deacon to me one
night in the San Antonio Club. “Yes? Well, come up to my rooms, and I
will introduce you to one of the old originals--dates 'way back in the
'thirties'--there aren't many of them left now--and if we can get him to
talk, he will tell you stories that will make your eyes hang out on your
shirt front.”
We entered the Deacon's cosey bachelor apartments, where I was
introduced to Colonel “Rip” Ford, of the old-time Texas Rangers. I found
him a very old man, with a wealth of snow-white hair and beard--bent,
but not withered. As he sunk on his stiffened limbs into the arm-chair,
we disposed ourselves quietly and almost reverentially, while we lighted
cigars. We began the approaches by which we hoped to loosen the history
of a wild past from one of the very few tongues which can still wag on
the days when the Texans, the Co-manches, and the Mexicans chased one
another over the plains of Texas, and shot and stabbed to find who
should inherit the land.
Through the veil of tobacco smoke the ancient warrior spoke his
sentences slowly, at intervals, as his mind gradually separated and
arranged the details of countless fights. His head bowed in thought;
anon it rose sharply at recollections, and as he breathed, the shouts
and lamentations of crushed men--the yells and shots--the thunder of
horses' hoofs--the full fury of the desert combats came to the pricking
ears of the Deacon and me.
We saw through the smoke the brave young faces of the hosts which poured
into Texas to war with the enemies of their race. They were clad in
loose hunting-frocks, leather leggings, and broad black hats; had
powder-horns and shot-pouches hung about them; were armed with
bowie-knives, Mississippi rifles, and horse-pistols; rode Spanish
ponies, and were impelled by Destiny to conquer, like their remote
ancestors, “the godless hosts of Pagan” who “came swimming o'er the
Northern Sea.”
“Rip” Ford had not yet acquired his front name in 1836, when he enlisted
in the famous Captain Jack Hayes's company of Rangers, which was
fighting the Mexicans in those days, and also trying incidentally to
keep from being eaten up by the Comanches.
Said the old Colonel: “A merchant from our country journeyed to New
York, and Colonel Colt, who was a friend of his, gave him two
five-shooters--pistols they were, and little things. The merchant in
turn presented them to Captain Jack Hayes. The captain liked them so
well that he did not rest till every man jack of us had two apiece.
“Directly,” mused the ancient one, with a smile of pleasant
recollection, “we had a fight with the Comanches--up here above San
Antonio. Hayes had fifteen men with him--he was doubling about the
country for Indians. He found 'sign,' and after cutting their trail
several times he could see that they were following him. Directly the
Indians overtook the Rangers--there were seventy-five Indians. Captain
Hayes--bless his memory!--said,' They are fixin' to charge us, boys, and
we must charge them.' There were never better men in this world than
Hayes had with him,” went on the Colonel with pardonable pride; “and
mind you, he never made a fight without winning.
“We charged, and in the fracas killed thirty-five Indians--only two of
our men were wounded--so you see the five-shooters were pretty good
weapons. Of course they wa'n't any account compared with these modern
ones, because they were too small, but they did those things. Just after
that Colonel Colt was induced to make bigger ones for us, some of which
were half as long as your arm.
“Hayes? Oh, he was a surveyor, and used to go out beyond the frontiers
about his work. The Indians used to jump him pretty regular; but he
always whipped them, and so he was available for a Ranger captain. About
then--let's see,” and here the old head bobbed up from his chest, where
it had sunk in thought--“there was a commerce with Mexico just sprung
up, but this was later--it only shows what that man Hayes used to do.
The bandits used to waylay the traders, and they got very bad in the
country. Captain Hayes went after them--he struck them near Lavade, and
found the Mexicans had more than twice as many men as he did; but he
caught them napping, charged them afoot--killed twenty-five of them, and
got all their horses.”
“I suppose, Colonel, you have been charged by a Mexican lancer?” I
inquired.
“Oh yes, many times,” he answered.
“What did you generally do?”
“Well, you see, in those days I reckoned to be able to hit a man every
time with a six-shooter at one hundred and twenty-five yards,” explained
the old gentleman--which no doubt meant many dead lancers.
[Illustration: 02 A BEARER OF CIVILIZATION]
“Then you do not think much of a lance as a weapon?” I pursued.
“No; there is but one weapon. The six-shooter when properly handled is
the only weapon--mind you, sir, I say _properly”_ and here the old eyes
blinked rapidly over the great art as he knew its practice.
“Then, of course, the rifle has its use. Under Captain Jack Hayes sixty
of us made a raid once after the celebrated priest-leader of the
Mexicans--Padre Jarante--which same was a devil of a fellow. We were
very sleepy--had been two nights without sleep. At San Juan every man
stripped his horse, fed, and went to sleep. We had passed Padre Jarante
in the night without knowing it. At about twelve o'clock next day there
was a terrible outcry--I was awakened by shooting. The Padre was upon
us. Five men outlying stood the charge, and went under. We gathered, and
the Padre charged three times. The third time he was knocked from his
horse and killed. Then Captain Jack Hayes awoke, and we got in a big
_casa._ The men took to the roof. As the Mexicans passed we emptied a
great many saddles. As I got to the top of the _casa_ I found two men
quarrelling.” (Here the Colonel chuckled.) “I asked what the matter was,
and they were both claiming to have killed a certain Mexican who was
lying dead some way off. One said he had hit him in the head, and the
other said he had hit him in the breast. I advised peace until after the
fight. Well--after the shooting was over and the Padre's men had had
enough, we went out to the particular Mexican who was dead, and, sure
enough, he was shot in the head and in the breast; so they laughed and
made peace. About this time one of the spies came in and reported six
hundred Mexicans coming. We made an examination of our ammunition, and
found that we couldn't afford to fight six hundred Mexicans with sixty
men, so we pulled out. This was in the Mexican war, and only goes to
show that Captain Hayes's men could shoot all the Mexicans that could
get to them if the ammunition would hold out.”
