Climbing the wall of the canyon, behind his place of refuge, he saw the
Blackfeet far below him in the valley. They were moving camp. Hurrah!
Their tepee poles were coming down and they were walking away. They
gradually faded from view. Again Hurrah! The old scout was smiling now.
Luck was still with him, for he shot an antelope soon afterwards,
cooked the stringy meat and felt stronger. Then he rolled a stout log
loose from some fallen timber, pushed it into the river and paddled
down stream upon this flimsy boat.
“I reckon I’ll dodge the redskins, now,” he said to himself. “A feller
walkin’ leaves too good er trail.”
No savage eye detected him in his journey upon this log, and, about a
week later, he arrived, smiling, at a frontier trading post. “Old Bill”
was royally welcomed by his brother trappers, who slapped him on the
back, drank his health, not once, but twenty times, and gave him a new
rifle which they had just captured from some half-breeds.
“Old Bill” took this with good humor, for it was all in the day’s
work of a scout upon the frontier. In a week he left upon another
excursion into the wilds, and alone, for he was like a “solitary,” or
buffalo bull, who roams the prairie away from the rest of the herd. He
preferred to be without associates in his work. “Two men,” said he,
“leave a broader trail than one, and there are many Indians in the
country. Two men make more noise. I go alone.”
“He was a great hunter,” said an old Indian. “He was a great
trapper—took many beaver—and a great warrior, for his belt was full
of scalps. But he have no friend: no squaw. Always by himself. He like
the eagle in the heavens, or the panther in the mountains. He one
strange man.”
Yes, “Old Bill” was a strange man, but he lived his life upon the
frontier for many years without a mishap, although his body bore
the marks of many an encounter. Silent and taciturn, those who were
associated with him knew only of his deeds by the fresh scalps at his
girdle, the notches upon the stock of his gun, and the scars upon the
exposed portion of his body. His traps yielded him a small living, and
with this he seemed to be content.
The trapper lived to be an old man. Although in innumerable skirmishes
and hand-to-hand encounters with the Blackfeet, Crows, Sioux, and
other wild riders of the plains, he came off scot free until he met a
band of Blackfeet when trapping near the headwaters of the Missouri
River. Here he was surrounded by twenty or thirty braves, but, by
skillfully climbing his pony down the shelving sides of a canyon, made
his escape. They found his tracks, however, and followed him like a
pack of hounds after a fox.
“Old Bill” still was lithe and active, although sixty years, and
more, of age. Again and again he hid himself, and, with two or three
shots, laid out as many of the advancing redskins. He was fortunate
in being able to keep away from the vindictive warriors for four full
days, although wounded twice: an arrow point in his thigh and a bullet
through the fleshy part of his leg. Finally, he reached a series of
canyons near the Yellowstone, where numerous streams made it possible
for him to leave little trace of his trail, and great boulders of rock
hid his retreating form. The red men here gave up the chase, for their
quarry defied both fatigue and wounds.
“The Great Spirit is still with the Lone Wolf,” said they. “We will let
him go, for here he can kill many of us before we can reach him.”
It was November. A bleak wind blew gusts of snow across the sandy plain
as the red warriors retreated. “Old Bill” continued on his way into
the advancing storm. The white flakes now covered the earth. A bitter
wind assailed him, and great piles of drifting snow whirled and eddied
about his gaunt and emaciated form. Dismounting under the side of a
projecting cliff, he made a fire by means of rubbing two dried sticks
together, ate some _biltong_, which he fortunately had stowed away in a
saddle-bag, and lay down to rest. His poor, shivering pony cropped the
dry bunches of grass in silent misery.
Two weeks later a party of trappers were crossing the stream near the
place where the old fellow had lain down, and saw a pony nibbling the
bark from a cottonwood tree. He was gaunt, famished, and his ribs were
fairly sticking through his flesh. They rode up to him and were much
distressed to see the form of a man lying beneath the white mantle of
newly fallen snow. They brushed this away and found “Old Bill;” his
grizzled head bent forward upon his breast, and his clothing stained
with the wounds which had sapped his very life-blood. He had gone to
the Great Beyond.
With tears in their eyes the trappers hollowed out a grave for the lone
refugee. Here they buried him, and finding his faithful steed unwilling
to leave the place where he had carried his master, shot the emaciated
animal. They placed both in the same grave, and over their forms
erected a huge pile of stones, not only to mark the last resting-place
of “Old Bill,” but also to keep the wolves and coyotes from digging up
the remains.
