Stockton to points on the river, had lost his sabre, and one of this
bridge gang had found it. When it was brought into camp no one would
have the old corn-cutter; but this Irishman took a shine to it, having
once been a soldier himself. The result was, it was presented to him.
He ground it up like a machette, and took great pride in giving
exhibitions with it. He was an old man now, the storekeeper for the
iron supplies, a kind of trusty job. The old sabre renewed his youth to
a certain extent, for he used it in self-defense shortly afterwards.
This Erin-go-bragh—his name was McKay, I think—was in the habit now and
then of stealing a pie from the cook, and taking it into his own tent
and eating it there. The Chink kept missing his pies, and got a helper
to spy out the offender. The result was they caught the old man
red-handed in the act. The Chink armed himself with the biggest
butcher-knife he had and went on the warpath. He found the old fellow
sitting in his storeroom contentedly eating the pie. The old man had
his eyes on the cook, and saw the knife just in time to jump behind
some kegs of nuts and bolts. The Chink followed him with murder in his
eye, and as the old man ran out of the tent he picked up the old sabre.
Once clear of the tent he turned and faced him, made only one pass, and
cut his head off as though he were beheading a chicken. They hadn’t yet
buried the Chinaman when I got there. I’m willing to testify it was an
artistic job. They turned the old man over to me, and I took him down
to the next station, where an old alcalde lived,—Roy Bean by name. This
old judge was known as ‘Law west of the Pecos,’ as he generally
construed the law to suit his own opinion of the offense. He wasn’t
even strong on testimony. He was a ranchman at this time, so when I
presented my prisoner he only said, ‘Killed a Chinese, did he? Well, I
ain’t got time to try the case to-day. Cattle suffering for water, and
three windmills out of repair. Bring him back in the morning.’ I took
the old man back to the hotel, and we had a jolly good time together
that day. I never put a string on him, only locked the door, but we
slept together. The next morning I took him before the alcalde. Bean
held court in an outhouse, the prisoner seated on a bale of flint
hides. Bean was not only judge but prosecutor, as well as counsel for
the defense. ‘Killed a Chinaman, did you?’
“‘I did, yer Honor,’ was the prisoner’s reply.
“I suggested to the court that the prisoner be informed of his rights,
that he need not plead guilty unless he so desired.
“‘That makes no difference here,’ said the court. ‘Gentlemen, I’m busy
this morning. I’ve got to raise the piping out of a two-hundred-foot
well to-day,—something the matter with the valve at the bottom. I’ll
just glance over the law a moment.’
“He rummaged over a book or two for a few moments and then said, ‘Here,
I reckon this is near enough. I find in the revised statute before me,
in the killing of a nigger the offending party was fined five dollars.
A Chinaman ought to be half as good as a nigger. Stand up and receive
your sentence. What’s your name?’
“‘Jerry McKay, your Honor.’
“Just then the court noticed one of the vaqueros belonging to the ranch
standing in the door, hat in hand, and he called to him in Spanish,
‘Have my horse ready, I’ll be through here just in a minute.’
“‘McKay,’ said the court as he gave him a withering look, ‘I’ll fine
you two dollars and a half and costs. Officer, take charge of the
prisoner until it’s paid!’ It took about ten dollars to cover
everything, which I paid, McKay returning it when he reached his camp.
Whoever named that alcalde ‘Law west of the Pecos’ knew his man.”
“I’ll bet a twist of dog,” said Ramrod, “that prisoner with the black
whiskers sabes English. Did you notice him paying strict attention to
Smoky’s little talk? He reminds me of a fellow that crouched behind his
horse at the fight we had on the head of the Arroyo Colorado and
plugged me in the shoulder. What, you never heard of it? That’s so,
Cushion hasn’t been with us but a few months. Well, it was in ’82, down
on the river, about fifty miles northwest of Brownsville. Word came in
one day that a big band of horse-thieves were sweeping the country of
every horse they could gather. There was a number of the old Cortina’s
gang known to be still on the rustle. When this report came, it found
eleven men in camp. We lost little time saddling up, only taking five
days’ rations with us, for they were certain to recross the river
before that time in case we failed to intercept them. Every Mexican in
the country was terrorized. All they could tell us was that there was
plenty of ladrones and lots of horses, ‘muchos’ being the qualifying
word as to the number of either.
