*Tom Mills was born in Fayette Co., Alabama, in 1858, a slave of George
Patterson, who owned Tom's father and mother. In 1862 George Patterson
moved to Texas, bringing Tom and his mother, but not his father. After
they were freed, it was difficult for Tom's mother to earn a living and
they had a hard time for several years, until Tom was old enough to go
to work on a ranch, as a cow-hand. In 1892 Tom undertook stock farming,
finally settling in Uvalde in 1919. He now lives in a four-room house he
built himself. A peach orchard and a grape arbor shade the west side of
the house and well-fed cows are in the little pasture. Tom is contented
and optimistic and says he can "do a lot of work yet."*
"I was born in Alabama, in Fayette Co., in 1858. My mother was named
Emaline Riley and my father was named Thad Mills. My sisters were named
Ella and Ann and Lou and Maggie and Matildy, and the youngest one was
Easter. I had two brothers, Richard and Ben. Bob Lebruc was my
great-uncle and for a long while he ran a freight wagon from Salt Lakes
to this country. That was the only way of getting salt to Texas, this
part of Texas, I mean, because Salt Lakes is down east of Corpus, close
to the bay. My uncle was finally killed by the Indians in Frio County.
"In Alabama we lived on Patterson's place. The grandmother of all these
Pattersons was Betsy Patterson and we lived on her estate. My mother
wove the cloth. It kep' her pretty busy, but she was stout and active.
My uncle was blacksmith and made all the plows, too.
"We had a picket house, one room, and two beds built in corners.
"My mother done the cookin' up at the house because she was workin' up
there all the time, weavin' cloth, and of course we ate up there. The
rest of 'em didn't like it much because we ate up there, but her work
was there. I guess you never did see a loom? It used to keep me pretty
busy fillin' quills. She made this cloth--this four-dollar-a-yard,
four-leaf jean cloth, all wool, of course.
"I was too little to work durin' the war; of course we packed a little
water and got a little wood. I was goin' to tell you about this scar on
my finger. I was holdin' a stick for another little fellow to cut wood
and he nearly cut my finger off. That sure woke me up.
"They had field work on the place, but a family by the name of Knowles
did the farm work. I worked stock nearly all my life. It used to be all
the work there was. I think my mother was allowed to make a little money
on this cloth business. That is, cloth she made on the outside. And she
was the only one of the slaves that could read. I don't know that they
cared anything about her readin', but they didn't want her to read it to
the rest of 'em. I never earned no money; I was too little.
"We called Old Man Patterson 'master' and we called Mrs. Patterson
'mistuss'.
"I don't know what the other slaves had to eat--they cooked for
themselves, but we had jes' what the Pattersons had to eat. On Sunday
mornin' we had flour bread. Always glad to see Sunday mornin' come. We
made the co'n meal right on the place on these old hand mills that you
turn with both hands like this. When the co'n jes' fust began to get
ha'd, they would grate that; but when it got ha'd, they would grind it.
We always had meat the year 'round. We called hogshead cheese 'souse'.
But we never did make sausage then. It was a long time before we had a
sausage mill. Oh, sho' we made 'chittlin's' (chitterlings). We make them
even now. Why mama always takes the paunch and fixes it up ever' time we
kill hogs. We dried beef, strung it out, and put it on the line. When we
got ready to cook it, we'd take it and beat it and make hash and fry it
or boil it. We had lots of deer and turkeys, quail and 'possums, but
they never did do much eatin' rabbits. I didn't eat no 'possums and I
didn't eat no honey; there was sever'l things I didn't like. I like
straight beef, turkeys, quail and squirrel is mighty fine eatin'. I set
traps and would ketch quail. Armadillos are pretty good meat, but we
didn't eat 'em then. Why, I was grown before I ever saw an armadillo. I
don't know where they immigrated from. Yes'm, I think they come from
Mexico; they must surely have because they wasn't any here when I was a
young boy. We used to see 'em in shows before they ever got to be around
here.
