When, nine years ago, I first set out from Melbourne bound for British
New Guinea--or Papua, as it is now officially called--I had very vague
ideas about how to reach it, or what it would be like when I got there.
I knew that New Guinea was a large island lying off the extreme north
of Australia, and that the part I was going to was a little south of
the Equator, but that was about all. However, I was told that I should
catch a boat at Sydney which was sailing for Samarai, the island
port of Papua, and that there I should be met by the schooner of the
Anglican Mission. I might have to finish the journey in a whaleboat,
I was informed, so my belongings had better be packed in small boxes.
Thereupon I set off, armed with a thousand tabloids of quinine, a
defence against malarial fever, which everyone in Papua contracts more
or less badly as a matter of course.
[Illustration: THE HOSPITAL AT SAMARAI, THE PICTURESQUE CAPITAL OF
PAPUA.
_From a Photograph._]
Although the distance was not very great, the voyage took nearly three
weeks, for we certainly did not hurry. The captain was a cautious old
man, and every night, during one "reefy" part of the trip, our anchor
went down at six o'clock, not to be hauled up till the same hour next
morning.
Then, too, instead of making for Samarai, we rounded Cape York and
visited Thursday Island, where we remained for some days. Moreover,
after calling at Port Moresby, on the south coast of Papua, we
deliberately went sixty miles out of our way to land some members of
the Roman Catholic Mission at Yule Island, their head station.
But at last, one morning, we reached Samarai--and a very pretty little
place I thought it, though it is now much altered by the addition of
a number of stores and Government buildings. One of the latter, the
hospital, is shown on the previous page. Four little hills rose in
the centre of the tiny island, surrounded by a picturesque, though
unhealthy, swamp. Gorgeous crotons blazed with crimson and gold in
the tropical sunlight, and thick clusters of palms--coco, areca, and
sago--swayed gently in the wind, while their stiff leaves rustled in a
most misleading manner, imitating a heavy shower of rain. Papaw trees
hung their graceful sprays of waxen blossom, or stood upright under
their load of ripening yellow fruit.
[Illustration: THE LITTLE VESSEL IN WHICH MISS KER COMPLETED HER LONG
JOURNEY.
_From a Photograph._]
When the schooner eventually arrived, after some little delay, she
began to load up with stores, comprising food (mostly tinned), trade
goods, and medicines. After this was accomplished I went on board, and
the last stage of my voyage began. I had not been on a sailing vessel
before, and though I tried hard to believe we were actually moving,
the breeze was so light that it required a great effort. On subsequent
journeys I learned to be thankful if we did not actually retreat
instead of advance, for one morning I woke and heard the captain say,
"We're ten miles farther back than we were last night!"
[Illustration: THIS PHOTOGRAPH SHOWS HOW PRISONERS WERE CARRIED OFF THE
BATTLEFIELD IN THE "BAD OLD DAYS," TO BE AFTERWARDS COOKED AND EATEN.]
However, we drifted peacefully along the coast, with an unvarying
mountain range in the background, looking as though gigantic tiger-skin
rugs had been thrown over it. The natives, I was informed, had produced
this effect by burning the grass when hunting boars and wallabies.
Occasionally we would pass groups of coco palms, which denoted the
existence of a village beneath them. Then, one morning, quite suddenly
we found ourselves at our destination, and I stepped ashore to be
surrounded by crowds of excited natives, to whom the advent of a white
woman had not lost the charm of novelty.
The village of Wedau, where I disembarked, had been, not many years
before, the scene of frequent cannibal feasts. The Wedauans had lived
in a state of continual feud with the hill-folk and other tribes at
a distance, and had sallied forth on various occasions to fight with
them on any convenient "merewa" or battlefield. The photograph here
reproduced shows a group of natives on an old "merewa," and illustrates
the method by which hapless captives were carried off the field in the
bad old days, to be afterwards cooked and eaten.
The victim, sometimes only stunned or wounded, was lashed by the hands
and feet to a stout pole, which was borne on men's shoulders through
the village. Sometimes several of these unhappy wretches were captured
at a time, and the treatment they received before being mercifully
killed was cruel to a degree. Samuela Aigeri, a Wedauan Christian, once
related to me incidents of great barbarity which had taken place in the
village in connection with the slaughter of a man taken prisoner by the
villagers. The poor wretch asked in vain for water to drink, and was
stoned and otherwise tormented for a considerable time before being
given the _coup de grâce_. This was customary.
I soon discovered that European housekeeping in Papua is charmingly
simple. Everything arrived in a tin, for the most part ready for use.
Meat, milk, butter, vegetables--all stood in tins in neat rows in the
storeroom. A diet of tinned stuffs grew rather monotonous at times, but
we were able occasionally to vary it. Sometimes a man would arrive with
a live turtle, which he would sell for two sticks of tobacco, costing
threepence. The wretched turtle would be killed and cut up, but would
still insist on quivering in a most realistic manner even when placed
on the fire to cook. Then, too, if the season was a good one, the
kitchen would be found lined with joints of wallabies, and it would be
hard to know what to do with so much fresh meat.
[Illustration: NATIVES FILLING WATER-BOTTLES AT A STREAM.
