as when Ernest had first seen him, but again a “full dress” of
beautiful white doeskin hunting-shirt, yellow buckskin leggins, beaded
moccasins, a brilliant red blanket as a cloak, and a kind of crown of
wild-turkey feathers. Thus he stalked about.
He hunted much, alone, with bow-and-arrow and with gun. He had spells
when he would answer nobody except in Cherokee. And he had other spells
when he lay on the ground drunk, even at the fort itself. Then his wife
Tyania, who was as large and as stately as himself, would seek him and
take him home to the log house across the Grand River. He was known
as “Drunken Sam”; and even his Indian brothers called him “Big Drunk”
instead of Col-lon-neh, The Raven.
It was a sad step downward for any man to take; and for a man who had
been as great as Sam Houston――――! Yet, sober or drunk, he still had
about him a dignity that bespoke his better days in the past, and
perhaps promised better days to come. He almost always greeted Ernest
very kindly, and Ernest could not help but like him.
The tall Texan, Dick Carroll, soon left for the down-river and the
Mississippi. Whether he had persuaded General Houston to help Texas,
nobody knew; but at any rate, he promised to keep an eye out for
Ernest’s uncle, in case that the sergeant had returned to the Arkansas
as far as Fort Smith, say. As for the trunk, Ernest never saw it again,
or the steamboat either!
The fall, crisp and bright, with occasional flurries of snow, merged
into winter, and December opened brave and sunny, with bracing days
and sharp starry nights. Then, ere a week had passed, through the post
circulated the news that Sam Houston had gone. On his bob-tailed pony
he had ridden away, as if for Texas at last. Only his wife Tyania
remained in the log cabin across the Grand.
Of course there were many reports. One rumor declared that he had gone
to Texas by request of President Jackson, to make treaties with the
Comanches and the other Texas Indians, for the United States. This
rumor afterwards proved true. Another rumor said that he had been asked
by the President to investigate the people and affairs in Texas, and to
see what the likelihood was that it would separate from Mexico. This
rumor also afterwards seemed to be proved true. But John Henry, another
trader at Fort Gibson, stated:
“Sam Houston has gone to Texas to stay. He’s been intending that a long
time. And not six months ago he said to me, on the bank of the Grand
River: ‘Henry, let’s go to Texas. I’m tired of this country and sick
of this life. It’s no place or occupation for me. Anyway, I’m going,
and in that new land I will make a _man_ of myself again.’ He also said
he’d make a fortune for both of us, if I’d go with him.”
“If he’ll make the man of himself, that’s enough; better than fortune,”
quoth Lieutenant Neal, standing near. “And I believe he will. I’d
feared his ambition was dead; but it isn’t, and anybody with ambition
to be something higher is by no means hopeless. I’m glad he’s gone. The
Cherokees and other Indians will miss him, though; he was their best
friend.”
Ernest missed him, too; missed him already――and rather wanted to go to
Texas, himself. However, on the very next day who should come riding
into the post but Mr. Carroll the Texan, back from his trip down-river,
and eager indeed over the tidings with which he was greeted.
“Sam Houston’s gone, they tell me! Gone to Texas! Pshaw! He must have
crossed my trail, then, on his way down to Nacogdoches. But it’s good
news. Hello, boy,” he cried, sighting Ernest. “I had word of your
uncle. He was at Fort Smith, but he left for Texas before I could catch
him. I reckon he didn’t know you were up here. If you’d like to follow
him now’s your chance, for I’m off to Texas myself in the morning.”
“All right,” said Ernest. “I’ll go if I can get a horse.”
“A hoss!” laughed Mr. Carroll. “No boy who’s plucky enough to take the
long trail into Texas shall lack a hoss. Not much!”
“Besides, he’s earned one,” declared the lieutenant, hearing. “He’s
worked hard at whatever he was told to do, and my yellow pony that he’s
been riding is his to keep; yes, and saddle and bridle, too.”
So Ernest, outfitted, by the friends whom he had made, not only
with the yellow pony, and saddle and bridle, but also with clothes,
provisions, and a buck-handled hunting-knife, found himself the next
morning prepared to ride southward with Dick Carroll the Texan.
He was shaking hands and exchanging good-byes, when into the midst
strode a young Cherokee, the nephew of Tyania, Sam Houston’s wife.
He bore a beautiful light little rifle, beaded hide bullet-pouch, and
powder-flask of black buffalo horn scraped smooth and thin. Straight he
marched to Ernest’s stirrup.