"I wore a shirt that hit me down about my knees. When my mother made my
pants, she made 'em all in one piece, sleeves 'n all. The fust shoes I
ever had, my uncle tanned the leather and made 'em. I guess I was about
six years old. He made the pegs, tanned the leather, and made the shoes.
It taken 18 months to tan the leather. Bark tanned. Huh, I c'n smell
that old tannin' vat now. People nowadays, they're livin' too easy.
'Fraid to let a drop of water fall on 'em.
"Ever' day was Sunday with me then. After we got up any size, they put
us to work, but we didn't work on Sunday. After I got to be a cowboy, of
course, they didn't have no Sunday then.
"I was twenty-two when I fust married. It was in Medina County. Her name
was Ada Coston. She had on a white dress, draggin' the groun' in the
back, what you used to call these trains. I remember when they wore
these hoops, too. We married about 7 o'clock in the evenin'. I had on
one of these frock-tail coats, black broadcloth suit. I had on good
shop-made shoes. We had better shoes then than we ever have now. We had
a supper and then danced. Had a big weddin' cake--great big white one,
had a hole in the center, all iced all over. I think my auntie made that
cake, or my cousin. We had coffee, but I never did drink whiskey in my
life. I think they had chickens--if I remember right, chicken and
dressin'. Had a whole lot better to eat then than I can get now. We
danced all night. I was at a weddin' where they danced three days and
nights, and I tell you where it was. Have you been down to Old Bill
Thomas'? You have? Well, that was where it took place. Bill and Ellen
married when I was about twelve years old, and I think they danced three
days and nights, and maybe longer. Now, if they didn't tell you that, I
could'a told you if I had been there. We danced these old square dances,
what you call the Virginia Reel, and the round dances like the
Schottische, Polka, waltzes, and all them. I was a dancin' fool, wanted
to dance all the time. I inherited that from my mother. She was a
terrible dancer.
"Old Man George Patterson was a very tall and a dark complected man. He
was a kind old man. He was good to my mother and all those that come
from Alabama. The old mistuss would whip me, but he didn't. The
grandchillun and I could fight all over the house; he would jes' get out
of the way. But she would get on us once in awhile. The worst whippin'
she ever give me was about some sheep. They had a cane patch down close
to the sheep pen and I went down there and got me some cane and stripped
it off and I was runnin' 'round down there whippin' the sheep with that
stalk of cane and she found me down there and took me to the house and
learned me better. They never did whip my mother. I know they whipped
two others. Two was all I ever knew of 'em whippin'. Dillard, he married
the oldest Patterson girl, and my uncle, he borrowed an auger from Mr.
Dillard to make a frame. When dinner time came, he laid it down and went
to his dinner. When he got back, this bit was broken and he went and
tells him (Dillard) and they came down to make a search about who had
used it. They found that another colored man got it and used it to bore
some holes with and broke it, so he took it back and laid it down and
never said nothin'. Them days, a thing like that steel bit was awful
high. They laid 'im over a log and whipped 'im and whipped his wife for
not tellin' it when they asked her. They had a boy countin' the licks,
but I don't know how many he got. They had me down there too, and I was
ready to get away from there. I think they had us down there to show
what we would get if we didn't do right.
"The old lady, the mistuss, she was pretty high-tempered--her head kind
of bounced, like that--when she got mad. She was slender and tall. I
think they lived in a log house; I don't remember much what kind of
house it was. I know my mother weaved cloth in one part of it.
"I don't think the field was very large on that place. I often wanted to
go back and see it. It was right on the Sabinal, right opposite Knowlton
Creek.
"I have heard my mother tell about slaves bein' sold. It was kinda like
a fair they have now. They would go there, and some of 'em sold for a
thousand dollars. They said somethin' about puttin' 'em on a block; the
highest bidder, you know, would buy 'em. I don't know how they got 'em
there, for they wasn't much of a way for 'em to go 'cept by oxen, you
know. It was back in Alabama where she saw all that. Of course, there
was more of that down in Mississippi than Alabama, but she didn't know
nothin' about that.