_From a Photograph._]
I remember once thinking that smoked wallaby would be a change, and I
asked the little cook-boy if he could get some done for me. He assented
willingly, and bore a leg off to where he said there was an "ovo" or
platform for smoking meat. In a few days it was returned to me and
looked most appetizing. We cut a dish full of delicate slices, and were
just about to set it on the dining-table, when I thought of asking the
cook-boy how it had been prepared. He told me quite cheerfully that he
had given it to an old leper woman, who, being ill, could not leave the
house, and so was sure to keep the fire alight. It was she we had to
thank for so kindly smoking our meat. Needless to say, the dish did not
appear on the table that night.
Girls as well as boys learned cooking when at the mission station. One
girl was considered a very good cook, so much so that on one occasion
she was trusted to prepare a meal by herself, as everyone had gone for
a picnic. She was told to make rissoles of what she found in the safe.
The pudding, a Christmas one, was to follow.
At evening the party returned and sat down, hungry and tired, to eat.
Surely, they thought, the rissoles tasted rather peculiar. However,
they were eaten, and demands made for the pudding.
"But you have had the pudding," was the model cook's answer; "it was in
the rissoles!"
Laundry work was sometimes carried on under great difficulties. At
one station the water supply was some distance away, and was brought
weekly by bullocks which dragged a heavy "slide" on which our pails
stood. The bullocks were occasionally obstreperous, on which occasions
the supply of water was sadly diminished. Moreover, when it was safely
placed in the laundry the ducks hastened thither and bathed luxuriously
in each tub, leaving behind them cloudy water plentifully besprinkled
with feathers. At night our girl boarders, feeling thirsty, would
ask if they might drink from the tubs and would gratefully receive
permission to do so, quite undeterred by the fact that many ducks had
bathed in the water, which, I should have mentioned, was so "hard" that
no soap ever formed a lather. It may be imagined, therefore, what the
clothes looked like when returned from the wash.
[Illustration: A TYPICAL NATIVE HOUSE.
_From a Photograph._]
Papuan marriage customs are interesting and rather intricate. In
Collingwood Bay, for instance, the bride is mourned over for some days
beforehand by her girl friends, who are losing their playmate. Then she
is dressed in her best, presented with many gifts, and a procession is
formed to take her to her new home.
The bridegroom is never to be found on his wedding-day. It is etiquette
for him to go hunting or on some expedition which will take him from
the village. His relatives, however, look after his interests and
hasten the lagging footsteps of the wedding procession by lavish
bribes. On arriving at the house the bride and her maids of honour
enter and remain for the night, while the elders return home.
In the morning the poor little bride is deserted by her girl friends
and betakes herself to sweeping her new domain with a handful of
coco-nut bristles for a broom, thus officially acknowledging her
marriage. After cooking a great pot of food she waits for the elusive
bridegroom, who tarries only till the sun sets, when he joyfully
returns after his voluntary exile and, alone with his wife at last,
partakes of the marriage meal.
Medicine-men are regarded with great respect by the natives. Those I
have met certainly seemed energetic and hard-working. They sit close to
the patient, massaging the seat of pain with much vigour, and, while
they are thus rubbing, make a noise with their lips rather like that
which a groom makes when rubbing down a horse. The process is a tiring
one, and the medicine-man stops at intervals to drink hot water in
which taro has been boiled. His object is to extract some mysterious
foreign substance from the sick man's body, and if he succeeds in this
he receives a fee, otherwise he gets nothing. "No cure, no pay" is
apparently the Papuan sufferer's motto.
On one occasion a medicine-man was attending to a patient outside a
house in the village. The natives sitting round told me he had already
extracted a pebble from one invalid and another cure was about to
take place. I expressed a wish to see the next stone which should be
removed, and waited patiently while the medicine-man rubbed on. At last
he stopped and, with clenched fist, called upon me to watch. This I
did, and he slowly opened his hand and, disclosing an empty palm, cried
triumphantly, "It is gone!"
The natives were much impressed, but I must say I should have preferred
one glimpse of the magic cause of disease before it vanished.
The weather in Papua is divided into two seasons only--wet and dry. The
former is the summer, the latter the winter, but very little difference
in temperature is noticeable. During the wet season thunderstorms may
be expected, and some of these are truly terrible. I have seen even a
white man look alarmed as great claps of thunder, following on vivid
flashes of lightning, seemed to be cleaving asunder the roof over our
heads. When to these are added strong wind and sheets of driving rain,
the situation becomes distinctly unpleasant.
Like all savage races the Papuans have many superstitions, which appear
to vary according to the tribe. The Wedauans, for example, had a belief
that most of the unseen spirits around them were actively malignant.
There was a certain kind of eel which must not be eaten, or probably
a disastrous flood would follow, while if a native wanted to cut down
a tree he had to beware lest there was a _kokome_ (dryad) living in
it. If the _kokome_ were annoyed it might cause the offender's face to
swell and his skin to prick.
One of the worst possible offences against hidden powers was breaking
a "tabu." "Tabu" was placed on all sorts of things--perhaps a certain
coco-nut palm, or across a path. It was usually made of two upright
sticks, with a crosspiece, on which were hung coco-nut leaf and husk.
