(With apologies to the memory of Judge Hugh Duffy.)
Judge Hugh C. Duffy, to whom I am indebted for this legend, was
identified with the interests of Bandera County for fifty-four years.
As host of the Duffy Hotel, his genial gifts made friends of all who
shared his hospitality. His acquaintance with the rangers enabled him
to gather from them and others a rare collection of tales, which he
related with convincing accuracy of detail. The Pioneer History of
Bandera County, by J. Marvin Hunter, contains an appreciative sketch of
his life and a tribute to his many fine qualities.
I tell the tale now as it was told to me, when the moon was full and
shone on a merry group of friends seated on the ground, in the
neighborhood of Polly’s Peak. The narrator began with these words: “It
was on just such a night as this.” Then followed the legend in the
time-honored style sacred to legendary lore, impossible for me to
imitate.
A more charming landscape cannot be found than the hills and dales of
Bandera County. The Indians loved this country, and every year resorted
thither, to fish in the waters of the Medina and to hunt deer and
turkeys on the mountains. But their intentions were not always so
peaceful, and Texas Rangers were not infrequently called upon to
protect the few white settlers who were bold enough to call this region
home.
In the summer of 1844, there had been some fierce conflicts between the
white and the red men; the latter had fled precipitately, showering
their arrows behind them upon the rocky ground. The battle having ended
with slight loss to the victorious rangers, they were taking their rest
near the base of a conical eminence, afterwards known as Polly’s Peak.
The moon was at its full. The rangers lay at ease near their camp fire,
whose glowing coals of red and yellow seemed to vie with the moon’s
glorious golden hue. The story-hour had come, and each in his turn told
of his own or another’s thrilling experience or hairbreadth escape. A
mocking bird, perched on the topmost bough of a gnarled oak, poured out
the melodious measures of comedy and tragedy that make up his wonderful
repertoire. The story tellers were forced to listen to him and
interpret, as best they might, the infinitely varied notes of his song.
Now it seemed a human voice, calling, “Come here! Come here! Come
here!” Now, a cry of distress, as of a captive frog in the toils of a
snake; again, household words pealed forth: “Tut! Tut! Tut! Chick!
Chick! Chick! Mew! Mew! Mew!”; then came high pitched trills of
bewildering sweetness, rivaling those of the most gifted prima donna,
followed by a low, soothing, caressing lullaby. The song ceased
suddenly and left as its echo an uncanny stillness. The breeze had
entirely died away; the leaves on the near-by trees seemed to stand at
attention, as if awaiting orders. From whom? A voiceless presence
commanded an attitude of motionless silence.
The rangers felt its strange influence and looked inquiringly at each
other; meanwhile not a word was uttered. The tense silence became
painful. A cloud, veiling the face of the moon and dimming its light
for a few moments, invited them to watch its passing, and, as they
gazed upon its flitting shadows, there suddenly stood in their midst a
tall, beautiful Indian woman.
Her hair hung in long braids over her shoulders; her brow was crowned
by a circlet of sparkling crystal beads; countless strings of colored
beads and shells adorned her body; a skirt of a filmy blue fabric
reached nearly to her ankles. She carried a bead-embroidered quiver at
her side, and swung across her back was a bow of bois d’arc. The
rangers arose and gazed in amazement at her majestic attitude, and
several minutes elapsed before their captain controlled his voice to
ask: “Where do you come from, and why are you here alone?”
Quietly folding her arms, she replied: “My people are tired of
fighting. So many of our braves have fallen, victims of your
death-dealing weapons, that we are helpless. I come to ask that the
path between my people and yours be again made white! I come alone,
because I know not fear. The Great Spirit is my father!”
She laid three polished arrows at her feet and stood for a moment
looking up into the sky, while the moonlight glittered on her shining
ornaments, and the blooming white yucca that surrounded her gleamed
like silver. She turned toward the west and, pointing to a star,
wonderfully brilliant in spite of the moonlight, exclaimed, “That star
is my home! I go there!”
Her listeners, almost breathless from amazement, were men accustomed to
danger; it was their daily duty to meet it. They now saw no threatening
danger, no indication of a cowardly ambush; but the silence, like that
of the desert, created a feeling akin to awe, and acted like an
admonition. But for a hasty sign of the cross, a slight movement of the
lips on the part of a few, they stood as lifeless as a group of
statuary.
A dark cloud had been rapidly gathering about the summit of Polly’s
Peak, but the rangers, bewildered by the strangeness of the situation,
seemed transfixed as by some magic spell, and saw naught but the
graceful figure and pointing finger of the woman. Their senses were
dulled as in the mazes of a dream. The plaintive note of a whippoorwill
began to tell his mournful tale, the piercing shriek of an owl startled
the little company, and a blinding flash of lightning and crash of
thunder broke the spell of their enchantment.
They sprang to their stack of arms, seized their guns, and made ready
to face an enemy. Some cursed, with wild unreason. Others cried: “Where
is the woman, damned siren that she is, who made it her business to
bewitch us men, while the red devils of her tribe prepare to attack and
kill us! Let’s find and follow her! Look for the arrows she laid at her
feet!”
One swore he had seen her caught up into the black cloud as it opened
to emit the thundering electric bolt—plain proof that she was an
emissary of the devil.
While confusion thus reigned, some tried in vain to find the arrows,
which might give a clue. With the earliest dawn, a careful and
persistent search failed to discover the arrows, or the presence of a
single Indian within the radius of a hundred miles.
The presence and disappearance of the “Woman of the Western Star” must
be classed as a mystery, and, like many another mystery, its influence
was not only felt at the time, but had lasting beneficial effect.
Henceforth the Indians came and went peacefully, committing no
depredations, and unmolested by the white men. At a certain season of
each year, they placed flint arrowheads and beads of many colors in the
grave of their most noted chief and planted a peace feather at its
head. In the long ago, he and his tribe had resisted the Spanish
invasion and he had fallen, mortally wounded, in battle against them.
On a high cliff overlooking Bandera Pass, his grave could still be seen
thirty years ago.