"I remember the cotton they raised on the Patterson place. They picked
the seeds out with their fingers and made cloth out of it. They would
take coarse wool--not merino wool, for that was too fine--and use the
coarse wool for a filler. That was what they would make me do, pick the
seed out of that cotton to keep me out of mischief. I remember that
pretty well. Kep' me tied down, and I would beg the old man to let me
go, and when he did, if I got into anything, I was back there pickin'
seeds pretty quick.
"We would get up about daybreak. They might have got up before I knew
anything about it, but sometimes I got up with my mother.
"What little school I went to was German, at D'Hanis and Castroville. I
went to the priest at D'Hanis and to the sisters at Castroville. No
education to amount to anything. That was after we were freed. I went to
school at the same time that Johnny Ney and his sister, Mary, went to
school. I would like to see Johnny and talk to him now. Your grandmother
and her sisters and brothers went to that school and I remember all of
'em well. One of them boys, George, was killed and scalped by the
Indians, and that was caused by them boys playin' and scarin' each other
all the time. He was with them Rothe boys, and they always had an Indian
scare up someway to have fun with each other, especially to scare
George. So when they did discover the Indians and hollered to George, he
wouldn't run, because they had fooled 'im so much. So the Indians
slipped up on him and killed 'im.
"Yes, I knew all the Millers better than I did nearly any of the rest of
the old settlers up there. Aunt Dorcas, that was George's mother, she
nursed me through the measles. I was awful sick, and when my mother
heard it and come up after me, she told my mother to leave me there, she
would take care of me. I tell you she took good care of me too.
"But that was after freedom. You see, my mother didn't want to come to
Texas. She laid out nearly two years before they got hold of her and got
her to come to Texas. Alabama wasn't thickly settled then. There was
bottoms of trees and wild fruit she could eat. She stayed out by
herself, and would come and get something to eat and leave again. But
Patterson told her if she would come to Texas she would be treated right
and not be whipped or nothin' like that. And so far as I know, she never
was whipped. He kep' his word with her. She was useful and they needed
her. She wove the cloth and was such a good worker.
"The first cow we ever owned, we cut cockleburrs out of a field of about
seven or eight acres. Mr. John Ware gave her a cow to cut the burrs out.
"After the war, my uncle carried my mother and his wife and chillen
away, and when they started with Margaret--she was his niece and my
cousin--they overtook 'em and took Margaret back. She was house girl,
she didn't do nothin' but work in the house. I don't know whether they
ever paid her anything or not. They needed her to wait on the old lady.
"I don't know how that come about when they told 'em they was free. I
don't know whether mother read it in the paper or he come and told 'em.
We went on, and came right on up the same creek to a place where a man
had a ranch by the name of Roney. It was an old abonded (abandoned)
place, and we didn't have anything to eat. My uncle got out and rustled
around to get some bread stuff and got some co'n, but while he was gone
was when we suffered for something to eat. We didn't have anything to
kill wild game with. We would fish a little. When he left he went up in
the Davenport settlement, up there about where your grandfather lived.
We got milk and careless weeds, but that was all we had, and we were
awful glad to see the co'n come. And that was my first taste of javelin
(javelina). It evidently was an old male javelin, for I couldn't eat it.
I don't think my uncle ever stole anything in his life. I was with him
all the time and I know he didn't. My mother, she went over to
Davenports' and my uncle got out and rustled to see where he could get
something to do. So they moved up in the Sabinal Canyon and he got on
Old Man Joel Fenley's place.