“What was the most desperate fight you can remember, Colonel?”
The old man hesitated; this required a particular point of view--it was
quality, not quantity, wanted now; and, to be sure, he was a
connoisseur. After much study by the Colonel, during which the world
lost many thrilling tales, the one which survived occurred in 1851.
“My lieutenant, Ed Burleson, was ordered to carry to San Antonio an
Indian prisoner we had taken and turned over to the commanding officer
at Fort McIntosh. On his return, while nearing the Nueces River, he
spied a couple of Indians. Taking seven men, he ordered the balance to
continue along the road. The two Indians proved to be fourteen, and they
charged Burleson up to the teeth. Dismounting his men, he poured it into
them from his Colt's six-shooting rifles. They killed or wounded all
the Indians except two, some of them dying so near the Rangers that they
could put their hands on their boots. All but one of Burleson's men were
wounded--himself shot in the head with an arrow. One man had four
'dogwood switches' [Arrows.] in his body, one of which was in his
bowels. This man told me that every time he raised his gun to fire, the
Indians would stick an arrow in him, but he said he didn't care a cent.
One Indian was lying right up close, and while dying tried to shoot an
arrow, but his strength failed so fast that the arrow only barely left
the bowstring. One of the Rangers in that fight was a curious
fellow--when young he had been captured by Indians, and had lived with
them so long that he had Indian habits. In that fight he kept jumping
around when loading, so as to be a bad target, the same as an Indian
would under the circumstances, and he told Burleson he wished he had his
boots off, so he could get around good”--and here the Colonel paused
quizzically. “Would you call that a good fight?”
[Illustration: 03 THE CHARGE ANP KILLING OF PADRE JARANTE]
The Deacon and I put the seal of our approval on the affair, and the
Colonel rambled ahead.
“In 1858 I was commanding the frontier battalion of State troops on the
whole frontier, and had my camp on the Deer Fork of the Brazos. The
Comanches kept raiding the settlements. They would come down quietly,
working well into the white lines, and then go back a-running--driving
stolen stock and killing and burning. I thought I would give them some
of their own medicine. I concluded to give them a fight. I took two
wagons, one hundred Rangers, and one hundred and thirteen Tahuahuacan
Indians, who were friend-lies. We struck a good Indian trail on a stream
which led up to the Canadian. We followed it till it got hot. I camped
my outfit in such a manner as to conceal my force, and sent out my
scouts, who saw the Indians hunt buffalo through spyglasses. That night
we moved. I sent Indians to locate the camp. They returned before day,
and reported that the Indians were just a few miles ahead, whereat we
moved forward. At daybreak, I remember, I was standing in the bull-wagon
road leading to Santa Fe and could see the Canadian River in our
front--with eighty lodges just beyond. Counting four men of fighting age
to a lodge, that made a possible three hundred and twenty Indians. Just
at sunup an Indian came across the river on a pony. Our Indians down
below raised a yell--they always get excited. The Indian heard them--it
was very still then. The Indian retreated slowly, and began to ride in a
circle. From where I was I could hear him puff like a deer--he was
blowing the bullets away from himself--he was a medicine-man. I heard
five shots from the Jagers with which my Indians were armed. The painted
pony of the medicine-man jumped ten feet in the air, it seemed to me,
and fell over on his rider--then five more Jagers went off, and he was
dead. I ordered the Tahuahuacans out in front, and kept the Rangers out
of sight, because I wanted to charge home and kind of surprise them.
Pretty soon I got ready, and gave the word. We charged. At the river we
struck some boggy ground and floundered around considerable, but we got
through. We raised the Texas yell, and away we went. I never expect
again to hear such a noise--I never want to hear it--what with the
whoops of the warriors--the screaming of the women and children--our
boys yelling--the shooting, and the horses just a-mixin' up and
a-stampedin' around,” and the Colonel bobbed his head slowly as he
continued.
[Illustration: 04 WE STRUCK SOME BOGGY GROUND]
“One of my men didn't know a buck from a squaw. There was an Indian
woman on a pony with five children. He shot the pony--it seemed like you
couldn't see that pony for little Indians. We went through the camp, and
the Indians pulled out--spreading fanlike, and we a-running them. After
a long chase I concluded to come back. I saw lots of Indians around in
the hills. When I got back, I found Captain Ross had formed my men in
line. 'What time in the morning is it?' I asked. 'Morning, hell!' says
he--'it's one o'clock!' And so it was. Directly I saw an Indian coming
down a hill near by, and then more Indians and more Indians--till it
seemed like they wa'n't ever going to get through coming. We had struck
a bigger outfit than the first one. That first Indian he bantered my men
to come out single-handed and fight him. One after another, he wounded
five of my Indians. I ordered my Indians to engage them, and kind of get
them down in the flat, where I could charge. After some running and
shooting they did this, and I turned the Rangers loose. We drove them.
