AN INDIAN SCARE
Near the close of January, ’79, the Nueces valley was stirred by an
Indian scare. I had a distinct recollection of two similar scares in my
boyhood on the San Antonio River, in which I never caught a glimpse of
the noble red man. But whether the rumors were groundless or not, Las
Palomas set her house in order. The worst thing we had to fear was the
loss of our saddle stock, as they were gentle and could be easily run
off and corralled on the range by stretching lariats. At this time the
ranch had some ten _remudas_ including nearly five hundred saddle
horses, some of them ranging ten or fifteen miles from the ranch, and
on receipt of the first rumor, every _remuda_ was brought in home and
put under a general herd, night and day.
“These Indian scares,” said Uncle Lance, “are just about as regular as
drouths. When I first settled here, the Indians hunted up and down this
valley every few years, but they never molested anything. Why, I got
well acquainted with several bucks, and used to swap rawhide with them
for buckskin. Game was so abundant then that there was no temptation to
kill cattle or steal horses. But the rascals seem to be getting worse
ever since. The last scare was just ten years ago next month, and kept
us all guessing. The renegades were Kickapoos and came down the Frio
from out west. One Sunday morning they surprised two of Waugh’s
vaqueros while the latter were dressing a wild hog which they had
killed. The Mexicans had only one horse and one gun between them. One
of them took the horse and the other took the carbine. Not daring to
follow the one with the gun for fear of ambuscade, the Indians gave
chase to the vaquero on horseback, whom they easily captured. After
stripping him of all his clothing, they tied his hands with thongs, and
pinned the poor devil to a tree with spear thrusts through the back.
“The other Mexican made his escape in the chaparral, and got back to
the ranch. As it happened, there was only a man or two at Waugh’s place
at the time, and no attempt was made to follow the Indians, who, after
killing the vaquero, went on west to Altita Creek—the one which puts
into the Nueces from the north, just about twenty miles above the
Ganso. Waugh had a sheep camp on the head of Altito, and there the
Kickapoos killed two of his _pastors_ and robbed the camp. From that
creek on westward, their course was marked with murders and horse
stealing, but the country was so sparsely settled that little or no
resistance could be offered, and the redskins escaped without
punishment. At that time they were armed with bow and arrow and spears,
but I have it on good authority that all these western tribes now have
firearms. The very name of Indians scares women and children, and if
they should come down this river, we must keep in the open and avoid
ambush, as that is an Indian’s forte.”
All the women and children at the outlying ranchitas were brought into
headquarters, the men being left to look after the houses and their
stock and flocks. In the interim, Father Norquin and the masons had
arrived and the chapel was daily taking shape. But the rumors of the
Indian raid thickened. Reports came in of shepherds shot with their
flocks over near Espontos Lake and along the Leona River, and Las
Palomas took on the air of an armed camp. Though we never ceased to
ride the range wherever duty called, we went always in squads of four
or five.
The first abatement of the scare took place when one evening a
cavalcade of Texas Rangers reached our ranch from DeWitt County. They
consisted of fifteen mounted men under Lieutenant Frank Barr, with a
commissary of four pack mules. The detachment was from one of the crack
companies of the state, and had with them several half-blood trailers,
though every man in the squad was more or less of an expert in that
line. They were traveling light, and had covered over a hundred miles
during the day and a half preceding their arrival at headquarters. The
hospitality of Las Palomas was theirs to command, and as their most
urgent need was mounts, they were made welcome to the pick of every
horse under herd. Sunrise saw our ranger guests on their way, leaving
the high tension relaxed and every one on the ranch breathing easier.
But the Indian scare did not prove an ill wind to the plans of Father
Norquin. With the concentration of people from the ranchitas and those
belonging at the home ranch, the chapel building went on by leaps and
bounds. A native carpenter had been secured from Santa Maria, and the
enthusiastic padre, laying aside his vestments, worked with his hands
as a common laborer. The energy with which he inspired the natives made
him a valuable overseer. From assisting the carpenter in hewing the
rafters, to advising the masons in laying a keystone, or with his own
hands mixing the mortar and tamping the earth to give firm foundation
to the cement floor, he was the directing spirit. Very little lumber
was used in the construction of buildings at Las Palomas. The houses
were thatched with a coarse salt grass, called by the natives
_zacahuiste_. Every year in the overflowed portions of the valley,
great quantities of this material were cut by the native help and
stored against its need. The grass sometimes grew two feet in height,
and at cutting was wrapped tightly and tied in “hands” about two inches
in diameter. For fastening to the roofing lath, green blades of the
Spanish dagger were used, which, after being roasted over a fire to
toughen the fibre, were split into thongs and bound the hands securely
in a solid mass, layer upon layer like shingles. Crude as it may
appear, this was a most serviceable roof, being both rain proof and
impervious to heat, while, owing to its compactness, a live coal of
fire laid upon it would smoulder but not ignite.