"Old Man 'Parson' Monk, I think, was the first person I ever heard
preach. That was down here in the Patterson settlement (formerly a
settlement six miles south of the present town of Sabinal). The
preachin' was right there on the place. I joined the church after I was
grown, but that was the cullud church, then. My mother she joined the
white church. She joined the Hardshell Baptist. She never did live in
any colony and the cullud church was too far. They had lots of camp
meetin's. I never was at but one camp meetin' that I know of. They would
preach and shout and have a good time and have plenty to eat. That was
what most of 'em went for. But the churches then seemed to be more
serious than they are now. They preached the 'altar.' You know, like
anyone wanted to join the church, they was a mourner, you see, seekin'
for religion. And they would sing and pray with 'em till they professed
the religion. I had a sister that never went to a meetin' that she
didn't get to shoutin' and shout to the end of the sermon. I always
tried to get out of the way before I joined because if she got to me,
she would beat on me and talk to me. We always tried to get to her, if
she had her baby in her arms, because she would jes' throw that baby
away when the Spirit moved her.
"Did you ever know of Monroe Brackins over at Hondo City? Well, I and
him was both jes' boys and was with Jess Campbell, Joe Dean and a man
named McLemore. They was white men. We went down on the Frio River, and
there was some pens down there on the Johnson place. They was three
brothers of them Johnsons. We had a little bunch of cattle, goin' down
there. This Jess Campbell and Joe Dean was full of devilment and they
knew Monroe was awful scarey. When we penned the cattle that evenin' it
was late and Monroe noticed a pile of brush at the side of the gate. He
asked 'em what you reckin that was there, and they told him they was a
man killed and buried there. That night after dark they was fixin' to
get supper ready and told Monroe to go get some water down at the river,
but he wouldn't do it. Well, I never was afraid of the dark in my life,
so I had to go get the water. Well, we made a fire and fixed supper and
then these men put a rope on Monroe and took him off a little piece and
wrapped the rope around a tree and never even tied the rope fast. The
other man, McLemore, he went around the camp and came up on the other
side. He had an old dried cow hide with the tail still on it. The old
tail was all bent, crimped up. Here he come from down the creek, from
where they told Monroe that fellow was buried, and right toward Monroe
with that hide on. Tail first and in the dark it looked pretty bad, and,
I tell you, Monroe got to screamin'. I believe he would have died if
they hadn't let him loose. I never laughed so much in my life. When he
would get scared, he would squeal like a hog. He sure was scarey.
"Sometimes, I know, we would be woke up in the night and they would be
cookin' chicken and dumplin's, or havin' somethin' like that. I'd like
for 'em to come ever' night and wake me up. I don't know where it come
from, but they would always wake the chillen up and let 'em have some of
it. (This is an early recollection of his childhood during slavery.)
"My mother's daddy, if he was here, he could tell plenty of things. He
could remember all about them days, and sing them songs too. I've heard
him tell some mighty bad things, and he told somethin' pretty bad on
hisself. He said they captured some Indian chillen and he was carryin
one and it got to cryin' and he jes' took his saber and held it up by
its feet and cut its head off. Couldn't stan' to hear it cry. He got
punished for it, but he said he was a soldier and not supposed to carry
Indian babies. Usually when Indians captured little fellows like that,
they carried 'em off. Like when they carried off Frank Buckilew, a white
boy. And a cullud boy that got away up close to Utopia. They kep' the
Buckilew boy a long time, long enough that he got to where he understood
the language. It was a long time that the Indians didn't kill a darky,
though. But after the war, when they brought these cullud soldiers in
here to drive 'em back, that started the war with the cullud people
then.
"After freedom, I remember one weddin' the white folks had. That was
when John Kanedy (Kennedy) married Melinda Johnson. He was a man that
lived there on the river and was there up to the time he died. I wasn't
at the weddin', but I was at the infair. They were married east of Hondo
City. They had the infair then and it was a kind of celebration after
the weddin'. Ever'body met there and had a big dance and supper and had
a big time. They danced all night after the supper and then had a big
breakfast the next mornin'. I was little, but I remember the supper and
breakfast, for I was enjoyin' that myself. They was lots to eat, and
they had it too. After freedom, I remember these quiltin's where they
would have big dinners. They would have me there, threadin' needles for
'em. We always had a big time Christmas. They had dances and dinners for
a week. Yes'm, the cullud people did. They would celebrate the holidays
out. That was all free too, and they all had plenty to eat. They would
meet at one place one night and have a dance and supper and, the next
night, meet over at another place and have the same thing.