This was called an "iribubu," and was safeguarded by an incantation. It
took a very reckless man or woman to disregard an "iribubu," for unless
the enchanter was willing to accept a bribe he would not remove the
charm, and the victim, so the natives thought, must die.
[Illustration: A PARTY OF COLLINGWOOD BAY NATIVES ON A HUNTING
EXPEDITION.
_From a Photograph._]
A witch I knew lost her husband, and his death was put down to his
wife's machinations. Nevertheless, the polite Papuan women came to
blend their voices with the wailing of the newly-made widow. In a few
years, spite of her uncanny reputation, the witch-widow became a wife
once more. Her second husband must have been a brave man, or possibly
he was a sorcerer, and intended to counteract his wife's powers with
more potent charms than her own.
[Illustration: NATIVES ASSEMBLED FOR A PIG-FEAST--IT IS ETIQUETTE IN
PAPUA TO EAT NOTHING BUT TO CARRY AWAY EVERYTHING.
_From a Photograph._]
In Wedau, directly anyone died, the house filled with wailing men and
women, some of whom were paid mourners. Crying had to continue until
after the funeral, and was extremely painful to listen to.
Marriage takes place early in Papua, so it was quite possible to have
great-grandparents or children weeping at the grave. Imagine a whole
family tree, with its collateral branches, all lifting their voices at
once and with much energy, and you have a feeble idea of what a death
in Wedau involved. The mourners usually called on the dead man by the
relationship they bore to him, and seldom mentioned his name. After
burial, in fact, the name was "popola," and must not be spoken. A small
boy who was staying with me on a visit told me most emphatically that
he must leave at once if I so much as mentioned the name of his dead
grandfather.
At one of the villages up the coast a curious custom prevails. The
mission girls and I went to witness the funeral of an old man. In the
middle of the house, on the floor, the deceased lay in state. The poor
old man's face was exposed to view, and was a ghastly sight, for the
kinsfolk had rouged its cheeks, possibly to give it a semblance of life!
After some time spent in wailing, the procession proceeded to the
grave. As the corpse was about to be placed in it the village policeman
glanced at me, and requested to know whether I thought the grave
was deep enough! It seems he had been required by the Government to
superintend the digging of graves, and wished a foreigner's approval of
the way he had fulfilled his task. What would have happened if I had
suggested delaying the funeral to dig deeper, however, I shudder to
think.
When I first went out to Papua there were only five other white women
on the north-east coast, though there were a few at Samarai, the port.
Naturally life under these conditions was very different from that in
civilized countries. Roads there were none; but as we generally walked
along the beach, or went by boat, this did not much matter, and there
were a few tracks along which we walked in single file, with tall reeds
or grass rising perhaps to six feet on either side of us. Gloves were
unnecessary, and even veils were too hot to be worn. The best time
of the day was the evening, though the early morning was deliciously
cool. The Wedauans rose at an unearthly hour, and I have heard an
astonished visitor at about 7 a.m. ask, "Is she ill?" on hearing that I
was still in bed. But though we got up as a rule before seven we found
a rest at midday almost imperative. My days went quietly and quickly
enough. Sellers of edible ants, coco-nuts, and other foodstuffs came
when it suited them or when they required tobacco, and patients who
were receiving treatment usually arrived about 9 a.m. Then I could
settle down to translation work, while the boy and girl boarders busied
themselves in the garden or fished in the sea. In the afternoon we had
school in the village for two hours, followed by classes or visiting
the natives in their homes. They were most cordial, and would often
make me a present of a sticky piece of taro or a fibrous sweet potato
picked steaming out of the big earthenware pot. We all sat on the
shingly floor, though perhaps I was given a mat to spread under me,
and we would talk of pigs, crops, babies, and other matters till after
service it was time for me to return to the house. It was not very
exciting, but certainly a very happy life.
We tried the experiment of keeping sheep, but for various reasons, such
as the presence of spear grass and attacks from village dogs or pigs,
were compelled to give it up. Still, while we had them it was possible
to taste fresh mutton occasionally, and I remember one of the lady
missionaries coming in great glee to her fellow-workers. "Hurrah!" she
cried. "A lamb has had sunstroke; we shall have fresh meat."
Fowls have always been difficult to rear, as there is little a village
dog will not force his way through when he knows of their existence. On
one occasion one of these daring animals killed a mission fowl in broad
daylight, only to be immediately shot by a watchful missionary. We ate
the fowl that night, while the villagers feasted royally on the dog.
So, in spite of the double catastrophe, nothing was wasted.
Though cannibalism is still practised among the inland tribes, and
even occasionally on the islands adjacent to the mainland, the coastal
natives have to be content nowadays with pigs' flesh. They are very
fond of giving feasts, and the last photograph shows a group of
feast-givers decorated for the occasion, with gay feathers stuck in
their fuzzy hair, which is teased out with a comb something like a
many-pronged wooden toasting-fork. They hang egg cowrie shells on their
arms, putting on all the finery they possess, and smearing their faces
with lime.
All this preparation often took place days beforehand, for a feast in
Papua is nothing if not movable. It used to be announced for a certain
day, but at the appointed time all the necessary pigs might not have
been brought in, or some expected visitors might not have arrived, or
a pig already present might have struggled free from its bonds and
have had to be hunted for a day or two. No one ever seemed to mind the
delay, however. With well-bred calmness they waited until everything
was quite ready, and then the feast began.