“It was night before we came to their trail, and to our surprise they
were heading inland, to the north. They must have had a contract to
supply the Mexican army with cavalry horses. They were simply sweeping
the country, taking nothing but gentle stock. These they bucked in
strings, and led. That made easy trailing, as each string left a
distinct trail. The moon was splendid that night, and we trailed as
easily as though it had been day. We didn’t halt all night long on
either trail, pegging along at a steady gait, that would carry us
inland some distance before morning. Our scouts aroused every ranch
within miles that we passed on the way, only to have reports
exaggerated as usual. One thing we did learn that night, and that was
that the robbers were led by a white man. He was described in the
superlatives that the Spanish language possesses abundantly; everything
from the horse he rode to the solid braid on his sombrero was described
in the same strain. But that kind of prize was the kind we were looking
for.
“On the head of the Arroyo Colorado there is a broken country
interspersed with glades and large openings. We felt very sure that the
robbers would make camp somewhere in that country. When day broke the
freshness of the trail surprised and pleased us. They couldn’t be far
away. Before an hour passed, we noticed a smoke cloud hanging low in
the morning air about a mile ahead. We dismounted and securely tied our
horses and pack stock. Every man took all the cartridges he could use,
and was itching for the chance to use them. We left the trail, and to
conceal ourselves took to the brush or dry arroyos as a protection
against alarming the quarry. They were a quarter of a mile off when we
first sighted them. We began to think the reports were right, for there
seemed no end of horses, and at least twenty-five men. By dropping back
we could gain one of those dry arroyos which would bring us within one
hundred yards of their camp. A young fellow by the name of Rusou, a
crack shot, was acting captain in the absence of our officers. As we
backed into the arroyo he said to us, ‘If there’s a white man there,
leave him to me.’ We were all satisfied that he would be cared for
properly at Rusou’s hands, and silence gave consent.
“Opposite the camp we wormed out of the arroyo like a skirmish line,
hugging the ground for the one remaining little knoll between the
robbers and ourselves. I was within a few feet of Rusou as we sighted
the camp about seventy-five yards distant. We were trying to make out a
man that was asleep, at least he had his hat over his face, lying on a
blanket with his head in a saddle. We concluded he was a white man, if
there was one. Our survey of their camp was cut short by two shots
fired at us by two pickets of theirs posted to our left about one
hundred yards. No one was hit, but the sleeping man jumped to his feet
with a six-shooter in each hand. I heard Rusou say to himself, ‘You’re
too late, my friend.’ His carbine spoke, and the fellow fell forward,
firing both guns into the ground at his feet as he went down.
“Then the stuff was off and she opened up in earnest. They fought all
right. I was on my knee pumping lead for dear life, and as I threw my
carbine down to refill the magazine, a bullet struck it in the heel of
the magazine with sufficient force to knock me backward. I thought I
was hit for an instant, but it passed away in a moment. When I tried to
work the lever I saw that my carbine was ruined. I called to the boys
to notice a fellow with black whiskers who was shooting from behind his
horse. He would shoot over and under alternately. I thought he was
shooting at me. I threw down my carbine and drew my six-shooter. Just
then I got a plug in the shoulder, and things got dizzy and dark. It
caught me an inch above the nipple, ranging upward,—shooting from
under, you see. But some of the boys must have noticed him, for he
decorated the scene badly leaded, when it was over. I was unconscious
for a few minutes, and when I came around the fight had ended.
“During the few brief moments that I was knocked out, our boys had
closed in on them and mixed it with them at short range. The thieves
took to such horses as they could lay their hands on, and one fellow
went no farther. A six-shooter halted him at fifty yards. The boys
rounded up over a hundred horses, each one with a fiber grass halter
on, besides killing over twenty wounded ones to put them out of their
misery.
“It was a nasty fight. Two of our own boys were killed and three were
wounded. But then you ought to have seen the other fellows; we took no
prisoners that day. Nine men lay dead. Horses were dead and dying all
around, and the wounded ones were crying in agony.