Thus, in a wild canyon perished the aged solitary, and in the peace and
quiet of that wilderness in which he loved to wander, hovers the spirit
of the lonely man of the plains. His last resting-place well suited
the career of “Old Bill:” trapper, scout, and fearless adventurer
among the savage men, wild beasts, and inhospitable wastes of the then
unpeopled West.
“BIG FOOT” WALLACE:
NOTED RANGER ON THE TEXAN FRONTIER
ABOUT the year 1839, a Waco Indian chieftain lived in the State of
Texas, whose feet were of such giant proportions that he was called
“Big Foot.” He was a bold and daring fellow. Often, when darkness hid
his movement, he would sneak into the frontier town of Austin, would
kill whom he could, and would carry off horses and other property. In
vain the settlers tried to dispatch him, for he was a veritable scourge
to the settlements.
The fellow was a physical giant, being six feet seven inches in height,
of muscular build, and weighing about three hundred pounds. His tracks
measured fourteen inches, from heel to toe, so you can readily see
that the name that was applied to him was not ill chosen. Often these
footprints would be seen in the sandy soil, after he had committed one
of his thieving expeditions, and the settlers used to cry out:
“Good-by to our horses! Old ‘Big Foot’ is around again. Good-by!”
One evening the big Indian came into Austin, and, after prowling around
for a time, committed some theft upon the property of a settler named
Gravis. He then went to the cabin occupied by a huge, lanky ranger
called Wallace. Next morning Gravis trailed the Indian to the doorstep
of the pioneer, and, without trying to trace it any further, aroused
the owner of the cabin.
“See here, Wallace,” said he, “you’ve been stealing from my place and I
intend to get even with you. No one has as big feet as you have around
here, and I have found your tracks leading from my hut to your very
door.”
The accused man grew angry and prepared to whip the other.
“Look here,” said Gravis, at this juncture, “if you prove to me that
these are not your footprints you can go clear and I will apologize.”
He stepped aside, as he spoke, and Wallace immediately went to the
Indian’s track. He placed his foot in it, exclaiming:
“By Gravy, Gravis, this is old ‘Big Foot,’ the Injin’s, track. Can’t
you see that it’s mor’n two inches longer than my own!”
The first speaker bent over the marks with an exclamation of
astonishment.
“You’re right,” said he. “Wallace, old man, I beg your pardon.” And,
shaking him warmly by the hand, he walked away.
While this was going on, a man named Fox came to the doorway of
Wallace’s hut. He had been spending the night there, for he was a
business partner of the frontiersman. As his friend turned towards the
cabin, he cried out gleefully:
[Illustration: “BIG FOOT” WALLACE.]
“Well, well, old scout. When ‘Big Foot’—the Indian—is not around we
will all call _you_ ‘Big Foot.’ Ha! Ha! That’s a good one, I swan. ‘Big
Foot’ you’ll be from henceforth.”
And that is the way that William Alexander Anderson Wallace came to be
called “Big Foot” Wallace.
Born in Lexington, Virginia, in 1817, this intrepid frontiersman came
of good, old Scottish stock, and stock that was of fighting spirit, for
two of his uncles were killed in the battle of Guilford Court House.
The Wallaces were all of powerful build, and the hero of our sketch
was six feet two inches in height (in his moccasins) and weighed two
hundred and forty pounds. He had long arms, large hands, and thick,
curly, black hair. One of his uncles was nearly seven feet tall and his
brother was six feet five inches in height.
As a young fellow, “Big Foot” Wallace had little of the excitement
which was to come to him in later years. When about twenty years of
age war commenced between the American colonists and Mexicans for the
possession of Texas. Many young men went from Virginia to assist the
Texans in driving out the soldiers under Santa Anna, among them Samuel
Wallace, the older brother of William with the big feet. Samuel was
killed in the massacre of Colonel Fannin’s men at Goliad, which has
been described in “Famous Scouts,” and with him were also dispatched
three cousins of our hero. When the news of this affair reached
Lexington, Virginia, great was the grief among the relatives of these
brave and valiant frontiersmen, and William was much upset by it.
“I am going to Texas,” he cried out. “And I intend to spend my life in
killing Mexicans. Those men who could massacre my brother after he had
surrendered and had been disarmed, can expect no quarter from me. I
intend to have revenge!”