On one such occasion there were nearly a thousand people present,
and fifty pigs, two thousand coco-nuts, and huge piles of taro were
distributed. The feast-givers got nothing; that is a universal custom.
The recipients likewise neither cooked nor ate a morsel until they
got home, for it is considered good form in Papua to eat nothing but
to carry away everything, thus practically reversing our notions of
hospitality. There was a great heap of dismembered pigs lying on the
ground, and the presiding genius of the feast, with his assistants,
threw these violently towards the guests. Each important man had
retainers who ran forward and bore the joint off, while the less
fortunate ones kept up a running fire of comment--identifying a pig's
head as having been the contribution of some particular man, or
reproving the hill-folk for their awkward gait, telling them not to
fear precipices on the coast, and so on.
At this particular feast one man, an ex-policeman, lost his temper
completely. As his share of pork was thrown forward, the distributor
took the opportunity of accusing him of certain misdemeanours. This
so enraged the accused that he sprang to his feet brandishing a very
unpleasant-looking knife about two feet long. His friends, not much
impressed, stolidly brought him his pork and quite disregarded his
angry commands to throw it away. Finally he subsided, muttering. In
earlier days this would have been, no doubt, but the prelude to a very
lively little battle, and spears would soon have been in action. The
culprit, however, had served under Government, and knew what power it
possessed to punish offenders.
(_To be continued._)
_Recollections of a Texas Ranger._
+By Isaac Motes.+
Being some exciting incidents of forty years' service with one of
the finest corps of frontiersmen in the world--the Texas Rangers.
Born horsemen and Indian fighters, in the early days they were the
sole representatives of law and order on the border, combining the
functions of policemen, magistrates, and, very often, executioners
as well.
The forty years from 1855 to 1895 were strenuous years for me. A mere
boy almost, just turned eighteen, I emigrated to Texas in the former
year, and being a good shot with rifle and revolver, and owning a
good horse, I joined the Ranger force, having nothing else to do.
For two score of eventful years I spent the best part of every day
in the saddle, taking part in some of the most dramatic, tragic, and
nerve-trying episodes of frontier life.
Those were exciting times indeed. There was but little law in West
Texas during the first half of those forty years, and the Rangers
exercised far more power and authority than at the present day. The
State was full of savage Indians and renegade Mexicans, as well as "bad
men" from the other States of the American Union.
The Rangers were chosen with very great care. A man must be brave, of
good character, preferably unmarried, a good shot, a good horseman, and
must be possessed of a horse worth not less than a hundred dollars. He
must be absolutely fearless of danger, and prepared to give his life
at any time in enforcing the law and in the protection of the settlers
on the frontier and their families. The Rangers had to deal with
wild, vicious, lawless characters and criminals, Indians, Mexicans,
and outlaws from other States--all of them men who would fight to the
death rather than surrender. Of necessity, therefore, the Rangers had
to carry things with a high hand, often passing sentence on captured
criminals and executing them without the ceremony of a trial.
From 1855 to 1870 the Rangers were chiefly employed in ridding Texas
of the Comanche Indians, incidentally keeping Mexican desperadoes from
crossing the border and protecting the stage-coaches which carried the
United States mail, in all of which work they had the hearty assistance
of the United States troops stationed at the different forts in Western
Texas. Every Ranger felt it his duty to live up to the reputation which
the corps had gained for fearlessness and untiring perseverance in
hunting down criminals. Thus it was that the Texas Rangers have been
for generations the most dreaded set of law officers in the South-West
among malefactors.
In the year 1856, soon after coming to Texas, I was at Fort Inge, in
the employ of the United States Government as a scout. That year a
mail route was opened between San Antonio and El Paso, six hundred
miles distant. The contract for delivering the mail was let to Captain
William Wallace, an old Texas Ranger and Mexican War veteran, and six
mounted guards were furnished by the Government to accompany the coach.
The Rangers were generally selected for this dangerous duty because
they knew the State better than the United States cavalry. For two
years I was one of these guards. Our route lay through the wildest part
of the State, where we were exposed to attacks from Indians and outlaws
all the way. We had numberless fights with Indians and many narrow
escapes. Two of the guards were killed during the year 1856 by Indians,
who shot them from behind clumps of cactus. We rode close behind the
mail coach, to prevent the Indians cutting us off from the stage, and
capturing the loose mules which we always took along for service in
case of accident.
The prettiest fight we had with redskins on any of these trips was at
the crossing of Devil's River. This is a deep, rocky stream, with very
high bluffs, a good place for Indians to make an attack. The west bank
was much higher than the east bank, and crowned with trees and large
boulders. We stopped on the east bank one day at noon to eat our lunch,
and were just ready to cross and continue our journey when twenty-seven
Indians attacked us from the west bluffs, keeping themselves well
hidden among the rocks.
Captain Wallace ordered us to hold our fire, knowing that the savages
would presently get bolder and come out where we could see them better.