The last stand they made they killed one of my Indians, wounded a
Ranger, but left seven of their dead in a pile. It was now nearly
nightfall, and I discovered that my horses were broken down after
fighting all day. I found it hard to restrain my men, they had got so
heated up; but I gradually withdrew to where the fight commenced. The
Indian camp was plundered. In it we found painted buffalo-robes with
beads a hand deep around the edges--the finest robes I have ever
seen--and heaps of goods plundered from the Santa Fe traders. On the way
back I noticed a dead chief, and was for a moment astonished to find
pieces of flesh cut out of him; upon looking at a Tahuahuacan warrior I
saw a pair of dead hands tied behind his saddle. That night they had a
cannibal feast. You see, the Tahuahuacans say that the first one of
their race was brought into the world by a wolf. 'How am I to live?'
said the Tahuahuacan. 'The same as we do,' said the wolf; and when they
were with me, that is just about how they lived. I reckon it's necessary
to tell you about the old woman who was found in our lines. She was
looking at the sun and making incantations, a-cussing us out generally
and elevating her voice. She said the Comanches would get even for this
day's work. I directed my Indians to let her alone, but I was informed
afterwards that that is just what they didn't do.”
At this point the Colonel's cigar went out, and directly he followed;
but this is the manner in which he told of deeds which I know would fare
better at the hands of one used to phrasing and capable also of more
points of view than the Colonel was used to taking. The outlines of the
thing are strong, however, because the Deacon and I understood that
fights were what the old Colonel had dealt in during his active life,
much as other men do in stocks and bonds or wheat and corn. He had been
a successful operator, and only recalled pleasantly the bull quotations.
This type of Ranger is all but gone. A few may yet be found in outlying
ranches. One of the most celebrated resides near San Antonio--“Big-foot
Wallace” by name. He says he doesn't mind being called “Big-foot,”
because he is six feet two in height, and is entitled to big feet. His
face is done off in a nest of white hair and beard, and is patriarchal
in character. In 1836 he came out from Virginia to “take toll” of the
Mexicans for killing some relatives of his in the Fannin Massacre, and
he considers that he has squared his accounts; but they had him on the
debit side for a while. Being captured in the Meir expedition, he
walked as a prisoner to the city of Mexico, and did public work for that
country with a ball-and-chain attachment for two years. The prisoners
overpowered the guards and escaped on one occasion, but were overtaken
by Mexican cavalry while dying of thirst in a desert. Santa Anna ordered
their “decimation,” which meant that every tenth man was shot, their lot
being determined by the drawing of a black bean from an earthen pot
containing a certain proportion of white ones. “Big-foot” drew a white
one. He was also a member of Captain Hayes's company, afterwards a
captain of Rangers, and a noted Indian-fighter. Later he carried the
mails from San Antonio to El Paso through a howling wilderness, but
always brought it safely through--if safely can be called lying thirteen
days by a water-hole in the desert, waiting for a broken leg to mend,
and living meanwhile on one prairie-wolf, which he managed to shoot.
Wallace was a professional hunter, who fought Indians and hated
“greasers”; he belongs to the past, and has been “outspanned” under a
civilization in which he has no place, and is to-day living in poverty.
[Illustration: 05 PRISONERS DRAWING THEIR BEANS]
The civil war left Texas under changed conditions. That and the Mexican
wars had determined its boundaries, however, and it rapidly filled up
with new elements of population. Broken soldiers, outlaws, poor
immigrants living in bull-wagons, poured in. “Gone to Texas” had a
sinister significance in the late sixties. When the railroad got to
Abilene, Kansas, the cow-men of Texas found a market for their stock,
and began trailing their herds up through the Indian country.
Bands of outlaws organized under the leadership of desperadoes like Wes
Hardin and King Fisher. They rounded up cattle regardless of their
owners' rights, and resisted interference with force. The poor man
pointed to his brand in the stolen herd and protested. He was shot. The
big owners were unable to protect themselves from loss. The property
right was established by the six-shooter, and honest men were forced to
the wall. In 1876 the property-holding classes went to the Legislature,
got it to appropriate a hundred thousand dollars a year for two years,
and the Ranger force was reorganized to carry the law into the
chaparral. At this time many judges were in league with bandits;
sheriffs were elected by the outlaws, and the electors were
cattle-stealers.
The Rangers were sworn to uphold the laws of Texas and the United
States. They were deputy sheriffs, United States marshals--in fact, were
often vested with any and every power, even to the extent of ignoring
disreputable sheriffs. At times they were judge, jury, and executioner
when the difficulties demanded extremes. When a band of outlaws was
located, detectives or spies were sent among them, who openly joined the
desperadoes, and gathered evidence to put the Rangers on their trail.