No sooner had the masons finished the plastering of the inner walls and
cementing the floor, than they began on a two-roomed cottage. As its
white walls arose conjecture was rife as to who was to occupy it. I
made no bones of the fact that I expected to occupy a _jacal_ in the
near future, but denied that this was to be mine, as I had been
promised one with three rooms. Out of hearing of our employer, John
Cotton also religiously denied that the tiny house was for his use.
Fidel, however, took the chaffing without a denial, the padre and Uncle
Lance being his two worst tormentors.
During the previous visit of the padre, when the chapel was decided on,
the order for the finishing material for the building had been placed
with the merchant at Shepherd’s, and was brought up from Corpus Christi
through his freighters. We now had notice from the merchant that his
teamsters had returned, and two four-mule teams went down to the ferry
for the lumber, glassware, sash and doors. Miss Jean had been
importuning the padre daily to know when the dedication would take
place, as she was planning to invite the countryside.
“Ah, my daughter,” replied the priest, “we must learn to cultivate
patience. All things that abide are of slow but steady growth, and my
work is for eternity. Therefore I must be an earnest servant, so that
when my life’s duty ends, it can be said in truth, ‘Well done, thou
good and faithful servant.’ But I am as anxious to consecrate this
building to the Master’s service as any one. My good woman, if I only
had a few parishioners like you, we would work wonders among these
natives.”
On the return of the mule teams, the completion of the building could
be determined, and the padre announced the twenty-first of February as
the date of dedication. On reaching this decision, the ranch was set in
order for an occasion of more than ordinary moment. Fidel and Juana
were impatient to be married, and the master and mistress had decided
that the ceremony should be performed the day after the dedication, and
all the guests of the ranch should remain for the festivities. The
padre, still in command, dispatched a vaquero to the Mission,
announcing the completion of the chapel, and asking for a brother
priest to bring out certain vestments and assist in the dedicatory
exercises. The Indian scare was subsiding, and as no word had come from
the rangers confidence grew that the worst was over, so we scattered in
every direction inviting guests. From the Booths on the Frio to the
Wilsons of Ramirena, and along the home river as far as Lagarto, our
friends were bidden in the name of the master and mistress of Las
Palomas.
On my return from taking the invitations to the ranches north, the
chapel was just receiving the finishing touches. The cross crowning the
front glistened in fresh paint, while on the interior walls shone cheap
lithographs of the Madonna and Christ. The old padre, proud and jealous
as a bridegroom over his bride, directed the young friar here and
there, himself standing aloof and studying with an artist’s eye every
effect in color and drapery. The only discordant note in the interior
was the rough benches, in the building of which Father Norquin himself
had worked, thus following, as he repeatedly admonished us, in the
footsteps of his Master, the carpenter of Galilee.
The ceremony of dedication was to be followed by mass at high noon. Don
Mateo Gonzales of Santa Maria sent his regrets, as did likewise Don
Alejandro Travino of the Mission, but the other invited guests came
early and stayed late. The women and children of the outlying ranchitas
had not yet returned to their homes, and with our invited guests made
an assembly of nearly a hundred and fifty persons. Unexpectedly, and
within two hours of the appointed time for the service to commence, a
cavalcade was sighted approaching the ranch from the west. As they
turned in towards headquarters, some one recognized the horses, and a
shout of welcome greeted our ranger guests of over two weeks before.
Uncle Lance met them as if they had been expected, and invited the
lieutenant and his men to dismount and remain a few days as guests of
Las Palomas. When they urged the importance of continuing on their
journey to report to the governor, the host replied:—
“Lieutenant Barr, that don’t go here. Fall out of your saddles and
borrow all the razors and white shirts on the ranch, for we need you
for the dedication of a chapel to-day, and for a wedding and infare for
to-morrow. We don’t see you along this river as often as we’d like to,
and when you do happen along in time for a peaceful duty, you can’t get
away so easily. If you have any special report to make to your
superiors, why, write her out, and I’ll send a vaquero with it to
Oakville this afternoon, and it’ll go north on the stage to-morrow.