He had splendid opportunities in later years to make good this threat.
Taking ship from New Orleans to Galveston, William soon set foot on
Texan soil. The war was over. Santa Anna had been defeated and captured
the year before, at the famous battle of San Jacinto, and Texas was
now an independent republic. So the young ranger drifted to Colorado,
where he was soon surrounded by a large party of Indians and was
captured. They carried him to their camp, but he only remained there a
week, before he slipped away, eluded his pursuers, and got back to the
settlement of San Antonio. His restless spirit could not be confined
to the streets of a city and he soon went far to the southwest, where
he camped and hunted along the Medina River. Finally he built a cabin
there and lived the life of a lone huntsman and trapper in a region
which was infested by Indians, horse-thieves, and fugitives from
justice.
“Big Foot” Wallace had not been long in the country before he realized
that something had to be done in order to keep law and order in
this unsettled land. Besides the numerous raids of hostile bands of
Indians—who roamed at will from New Mexico to the coast region of
Texas—desperadoes and gamblers swarmed around all the border towns,
and more particularly around San Antonio. No one was safe who opposed
these wild fellows, and it was almost impossible to keep horses. The
thieves would even dig through the adobe walls of the stables in order
to steal them. A strong hand was needed to awe these desperate men and
keep the Indians in check. There was one man in western Texas at this
time who was quite equal to the emergency. His name was “Captain” Jack
Hays.
The Governor of Texas sent for him.
“I hereby commission you to raise a company of Rangers,” said he to the
gallant Captain Jack. “You will make San Antonio your headquarters and
you must hold both Indians and horse-thieves in check. You can follow
the redskins anywhere that you wish, and, if necessary, you can shoot
any horse-thief upon the spot.”
“Big Foot” Wallace soon heard of the Rangers, and applied for admission
at once. He was accepted, for he was strong, fearless, a good rider,
and an excellent shot. Captain Hays was very particular as to the kind
of men that he enlisted, and that is why he had the best set of Indian
fighters that Texas ever produced. Each man had to have a good horse,
valued at one hundred dollars, and also a rifle of the best make.
The desperadoes and horse-thieves soon began to disappear from the
neighborhood of San Antonio.
In the numerous affrays which now took place “Big Foot” Wallace had
a prominent part. Several battles were fought with the Indians. In
1842 the Mexicans made a sudden descent from Mexico and captured San
Antonio. At the quarters used by the Texan Rangers they found a pair of
pantaloons belonging to “Big Foot” Wallace, and this they appropriated
as their own.
“By the eternal prophet,” shouted the scout, when he heard of the
theft. “I will sure get even with the Greasers for this, and I will
kill a Señor and get another pair of breeches, or bust.”
Not long afterwards Jack Hays and his men rode near the town and gave
the Mexicans such “a dare” that their whole force of cavalry and
infantry came out to chase them. There were four hundred Mexicans and
but a small squad of Rangers, yet the Texans kept up a stiff firing
and retreated slowly across the plains. During the battle, “Big Foot”
Wallace was continually upon the lookout to kill a big Mexican and get
another pair of trousers to replace his own. He had not long to wait.
The Mexicans soon charged, and in the mix-up that ensued one daring
fellow approached Wallace, and pointing his carbine at him, cried out:
“Take that, you accursed cow-thief!” Whereupon he discharged his piece
in his face. The large ounce ball from the clumsy musket just grazed
the nose of the scout and nearly blinded him with smoke. “Big Foot”
fired his own piece, but missed. As this occurred, another Ranger cried
out: “My, my, what awful bad shooting,” and—aiming his rifle—quickly
sent a ball through the Mexican’s body. The man from the south of the
Rio Grande fell against a mesquite tree and soon died.
“Big Foot” breathed more easily, and during the next charge heard one
of his companions call out:
“’Big Foot,’ yonder is a Mexican who has on a pair of pants large
enough to fit you. Go get ’em, boy! Go get ’em!”
The Mexican in question was assisting some of the wounded back to the
rear. Wallace kept his eye on him and said:
“If I can get him, I will. But th’ critter moves about so fast that I
can’t draw a bead on him.”
As he spoke, he attracted the attention of General Caldwell, who
commanded some infantrymen who had come to the assistance of the
Rangers. The dress of the giant Texan, his massive frame, and his
actions, were sufficient to mark him as a man born to leadership.