“Tyania send these,” he said, extending them. “You go to Texas. When
you see Sam Houston you tell Sam Houston Tyania love him, she wait here
for him, but she never go there.”
And he had hastened away before Ernest had had time even to thank him.
“By jiminy!” exclaimed the Texan, as Ernest, much flustrated and
delighted, slung the bullet-pouch and powder-horn upon his shoulders
and balanced the little rifle. “Now you’re sure fixed out, and that
Mexican government had better mind how it behaves or Texas will be
free.”
They left Fort Gibson behind them, and crossed the Arkansas River
by means of an Indian flatboat ferry――to which the horses did not
object at all. Almost due south they rode; straight for Texas, by a
narrow trail that led through the timber and the prairies clear to
Nacogdoches, which was the first town of any importance on the Texas
northeastern frontier. Mr. Carroll was not certain that he wished to go
to Nacogdoches; but he hoped to overtake General Houston, or at least
to learn his whereabouts.
All day they rode; at night they camped. They passed through a portion
of the Creek Indian nation (the Creeks looked much like the Cherokees);
and after that they saw scarcely anybody except Choctaws (another
half-civilized Indian people), until before they reached the Red River
they sighted, at noon, ahead, three men sitting their horses in the
trail, and grouped as if chatting.
“Sam Houston!” ejaculated Mr. Carroll. “Now we’ll know what’s what.”
And he added, as they drew near: “Elias Rector, too. He’s United States
marshal for Arkansas Territory. T’other one’s name is Harris, I think.
Met him down at Little Rock. Major Arnold Harris.”
Sure enough, General Houston it was, his head thrust through a Mexican
blanket, draped over his shoulders, and a large-brimmed whitey-gray
wool hat on his crown. He looked larger than ever, but it was no wonder
that Ernest had not recognized him, for he had been clean shaven.
However, Mr. Carroll had sharp eyes.
The spot proved to be the focus of several trails; and as Mr. Carroll
and Ernest arrived, the general was heavily dismounting from his
bob-tailed pony.
“This bob-tailed pony is a disgrace,” declared the general. “He is
continually fighting the flies, and has no means of protecting himself;
and his kicks and contortions render his rider ridiculous. I shall be
the laughter of all Mexico. I require a steed with his natural weapon,
a flowing tail, that he may defend himself against his enemies as his
master has done. Harris, good-bye; but first you must trade with me.
What are your terms?”
“Very well, Sam, I will,” agreed Major Harris. “But we’ll each keep our
own saddle and bridle.”
“So be it,” answered the general. “Now, Jack,” he said to his
bob-tailed pony, as he stripped him, “you and I must part. You have
been a good and faithful servant to me, but, Jack, there comes a time
in the life of every man when he and his friends must separate. You are
a faithful pony. You are a hardy pony. You are a sure-footed pony. But
cruel man has made you defenseless against the common enemy of your
kind, the pesky fly. Where I am going they are very thick. The Almighty
in His wisdom gave you a defense, but man has taken it from you, and
without a tail you are helpless. I must therefore with pain and anguish
part with you.”
So saying, he changed the saddle and bridle to the larger horse, which
had a fine long tail.
“Houston,” spoke the third man, the United States marshal, “I’d like to
give you some little keepsake before we separate, but I have nothing
except my razor. Will you take it? I never saw a better one.” And he
extracted it from his saddle-bag and extended it.
“Major Rector,” proclaimed the general, much as if he were making
a public speech, “I accept it. This is apparently a gift of little
value, but it is an inestimable testimony of the friendship which has
lasted many years, and proved steadfast under the blasts of calumny and
injustice. Good-bye. God bless you. When next you see this razor it
shall be shaving the President of a Republic.”
“How are you fixed for money, Sam?” inquired Major Harris. “You may
need some where you’re going.”
“Money?” answered the general, solemnly. “Unfortunately, I am always in
need of money.”
“Then let me divide with you. I’ve more with me than I can use, and you
can repay me at your leisure.”
“Thank you,” acknowledged the general, pocketing what was proffered.
“Remember my words, Harris, I shall yet be the president of a great
republic. I shall bring that nation to the United States, and if they
don’t watch me closely I shall be the President of the White House some
day. Good-by.” And reining his horse around, he rode down one of the
trails.
He apparently had not noticed Mr. Carroll and Ernest. But the two other
men, taking another trail, saluted civilly as they passed.