"When I got to workin' for myself, it was cow work. I done horseback
work for fifty years. Many a year passed that I never missed a day bein'
in the saddle. I stayed thirteen years on one ranch. The first place was
right below Hondo City. His name was Tally Burnett and I was gettin'
$7.50 a month. Went to work for that and stayed about three or four
months and he raised my wages to what the others was gettin' and that
was $12.50. He said I was as good as they were. Then I went to Frio
City. I done the same kind of work, but I went with the people that
nearly raised me, the Rutledges.
"That's where I was give twice in the census. My mother gave me in and
he gave me in. That was one time they had one man too many.
"I married when I was with them and I worked for him after that. That
was when we would work away down on the Rio Grande, when Demp Fenley and
Lee Langford and Tom Roland and the two Lease boys and one or two more
was deliverin' cattle to the Gold Franks' ranch. He wanted 8,000
two-year-old heifers. He had 150,000 acres of land and wanted cattle to
stock it. Some taken a contract to deliver so many and some taken a
contract to deliver so many, so these men I was with went down below
Laredo and down in there. We wound that up in '85. In '86, I went to
Kerr County and taken a ranch out there on the head of the Guadalupe
River. I stayed there two years and a half, till they sold out. This man
I was workin' for was from Boston, and he leased the ranch and turned it
over to me and I done all the hirin' and payin' off and buyin' and
ever'thing. When he sold out, I left and went on the Horton ranch about
thirteen months.
"My first wife died in 1892, but we had been separated about five or six
years. I married again in Bandera and quit ranchin' and went to stock
farmin' for Albert Miller, then leased a place from Charley Montague two
years, then went over into Hondo Canyon and leased a place there in '98.
We stayed there till 1906, then came to Uvalde. I leased a place out
here, about two hundred acres, four miles from town, and had odd jobs
around here too. Then, about 1907, we went to Zavala County and stayed
till 1919. I leased a place here, then, and finally settled at this
place I'm on now and have been here ever since.
"I've got 11 chillen livin'. One boy, Alfred, is in Lousiana and I don't
know what he's doin', but he's been married about five times. I have a
boy workin' in the post office in San Antonio named Mack, and the rest
of the chillen are here. There's Sarah, Riley, Frank, James, Banetta,
John, Theodore, Tommy, Annie Laurie. They all live here and work at
different places.
"I know when we used to camp out in the winter time we would have these
old-time freezes, when ever'thing was covered in ice. We would have a
big, fat cow hangin' up and we could slice that meat off and have the
best meals. And when we was on the cow hunts we would start out with
meal, salt and coffee and carry the beddin' for six or eight men on two
horses and carry our rations on another horse. I guess it would scare
people now to hear 'em comin' with all them pots and pans and makin' all
that racket.
"When we camped and killed a yearlin' the leaf fat and liver was one of
the first things we would cook. When they would start in to gather
cattle to send to Kansas, they would ride out in the herd and pick out a
fat calf, and they would get the 'fleece' and liver and broil the ribs.
The meat that was cut off the ribs was called the fleece. It was a
terr'ble waste, for many a time, the hams wasn't even cut out of the
hide, jes' left there. Old Man Alec Rutledge used to say, when they
would throw out bread and meat, he would say, 'I'll tell you, Tom, he
will have to walk alone sometimes because this willful waste will make
woeful wants.' He was talkin' about his brother--they was two of 'em and
sure 'nough, his brother finally lost all his cattle, quit the business,
and never had nothin' left. There would be an awful lot of good meat
wasted, and now we are payin' for it.