Thinking we were cowards, they soon began to show themselves, and
the chief was heard to say that they would come down and scalp the
white men, as we were afraid to fight. We were all good shots and had
good rifles, which we kept ready for instant use. As the Indians made
preparations to descend the bank, Captain Wallace made us creep under
the stage as if frightened at the arrows which came down from the
bluffs. The redskins, seeing this, came out into the open and bunched
together in plain view. Captain Wallace now gave the signal to fire,
and his own rifle cracked, followed instantly by our six, and five
Indians fell and rolled down the bank a short distance among the rocks.
The remainder scattered at once, and nothing was seen of them for some
time. They were hidden behind the rocks close by their dead, but were
afraid to risk showing themselves. Our one volley had given them enough
of us, and they were anxious to leave, but, according to their custom,
they wished to carry their dead warriors with them.
[Illustration: "FIVE INDIANS FELL AND ROLLED DOWN THE BANK."]
Presently we saw a lasso thrown from behind a rock and fall among the
dead Indians; the survivors were trying to rope them and drag the
bodies to cover. They threw many times, and succeeded in catching and
dragging them all in except one. This man had fallen farther down the
bank than the others, and his arms hung over the bluff, so that he was
hard to lasso. Loop after loop came down, and finally he was caught
under the arms and dragged away. The Indians did not show themselves
again, and at last we harnessed up the mules, turning back to Fort
Clark to get reinforcements, as we feared an ambuscade by a larger
force. During the fight a number of arrows hit the stage and stuck
in, and we allowed them to remain where they were during many trips.
They were examined with a great deal of curiosity and awe by Eastern
visitors whenever we came into San Antonio.
In the autumn of 1870 a band of Comanches came raiding near Bastrop,
Texas. Close to this town lived a man named Craig, who was the owner
of a pair of fine grey horses, which, with many others, the Indians
stole. Craig was greatly distressed about the loss of his team, and
called on his neighbours to help him recover them, and quite a number
responded, including several friendly Indians. In the neighbourhood
lived a Tonkaway Indian named John. He was a good trailer and fighter,
and immediately joined the party, following the trail of the Comanches
very rapidly.
On the afternoon of the first day out we discovered the robbers camped
in a ravine. They were cooking meat, and it was the smoke of their
camp fire which led us to their position. We promptly charged, but the
Indians discovered us in time to make their escape, leaving one of
Craig's horses behind. We had ridden all day with nothing to eat, so
we at once proceeded to help ourselves to the roast meat left by the
fugitives. While thus engaged we heard a yell, and, looking round, saw
a solitary warrior on a hill, mounted on Craig's other horse. Seeing
us watching him, the Indian yelled again and began wheeling the horse
about in a circle. He had a brand-new bridle on this horse--probably
obtained from a looted store in Bastrop--and as he wheeled his mount
rapidly the metal on the bridle glistened in the sunshine, although the
Indian must have been a quarter of a mile away. There was a man in the
party named Bates, who was riding a very fast horse, and Tonkaway John
said if Bates would let him have the horse he would catch the Comanche
and bring back his scalp, together with Craig's horse. "All right,"
replied Bates, "but don't you lose my horse."
When the Comanche saw John coming he galloped off across the valley,
yelling defiance, and no doubt thinking he could easily get away. When
he saw the Tonkaway gaining on him, however, he began whipping and
kicking furiously, but it was all of no avail--Bates's horse steadily
overtook the grey. The Comanche now strung his bow, and a battle with
arrows commenced between the two red men, but the hostile Indian was
soon stuck full of arrows and at the mercy of John, who rode quickly up
alongside of him. They must have been fully a mile and a half from us,
but there was not a bush or a shrub to obstruct the view, and in the
bright light of the setting sun and the clear, thin atmosphere of the
prairie we could see them as plainly as though within two hundred yards
of them.
The Comanche, badly wounded, now threw away his bow and began to beg
for his life. John, however, paid no attention to him, but grabbed him
by his long, coarse hair, pulled him from his horse, and, dismounting,
killed and scalped him with his long knife. Remounting, he came back
yelling triumphantly, leading Craig's horse with one hand and waving
the scalp with the other. Craig had now recovered both his horses, so
he was profuse in his thanks, and never finished talking about the
bravery of Tonkaway John.
In a fight we had with Indians on the Upper Brazos River, in the year
1876, we captured a big Comanche chief named Black Wolf. We took him
to Fort Griffin, intending to turn him over to the colonel commanding,
but he refused to have anything to do with the prisoner. As he was one
of the most bloodthirsty Indians on the frontier, however, the officer
recommended us to shoot him. None of us fancied the job, and as some
friendly Tonkaways, who had been in this fight, had a special grudge
against the Comanche, he was turned over to them to be killed, although
we little thought at the time how they proposed to carry out the
death-sentence.
There were about twenty of the Tonkaways, armed with bows and arrows,
and they took the chief--a Herculean fellow--and turned him loose in
front of the fort. Then they began shooting at him from all sides. They
had to be careful, however, not to miss him and shoot some of their own
men, so for this reason it was not safe to shoot very strongly. The
first arrow that struck the big Indian he pulled out, and rushed about
here and there with it, trying to stab his enemies as they shot at him.
