seven mules. The red men seemed to give up all hope of ever defeating
the whites, and scurried off like so many rabbits. They dodged behind
boulders and sage-brush. So quickly did their ponies get away that
they were soon out of sight. Henry Shane and his companions were well
satisfied with the day’s work and gave up the pursuit, for their own
mounts were badly winded.
Life upon the frontier of Texas in those days was certainly exciting
for any one engaged in the sheep or cattle business. In spite of
the continued danger from redskins, Henry Shane did not give up his
interest in sheep. One of his brothers—named Constance—lived with him
and helped to herd the flock, although he kept continually upon his
guard and was never without his rifle. He, himself, was soon to have a
narrow escape from death.
One morning Constance was about two hundred yards from the house
carefully watching a number of sheep. He was sitting near the bank of a
creek, when he heard horses’ hoofs knocking the rocks under the bluff.
He stepped up to the edge of the bank and looked over, expecting to see
some cattlemen from a neighboring ranch. To his surprise and dismay he
saw nine Indians, with the chief in the lead. They were riding up the
bank in an old cow trail.
Young Constance was too startled to move. He stood there trembling, and
allowed the redskins to come right up to him. The chief had a heavy
quirt in his hand, with which he struck Shane a stinging blow over the
head and knocked him down. He then dismounted and stripped him. The red
men now gathered around their captive, making a great screeching and
howling.
Henry Shane saw the Indians collected in a group, and, seizing his
rifle, went to a corner of a fence to watch them. He could not see his
brother, and was all prepared to fire, should the redskins make a move
in his own direction. The Indians saw him standing there, and, shooting
Constance with an arrow, they rode away, yelping derisively.
Henry followed the redskins in order to see which course they took, and
then came back to camp, still unaware that anything had happened to his
brother. The Indians had apparently determined to withdraw entirely,
which was fortunate for the lone sheep herder. Constance finally
crawled to his feet and came back to the camp, declaring that there
were eight bucks and one squaw in the party and that the squaw had shot
him. He was grievously wounded,—so grievously that every one who saw
him said that he would die. But he fooled them all and became perfectly
well again,—much to the joy of Henry, who loved him dearly.
Exciting adventures were still in store for the daring Henry Shane,
who continued to herd his sheep in this border country, in spite of
the fact that the cruel redskins were all around him. Not long after
the wounding of Constance, Henry went up the river, which ran near his
ranch, and entered the ranch-yard of a sheepman called Joe Brown, who
owned a sheep vat and a furnace. The ranch was then vacant, as Mr.
Brown had moved to Uvalde and had told Shane that he could use his vat
and furnace for dipping sheep. It was Henry’s intention to start a fire
in the furnace for the purpose of boiling tobacco, which was used in
dipping the sheep, to cure them of a disease called “the scab,” or to
prevent them from catching this dread complaint.
A Mexican named Bernaldo was with the sheepman, and rode forward in
order to get some horses which were in a small pasture not far distant.
He soon came back upon the dead run, whipping his horse furiously with
his hat.
“Hello, there! What’s the trouble?” shouted Shane.
The Mexican was so excited that he passed on without seeing or hearing
the plainsman, although he was not far from him as he raced recklessly
by. He was certainly well frightened at something.
Shane was not armed. This was unusual, as he seldom left the house
without a gun, because of the possibility of an Indian attack. Hearing
a great commotion in the pasture, where the horses were, he walked up
to the fence only to see—to his dismay—that there were seven Indians
in the field after the horses. They saw him at once and three of them
left the enclosure in order to give him chase.
The plainsman was in a tight position, but his courage did not desert
him at this crucial moment. As luck would have it, he carried a long
stick in his hand, which he had used in order to punch the fire in the
furnace. He turned and ran, but the Indians were upon the backs of
their ponies and soon came very close to him. He pointed his stick at
them, as if about to shoot. Every redskin dodged and swung himself upon
the off side of his horse. “Ugh! Ugh! He have shooting-stick!” cried
one.
This gave the courageous frontiersman another opportunity to run, and
he made off as fast as his legs would carry him. A man named Patterson
had a ranch near by and to this sheltering abode the plainsman now bent
his footsteps. The Indians were hot on his trail and soon caught up
with him, but he again pointed his stick at them. They dodged, and this
gave him a second start, so that he reached the ranch-yard and jumped
over the fence into the cow-pen. Uttering loud and vociferous cries,
the Indians shot some arrows at him, and then turned back in order
to secure the horses from the pasture. This they did and were soon
galloping away with them.