Then, in the wilderness, with only the soaring buzzard or prowling
coyote to look on, the Ranger and the outlaw met to fight with tigerish
ferocity to the death. Shot, and lying prone, they fired until the
palsied arm could no longer raise the six-shooter, and justice was
satisfied as their bullets sped. The captains had the selection of
their men, and the right to dishonorably discharge at will. Only men of
irreproachable character, who were fine riders and dead-shots, were
taken. The spirit of adventure filled the ranks with the most prominent
young men in the State, and to have been a Ranger is a badge of
distinction in Texas to this day. The display of anything but a perfect
willingness to die under any and all circumstances was fatal to a
Ranger, and in course of time they got the _moral_ on the bad man. Each
one furnished his own horse and arms, while the State gave him
ammunition, “grub,” one dollar a day, and extra expenses. The enlistment
was for twelve months. A list of fugitive Texas criminals was placed in
his hands, with which he was expected to familiarize himself. Then, in
small parties, they packed the bedding on their mule, they hung the
handcuffs and leather thongs about its neck, saddled their
riding-ponies, and threaded their way into the chaparral.
[Illustration: 06 HOW THE LAW GOT INTO THE CHAPARRAL]
On an evening I had the pleasure of meeting two more distinguished
Ranger officers--more modern types--Captains Lea Hall and Joseph Shely;
both of them big, forceful men, and loath to talk about themselves. It
was difficult to associate the quiet gentlemen who sat smoking in the
Deacon's rooms with what men say; for the tales of their prowess in
Texas always ends, “and that don't count Mexicans, either.” The bandit
never laid down his gun but with his life; so the “la ley de huga”
[Mexican law of shooting escaped or resisting prisoners.] was in force
in the chaparral, and the good people of Texas were satisfied with a
very short account of a Ranger's fight.
The most distinguished predecessor of these two men was a Captain
McNally, who was so bent on, carrying his raids to an issue that he paid
no heed to national boundary-lines. He followed a band of Mexican
bandits to the town of La Cueva, below Ringgold, once, and, surrounding
it, demanded the surrender of the cattle which they had stolen. He had
but ten men, and yet this redoubtable warrior surrounded a town full of
bandits and Mexican soldiers. The Mexican soldiers attacked the Rangers,
and forced them back under the river-banks, but during the fight the
_jefe politico_ was killed. The Rangers were in a fair way to be
overcome by the Mexicans, when Lieutenant Clendenin turned a Gatling
loose from the American side and covered their position. A parley
ensued, but McNally refused to go back without the cattle, which the
Mexicans had finally to surrender.
At another time McNally received word through spies of an intended raid
of Mexican cattle-thieves under the leadership of Cammelo Lerma. At
Resaca de la Palma, McNally struck the depredators with but sixteen men.
They had seventeen men and five hundred head of stolen cattle. In a
running fight for miles McNally's men killed sixteen bandits, while only
one escaped. A young Ranger by the name of Smith was shot dead by
Cammelo Lerma as he dismounted to look at the dying bandit. The dead
bodies were piled in ox-carts and dumped in the public square at
Brownsville. McNally also captured King Fisher's band in an old log
house in Dimmit County, but they were not convicted.
Showing the nature of Ranger work, an incident which occurred to my
acquaintance, Captain Lea Hall, will illustrate. In De Witt County there
was a feud. One dark night sixteen masked men took a sick man, one Dr.
Brazel, and two of his boys, from their beds, and, despite the imploring
mother and daughter, hanged the doctor and one son to a tree. The other
boy escaped in the green corn. Nothing was done to punish the crime, as
the lynchers were men of property and influence in the country. No man
dared speak above his breath about the affair.
Captain Hall, by secret-service men, discovered the perpetrators, and
also that they were to be gathered at a wedding on a certain night. He
surrounded the house and demanded their surrender, at the same time
saying that he did not want to kill the women and children. Word
returned that they would kill him and all his Rangers. Hall told them to
allow their women and children to depart, which was done; then,
springing on the gallery of the house, he shouted, “Now, gentlemen, you
can go to killing Rangers; but if you don't surrender, the Rangers will
go to killing you.” This was too frank a willingness for midnight
assassins, and they gave up.
Spies had informed him that robbers intended sacking Campbell's store in
Wolfe City. Hall and his men lay behind the counters to receive them on
the designated night. They were allowed to enter, when Hall's men,
rising, opened fire--the robbers replying. Smoke filled the room, which
was fairly illuminated by the flashes of the guns--but the robbers were
all killed, much to the disgust of the lawyers, no doubt, though I could
never hear that honest people mourned.
The man Hall was himself a gentleman of the romantic Southern soldier
type, and he entertained the highest ideals, with which it would be
extremely unsafe to trifle, if I may judge. Captain Shely, our other
visitor, was a herculean, black-eyed man, fairly fizzing with nervous
energy. He is also exceedingly shrewd, as befits the greater
concreteness of the modern Texas law, albeit he too has trailed bandits
in the chaparral, and rushed in on their camp-fires at night, as two big
bullet-holes in his skin will attest. He it was who arrested Polk, the
defaulting treasurer of Tennessee. He rode a Spanish pony sixty-two
miles in six hours, and arrested Polk, his guide, and two private
detectives, whom Polk had bribed to set him over the Rio Grande. When
the land of Texas was bought up and fenced with wire, the old settlers
who had used the land did not readily recognize the new regime. They
raised the rallying-cry of “free grass and free water”--said they had
fought the Indians off, and the land belonged to them. Taking nippers,
they rode by night and cut down miles of fencing. Shely took the keys of
a county jail from the frightened sheriff, made arrests by the score,
and lodged them in the big new jail. The country-side rose in arms,
surrounded the building, and threatened to tear it down. The big Ranger
was not deterred by this outburst, but quietly went out into the mob,
and with mock politeness delivered himself as follows:
“Do not tear down the jail, gentlemen--you have been taxed for years to
build this fine structure--it is yours--do not tear it down. I will open
the doors wide--you can all come in--do not tear down the jail; but
there are twelve Rangers in there, with orders to kill as long as they
can see. Come right in, gentlemen--but come fixed.”