The greater the number of arrows that struck him the more furious he
became, and the faster he ran the more difficult it was for the archers
to hit him. The Comanche was tall, with long, powerful arms, and could
reach far with his curious weapon, and very soon it began to look as
though he would put the whole band of Tonkaways to flight with only an
arrow. They rushed around frantically, uttering shrill cries of rage,
trying hard to kill the big chief, but being careful to keep out of
reach of his long arms. While this went on we stood around the gate
of the fort with the soldiers, watching the absorbingly interesting
fight. The Comanche was soon stuck full of arrows, but they did not
penetrate deeply and did not interfere in the least with his fighting
powers. Presently he had most of the Tonkaways on the run, those in
front trying to get out of the way of the arrow in his hands, those
at his back and sides endeavouring to kill him without wounding any
of their comrades. Springing this way and that he wounded several of
the Tonkaways, and our captain began to fear he would kill some of
them, so the colonel at the fort sent several soldiers out to drive the
Tonkaways away. The Comanche was afterwards shot. Spite of the chief's
terrible record, one could not help admiring his pluck, and his last
battle was the bravest fight for life I have ever seen put up by a lone
Indian.
[Illustration: "THEY RUSHED AROUND FRANTICALLY, TRYING HARD TO KILL THE
BIG CHIEF."]
During the time I was a Ranger, most of the Indians in Texas, whether
hostile or friendly, were cannibals. The hostiles were probably greater
cannibals than the friendlies, as association with white men had a
restraining influence on the latter, but we had no opportunity to
observe the hostile Indians as we could the friendlies. The Indians
friendly to us, and who aided us at times in our wars with the
Comanches, were the Tehuacanas, the Tonkaways, the Karankawas, and the
Lipans; the Tonkaways and Lipans were especially friendly. But they
were all more or less cannibals by instinct and practice, and it was
only on account of the restraining influence of the white men that
they did not indulge this revolting practice more often. No matter how
friendly they were to us, and no matter how emphatically they were
forbidden to eat their enemies, there were times when it seemed the
Indians simply must give way to their natural appetites and indulge in
a cannibal feast, followed by a scalp-dance.
Some few of the Ranger captains were not so strict in this regard as
their colleagues, allowing the Indian allies to do more or less as they
pleased with their slain enemies after a battle in which they had shown
unusual bravery. But while our captain was glad to have the assistance
of the friendlies, he drew the line sharply when it came to allowing
them to indulge their cannibal instincts while under his command. In
1879 there was a fight, known as the Battle of Lost Valley, between
our company of Rangers and the Comanches, where we were assisted by
some friendly Tehuacanas and Tonkaways. The Comanches outnumbered us
four to one, and the fight was hot and furious. The friendly Indians
became much excited, and it was hard to restrain them. The Comanches
were routed after many fierce hand-to-hand encounters. One of their
braves was especially daring, wounding four of the Tehuacanas before
he dropped dead--shot full of arrows, but fighting as long as he could
cling to his horse. After the battle we were too busy attending to
the wounds of our men to give attention to the friendlies until our
captain noticed a pair of Indian hands tied to the saddle of one of the
Tehuacana braves. He was the Indian who had finally killed the brave
Comanche, and his trophies were the hands of the dead warrior.
"What are you going to do with those?" asked our captain, sternly,
pointing to the gory souvenirs.
"Goin' to eat 'em. Maybe so make me brave," replied the Tehuacana.
"You rascal! If you don't drop them instantly I'll have you shot,"
thundered the captain, and very reluctantly the Tehuacana relinquished
the hands.
The Tehuacanas say that the first member of their race was brought into
the world by a wolf. "How am I to live?" asked the Tehuacana. "The same
as we do," said the wolf, and that is just about how they have lived.
The braver the enemy they slew in battle, the more liable they were to
eat him, or, at least, want to do so, believing that this act would add
to their own pluck.
After 1875 Indians became very scarce in Western Texas. They had
been removed to the Indian Territory, north of Texas, partly by the
United States soldiers and the Rangers, and partly by the gradual and
inevitable advance of civilization. They were located on reservations
in the Territory, and a strenuous endeavour was made by the Indian
Agents and the United States troops to keep them there, but it was
impossible to prevent small bands from crossing the border and
descending suddenly and unexpectedly upon the scattered settlements in
Texas to steal horses, loot stores, burn houses, and murder defenceless
women and children. As the number of Indians grew smaller, however,
they confined themselves more and more to prowling around on dark
nights and stealing horses. Ostensibly they were now at peace with the
white men, but having been run out of Texas mainly by the Rangers, the
grievance rankled in their bosoms, and they occasionally came back in
small squads and straggling parties on horse-stealing expeditions. If
they could get away with a man's saddle-horse without fighting the
owner they preferred to do so, but if necessary they were ready to
fight.
The white settlers were so aggravated by having their horses stolen
that they resorted to all sorts of expedients to keep the Indians from
getting them. The savages, however, kept up their thieving excursions
till there were no horses left in some neighbourhoods, especially near
rivers, down which the Indians came from the north and north-west,
under cover of the timber along the waterside. If they could not get
away with a horse, they would kill it rather than leave it alive to its
owner. The settlers built strong log stables, with stout doors, which
they fastened from the inside, climbing out themselves through a hole
in the roof. Still, with wonderful cunning, the Indians got the horses,
or killed them by shooting them with arrows through the cracks between
the logs.