But, lieutenant, you mustn’t think you can ride right past Las Palomas
when you’re not under emergency orders. Now, fall off those horses and
spruce up a little, for I intend to introduce you to some as nice girls
as you ever met. You may want to quit rangering some day, and I may
need a man about your size, and I’m getting tired of single ones.”
Lieutenant Barr surrendered. Saddles were stripped from horses, packs
were unlashed from mules, and every animal was sent to our _remudas_
under herd. The accoutrements were stacked inside the gate like
haycocks, with slickers thrown over them; the carbines were thrown on
the gallery, and from every nail, peg, or hook on the wall belts and
six-shooters hung in groups. These rangers were just ordinary looking
men, and might have been mistaken for an outfit of cow hands. In age
they ranged from a smiling youth of twenty to grizzled men of forty,
yet in every countenance was written a resolute determination. All the
razors on the ranch were brought into immediate use, while every
presentable shirt, collar, and tie in the house was unearthed and
placed at their disposal. While arranging hasty toilets, the men
informed us that when they reached Espontos Lake the redskins had left,
and that they had trailed them south until the Indians had crossed the
Rio Grande into Mexico several days in advance of their arrival. The
usual number of isolated sheepherders killed, and of horses stolen,
were the features of the raid.
The guests had been arriving all morning. The Booths had reached the
ranch the night before, and the last to put in an appearance was the
contingent from the Frio and San Miguel. Before the appearance of the
rangers, they had been sighted across the river, and they rode up with
Pierre Vaux, like a captain of the Old Guard, in the lead.
“Ah, Don Lance,” he cried, “vat you tink? Dey say Don Pierre no ride
fas’ goin’ to church. Dese youngsters laff all time and say I never get
here unless de dogs is ’long. Sacré! Act all time lak I vas von ol’
man. _Humbre_, keep away from dis horse; he allow nobody but me to lay
von han’ on him—keep away, I tol’ you!”
I helped the girls to dismount, Miss Jean kissing them right and left,
and bustling them off into the house to tidy up as fast as possible;
for the hour was almost at hand. On catching sight of Mrs. Annear,
fresh and charming in her widow’s weeds, Uncle Lance brushed Don Pierre
aside and cordially greeted her. Vaqueros took the horses, and as I
strolled up the pathway with Esther, I noticed an upper window full of
ranger faces peering down on the girls. Before this last contingent had
had time to spruce up, Pasquale’s eldest boy rode around all the
_jacals_, ringing a small handbell to summon the population to the
dedication. Outside of our home crowd, we had forty white guests, not
including the two Booth children and the priests. As fast as the
rangers were made presentable, the master and mistress introduced them
to all the girls present. Of course, there were a few who could not be
enticed near a woman, but Quayle and Happersett, like kindred spirits,
took the backward ones under their wing, and the procession started for
the chapel.
The audience was typical of the Texas frontier at the close of the
’70’s. Two priests of European birth conducted the services. Pioneer
cowmen of various nationalities and their families intermingled and
occupied central seats. By the side of his host, a veteran of ’36, when
Mexican rule was driven from the land, sat Lieutenant Barr, then
engaged in accomplishing a second redemption of the state from crime
and lawlessless. Lovable and esteemed men were present, who had
followed the fortunes of war until the Southern flag, to which they had
rallied, went down in defeat. The younger generation of men were
stalwart in physique, while the girls were modest in their rustic
beauty. Sitting on the cement floor on three sides of us were the
natives of the ranch, civilized but with little improvement over their
Aztec ancestors.
The dedicatory exercises were brief and simple. Every one was invited
to remain for the celebration of the first mass in the newly
consecrated building. Many who were not communicants accepted, but
noticing the mistress and my sweetheart taking their leave, I joined
them and assisted in arranging the tables so that all our guests could
be seated at two sittings. At the conclusion of the services, dinner
was waiting, and Father Norquin and Mr. Nate Wilson were asked to carve
at one table, while the young friar and Lieutenant Barr, in a similar
capacity, officiated at the other. There was so much volunteer help in
the kitchen that I was soon excused, and joined the younger people on
the gallery. As to whom Cotton and Gallup were monopolizing there was
no doubt, but I had a curiosity to notice what Scales would do when
placed between two fires. But not for nothing had he cultivated the
acquaintance of a sandy-mustached young ranger, who was at that moment
entertaining Suzanne Vaux in an alcove at the farther end of the
veranda. Aaron, when returning from the chapel with Susie Wilson, had
succeeded in getting no nearer the house than a clump of oak trees
which sheltered an old rustic settee. And when the young folks were
called in to dinner, the vagabond Scales and Miss Wilson of Ramirena
had to be called the second time.