The mob was overcome by his civility.
Texas is to-day the only State in the Union where pistol-carry ing is
attended with great chances of arrest and fine. The law is supreme even
in the lonely _jacails_ out in the rolling waste of chaparral, and it
was made so by the tireless riding, the deadly shooting, and the
indomitable courage of the Texas Rangers.
THE BLUE QUAIL OF THE CACTUS
THE Quartermaster and I both had trouble which the doctors could not
cure--it was January, and it would not do for us to sit in a “blind “;
besides, I do not fancy that. There are ever so many men who are
comfortable all over when they are sitting in a blind waiting on the
vagrant flying of the ducks; but it is solemn, gloomy business, and, I
must say, sufficient reason why they take a drink every fifteen minutes
to keep up their enthusiasm. We both knew that the finest winter resort
for shot-gun folks was in the Southwest--down on the Rio Grande in
Texas--so we journeyed to Eagle Pass. As we got down from the train we
saw Captain Febiger in his long military cloak by a lantern-light.
“Got any quail staked out for us, Feb?” asked the Quartermaster.
“Oodles,” said Febiger; “get into my trap,” and we were rattled through
the unlighted street out to the camp, and brought up by the Captain's
quarters.
In the morning we unpacked our trunks, and had everything on the floor
where we could see it, after the fashion with men. Captain Febiger's
baby boy came in to help us rummage in the heaps of canvas clothes,
ammunition, and what not besides, finally selecting for his amusement a
loaded Colt's revolver and a freshly honed razor. We were terrorized by
the possibilities of the combination. Our trying to take them away from
the youngster only made him yell like a cavern of demons. We howled for
his mother to come to our aid, which she finally did, and she separated
the kid from his toys.
I put on my bloomers, when the Captain came in and viewed me, saying:
“Texas bikes; but it doesn't bloom yet. I don't know just what Texas
will do if you parade in those togs--but you can try.”
As we sauntered down the dusty main street, Texas lounged in the
doorways or stood up in its buggy and stared at me. Texas grinned
cheerfully, too, but I did not care, so long as Texas kept its hand out
of its hip pocket. I was content to help educate Texas as to personal
comfort, at no matter what cost to myself. We passed into Mexico over
the Long Bridge to call on Senor Munos, who is the local czar, in hopes
of getting permits to be let alone by his chaparral-rangers while we
shot quail on their soil. In Mexico when the people observe an Americano
they simply shrug their shoulders; so our bloomers attracted no more
contempt than would an X-ray or a trolley-car. Senor Munos gave the
permits, after much stately compliment and many subtle ways, which made
us feel under a cloud of obligation.
[Illustration: 07 LUNCHEON IN THE DESERT]
The next morning an ambulance and escort-wagon drove up to the Captain's
quarters, and we loaded ourselves in--shot-guns, ammunition, blankets,
and the precious paper of Senor Munos; for, only the week before, the
custom-house rangers had carefully escorted an American hunting-party a
long distance back to the line for lack of the little paper and red
seals. We rattled over the bridge, past the Mexican barrack, while its
dark-skinned soldiery--who do not shoot quails--lounged in the sunshine
against the whitewashed wall.
At the first outpost of the customs a little man, whose considerable
equatorial proportions were girted with a gun, examined our paper, and
waved us on our way. Under the railroad bridge of the International an
engineer blew his whistle, and our mules climbed on top of each other in
their terror.
We wound along the little river, through irrigating ditches, past dozens
of those deliciously quaint adobe houses, past the inevitable church,
past a dead pony, ran over a chicken, made the little seven-year-old
girls take their five-year-old brothers up in their arms for protection,
and finally we climbed a long hill. At the top stretched an endless
plain. The road forked; presently it branched; anon it grew into twigs
of white dust on the gray levels of the background. The local physician
of Eagle Pass was of our party, and he was said to know where a certain
tank was to be found, some thirty miles out in the desert, but no man
yet created could know which twig of the road to take. He decided on
one--changed his mind--got out of the ambulance, scratched his head,
pondered, and finally resolution settled on his face. He motioned the
driver to a certain twig, got in, and shut his mouth firmly, thus
closing debate. We smoked silently, waiting for the doctor's mind to
fog. He turned uneasily in his seat, like the agitated needle of a
compass, and even in time hazarded the remark that something did not
look natural; but there was nothing to look at but flat land and flat
sky, unless a hawk sailing here and there. At noon we lunched at the
tail of the ambulance, and gently “jollied” the doctor's topography. We
pushed on. Later in the afternoon the thirsty mules went slowly. The
doctor had by this time admitted his doubts--some long blue hills on the
sky-line ought to be farther to the west, according to his remembrance.