A friend of mine with whom I often stopped in South-West Texas told me
how, on one occasion, the Indians got two fine horses from him when
there seemed absolutely no chance for them to be stolen. He had a
stable made of heavy oak logs, with a stout door fastened by a strong
wooden pin, which one of his grown sons drove in with a maul on this
particular evening, having seen Indian signs in the neighbourhood that
day. Then the settler and his sons went to sleep in the hay-loft,
under the same roof, with their loaded guns beside them. Not a sound
disturbed them during the night, but when morning came the stable door
was open and the horses gone. The Indians had found how the door was
fastened and, by steady perseverance, succeeded in working the pin out.
Probably the job took them hours, but they had plenty of time.
Old frontiersmen are the most superstitious class of people in the
world. They all believe in omens and portents, things that forebode
death and disaster. Their lives are spent amid dangerous surroundings,
and they are suspicious of everything that seems unusual or ominous,
and often attach uncanny significance to things which would make no
impression upon the ordinary citizen living in a peaceful community.
One of the surest signs of approaching death to the old plainsman and
Indian fighter is the scream of the "death-bird." The "death-bird" is
supposed to fly about at night or hover near white men or women and
children to give warning of the approach of Indians, wild beasts, or
other great dangers. Its cry is the most piercing, nerve-racking wail
that ever smote upon human ears. There is an almost human expression in
it, as though it were the scream of a woman or child in mortal fear;
and there is no mistaking its note among all the other night-birds of
the plains. It never warns people unless there is no possible escape by
other means, and woe to the man who hears its cry and heeds it not. As
far as I have been able to discover no human eye has ever looked upon
this mysterious "death-bird," for it flies only on dark nights, never
uttering its warning at any other time, and the folk it honours with
its attentions are thrown into such a state of fear, expectancy, and
dread that curiosity as to the appearance of the bird is far from their
thoughts. It is supposed, however, to be an owl, black as midnight,
with very long wings and a large head and mouth, which superstitious
people who claim to have seen the creature declare to be strangely like
the head and mouth of a human being.
Almost every old Ranger and frontiersman has a weird story to tell as
to the "death-bird" having saved the life of someone or other from
Indians or outlaws. Most of the stories, however, are second-hand
narratives, and I found when they had been sifted down they had almost
always happened to someone other than the narrator. It was extremely
rare that they were personal experiences, and they generally happened
in some distant part of the State at some remote time. I had been
a Ranger twenty years before I met a man, in whom I had the utmost
confidence, who had a personal experience to relate wherein the
"death-bird" had warned him of danger and saved his life. Up to this
time I had doubted the truthfulness of these stories, and scouted the
idea that such a bird existed. About seven years after this my friend,
in company with two other Rangers, was ambushed and killed one night by
renegade Mexicans down on the Rio Grande border, and on this occasion
there was no "death-bird" to save his life, so I was still a little
dubious.
[Illustration: MR. ISAAC MOTES, WHO HERE RELATES SOME OF THE MOST
EXCITING EXPERIENCES HE HAD DURING FORTY YEARS' SERVICE AS A TEXAS
RANGER.
_From a Photograph._]
Three years later, however, I met with an adventure which removed the
last vestige of doubt from my mind. In the autumn of 1880, with five
other Rangers, under command of a lieutenant, I was stationed at Eagle
Pass, on the Rio Grande. About the middle of November I was sent to San
Antonio with important despatches for the colonel commanding. I was
selected for the trip because I had the fleetest horse of any man in
the force, a big black thoroughbred, for which I had paid three hundred
dollars when he was only two years old, and at a time, too, when
horseflesh was cheap. For three years I had ridden this horse daily
on all our scouting expeditions. He had borne me safely through many
dangers, and I loved him almost as if he had been a human being.
I left San Antonio on my return one morning at eleven o'clock and
rode seventy miles by nine o'clock that night, arriving at the Nueces
River and Turkey Creek bottoms. The weather became threatening in
the afternoon, and at night dense clouds obscured the light from the
stars, and as there was no moon it became so appallingly black when
we entered the thick timber of the "bottoms" that I could not see an
inch before my eyes, and even my horse could not find his way around
the trees, bushes, and fallen timber. There was no rain, no lightning,
no thunder, and no wind--simply a thick pall of clouds which seemed to
rest upon the tops of the trees--while a curious soft murmuring sound
seemed to come from the bottom lands. I would have stopped immediately
upon reaching the timber, but I had heard that afternoon that Indians
had been seen along the river within the past twenty-four hours, and I
had noticed the trail of what I believed to be Indian ponies crossing
my road about six o'clock. So somehow or other I felt my way through
the pitch-darkness till we were perhaps three hundred yards from the
edge of the Nueces bottom. Then, dismounting, I took off my saddle and,
letting down my lariat, looped the end around my left wrist so that my
horse could graze, and yet waken me if he got too far away. Lying down
under a large live-oak with my head on the saddle, I soon went to sleep
with the subdued murmuring sound still echoing in my ears. I intended
to rest a few hours, until the clouds lifted, and then continue my
journey to a settlement twenty miles farther on. The tree under which I
lay was a very large one, and I found next morning that the top limbs
were dead, the tree having been struck by lightning some years before.