“This white man proved to be a typical dandy, a queer leader for such a
gang. He was dressed in buckskin throughout, while his sombrero was as
fine as money could buy. You can know it was a fine one, for it was
sold for company prize money, and brought three hundred and fifty
dollars. He had nearly four thousand dollars on his person and in his
saddle. A belt which we found on him had eleven hundred in bills and
six hundred in good old yellow gold. The silver in the saddle was
mixed, Mexican and American about equally.
“He had as fine a gold watch in his pocket as you ever saw, while his
firearms and saddle were beauties. He was a dandy all right, and a
fine-looking man, over six feet tall, with swarthy complexion and hair
like a raven’s wing. He was too nice a man for the company he was in.
We looked the ‘Black Book’ over afterward for any description of him.
At that time there were over four thousand criminals and outlaws
described in it, but there was no description that would fit him. For
this reason we supposed that he must live far in the interior of
Mexico.
“Our saddle stock was brought up, and our wounded were bandaged as best
they could be. My wound was the worst, so they concluded to send me
back. One of the boys went with me, and we made a fifty-mile ride
before we got medical attention. While I was in the hospital I got my
divvy of the prize money, something over four hundred dollars.”
When Ramrod had finished his narrative, he was compelled to submit to a
cross-examination at the hands of Cushion-foot, for he delighted in a
skirmish. All his questions being satisfactorily answered, Cushion-foot
drew up his saddle alongside of where Ramrod lay stretched on a
blanket, and seated himself. This was a signal to the rest of us that
he had a story, so we drew near, for he spoke so low that you must be
near to hear him. His years on the frontier were rich in experience,
though he seldom referred to them.
Addressing himself to Ramrod, he began: “You might live amongst these
border Mexicans all your life and think you knew them; but every day
you live you’ll see new features about them. You can’t calculate on
them with any certainty. What they ought to do by any system of
reasoning they never do. They will steal an article and then give it
away. You’ve heard the expression ‘robbing Peter to pay Paul.’ Well, my
brother played the rôle of Paul once himself. It was out in Arizona at
a place called Las Palomas. He was a stripling of a boy, but could
palaver Spanish in a manner that would make a Mexican ashamed of his
ancestry. He was about eighteen at this time and was working in a
store. One morning as he stepped outside the store, where he slept, he
noticed quite a commotion over around the custom-house. He noticed that
the town was full of strangers, as he crossed over toward the crowd. He
was suddenly halted and searched by a group of strange men. Fortunately
he had no arms on him, and his ability to talk to them, together with
his boyish looks, ingratiated him in their favor, and they simply made
him their prisoner. Just at that moment an alcalde rode up to the group
about him, and was ordered to halt. He saw at a glance they were
revolutionists, and whirling his mount attempted to escape, when one of
them shot him from his horse. The young fellow then saw what he was
into.
“They called themselves Timochis. They belonged in Mexico, and a year
or so before they refused to pay taxes that the Mexican government
levied on them, and rebelled. Their own government sent soldiers after
them, resulting in about eight hundred soldiers being killed, when they
dispersed into small bands, one of which was paying Las Palomas a
social call that morning. Along the Rio Grande it is only a short step
at best from revolution to robbery, and either calling has its
variations.
“Well, they took my brother with them to act as spokesman in looting
the town. The custom-house was a desired prize, and when my brother
interpreted their desires to the collector, he consented to open the
safe, as life had charms for him, even in Arizona. Uncle Sam’s
strong-box yielded up over a thousand dobes. They turned their
attention to the few small stores of the town, looting them of the
money and goods as they went. There was quite a large store kept by a
Frenchman, who refused to open, when he realized that the Timochi was
honoring the town with his presence. They put the boy in the front and
ordered him to call on the Frenchman to open up. He said afterward that
he put in a word for himself, telling him not to do any shooting
through the door. After some persuasion the store was opened and proved
to be quite a prize. Then they turned their attention to the store
where the boy worked. He unlocked it and waved them in. He went into
the cellar and brought up half a dozen bottles of imported French
Cognac, and invited the chief bandit and his followers to be good
enough to join him. In the mean time they had piled up on the counters
such things as they wanted. They made no money demand on him, the chief
asking him to set a price on the things they were taking. He made a
hasty inventory of the goods and gave the chief the figures, about one
hundred and ten dollars. The chief opened a sack that they had taken
from the custom-house and paid the bill with a flourish.