As no one else had any ideas on the subject, the doctor's position was
not enviable. We changed our course, and travelled many weary miles
through the chaparral, which was high enough to stop our vision, and
stiff enough to bar our way, keeping us to narrow roads. At last the
bisecting cattle trails began to converge, and we knew that they led to
water--which they did; for shortly we saw a little broken adobe, a
tumbled brush corral, the plastered gate of an _acequia,_ and the blue
water of the tank.
[Illustration: 08 SUPPER IN THE CORRAL]
To give everything its due proportion at this point, we gathered to
congratulate the doctor as we passed the flask. The camp was pitched
within the corral, and while the cook got supper we stood in the
after-glow on the bank of the tank and saw the ducks come home, heard
the mud-hens squddle, while high in the air flew the long line of
sand-hill cranes with a hoarse clangor. It was quite dark when we sat on
the “grub” chests and ate by the firelight, while out in the desert the
coyotes shrilled to the monotonous accompaniment of the mules crunching
their feed and stamping wearily. To-morrow it was proposed to hunt ducks
in their morning flight, which means getting up before daylight, so bed
found us early. It seemed but a minute after I had sought my blankets
when I was being abused by the Captain, being pushed with his
foot--fairly rolled over by him--he even standing on my body as he
shouted, “Get up, if you are going hunting. It will be light
directly--get up!” And this, constantly recurring, is one reason why I
do not care for duck-shooting.
But, in order to hunt, I had to get up, and file off in the line of
ghosts, stumbling, catching, on the chaparral, and splashing in the mud.
I led a setter-dog, and was presently directed to sit down in some damp
grass, because it was a good place--certainly not to sit down in, but
for other reasons. I sat there in the dark, petting the good dog, and
watching the sky grow pale in the east. This is not to mention the
desire for breakfast, or the damp, or the sleepiness, but this is really
the larger part of duck-hunting. Of course if I later had a dozen good
shots it might compensate--but I did not have a dozen shots.
The day came slowly out of the east, the mud-hens out in the marsh
splashed about in the rushes, a sailing hawk was visible against the
gray sky overhead, and I felt rather insignificant, not to say
contemptible, as I sat there in the loneliness of this big nature which
worked around me. The dog dignified the situation--he was a part of
nature's belongings--while I somehow did not seem to grace the solitude.
The grays slowly grew into browns on the sedge-grass, and the water to
silver. A bright flash of fire shot out of the dusk far up in the gloom,
and the dull report of a shot-gun came over the tank. Black objects fled
across the sky--the ducks were flying. I missed one or two, and grew
weary--none came near enough to my lair. Presently it was light, and I
got a fair shot. My bird tumbled into the rushes out in front of me, and
the setter bounded in to retrieve. He searched vehemently, but the
wounded duck dived in front of him. He came ashore shortly, and lying
down, he bit at himself and pawed and rolled. He was a mass of
cockle-burs. I took him on my lap and laboriously picked cockle-burs out
of his hair for a half-hour; then, shouldering my gun, I turned
tragically to the water and anathematized its ducks--all ducks, my
fellow-duckers, all thoughts and motives concerning ducks--and then
strode into the chaparral. “Hie on! hie on!” I tossed my arm, and the
setter began to hunt beautifully--glad, no doubt, to leave all thoughts
of the cockle-burs and evasive ducks behind. I worked up the shore of
the tank, keeping back in the brush, and got some fun. After chasing
about for some time I came out near the water. My dog pointed. I glided
forward, and came near shooting the Quartermaster, who sat in a bunch of
sedge-grass, with a dead duck by his side. He was smoking, and was
disgusted with ducks. He joined me, and shortly, as we crossed the road,
the long Texas doctor, who owned the dog, came striding down the way. He
was ready for quail now, and we started.
[Illustration: 09 ON THE SHORE OF THE TANK--MORNING]
The quail-hunting is active work. The dog points, but one nearly always
finds the birds running from one prickly-pear bush to another. They do
not stand, rarely flush, and when they do get up it is only to swoop
ahead to the nearest cover, where they settle quickly. One must be sharp
in his shooting--he cannot select his distance, for the cactus lies
thick about, and the little running bird is only on view for the
shortest of moments. You must overrun a dog after his first point, since
he works too close behind them. The covey will keep together if not
pursued with too much haste, and one gets shot after shot; still, at
last you must run lively, as the frightened covey scurry along at a
remarkable pace. Heavy shot are necessary, since the blue quail carry
lead like Marshal Massena, and are much harder to kill than the
bob-white. Three men working together can get shooting enough out of a
bunch--the chase often continuing for a mile, when the covey gradually
separate, the sportsmen following individual birds.
[Illustration: 10 RUNNING BLUE QUAIL]
Where the prickly-pear cactus is thickest, there are the blue quail,
since that is their feed and water supply. This same cactus makes a
difficulty of pursuit, for it bristles with spines, which come off on
your clothing, and when they enter the skin make most uncomfortable and
persistent sores. The Quartermaster had an Indian tobacco-bag dangling
at his belt, and as it flopped in his progress it gathered prickers,
which it shortly transferred to his luckless legs, until he at last
detected the reason why he bristled so fiercely. And the poor dog--at
every covey we had to stop and pick needles out of him. The haunts of
the blue quail are really no place for a dog, as he soon becomes
useless. One does not need him, either, since the blue quail will not
flush until actually kicked into the air.