I must have slept for some time, but it seemed to me my eyes had
barely closed when a piercing, wailing scream in the tree above me
brought me instantly to my feet--a scream so startling that it seemed
to vibrate every nerve in my body. Even if I had never heard so much
as a whisper as to the peculiar character of the "death-bird's" cry I
should have recognised it, for never before or since have I heard such
a wild, foreboding shriek. The cry was long and wailing--the first
note sharp, like the crack of a six-shooter, then trailing off into a
long-drawn-out, ominous wail. The bird was doubtless sitting on one
of the dead limbs above me, and at the first note of alarm had flown
off across the bottom, the cry becoming more weird and portentous the
farther away it got.
I took notice of this in a kind of subconscious way, for my faculties
were strung to their highest tension to discover the danger that I was
convinced menaced me. Even before the cry died away I heard my horse
drawing in its breath in a sort of sob, as though uneasy and somewhat
excited. Then I noticed that the lariat looped to my wrist was drawn
suspiciously tight. This impression had hardly formed in my mind before
the lariat suddenly drew a little tighter, then slackened perceptibly.
Instantly it occurred to me that an Indian was out there with my horse,
that he had the lariat in his hand, and was perhaps running his hand
along it towards me to untie it, thinking it was tied to a stake, when,
having got near enough to hear me as I sprang to my feet, he cut the
line with a knife, causing the momentary tightness, followed by the
slackening.
The thought that an Indian was making off with my valuable horse so
filled me with fury that I was driven almost to desperation, and forgot
for an instant the necessity for caution. Slipping the looped lariat
off my wrist, I drew my six-shooter and crept as softly as I could out
in the direction of my horse. I could still hear him sniffing out there
in the brush, and thought I heard him stepping among sticks as though
he was being led away. This so enraged me that I pushed through the
brush faster and more recklessly than ever, gripping my six-shooter,
though I realized I was doing a foolhardy thing, for an Indian can see
in the dark much better than a white man. Still, it seemed impossible
for me to resist the impulse to pursue my horse.
I had groped my way perhaps twenty feet when I stepped on to some
dry twigs, which cracked sharply under my weight. Simultaneously I
heard the ominous throb of a heavy bow-string, and as I ducked my
head, quick as thought, an arrow took off my hat and tore through my
hair, scorching my scalp as though a red-hot iron rod had been laid
across my head. Upon this my horse became so excited that he began to
rear, plunge, and snort. I stood irresolute, fearing to fire in that
direction lest I should kill the animal. From the sound the horse was
making I believed he was pulling considerably on the halter and backing
towards me. While I stood there, in a fever of uncertainty, I again
heard the dull hum of the bow-string and ducked to avoid the arrow,
but instead of its coming toward me there was a wild, almost human,
cry from my horse, and he reared and fell heavily to the ground, then
staggered to his feet again and came towards me, uttering the most
agonizing cry that ever tortured human ears. When perhaps ten feet from
me he again fell and lay still, moaning with pain. A mad fury of rage
possessed me at my beauty's agony, and I leaped blindly forward in the
darkness, not caring whether I lived or died if only I could kill that
brute of an Indian. I made towards where I heard my horse fall, feeling
for him with my left hand, and just as I touched him I heard once more
the twang of the Indian's bow-string, and again an arrow whizzed at
me, tearing away the lobe of my ear. In ducking this time I sank to my
knees and found myself between my dead horse's fore and hind legs as he
lay with his belly towards me, with my left hand resting on his body.
I marked carefully the direction of the bow-string's hum, and as my
knees touched the ground I raised myself up and fired twice in quick
succession, afterwards sinking down low again behind the horse's body.
There was no sound from the redskin to lead me to believe I had struck
him, so I crouched down between the feet of my dead horse, gripping
my six-shooter, expecting the Indian or Indians to be upon me every
minute. But minutes and hours passed, and still I heard not the
faintest sound from that direction. Nevertheless, I dared not move, but
spent the remainder of the night where I was, protected by the animal's
body.
As the grey light of coming day began to steal into the bottom I peered
anxiously around me, searching for signs of the Indian, either dead or
alive. I could see nothing of him through the bushes and vines, so when
it became light I got up and walked cautiously in the direction from
which the arrows had come. About fifty yards away I discovered traces
of blood, and following these for a short distance I found where the
Indian had lain down and dragged himself, leaving a plainly discernible
trail. Following this for about three hundred yards farther I came to
a tiny little gully about a foot deep. In one place the limbs of a
low tree overhung it, and here the gully appeared to be nearly full
of leaves. Looking about, I saw what I took to be an arrow sticking
up above the leaves. I approached very cautiously, watching for the
slightest movement, but there was none, and the arrow still stuck out
at an angle of about forty-five degrees. Six-shooter in hand I drew
nearer, and found an Indian lying there dead in the gully. It was
obvious what had happened. Becoming too weak to crawl, my enemy had
stretched himself in this gully, raked the dead leaves over his body,
covering himself from view very artfully, and then, with bow and arrow,
ready to shoot me if I had followed him and overtook him while he was
yet alive, he had lain there, bearing the pain of his wounds with
stoical fortitude, until death came to his release.