“The chief then said that he had a favor to ask: that my brother should
cheer for the revolutionists, to identify him as a friend. That was
easy, so he mounted the counter and gave three cheers of ‘Viva los
Timochis!’ He got down off the counter, took the bandit by the arm, and
led him to the rear, where with glasses in the air they drank to ‘Viva
los Timochis!’ again. Then the chief and his men withdrew and recrossed
the river. It was the best day’s trade he had had in a long time. Now,
here comes in the native. While the boy did everything from compulsion
and policy, the native element looked upon him with suspicion. The
owners of the store, knowing that this suspicion existed, advised him
to leave, and he did.”
The two prisoners were sleeping soundly. Sleep comes easily to tired
men, and soon all but the solitary guard were wrapped in sleep, to
fight anew in rangers’ dreams scathless battles!
There was not lacking the pathetic shade in the redemption of this
State from crime and lawlessness. In the village burying-ground of
Round Rock, Texas, is a simple headstone devoid of any lettering save
the name “Sam Bass.” His long career of crime and lawlessness would
fill a good-sized volume. He met his death at the hands of Texas
Rangers. Years afterward a woman, with all the delicacy of her sex, and
knowing the odium that was attached to his career, came to this town
from her home in the North and sought out his grave. As only a woman
can, when some strong tie of affection binds, this woman went to work
to mark the last resting-place of the wayward man. Concealing her own
identity, she performed these sacred rites, clothing in mystery her
relation to the criminal. The people of the village would not have
withheld their services in well-meant friendship, but she shrank from
them, being a stranger.
A year passed, and she came again. This time she brought the stone
which marks his last resting-place. The chivalry of this generous
people was aroused in admiration of a woman that would defy the calumny
attached to an outlaw. While she would have shrunk from kindness, had
she been permitted, such devotion could not go unchallenged. So she
disclosed her identity.
She was his sister.
Bass was Northern born, and this sister was the wife of a respectable
practicing physician in Indiana. Womanlike, her love for a wayward
brother followed him beyond his disgraceful end. With her own hands she
performed an act that has few equals, as a testimony of love and
affection for her own.
For many years afterward she came annually, her timidity having worn
away after the generous reception accorded her at the hands of a
hospitable people.
VIII
AT COMANCHE FORD
“There’s our ford,” said Juan,—our half-blood trailer,—pointing to the
slightest sag in a low range of hills distant twenty miles.
We were Texas Rangers. It was nearly noon of a spring day, and we had
halted on sighting our destination,—Comanche Ford on the Concho River.
Less than three days before, we had been lounging around camp, near
Tepee City, one hundred and seventy-five miles northeast of our present
destination. A courier had reached us with an emergency order, which
put every man in the saddle within an hour after its receipt.
An outfit with eight hundred cattle had started west up the Concho.
Their destination was believed to be New Mexico. Suspicion rested on
them, as they had failed to take out inspection papers for moving the
cattle, and what few people had seen them declared that one half the
cattle were brand burnt or blotched beyond recognition. Besides, they
had an outfit of twenty heavily armed men, or twice as many as were
required to manage a herd of that size.
Our instructions were to make this crossing with all possible haste,
and if our numbers were too few, there to await assistance before
dropping down the river to meet the herd. When these courier orders
reached us at Tepee, they found only twelve men in camp, with not an
officer above a corporal. Fortunately we had Dad Root with us, a man
whom every man in our company would follow as though he had been our
captain. He had not the advantage in years that his name would
indicate, but he was an exceedingly useful man in the service. He could
resight a gun, shoe a horse, or empty a six-shooter into a tree from
the back of a running horse with admirable accuracy. In dressing a
gun-shot wound, he had the delicate touch of a woman. Every man in the
company went to him with his petty troubles, and came away delighted.
Therefore there was no question as to who should be our leader on this
raid; no one but Dad was even considered.
Sending a brief note to the adjutant-general by this same courier,
stating that we had started with twelve men, we broke camp, and in less
than an hour were riding southwest. One thing which played into our
hands in making this forced ride was the fact that we had a number of
extra horses on hand. For a few months previous we had captured quite a
number of stolen horses, and having no chance to send into the
settlements where they belonged, we used them as extra riding horses.