“Well,” remarked the Texan, to Ernest, and gazing after the rapidly
receding form of the general, “I reckon Sam Houston’s bound for Texas,
all right. Didn’t I tell that steamboat captain and the rest of you
that Houston would rise again? He’s made up his mind and nothing can
stop him.”
Thus speaking, the Texan touched his horse, and with Ernest rode onward
into the south.
That evening they half waded, half swam their horses, across a ford of
a rapid river. On the farther bank Mr. Carroll raised his hat as if in
a salute, and turned to Ernest with a smile.
“Now you’re in Texas, lad,” he said. “That was the Red River.”
They made camp, and lay down together in their wet clothes, feet to the
fire, while a flock of turkeys (minus one which had supplied a supper)
querulously piped in the trees beside the water before they, also,
settled for the night.
Texas! Was ever a land elsewhere so vast and yet so beautiful as this,
thought Ernest, as throughout the next day he and the Texan steadily
rode onward, threading deeply-grassed prairies, circuiting patches of
rich timber, crossing streams and swamps, and seeing scarce a sign of
human life, but horses and deer and turkeys in abundance. Where were
the Texas settlers?
Mr. Carroll laughed.
“Down yonder we’ll find ’em,” he said. “But the country’s not crowded.
Every man has plenty room. This is principally Comanche range――and
those fellows we don’t want to see!”
After such long travel that Ernest completely lost track of the
days, they came to the first real token of civilization: a straight,
well-travelled road, with marks not only of horses’ hoofs but of wheels.
“The Royal Road,” explained Mr. Carroll, pausing. “Laid out by the
Spanish before the Texas settlers entered. Runs clean across the middle
of Texas between Nacogdoches of the east and San Antonio of the west.
But we don’t follow it. We strike down by the San Felipe trace, for
Gonzales. If we followed the San Antonio road we’d pass too far north.”
Presently he turned off, to the left, upon a much lesser road――another
of those Texas trails or “traces.” Evidently this was the San Felipe
trace. Now they met a few people, mainly hunters on horseback; and that
night they stopped with a settler family at whose ranch-house, a rude
log cabin, glassless and floorless, they were made more than welcome to
a supper of corn-bread, venison and honey, and to a husk bunk.
The next afternoon Mr. Carroll pointed ahead.
“San Felipe on the Brazos,” he announced. “First American town founded
in Texas, headquarters of Steve Austin’s colony, and sort of capital
for the whole outfit of us. We’ll stop there to-night, and at Burnam’s
on the Colorado to-morrow night, and day after we’ll push on through to
Gonzales.”
San Felipe was a straggling little town, with scattered houses of logs
and of thick, rough-sawed siding like clapboards, and dusty but wide
streets, centering about two public squares or plazas. There was a
tavern, run by a settler named Whitesides, and a double log house where
lived Stephen Austin himself, the “Father of Texas.” He was away from
town, just now, on business. Mr. Carroll thought that at least 1500
people formed the population of the San Felipe neighborhood. The farms
were said to be the most prosperous in Texas.
This night’s lodging was at the house of another friend――Mr. R. M.
Williamson, one of whose legs was bent at the knee, so that he moved
by help of a crutch. He had been alcalde, or mayor, of San Felipe, and
was called “Three-legged Willie.” He seemed to be a fine man, of quick,
decisive action.
What he and Mr. Carroll talked upon, late into the night, Ernest did
not know――he did not stay awake to hear.
“Thirty miles to-day,” quoth the Texan, as in the morning he and Ernest
ambled out of San Felipe. “Fifty to-morrow, and then we’re there.”
The trace continued into the west. And again it was a rather lonesome
trail, save for the very few ranches, and an occasional traveller by
horse――now and then an American in buckskins or coarse cloth, and now
and then a swarthy Mexican enveloped in a blanket. If there were 20,000
Americans settled in Texas, they must be settled at great intervals;
and this Ernest soon learned was true.
“Yon’s the Colorado,” informed Mr. Carroll, toward evening, as they
jogged slowly, saving their horses for the longer ride to-morrow. “The
Burnams live across on the west bank. Hope the captain’s at home. Want
you to meet him. He’s four-square. One of the original Austin settlers,
he is. Came out hereabouts from East Texas along in ’22. Took sick in
the War of 1812, and he was the porest man in Texas, I reckon. Born
pore, in fact――and when he married, in Tennessee, his wife had to sell
her stockings to get plates to eat off of. But he’s getting ahead, now,
and he’s a powerful Injun fighter. That’s the kind of stuff we have in
Texas, to make a state; and it’s the right stuff, too.”