Jack and cotton-tail rabbits fled by hundreds before us. They are
everywhere, and afford good shooting between coveys, it being quick work
to get a cotton-tail as he flashes between the net-work of protecting
cactus. Coyotes lope away in our front, but they are too wild for a
shot-gun. It must ever be in a man's mind to keep his direction, because
it is such a vastly simple thing to get lost in the chaparral, where you
cannot see a hundred yards. Mexico has such a considerable territory
that a man on foot may find it inconvenient to beat up a town in the
desolation of thorn-bush.
There is an action about blue-quail shooting which is next to buffalo
shooting--it's run, shoot, pick up your bird, scramble on in your
endeavor to keep the skirmish-line of your two comrades; and at last,
when you have concluded to stop, you can mop your forehead--the Mexican
sun shines hot even in midwinter.
Later in the afternoon we get among bob-white in a grassy tract, and
while they are clean work--good dog-play, and altogether more
satisfactory shooting than any other I know of--I am yet much inclined
to the excitement of chasing after game which you can see at intervals.
Let it not be supposed that it is less difficult to hit a running blue
quail as he shoots through the brush than a flying bob-white, for the
experience of our party has settled that, and one gets ten shots at the
blue to one at the bob-white, because of their number. As to eating, we
could not tell the difference; but I will not insist that this is final.
A man who comes in from an all day's run in the brush does not care
whether the cook gives him boiled beans, watermelon, or crackers and
jam; so how is he to know what a bird's taste is when served to a tame
appetite?
[Illustration: 11 TOO BIG GAME FOR NUMBER SIX]
At intervals we ran into the wild cattle which threaded their way to
water, and it makes one nervous. It is of no use to say “Soo-bossy,” or
to give him a charge of No. 6; neither is it well to run. If the
_matadores_ had any of the sensations which I have experienced, the gate
receipts at the bull-rings would have to go up. When a big long-horn
fastens a quail-shooter with his great open brown eye in a chaparral
thicket, you are not inclined to “call his hand.” If he will call it a
misdeal, you are with him.
We were banging away, the Quartermaster and I, when a human voice began
yelling like mad from the brush ahead. We advanced, to find a
Mexican--rather well gotten up--who proceeded to wave his arms like a
parson who had reached “sixthly” in his sermon, and who proceeded
thereat to overwhelm us with his eloquence. The Quartermaster and I
“_buenos dias-ed_” and “_si, senor-ed_” him in our helpless Spanish, and
asked each other, nervously, “What de'll.” After a long time he seemed
to be getting through with his subject, his sentences became separated,
he finally emitted monosyllables only along with his scowls, and we
tramped off into the brush. It was a pity he spent so much energy, since
it could only arouse our curiosity without satisfying it.
In camp that night we told the Captain of our excited Mexican friend out
in the brush, and our cook had seen sinister men on ponies passing near
our camp. The Captain became solicitous, and stationed a night-guard
over his precious government mules. It would never do to have a bandit
get away with a U. S. brand. It never does matter about private
property, but anything with U. S. on it has got to be looked after, like
a croupy child.
We had some good days' sport, and no more formidable enterprise against
the night-guard was attempted than the noisy approach of a white
jackass. The tents were struck and loaded when it began to rain. We
stood in the shelter of the escort-wagon, and the storm rose to a
hurricane. Our corral became a tank; but shortly the black clouds passed
north, and we pulled out. The twig ran into a branch, and the branch
struck the trunk near the bluffs over the Rio Grande, and in town there
stood the Mexican soldiers leaning against the wall as we had left them.
We wondered if they had moved meanwhile.
A SERGEANT OF THE ORPHAN TROOP
WHILE it is undisputed that Captain Dodd's troop of the Third Cavalry is
not an orphan, and is, moreover, quite as far from it as any troop of
cavalry in the world, all this occurred many years ago, when it was, at
any rate, so called. There was nothing so very unfortunate about it,
from what I can gather, since it seems to have fought well on its own
hook, quite up to all expectations, if not beyond. No officer at that
time seemed to care to connect his name with such a rioting,
nose-breaking band of desperado cavalrymen, unless it was temporarily,
and that was always in the field, and never in garrison. However, in
this case it did not have even an officer in the field. But let me go on
to my sergeant.
This one was a Southern gentleman, or rather a boy, when he refugeed out
of Fredericksburg with his family, before the Federal advance, in a
wagon belonging to a Mississippi rifle regiment; but nevertheless some
years later he got to be a gentleman, and passed through the Virginia
Military Institute with honor. The desire to be a soldier consumed him,
but the vicissitudes of the times compelled him, if he wanted to be a
soldier, to be a private one, which he became by duly enlisting in the
Third Cavalry. He struck the Orphan Troop.
Physically, Nature had slobbered all over Carter Johnson; she had
lavished on him her very last charm. His skin was pink, albeit the years
of Arizona sun had heightened it to a dangerous red; his mustache was
yellow and ideally military; while his pure Virginia accent, fired in
terse and jerky form at friend and enemy alike, relieved his natural
force of character by a shade of humor. He was thumped and bucked and
pounded into what was in the seventies considered a proper frontier
soldier, for in those days the nursery idea had not been lugged into the
army. If a sergeant bade a soldier “go” or “do,” he instantly “went” or
“did”--otherwise the sergeant belted him over the head with his
six-shooter, and had him taken off in a cart. On pay-days, too, when men
who did not care to get drunk went to bed in barracks, they slept under
their bunks and not in them, which was conducive to longevity and a good
night's rest. When buffalo were scarce they ate the army rations in
those wild days; they had a fight often enough to earn thirteen dollars,
and at times a good deal more. This was the way with all men at that
time, but it was rough on recruits.