With our pack mules light and these extra saddlers for a change, we
covered the country rapidly. Sixteen hours a day in the saddle makes
camp-fires far apart. Dad, too, could always imagine that a few miles
farther on we would find a fine camping spot, and his views were law to
us.
We had been riding hard for an hour across a tableland known as Cibollo
Mesa, and now for the first time had halted at sighting our
destination, yet distant three hours’ hard riding. “Boys,” said Dad,
“we’ll make it early to-day. I know a fine camping spot near a big pool
in the river. After supper we’ll all take a swim, and feel as fresh as
pond-lilies.”
“Oh, we swim this evening, do we?” inquired Orchard. “That’s a
Christian idea, Dad, cleanliness, you know. Do we look as though a swim
would improve our good looks?” The fact that, after a ride like the one
we were near finishing, every man of us was saturated with fine
alkaline dust, made the latter question ludicrous.
For this final ride we changed horses for the last time on the trip,
and after a three hours’ ride under a mid-day torrid sun, the shade of
Concho’s timber and the companionship of running water were ours. We
rode with a whoop into the camp which Dad had had in his mind all
morning, and found it a paradise. We fell out of our saddles, and tired
horses were rolling and groaning all around us in a few minutes. The
packs were unlashed with the same alacrity, while horses, mules, and
men hurried to the water. With the exception of two horses on picket,
it was a loose camp in a few moments’ time. There was no thought of
eating now, with such inviting swimming pools as the spring freshets
had made.
Dad soon located the big pool, for he had been there before, and
shortly a dozen men floundered and thrashed around in it like a school
of dolphins. On one side of the pool was a large sloping rock, from
which splendid diving could be had. On this rock we gathered like kid
goats on a stump, or sunned ourselves like lizards. To get the benefit
of the deepest water, only one could dive at a time. We were so bronzed
from the sun that when undressed the protected parts afforded a
striking contrast to the brown bands about our necks. Orchard was
sitting on the rock waiting for his turn to dive, when Long John,
patting his naked shoulder, said admiringly,—
“Orchard, if I had as purty a plump shoulder as you have, I’d have my
picture taken kind of half careless like—like the girls do sometimes.
Wear one of those far-away looks, roll up your eyes, and throw up your
head like you was listening for it to thunder. Then while in that
attitude, act as if you didn’t notice and let all your clothing fall
entirely off your shoulder. If you’ll have your picture taken that way
and give me one, I’ll promise you to set a heap of store by it, old
man.”
Orchard looked over the edge of the rock at his reflection in the
water, and ventured, “Wouldn’t I need a shave? and oughtn’t I to have a
string of beads around my swan-like neck, with a few spangles on it to
glitter and sparkle? I’d have to hold my right hand over this old gun
scar in my left shoulder, so as not to mar the beauty of the picture.
Remind me of it, John, and I’ll have some taken, and you shall have
one.”
A few minutes later Happy Jack took his place on the rim of the rock to
make a dive, his magnificent physique of six feet and two hundred
pounds looming up like a Numidian cavalryman, when Dad observed, “How
comes it, Jack, that you are so pitted in the face and neck with
pox-marks, and there’s none on your body?”
“Just because they come that way, I reckon,” was the answer vouchsafed.
“You may think I’m funning, lads, but I never felt so supremely happy
in all my life as when I got well of the smallpox. I had one hundred
and ninety dollars in my pocket when I took down with them, and only
had eight left when I got up and was able to go to work.” Here, as he
poised on tiptoe, with his hands gracefully arched over his head for a
dive, he was arrested in the movement by a comment of one of the boys,
to the effect that he “couldn’t see anything in that to make a man so
_supremely happy_.”
He turned his head halfway round at the speaker, and never losing his
poise, remarked, “Well, but you must recollect that there was five of
us taken down at the same time, and the other four died,” and he made a
graceful spring, boring a hole in the water, which seethed around him,
arising a moment later throwing water like a porpoise, as though he
wouldn’t exchange his position in life, humble as it was, with any one
of a thousand dead heroes.
After an hour in the water and a critical examination of all the old
gun-shot wounds of our whole squad, and the consequent verdict that it
was simply impossible to kill a man, we returned to camp and began
getting supper. There was no stomach so sensitive amongst us that it
couldn’t assimilate bacon, beans, and black coffee.