In seating the younger generation, Miss Jean showed her finesse. Nearly
all the rangers had dined at the first tables, but the widow Annear
waited for the second one—why, only a privileged few of us could guess.
Artfully and with seeming unconsciousness on the part of every one,
Deweese was placed beside the charming widow, though I had a suspicion
that June was the only innocent party in the company. Captain Byler and
I were carving at the same table at which our foreman and the widow
were seated, and, being in the secret, I noted step by step the
progress of the widow, and the signs of gradual surrender of the
corporal _segundo_. I had a distinct recollection of having once
smashed some earnest resolves, and of having capitulated under similar
circumstances, and now being happily in love, I secretly wished success
to the little god Cupid in the case in hand. And all during the
afternoon and evening, it was clearly apparent to any one who cared to
notice that success was very likely.
The evening was a memorable one at Las Palomas. Never before in my
knowledge had the ranch had so many and such amiable guests. The
rangers took kindly to our hospitality, and Father Norquin waddled
about, God-blessing every one, old and young, frivolous and sedate.
Owing to the nature of the services of the day, the evening was spent
in conversation among the elders, while the younger element promenaded
the spacious gallery, or occupied alcoves, nooks, and corners about the
grounds. On retiring for the night, the men yielded the house to the
women guests, sleeping on the upper and lower verandas, while the
ranger contingent, scorning beds or shelter, unrolled their blankets
under the spreading live-oaks in the yard.
But the real interest centred in the marriage of Fidel and Juana, which
took place at six o’clock the following evening. Every one, including
the native element, repaired to the new chapel to attend the wedding.
Uncle Lance and his sister had rivaled each other as to whether man or
maid should have the better outfit. Fidel was physically far above the
average of the natives, slightly bow-legged, stolid, and the coolest
person in the church. The bride was in quite a flutter, but having been
coached and rehearsed daily by her mistress, managed to get through the
ordeal. The young priest performed the ceremony, using his own native
tongue, the rich, silvery accents of Spanish. At the conclusion of the
service, every one congratulated the happy couple, the women and girls
in tears, the sterner sex without demonstration of feeling. When we
were outside the chapel, and waiting for our sweethearts to dry their
tears and join us, Uncle Lance came swaggering’ over to John Cotton and
me, and, slapping us both on the back, said:—
“Boys, that rascal of a Fidel has a splendid nerve. Did you notice how
he faced the guns without a tremor; never batted an eye but took his
medicine like a little man. I hope both of you boys will show equally
good nerve when your turn comes. Why, I doubt if there was a ranger in
the whole squad, unless it was that red-headed rascal who kissed the
bride, who would have stood the test like that vaquero—without a
shiver. And it’s something you can’t get used to. Now, as you all know,
I’ve been married three times. The first two times I was as cool as
most, but the third whirl I trembled all over. Quavers ran through me,
my tongue was palsied, my teeth chattered, my knees knocked together,
and I felt like a man that was sent for and couldn’t go. Now, mind you,
it was the third time and I was only forty-five.”
What a night that was! The contents of the warehouse had been shifted,
native musicians had come up from Santa Maria, and every one about the
home ranch who could strum a guitar was pressed into service. The
storeroom was given over to the natives, and after honoring the
occasion with their presence as patrons, the master and mistress, after
the opening dance, withdrew in company with their guests. The night had
then barely commenced. Claiming two guitarists, we soon had our guests
waltzing on veranda, hall, and spacious dining-room to the music of my
fiddle. Several of the rangers could play, and by taking turns every
one had a joyous time, including the two priests. Among the Mexicans
the dancing continued until daybreak. Shortly after midnight our guests
retired, and the next morning found all, including the priests,
preparing to take their departure. As was customary, we rode a short
distance with our guests, bidding them again to Las Palomas and
receiving similar invitations in return. With the exception of Captain
Byler, the rangers were the last to take their leave. When the mules
were packed and their mounts saddled, the old ranchero extended them a
welcome whenever they came that way again.
“Well, now, Mr. Lovelace,” said Lieutenant Barr, “you had better not
press that invitation too far. The good time we have had with you
discounts rangering for the State of Texas. Rest assured, sir, that we
will not soon forget the hospitality of Las Palomas, nor its ability to
entertain. Push on with the packs, boys, and I’ll take leave of the
mistress in behalf of you all, and overtake the squad before it reaches
the river.”