“What command do you hold, sir?” inquired Caldwell, as he rode up to
the fighting Ranger.
“None,” answered “Big Foot,” saluting. “I am one of Jack Hays’ Rangers
and I want that fellow’s breeches over there, as the Greasers have
stolen mine from me.” He pointed, as he spoke, to his intended victim.
The general laughed and rode on, determined to advance “Big Foot”
to a Lieutenancy, if the opportunity presented itself. The Ranger,
meanwhile, crept nearer to the fellow with the big pantaloons, and
before many moments laid him low by a well directed shot. Making a dash
for the fallen man, he seized him by the shoulders, dragged him into
the American lines, and soon was wearing a new pair of yellow trousers.
“Hurrah for ‘Big Foot,’” shouted his companions. “He has, at last, made
good his threat of vengeance. Hurrah for ‘Big Foot!’”
The Mexicans were defeated, driven from San Antonio, and were followed
by Captain Jack Hays and his Rangers as far as the Hondo River, where
the rear guard was attacked by a detachment under “Big Foot,” and some
cannon were captured. The mule which the leader was riding was slightly
wounded, but this was the only mishap to the Americans. The Mexicans
withdrew in safety to their own territory.
The blood of the Texans was now up. “Revenge for the taking of San
Antonio!” was heard on every side. “Vengeance upon the Mexicans!
Revenge!”
Thus, in retaliation for the invasion of Texas under Wall, an
expedition started for Mexico in 1843, commanded by General Somervell.
Captain Jack Hays was there with his Rangers, but the expedition went
to pieces on the Rio Grande and most of the men came back, among
them Captain Jack and many of his followers. Five captains, however,
determined to go on, in the invasion of Mexico,—that is, if they
could get men enough. Three hundred Texans immediately decided to
fight: among this number, “Big Foot” Wallace and several other Rangers.
Electing a certain Captain Fisher to the chief command, they crossed
the Rio Grande and encamped opposite the town of Mier. Its streets were
soon to run red with blood.
The chief man of a Mexican town is called an alcade, and, on the
following morning, the Americans marched into the town and told the
alcade that he must furnish them with provisions and with clothing.
“Yes, yes, Señors,” said the Mexican official, bowing. “To-morrow the
articles will be delivered to you, two miles below your camp.”
But the Texans did not believe in taking any chances. They brought the
alcade along with them when they went back to their camp, so as to be
sure that the provisions would really be delivered. They waited two
full days and no goods were to be seen. They grew anxious and soon
their spies made them more so, for these reported that General Ampudia
had arrived in Mier with a large force of Mexican troops.
“We will proceed to the town and give them battle!” cried out the Texan
commander.
By four o’clock in the afternoon the Americans had all crossed and were
on their way to the little Mexican post. The spies were in front and
first met the Mexicans as they sallied out from Mier. But the Rangers
knew how to shoot and Ampudia retreated before the Texan bullets.
At dark the Mexicans again entered their stronghold and barricaded
themselves.
The Texans had their fighting blood up, and, in spite of the darkness,
advanced to Alcantra Creek, east of the little town, where they halted
for some time. The stream ran rapidly, so that it was difficult to find
a crossing, but at last they all got over. As they scrambled up the
bank, they were met by a hot fire, and the Mexican cavalry advanced
against them. Five of the Rangers were cut off and captured. Others
made narrow escapes, for the Mexicans now came in close enough for hand
to hand fighting, and surrounded many of the more daring. Several of
the invaders were compelled to abandon their horses and make a run for
it across fences and ditches. A Ranger called Sam Walker was caught by
a powerful Mexican and was held down, while others tied him. One man
named McMullins was seized by the legs as he was getting over a fence,
but his boots pulled off and he made his escape. This was fortunate.
“Big Foot” Wallace was not among those first over the creek, and
advanced with the main body, which now came on, driving the Mexicans
into the town. The troops soon entered Mier and passed down a street
leading to the public square, where the Mexicans had planted cannon.
While advancing rapidly, they were repeatedly fired upon, and a Ranger
named Jones was killed. As he fell, he lurched against “Big Foot”
Wallace, who had felt the wind from the bullet that laid him low. The
Texans pressed on and soon arrived at a point near the cannon, where
they received a charge of grape-shot, which made them seek shelter
behind some buildings. It was now dark. It was also Christmas evening,
but there were no peaceful revels in Mier that winter’s day.