"The first fence I ever seen wasn't any larger then this addition here,
and it was put up out of pickets. The Mexicans used to build lots of
fences and we got the idea from them, mostly on these old-timey
stake-and-rider fences. It was an awful pasture when they had eight mile
of fence. The way they made the field fences was nothin' but brush. I
remember when I was a little fellow at John Kanady's (Kennedy's), George
Johnson would come over and stay with his sister, Mrs. Kanady, and he
would keep the cattle out of the field. One day, he came there and put
me on his horse. He had loosened up his girt, and I got out there a
little ways and one of the cows turned back. The horse was a regular old
cow pony and when that cow turned back, the old horse turned just as
quick and the saddle slipped and I stayed there.
"Oh, pshaw! they turn so quick you have to be on the lookout. You have
to watch the horse as well as the cow. Some of them horses get pretty
smart. One time they were cuttin' cattle and a fellow brought a cow to
the edge of the herd and the cow turned back and when she did, the horse
cut back too and left him there. When he went from under him, that
fellow's spurs left a mark clear across the saddle as he went over. It
was my saddle he was ridin' and that mark never did leave it, where the
spurs cut across it.
"We've done some ridin' even after my wife, here, and I were married.
She's seen 'em breakin' horses and all that pitchin' and bawlin'. But, I
never was no hand to show off. If I kep' my seat, that was all I wanted.
You see lots of fellows ridin' just to show off, but I never was for
anything like that.
"No, I never did go up on the trail. I've helped prepare the herd to
take. Usually, there would be one owner takin' his cattle up on the
trail. They had no place to hold the cattle, only under herd. Usually,
they would start with a thousand or fifteen hundred head, but they
didn't put 'em all together till they got away out on the divide. They
would have 'em shaped up as they gathered 'em and jes' hold what they
wanted to send. It didn't take so many men, either, because they all
understood their business.
"I was jes' thinkin' about when Mr. Demp Fenley and Rutledge was here.
They had about nine hundred head of cattle. We brought 'em right in
below Pearsall, right about the Shiner ranch, and delivered 'em there.
But before we got there at a little creek they called _Pato_, they was
hardly any place to bed the cattle because they was so much pear[TR:
cactus]. Mr. Rutledge and I always bedded the cattle down, and then I
would go on the last relief, usually about the time to get up, anyway.
He used me all the time when they would get ready to go to camp in the
evenin', and we'd spread 'em out and let 'em graze before beddin' 'em
down. Sometimes he would give me a motion to come over there, and I knew
that meant an animal to throw. He always got me to do the ropin' if one
broke out. Well, we was comin on with those cattle and they was a steer
that gave us trouble all the time. As soon as you got away, he would
walk out of the herd. Well, we got the cattle all bedded down and they
were quiet, but that steer walked out. I was ridin' Mr. Fenley's dun
horse, and Mr. Rutledge says to me, 'I tell you what we'll do. We'll
ketch that steer out here and give 'im a good whippin'.' I says, 'We'll
get into trouble, too.' Well, he was to hold 'im away from the herd and
I was to rope 'im, but the steer run in front of him and out-run 'im. If
he would have run in behind him, I would 'a caught 'im, but that steer
beat 'im to the herd and run right into the middle of 'em. And did he
stampede 'em! Those cattle run right into the camp, and the boys all
scramblin' into the wagon and gettin' on their horses without their
boots on. One steer fell and rolled right under the chuck wagon. You
know, we run those cattle all night, tryin' to hold 'em. It was a pear
flat there, and next mornin' that pear was all beat down flat on the
ground. They sure did run, and all because of that foolishness. Mr.
Rutledge got to me and told me not to tell it, and I don't reckin to
this day anybody knows what done that.