Burnam’s Crossing was a ford at the Colorado River, but a ferry was
operated here, also, in high water. From the east bank, where another
settler lived, the Burnam ranch could be seen, opposite: a log house
built like a block-house, and several out-structures. Ernest and his
guide plashed through the water.
Yes, Captain Burnam was at home, for when they drew up before the
hitching rail in front of the ranch yard a bearded man hastened from
the corral to greet them.
“Howdy? Light and come in,” he called, cheerily. “Oh, boys! Put up
these gentlemen’s hosses.”
A young man issued from the corral and with a word to Mr. Carroll led
the two horses away. Ernest was introduced to Captain Burnam; and in
the house to the rest of the family. At supper there was another boy,
of dark eyes and hair, whose name was James Hill――or James Monroe, they
called him, by his middle name, when they didn’t call him plain Jim.
He was older than Ernest, being fourteen, but he was a boy, just the
same; and although there were boys in the Burnam family, Ernest was
glad to meet as many boys as possible. It would have been pretty
stupid, in Texas, without boys.
“I live out just a small piece,” explained James Monroe. “You going to
Gonzales, I reckon?”
“I guess so,” responded Ernest.
“Mr. Carroll some of your kin?”
“No. I’m looking for my uncle.”
“Who’s he?”
“Sergeant John Andrews, of the United States Army. But he’s been
discharged, and he’s somewhere in Texas.”
“Wasn’t that an army sergeant named Andrews who was killed by the
Karankawas down on the Trinity, couple of months ago, dad?” blurted one
of the Burnam boys.
“Sh!” warned his mother; but it was too late.
“That so?” queried Mr. Carroll of Captain Burnam. “Hadn’t heard. What
about it?” And Ernest waited, breathless.
“So’s the tell,” acknowledged Captain Burnam, slowly. “There was a
party of traders massacred by the Karankawas, and a man by name of
John Andrews, from the United States Army, was among ’em. He was
a newcomer. They all were newcomers or they wouldn’t have been so
careless.”
Silence fell.
“That’s sure too bad,” volunteered Jim Hill, to Ernest. “Maybe ’twasn’t
your uncle. Did you know him well?”
“No, I never saw him; but he was to take care of me,” faltered Ernest.
“Well,” said Mr. Carroll, quickly, “don’t you mind, boy. You’re no
worse off. I’d sort of adopted you, anyway. So you come along to
Gonzales, and I’ll see you don’t suffer, you bet.”
“Of course. Never mind. You stay with Dick Carroll and he’ll make a
Texan of you,” spoke Mrs. Burnam. “Just forget your uncle and those
Injuns.”
Ernest gulped.
“I guess I will,” he said. They all were trying to be so kind to him
that he could not say anything else. And he did like Dick Carroll.
James Monroe Hill left, after supper, to ride over to his home. He told
Ernest he’d see him again; and he did.
The start for the fifty-mile ride to Gonzales was made at daybreak,
with the hospitable Burnam family waving good-by from the block-house.
The winding trace led across numerous streams, and past several
isolated ranches; and near sunset Dick Carroll again pointed before.
“Gonzales――little old Gonzales,” he informed. “She’s the last of the
white settlements, but she’s home, and it’s good to see her again.”
They entered another straggling town, smaller than San Felipe. Dick
exchanged greetings with the people whom he passed; he turned his horse
and Ernest’s into the public corral, for the night, and led the way,
through the dusk, for supper and bed in his own cabin, which was to be
Ernest’s also.
III
SANTA ANNA PROVES FALSE
Ernest awakened in the morning full of curiosity. While Dick Carroll
was attending to some business matters, after breakfast, he himself
had time to explore his new home. Gonzales was not much of a town, as
yet, being smaller than San Felipe. However, it was lavishly laid out,
six miles square, in blocks divided off by broad straight streets,
which ran out into the open country, the majority indicated only by
surveyor’s stakes and some indicated not at all. There were a Market
Square, and a Military Plaza, and other public parks (as required by
Mexican law); a hotel called Turner’s Inn; a sort of a fort, in case
of Indian attacks; a store or two; and about twenty houses of logs and
clapboards, and well scattered. On many of the squares there was only a
single house; and on others none at all. The main residence section was
the southwest corner of the tract, called the “inner” town. To north
and east extended the “outer” town, sparsely occupied by ranches.