The pioneer climbed out of the cow-pen, ran up to the ranch house, and
called to the owner, who happened to be there:
“Come on, Patterson. If you will assist me, we will get back the
horses.”
“I’m your man,” Patterson replied. “Here’s a rifle of mine. I will take
a six-shooter.”
“All right,” said Shane. “We’ll see if we cannot do something to these
crafty fellows. Come on!”
The two ranchmen soon met the Indians coming down the road, driving the
horses before them. The valiant two stepped to one side in order to
ambush the red thieves, Shane hiding behind a large cactus plant. As
the foremost Indian came near, Shane took good aim at him, and pulled
the trigger of his rifle. But it refused to go off. The Indians heard
the noise and galloped away with their captured horses, while the two
ranchmen made after them. They, themselves, were ambushed and had to
ride hard in order to get away from the redskins, who were reinforced
by a considerable band. After their retreat the plainsmen again
followed with additional numbers, but the Indians were well ahead, and
the pursuit had to be abandoned.
In 1872 Mr. Shane decided to make a sheep camp about two and a half
miles from where he lived, so drove down there in a wagon one morning,
in order to pitch a tent and fix things for the comfort of his Mexican
herder, who was off with a band of sheep. The camp was beneath the fork
of a live-oak tree. The frontiersman left his wagon about a dozen yards
from where he was at work, and started to put a small board between the
forks of the live-oak, to serve as a shelf. Two guns were in his wagon.
While thus occupied, he suddenly heard a wild war-whoop, and found
that he had been attacked by the Indians. A redskin came up behind the
wagon, on horseback, and shot at the ranchman with a six-shooter, the
ball striking the right-hand fork of the tree and knocking the bark
into his face and eyes. The pioneer turned, in order to get his guns
out of his wagon, and faced the levelled revolver of the savage. He
kept cool—in spite of this danger—and, as he walked to the wagon,
received two more shots from the Indian. As the redskin was behind
the conveyance, his shots went high, passing over the head of the
frontiersman, who soon reached his wagon and looked for his guns. The
Comanche saw what the white man was after, and, when he perceived that
his shots had failed to take effect, he wheeled his horse and ran
away. Shane seized a rifle and fired at him, killing his horse when he
did so. As the pinto rolled upon the ground eight more Indians showed
themselves and began to charge the lone white man. The gun which he had
just discharged was a Mississippi yager, and he had no more balls for
it.
But the frontiersman had another weapon: a new, single-shot Ballard
rifle, and he only had two cartridges for it; one in the gun and one in
his pocket. In leaving home that morning he had left his belt behind,
which was full of cartridges for the Ballard. He was in a close place,
but he had—as you know—been in close places before, and he was
determined to make the best fight that he could. He resolved not to
waste a shot. Using his wagon as a breastwork he awaited the onset of
the Indians, and when they came nearer he raised his gun and aimed at
them. The redskins dodged behind the prickly pear and mesquite bushes,
from which they opened fire, hitting the wagon and the ground around it
repeatedly.
Now occurred a lively battle. The frontiersman had tied a fat mule
about one hundred feet from the wagon, where he could eat grass. A
daring redskin concluded to risk his chances and get the animal, so,
leaving the cover of the mesquite bushes, he advanced across open
ground in order to steal the unsuspecting beast. When Shane saw the
Indian coming with his knife ready to sever the rope which held the
mule, he determined to risk a crack at him. He was an excellent shot,
and he knew that he could kill the Indian if he did not dodge too
quickly. Taking a quick but accurate aim, he fired. The Comanche brave
jumped high in the air, and then fell in a sheep trail and lay there.
The other Indians set up a terrible howling when they saw that their
companion had been killed, and several of them ran quickly, seized
him by the hair and dragged him out of sight behind the prickly pear
bushes. The pioneer still crouched low and waited for the Comanches to
come on, but, dreading to expose themselves to such marksmanship, the
Indians did not again show themselves.
