After a long toilsome journey through Eastern Texas, the emigrant train
has reached the San Saba, and is working its way up-stream. Slowly, for
the bottom-land is in some places heavily timbered, and the road
requires clearing for the waggons.
The caravan has entered the valley on the left, or northern, bank of the
river, while its point of destination is the southern; but a few miles
above its confluence with the Colorado is a ford, by which the right
side may be reached at low water. Luckily it is now at its lowest, and
the waggons are got across without accident, or any great difficulty.
Once on the southern side, there is nothing to obstruct or further delay
them. Some ten miles above is the abandoned mission-house, which they
expect to reach that day, before going down of the sun.
With perhaps one exception, the emigrants are all happy, most of them in
exuberant spirits. They are nearing a new home, having long ago left
the old one behind; left also a thousand cankering cares,--many of them
more than half a life spent in struggles and disappointments. In the
untried field before them there is hope; it may be success and
splendour; a prospect like the renewing of life's lease, the younger to
find fresh joys, the older to grow young again.
For weeks has the San Saba mission-house been the theme of their
thoughts, and topic of discourse. They will re-people the deserted
dwelling, restore it to its pristine splendour; bring its long neglected
fields under tillage--out of them make fortunes by the cultivation of
cotton.
There is no cloud to darken the horizon of their hopes. The toilsome
journey is nearly at an end, and rejoicingly they hail its termination.
Whether their train of white tilted wagons winds its way under shadowing
trees, or across sunlit glades, there is heard along its line only
joyous speech and loud hilarious laughter.
So go they on, regardless about the future, or only thinking of it as
full of bright promise. Little do they dream how it may be affected by
something seen upon the cliffs above, though not seen by them. At the
point they have now reached, the bottom-land is several miles wide, with
its bordering of grim bluffs rising on either flank, and running far as
eye can see. On the left side, that they have just forsaken, not upon
the river's bank, but the cliff far back, is a cloud. No darkness of
the sky, or concentration of unsubstantial vapour. But a gathering on
the earth, and of men; who, but for their being on horseback, might be
mistaken for devils. In Satan's history the horse has no part; though,
strange to say, Satan's sons are those who most affect friendship for
the noble animal. Of the horsemen seen hovering above the San Saba
there are in all twenty; most of them mounted upon mustangs, the native
steed of Texas, though two or three bestride larger and better stock,
the breed of the States.
All appear Indians, or if there be white man among them, he must have
been sun-tanned beyond anything commonly seen. In addition to their
tint of burnt umber, they are all garishly painted; their faces
escutcheoned with chalk-white, charcoal-black, and vermillion-red. Of
their bodies not much can be seen. Blankets of blue and scarlet, or
buffalo robes, shroud their shoulders; while buckskin breeches and
leggings wrap their lower limbs; mocassins encasing their feet. In
addition to its dress, they wear the usual Indian adornments. Stained
eagle-plumes stand tuft-like out of their raven-black hair, which, in
trailing tresses, sweeps back over the hips of their horses; while
strings of peccaries' teeth and claws of the grizzly bear fall over
their breasts in bountiful profusion.
It is true, they are not in correct fighting costume. Nor would their
toilet betoken them on the "war-trail." But the Texan Indian does not
always dress warrior-fashion, when he goes forth upon a predatory
excursion. More rarely when on a mere pilfering maraud, directed
against some frontier settlement, or travelling party of whites. On
such occasions he does not intend fighting, but rather shuns it. And,
as thieving is more congenial to him, he can steal as cleverly and
adroitly in a buckskin hunting-shirt, as with bare arms.
The Indians in question number too few for a war party. At the same
time, their being without women is evidence they are on no errand of
peace. But for the arms carried, they might be mistaken for hunters.
They have spears and guns, some of them "bowie" knives and pistols;
while the Indian hunter still believes in the efficacy of the silent
arrow.
In their armour, and equipment there are other peculiarities the
ordinary traveller might not comprehend, but which to the eye of an old
prairie man would be regarded as suspicious. Such an one would at once
pronounce them a band of _prairie pirates_, and of the most dangerous
kind to be encountered in all the territory of Texas.
Whoever they may be, and whatever their design, their behaviour is
certainly singular. Both by their looks and gestures it can be told
they are watching the waggon train, and interested in its every
movement; as also taking care not to be themselves observed by those
belonging to it. To avoid this they keep back from the crest of the
escarpment; so far, it would not be possible to see them from any part
of the bottom-land below.
One of their number, afoot, goes closer to the cliff's edge, evidently
sent there by the others as a sort of moving vidette. Screened by the
cedars that form its _criniere_, he commands a view of the river valley
below, without danger of being himself seen from it.
At short intervals he passes back a pace or two, and gesticulates to the
others. Then returning to the cliff's edge, he continues on as before.
These movements, apparently eccentric, are nevertheless of grave import.
The man who makes them, with those to whom they are made, must be
watching the travellers with the intention of waylaying them.
Afar off are the waggons, just distinguishable as such by their white
canvas tilts--the latter in contrast with the surface of vivid green
over which they are progressing. Slowly crawling along, they bear
similitude to a string of gigantic _termites_ bent on some industrial
excursion. Still the forms of mounted men--at least forty in number,
can be distinguished. Some riding in front of the train, some in its
rear, and others alongside of it. No wonder the twenty savage men, who
pursue the parallel line along the cliff, are taking care not to
approach it too nearly. One would suppose that from such a strong
travelling party their chance of obtaining plunder would seem to them
but slight. And yet they do not appear to think so. For as the caravan
train tardily toils on up the bottom-land, they too move along the upper
plain at a like rate of speed, their scout keeping the waggons in sight,
at intervals, as before, admonishing them of every movement.
And they still continue watching the emigrant train until the sun sinks
low--almost to the horizon. Then they halt upon a spot thickly beset
with cedar trees--a sort of promontory projecting over the river valley.
On its opposite side they can see the waggons still slowly creeping
along, though now not all in motion. Those in the lead have stopped;
the others doing likewise, as, successively, they arrive at the same
place.
This in front of a large building, just discernible in the distance, its
outlines with difficulty traceable under the fast gathering gloom of the
twilight.
But the savages who survey it from the bluff have seen that building
before, and know all about it; know it to be one of the abandoned
_misiones_ of San Saba; as, also, why those vehicles are now coming to a
stop before its walls.
While watching these, but few words are exchanged between them, and only
in an under tone. Much or loud talk would not be in keeping with their
Indian character. Still enough passes in their muttered speeches--
observable also in the expression of their features--for any one hearing
the first, or seeing the last, to predict danger to the colony of
Colonel Armstrong. If looks count for aught, or words can be relied on
the chances seem as if the old San Saba mission-house, long in ruins,
may remain so yet longer.