"I never told you about the panther about to get on to me, did I? Well,
we was out on the Rio Grande, about thirty-one or thirty-two miles
beyond Carrizo. It was at the _Las islas_ (The Islands) Crossin'. I was
about three days behind the outfit when they went out there. That was in
July, and they was a law passed that we had to quit wearin' our guns the
first day of July and hang 'em on the ho'n of our saddle. When I got to
the outfit, the boys was gettin' pretty tired herdin'. They had to bring
'em out about six miles to grass and to this little creek. We would put
'em in the pen at night and feed 'em hay. We were waitin' there for them
to deliver some cattle out of Mexico. The Mexican told me they was
somethin' out there where they were herdin' sheep that was scarin' the
sheep out of the pen at night. I had seen some bobcats, but I laid down
under one of these huisache trees and went to sleep. I had my pistol on
and was layin' there and about two o'clock, I woke up. I turned over and
rested myself on my elbow and looked off there about 12 feet from me and
there stood a big old female panther. She was kind of squattin' and
lookin' right at me. I reached right easy and got my Winchester that was
layin' beside me and I shot her right between the eyes. Why, I had one
of her claws here for a long time. She had some young ones somewhere. I
imagined, though, she was goin' to jump right on me. It wasn't no good
feelin', I know. She was an awful large one.
"Oh, my goodness! I have seen lobos, eight or ten in a bunch. They're
sure mean. I've seen 'em have cattle rounded up like a bunch of cow
hands. If you heard a cow or yearlin' beller at night, you could go next
mornin' and sure find where they had killed her. They would go right
into the cow or calf and eat its kidney fat first thing. I tell you, one
sure did scare me one time. I was out ridin', usually ropin' and
brandin' calves, and I came across a den in the ground. I heard
something whinin' down there in that hole. It was a curiosity to me and
I wanted to get one of those little wolf pups. That was what I thought
it was. I got down there and reached in there and got one of those
little fellows. They was lovos (lobos). They are usually gray, but he
was still black. They are black at first, then they turn gray. He was a
little bit of a fellow. Well, I got him out and the old lovo wolf run
right at me, snappin' her teeth, and my horse jerked back and came near
gettin' away. But I hung to my wolf and got to my horse and got on and
left there. I didn't have nothin' to kill her with. I was jes' a boy,
then. I took that pup and give it to Mrs. Jim Reedes, down on the Hondo,
and she kep' it till it began eatin' chickens.
"I had a bear scare, too. That was in '87, about fifty years ago. Well,
Ira Wheat was sheriff at Leakey in Edwards County, then. I went down
there, and I was ridin' a horse I broke for a sheriff in Kerr County. I
came to Leakey to see Wheat--you see they was burnin' cattle (running
the brands) all over that country then. As I was ridin' along, I seen
some buzzards and I rode out there. Somethin' had killed a hog and eat
on it. I knowed it was a bear afterwards, but then I went on down to
Leakey and started back, I got up on the divide, at the head of a little
canyon and I seen those buzzards again. I seen two black things and I
jes' thought to myself them buzzards was comin' back and eatin' on that
dead hog. I rode up and seen that it was two bears and I made a lunge at
'em and the old bear run off and the little cub ran up a tree. I
thought, 'I'll ketch you, you little rascal.' So I tied my horse and I
went up the tree after the cub and when I was near 'im, he squalled jes'
like a child. I tell you, when it squalled that way, here came that old
bear and begin snuffin' around the tree. My horse was jes' rearin' and
tryin' to break loose out there. I tell you, when I _did_ get down there
and get to him, I had to lead him about two hundred yards before I could
ever get on him. He sure was scared. Like it was when I was a boy down
on the Hondo one time and I could hear horses comin' and thought it was
Indians and after awhile, I couldn't hear nothin' but my heart beatin'."
----
Uncle Tom Mills is one of the most contented old darkies surviving the
good old days when range was open and a livelihood was the easiest thing
in the world to get. He lives in the western part of Uvalde, in a
four-room house that he built himself. A peach orchard and a grape arbor
shade the west side of the house. It is here that Uncle Tom spends many
hours cultivating his little garden patch. Contented and well-fed milk
cows lie in the shade of the oak trees in a little pasture east of the
house, and he proudly calls attention to their full udders and sleek
bodies. His wife, Hattie, laughs and joins him in conversation, helping
to prod his memory on minor events. He smiles a lot and seems optimistic
about most things. I did not hear him speak grudgingly toward anyone, or
make a complaint about the old-age pension he gets. He is always busy
about the place and claims that he can do a lot of work yet.