Certainly things looked bad for Henry Shane, but help was at hand. The
Mexican attendant heard the fight, and from the number of shots that
were fired supposed that his employer had been killed. He ran to the
ranch in order to inform Mrs. Shane of this fact. The lady sent four
Mexicans out to see if they could not assist her husband. When they
neared the scene of action the Indians decamped, leaving their dead
comrade behind. The ranchers buried the Comanche brave where he had
fallen in the sheep trail.
When the lucky sheepman returned to his ranch from the scene of this
thrilling little battle he found that a strange happening had come to
pass. The Mexican sheep-herder who had rushed home to warn his wife
that the Indians had surrounded him, was found to be in a serious
condition, through overexertion in carrying the news of Henry’s
supposed death. The poor fellow was in great pain, and, although he was
placed in a wagon and was carried to San Antonio, where he could see
the best physicians, he died soon afterwards.
As for the gallant Shane, he continued to have exciting adventures with
the redskins, and, not long after the lucky escape which I have just
narrated, had another brush with the roving Comanches. He had made a
sheep camp three miles from his house, at a place called Long Hollow,
and had his Mexican herder with him. This was the faithful Felipe
Flores.
Early one morning Shane heard rocks rattling in the hollow below the
camp, so he and Flores went out a short distance in front in order to
investigate the matter. Felipe went slightly in advance, and to Shane’s
questioning as to what he saw, replied:
“It is Mr. Dilliard, whom we have been expecting to help us hunt for
some lost sheep.”
Shane kept on, but suddenly started back in dismay. Ten Comanches were
coming for him upon the dead run.
In an instant the sheepman turned and hastened to the tent in order
to seize his rifle. The Indians were right after him, and crowded
Felipe so closely that he ran backward towards the fire. As a
Comanche endeavored to thrust a lance into his body he fell into the
flames. When this occurred the Indians opened fire upon Henry Shane,
endeavoring to hit him before he could get his gun. Several balls
struck the tent, but the Ranger was unscathed.
[Illustration: A COMANCHE WARRIOR.]
Now the plainsman seized his rifle, and, wheeling around, fired at his
enemies. They retreated at once and dashed into the thick brush. As
they scampered away, two Indians on the same horse were seen to ride
behind a thick bunch of prickly pears, only one of whom came out upon
the other side.
“That second redskin is still behind the pears,” said Flores. “He
is waiting there in order to shoot any one who may come out to look
around.”
“I think that I’ll stir him up a bit,” said Shane, and, aiming at the
bunch of pears, he let drive. Sure enough, he routed an Indian, who ran
off, screeching loudly. When the spot was afterwards examined a bullet
hole was seen in the pears. The redskin had had a narrow escape.
This was not Henry’s last adventure with the redskins by any means,
for, about a month later he went down the river, less than a mile from
his ranch, to a place called the “Indian Crossing.” There were two
Mexicans with him, who had a wagon and a pair of mules. Their intention
was to saw cypress logs in order to make boards and shingles for a new
ranch house.
The plainsmen finished their work of loading logs and were soon ready
to return home. One of the Mexicans, called Antonio, had a gun which
had been resighted. He wished to have Shane try it, and therefore
called out:
“Come here, Señor, and try my rifle. It can shoot well I know, but I
would like to have your opinion of it. There is a tree which will make
a good mark.”
“I’m agreeable,” replied Henry, taking up the gun. He fired two shots
at the tree. When he had finished, the Mexican went over to see where
he had hit the bark.
Over forty Indians were crossing the ford of the river near by at about
this moment. They heard the rifle shots, and, learning from a scout
that three white men were there, determined to surround and capture
them. So they spread out like a fan in order to completely annihilate
the little party. Half of the redskins came up on the bluff upon the
east side, opposite Shane and his two Mexicans; the balance went to the
old crossing above, so as to come around the frontiersmen upon the west
side and thus cut off their retreat in both directions. Henry Shane was
now in another tight box. Let us see how he fared.
A sudden rattling of rocks warned the pioneer and his companion that
some one was near by. His friend (the Mexican) mounted a stump, so that
he could see the crossing, and said:
“There are soldiers coming up the river.”
As he jumped down, Henry, himself, climbed up on the stump in order to
have a look.
“Soldiers!” he cried. “Why, man, those are Indians!”
He immediately seized his rifle and stood prepared for action.
Antonio, as you know, had gone to look at the bullet marks upon a tree.