The Texans had but one way to advance: by opening a passageway through
the buildings so that they could get in the rear of the deadly cannon.
They worked all night in digging a hole through the adobe walls.
When daylight came, they were within fifty yards of the death-dealing
artillery.
“Big Foot” Wallace was among those in the very forefront of battle.
While engaged in tunnelling through the building he discovered a
Mexican baby which had been abandoned during the hasty retreat of the
occupants of the house upon the approach of the Texans. It set up a
terrific squalling when the Americans approached it, so “Big Foot”
carefully took it up, and, advancing to a wall enclosing a yard,
climbed up and dropped it over. At the same time, he shouted out in
Spanish:
“Come and get the muchacho. Quick!”
He soon heard a woman’s voice and supposed that the poor infant was
being taken care of.
Daylight dawned upon a scene of great activity. Port-holes had been
opened in the various rooms into which the men had clambered, and the
deadly crack of the rifles was soon heard, as the Texans began to fire
at the artillerymen. The cannon were quickly silenced, for it was death
for a Mexican to venture near them. Three attempts were made by the
“Greasers” to storm and carry the Texan position, but each failed with
fearful loss. The Mexicans, in fact, came on so thickly packed together
that it was impossible to miss them. The bravest of all were the town
guards, who wore black hats with white bands around them. They were
nearly all killed.
The Texans were fighting gamely and the Mexicans were soon forced
to abandon all of their artillery. Ropes were thrown around these
instruments of war, from the corners of buildings, and the men from
the South succeeded in dragging some of them away. “Big Foot” Wallace
was doing a great deal of shooting. He says that he loaded and fired
his rifle fifteen times, always waited for a good chance, and had a
bead upon a Mexican every time that he pulled the trigger.
During the battle bugles sounded constantly, and it was reported that
the Mexicans were being largely reinforced. The Texans, however,
were undismayed at this report, and continued to load and fire their
rifles with such deadly effect that great confusion prevailed among
their foes, who continually uttered cries of rage and pain, amidst a
constant blast of bugles. They occupied the house tops, where they kept
their bodies well hid, and fired from the gutters and from behind the
chimneys. The American leader, himself, was severely wounded, while
many of the gallant Texans lay bleeding in the narrow streets of the
quaint, little Mexican town.
A small guard had been left by the Rangers upon the other side of the
creek. Just after daylight, upon the twenty-sixth of December, these
attacked about sixty of the Mexican cavalry and routed them, but,
seeing a large reinforcement approaching, they desperately endeavored
to join their comrades in the little town. Out of the nine men who made
this desperate charge, two succeeded; four were killed; and three were
captured.
The fortune of war was apparently going badly with the Mexicans, but
a sudden turn of events placed victory in their very hands. Captain
Cameron had fortified himself and his men in the rear of a building
occupied by Fisher and his support, where he had been exposed to a
fearful fire. Upon the morning after Christmas day he entered the room
occupied by his superior officer.
“Send me reinforcements,” he said, “for the bugles are blowing the
charge and I am afraid that I will be annihilated.”
“I have no reinforcements,” Fisher replied. “You will have to fight on
as you are.”
As he ceased speaking a white flag was seen approaching from the
Mexican lines. With it was a Doctor Sinnickson—a Texan who had been
recently captured by the Mexican troops. He had been ordered to tell
the Rangers that there were one thousand seven hundred Mexican troops
in the city, and that three hundred more were approaching from Monterey.
“Ampudia says that it will be useless for you to resist,” said the
Doctor. “If you surrender, you will be treated like prisoners of war.
If you resist, no quarter will be given!”
The Texan leader looked gloomily before him. He was on foreign soil.
He was hemmed in on every side by his enemies. His men were nearly
all worn out. The streets of Mier had run red with Mexican blood; and
there was no chance to win. He was in favor of an honorable surrender.
But some thought that they could make a sally from their barricaded
position, and, by keeping together, could fight their way out of town
and to the borders of the Rio Grande. These gathered around Cameron
and begged him to take command; to make a rush; and to fight a way out.
Great confusion prevailed. Some began to leave their positions and give
their guns up to their enemies. Every few moments barricades would be
torn away and men would march out and surrender.