[It is hardly necessary to point out that this is not an undiluted
Indian legend, the names and other elements in it showing Spanish and
even American influence. La Salle is said to have called what is now
the Colorado “The River of Canes”; the Indians—and again we go back to
Thrall [131] for authority—called it the “Pashohono.”—Editor.]
The following legend is an adaptation of “An Indian Legend of the
Flood,” signed by Jas. Spillane, reprinted a number of years ago in the
Galveston News from the Philadelphia Times.
Long, long ago, long before the coming of the white man, in all the
country drained by the Brazos and the Colorado, there was but one great
river. It was a mighty stream, the Caney (Old Caney). To the east lived
and hunted the Caranchuas; to the west the Ripas, the Lipans, and the
Tawakonies. The Wacos lived to the north. The Ripas were warlike and
powerful. They made war on the Caranchuas and drove them far to the
east, stealing their squaws, killing their young men, and forcing the
remnant of the tribe to flee to the islands of the sea. Likewise the
Lipans, the Tawakonies, and the Wacos were driven from their hunting
grounds, and the Ripas were masters of the whole land.
The Great Spirit was angry with the Ripas. He sent a messenger to them
telling them to restore the squaws that they had stolen, and the horses
and cattle, and to make no more war upon his other children. But the
Ripas would not listen. They thought themselves more powerful than the
Great Spirit himself, and determined to make war upon him. They sought
out the messenger with defiance in their hearts, to challenge the Great
Spirit to battle. But no messenger could be found. They searched the
woods, the prairies, the river, the sky, but he had left no trail.
Then a great fear fell upon them, and some of the chiefs wanted to make
peace with the Great Spirit. They called their wise men together to
take counsel as to what they should do to turn away the anger of the
Great Spirit. And while they held talk the heavens opened, the rain
fell, the thunder roared, and the sky seemed all afire. In the midst of
the fire the messenger appeared, his face glowering, his hand raised in
menace. The Ripas threw themselves on their faces and begged the Great
Spirit for mercy. And still the rain poured, the lightning flashed, the
thunder crashed, and the whole earth rocked and shook as with an ague.
The water soon rose and covered the earth. Then the Ripas ran for the
trees. The wind blew down the trees and many of the Ripas were killed
or drowned. The water rose higher and higher, and the rain and the
thunder and the lightning lasted for many days. And there was no earth;
all was water.
Then the Great Spirit smiled. The Ripas were no more. The waters had
swallowed them up. To the Caranchuas on the islands came the messenger.
He told them of the fate of the Ripas. He bade them return to their
homes.
When the Caranchuas returned, all was changed. Where had been the great
river was now but a small stream, Caney. The great river was now two
rivers, the white man’s Brazos on the east, the red man’s Colorado on
the west. Between the rivers were the hunting grounds of the
Caranchuas, the gift of the Great Spirit.