When the Indians came down the bank of the river they encountered
this Mexican and opened fire upon him. Antonio attempted to run back
to Shane, but, as he started forward, he was struck by a bullet, and
fell into some high weeds. The Indians closed in upon the other two
sheepmen, uttering wild cries of delight, for they felt that they had
them, and they bore no love for Henry Shane. They were armed with
Spencer carbines and commenced a rapid fire upon the bold frontiersman
and his companion.
The bullets began to rain in from both sides of the creek, as Shane
took shelter behind a huge cypress log and commenced the unequal
battle. He was now in the tightest place that he had ever been in in
his life, but he kept cool, and only fired at long intervals, and with
careful aim. The redskins were uncertain as to the force they were
attacking and were afraid to come down into the bed of the river and to
fight at close quarters. The second Mexican crawled into a tree-top, so
that only his feet were visible. He was of no assistance to the gallant
frontiersman.
After shooting away for some time, the Indians decided to send a
warrior on horseback below (where Shane was crouching), in order to see
if all were killed, or if there were any still left. The frontiersman
was on the alert, and, as the redskin approached, he caught the first
motion of the reeds as he slipped through. The rest of the red men had
ceased firing and were all under cover.
There was a moment of breathless anxiety. Shane held a large revolver
in his hand, as he lay close to the ground, watching around the end of
the log, as the fellow came in view. At once he aimed at the redskin’s
breast and pulled the trigger. The Comanche reeled and fell to one side
of his horse, clutching the mane of the animal as it ran up a bluff.
The other redskins now rose from the grass and endeavored to stop the
startled beast; but he kept running around in a circle, for some time,
with the Indian still hanging to his mane. At last he was captured, and
a loud wailing cry told the frontiersman that the shot which he had
fired had done its deadly work.
The Indians now held a council of war. They could be easily seen by
Shane, where he lay. Apparently they had had sufficient fighting, for
they mounted and rode off. As they disappeared from view, the happy
frontiersman mounted a stump and counted forty warriors. How many he
had killed besides this last one he could not tell. He took no time to
investigate the matter and prepared to leave at once.
The sides of the log, behind which he had lain, were perforated with
bullets. One bullet hole was in his boot leg, one was in his hat, two
were in his shirt, three were in the wagon bed, and one of the mules
was badly wounded. In spite of this, the animal was able to draw the
wagon home with him, in which was placed the wounded Antonio. The other
Mexican had crawled from his hiding-place after the fight was over. He
was certainly not made of the same stern stuff as was Henry Shane.
The bold rancher and frontiersman had had a narrow escape, but he had a
still narrower escape, some time later. It was upon a winter’s day, and
he had gone out to a place called “Griner’s Bottom” in order to listen
to turkeys as they flew up to roost, for he wished to kill some of them
for dinner on Christmas Eve. He found the place, and had not been there
long before he heard the sound of horses’ feet. Looking around, he
saw five Indians riding towards him. They seemed to be unaware of his
presence.
There was no time for anything but quick action. Henry hugged the
live-oak tree, against which he had been leaning. As he did so, the
Indians came jogging along on both sides of him: two on one side—three
on the other. It was rapidly getting dark, so they did not see the
lone frontiersman. Luckily they did not look back after they had gone
past. Had they done so, they would have seen Henry pressing himself
flat against the tree trunk, grasping his muzzle-loading shotgun very
tightly and trying to keep his teeth from chattering. Sometimes this
antiquated gun missed fire. Oh, fortunate Ranger! The redskins were
soon trotting onward in the darkness.
This was not the last adventure which the daring Henry had with the
savages by any means, but it was the most exciting. He lived for many
years upon his ranch in Uvalde County; prospered, and became one of the
solid citizens of the state. Truly his was an adventurous soul. It was
to such men as these, who dared to take any chance and assume any risk,
that the West owes its settlement, its civilization, and upbuilding.
All honor, then, to Henry Shane,—the Texan pioneer for whom the Indian
had no terrors. He passed through so many hairbreadth escapes that one
would think him often thankful that he was alive. Hail to this stout
German who helped to make history upon the Mexican frontier!