So my friend Carter Johnson wore through some years, rose to be a
corporal, finally a sergeant, and did many daring deeds. An atavism from
“the old border riders” of Scotland shone through the boy, and he took
on quickly. He could act the others off the stage and sing them out of
the theatre in his chosen profession.
There was fighting all day long around Fort Robinson, Nebraska--a
bushwhacking with Dull-Knife's band of the Northern Cheyennes, the
Spartans of the plains. It was January; the snow lay deep on the ground,
and the cold was knife-like as it thrust at the fingers and toes of the
Orphan Troop. Sergeant Johnson with a squad of twenty men, after having
been in the saddle all night, was in at the post drawing rations for the
troop. As they were packing them up for transport, a detachment of F
Troop came galloping by, led by the sergeant's friend, Corporal
Thornton. They pulled up.
“Come on, Carter--go with us. I have just heard that some troops have
got a bunch of Injuns corralled out in the hills. They can't get 'em
down. Let's go help 'em. It's a chance for the fight of your life. Come
on.”
Carter hesitated for a moment. He had drawn the rations for his troop,
which was in sore need of them. It might mean a court-martial and the
loss of his chevrons--but a fight! Carter struck his spurred heels,
saying, “Come on, boys; get your horses; we will go.”
The line of cavalry was half lost in the flying snow as it cantered away
over the white flats. The dry powder crunched under the thudding hoofs,
the carbines banged about, the overcoat capes blew and twisted in the
rushing air, the horses grunted and threw up their heads as the spurs
went into their bellies, while the men's faces were serious with the
interest in store. Mile after mile rushed the little column, until it
came to some bluffs, where it drew reign and stood gazing across the
valley to the other hills.
Down in the bottoms they espied an officer and two men sitting quietly
on their horses, and on riding up found a lieutenant gazing at the
opposite bluffs through a glass. Far away behind the bluffs a sharp ear
could detect the reports of guns.
“We have been fighting the Indians all day here,” said the officer,
putting down his glass and turning to the two “non-coms.” “The command
has gone around the bluffs. I have just seen Indians up there on the
rim-rocks. I have sent for troops, in the hope that we might get up
there. Sergeant, deploy as skirmishers, and we will try.”
[Illustration: 12 MILE AFTER MILE RUSHED THE LITTLE COLUMN]
At a gallop the men fanned out, then forward at a sharp trot across the
flats, over the little hills, and into the scrub pine. The valley
gradually narrowed until it forced the skirmishers into a solid body,
when the lieutenant took the lead, with the command tailing out in
single file. The signs of the Indians grew thicker and thicker--a
skirmisher's nest here behind a scrub-pine bush, and there by the side
of a rock. Kettles and robes lay about in the snow, with three “bucks”
and some women and children sprawling about, frozen as they had died;
but all was silent except the crunch of the snow and the low whispers of
the men as they pointed to the telltales of the morning's battle.
As the column approached the precipitous rim-rock the officer halted,
had the horses assembled in a side canon, putting Corporal Thornton in
charge. He ordered Sergeant Johnson to again advance his skirmish-line,
in which formation the men moved forward, taking cover behind the pine
scrub and rocks, until they came to an open space of about sixty paces,
while above it towered the cliff for twenty feet in the sheer. There the
Indians had been last seen. The soldiers lay tight in the snow, and no
man's valor impelled him on. To the casual glance the rim-rock was
impassable. The men were discouraged and the officer nonplussed. A
hundred rifles might be covering the rock fort for all they knew. On
closer examination a cutting was found in the face of the rock which was
a rude attempt at steps, doubtless made long ago by the Indians. Caught
on a bush above, hanging down the steps, was a lariat, which, at the
bottom, was twisted around the shoulders of a dead warrior. They had
evidently tried to take him up while wounded, but he had died and had
been abandoned.
After cogitating, the officer concluded not to order his men forward,
but he himself stepped boldly out into the open and climbed up. Sergeant
Johnson immediately followed, while an old Swedish soldier by the name
of Otto Bordeson fell in behind them. They walked briskly up the hill,
and placing their backs against the wall of rock, stood gazing at the
Indian.
With a grin the officer directed the men to advance. The sergeant,
seeing that he realized their serious predicament, said:
“I think, lieutenant, you had better leave them where they are; we are
holding this rock up pretty hard.”
[Illustration: 13 THE HORSES ASSEMBLED IN A SIDE CANYON]
They stood there and looked at each other. “We's in a fix,” said Otto.
“I want volunteers to climb this rock,” finally demanded the officer.
The sergeant looked up the steps, pulled at the lariat, and commented:
“Only one man can go at a time; if there are Indians up there, an old
squaw can kill this command with a hatchet; and if there are no Indians,
we can all go up.”
The impatient officer started up, but the sergeant grabbed him by the
belt. He turned, saying, “If I haven't got men to go, I will climb
myself.”