POOR JERRY LANE:
THE LOST TRAPPER OF WYOMING
[_This is the story of a young frontiersman, whom I knew, myself_]
* * * * *
JACKSON’S HOLE, Wyoming, was named after one Jackson, a pioneer,
explorer, ranchman, and horseman. Jackson’s Hole was also the home of
horse thieves who, gathering up their captured steeds, would run them
into this peaceful valley to feed them on the rich, natural hay until
they could be driven out at a different angle and sold to some one who
knew nothing of their former ownership. Jackson’s Hole was also the
home of desperadoes who had fled from justice. Jackson’s Hole was the
place that I was going to in the summer of 1899.
“Goin’ to Jackson’s Hole, be yer?” said a fellow in a big sombrero, on
the train to Idaho Falls. “Young man, you’ll never get out alive. Young
man, it’s a desperate place.”
He winked at me, shook his finger in my face, and dropped back into the
seat from which he had arisen. “Young man,” he continued, “the Injuns
will get you, sure. Young man, look out!”
I confess that I felt somewhat disconcerted.
“I’ll take care of my scalp,” said I.
Here the companion of my friend in the sombrero spoke. This one had
a red handkerchief knotted about his tawny neck, and wore a corduroy
waistcoat.
“Yes, son,” said he, “haven’t you heard about the Injuns in Jackson’s
Hole two years ago? They stampeded th’ settlers, ran off a lot of
stock, murdered an’ burned, until rounded up by the U. S. Cavalry.
Reckon there be some more loose in thar now. An’ panthers! Why, boy,
they’re as thick as peas in a pod. An’ dangerous, too, by gravy!”
The first speaker guffawed.
“’Tain’t nawthin’ to th’ grizzlies,” said he. “They be monstrous
pestiferous. Why, they pull you from your horse they be so unafraid of
men.”
I squirmed uneasily in my seat, for I saw that they knew me to be a
tenderfoot.
“Boy, you’ll be eaten alive an’ scalped to boot,” continued the fellow
in the sombrero. “The good Lord have mercy on your soul.”
“Amen!” echoed his companion.
And I wriggled again, for I saw that they knew me to be an Easterner,
and were having fun in their own way.
At any rate, I was bound for Jackson’s Hole and would get there somehow
or other in spite of horse thieves, “Injuns” and grizzly bears.
We met at Idaho Falls. When I say we, I mean our party, for we were
surveyors, bent upon exploration of Uncle Sam’s possessions, and upon
making an accurate map of the somewhat unknown country near Jackson’s
Hole. We knew that it was a great land for game and fish and that it
was the home of monster bands of elk, but we also knew that it had an
unsavory reputation as the haunt for “bad” men of the hills. As I had
come up on the train, certain placards in the stations showed that
these same “bad” men were still around and had been operating at the
expense of the Express Companies.
The placards read:
“$40,000 REWARD
For the Capture, Dead or Alive, of the Men who robbed the Union
Pacific Express near Rawlins, Wyoming, on the Evening of June 4th.”
Then followed an inaccurate description of those who had been seen
to enter the mail car, seize the box containing valuable mail and
expressage, and decamp across the prairie with their plunder on their
ponies’ backs.
At Pocatello, Idaho, I looked from the window and saw beneath me a
light-haired, blue-eyed Swede. He was standing there nonchalantly,
dressed in a corduroy suit, blue handkerchief knotted about his neck,
and wide sombrero.
“That’s the sheriff,” said a man at my elbow.
“Where’s he bound?” I asked.
“Into the hills after the train robbers,” he answered. “He has a
_possé_ with him and they ought to be able to capture a few of the
bandits who held up the Union Pacific Express.”
The train rolled on, but I always remembered that sturdy little figure,
standing carelessly on the platform, in corduroys. In a week he had
been ambushed, with his entire _possé_, and two had escaped out of the
eleven. The little sheriff was buried in the hills.
To get into Jackson’s Hole was then a rather difficult affair, for it
meant a long journey by pack-train from either Market Lake or Idaho
Falls. But the surveyor and the sons of the pioneer, whom he engaged to
pilot him, were not adverse to pushing into a wild country. It took a
week to outfit the party, secure the necessary horses, engage the men,
and whip the fractious range-animals into some kind of submission for
carrying saddles, pack equipment, and heavy bags of food and tenting.
Then, in a cloud of alkali dust, and with a crowd of Blackfeet children
gazing open-mouthed at the curious caravan, we were off for the blue
hills which lay to the northeast.