This Gonzales was located on a timbered prairie, from which trees had
been cut for house building. The Guadalupe River flowed in a curve on
the west edge of town, and a few families had settled across on the
west side of the river. In the north of the “outer” town was a heavy
timber patch, which Smith’s Creek separated from a green prairie to
the south; and through the town wended Kerr’s Creek, along which the
first cabins had been erected, in 1825, when Colonel Green DeWitt (who
owned all the vast colony tract) and Major James Kerr, of the Missouri
senate, brought in the first settlers.
In honor of Don Rafael Gonzales, governor of Coahuila and Texas, was
the settlement named; in 1826 it had been destroyed by the Indians and
was rebuilt in 1827.
Even yet it was in constant danger from the Indians, particularly the
Tawakanas; and it had been loaned a six-pounder brass cannon by the
presidio of San Antonio, for protection. The cannon was not mounted,
but it was kept in readiness.
Gonzales was the westernmost of the American settlements in Texas.
Further west there was only old San Antonio de Bexar or Bejar――usually
styled by the last word, pronounced “Behar.” It was seventy-five
miles by road, and was strictly a Mexican town, although Americans
lived there. Years before it had been established as a Roman Catholic
mission, where were stationed priests and soldiers to educate and
control the Indians. The mission part was abandoned, but as a presidio
or garrison of Mexican soldiery, and as the principal Mexican military
post in Texas, old Bejar was considered of much importance. The road to
it was lonely and unsettled.
East of Gonzales, about eighty miles, was San Felipe――Stephen Austin’s
town; south sixty miles was Goliad or Goliath, formerly the Mexican
military post of La Bahia, on the lower San Antonio River; and down the
Guadalupe, below Gonzales, about the same distance, was Victoria. But
the country between, surrounding Gonzales, was all wild and unoccupied,
and Gonzales was a real frontier settlement.
Dick Carroll “bached” it in his little log cabin; here he and Ernest
slept and cooked their meals. Ernest on his first day was set at work
herding horses on the prairie north of the houses; and thinking hard
while sitting his yellow pony, and listening to Dick Carroll and the
other men, in his hours off duty, he soon got a pretty clear idea of
the situation in Texas.
“It’s this way,” explained Mr. Carroll. “Texas wants to be a free
and self-governing Mexican state, with all the privileges of the
constitution of 1824. But instead of that, the blamed Mexican
government has joined us to the other province of Coahuila, that lies
next to us, just across the Rio Grande, so we’re only a part of the
state of Coahuila and Texas. Now, that doesn’t go. Coahuila province
and Texas province are different peoples altogether. Across the Rio
Grande everything is Mexican and can be run ’cording to Mexican ideas.
But Texas is settled up by Americans, used to different laws and
different habits, and perfectly capable of governing themselves if
only given the chance. Now when we’re tacked onto Coahuila, and the
state officers are mainly located in Coahuila, and they’re most of ’em
Mexicans, to boot, a small show does Texas stand of putting through the
kind of laws that Americans can live and do business under. Santa Anna,
though, will help us as soon as he’s president, now that the revolution
ag’in Bustamante has won out. And this spring Texas is going to hold a
regular state convention by itself, draw up a state constitution, and
ask the government to approve it. I reckon Sam Houston’ll be one of the
delegates from Nacogdoches; and if so, the constitution’ll be dog-proof
and hog-tight. He ought to be down this way right quick. He was over at
San Felipe, to meet Austin, last week, I hear tell, and he’s going on
through to Bejar, they say.”
Mr. Carroll had spoken correctly, for within a day or two the general
(he had been general of the Tennessee militia) did appear in Gonzales.
Ernest found him there, at supper time, talking in the midst of a group
of citizens. He wore the same big, broad-brimmed whitish hat, and
Mexican blanket, and buckskin pantaloons, and looked as large as any
two other men.
Ernest stood on the outskirts of the little circle of curious
spectators, and gazed like the rest of them. He _knew_ Sam Houston;
certainly he did; but although Dick Carroll was there, taking part in
the conversation, he felt as if it would be rather nervy of him to
elbow in. Still, he hoped that the general would notice him, in some
way.
However, Mr. Carroll chanced to see him, and beckoned him forward.
“Here’s another friend of yourn, general,” announced Dick, holding
Ernest by the arm. “And he’s a Texan, too. We catch ’em young, in this
country. You remember him, I reckon?”
The general smiled his wonderful, kindly smile, and stretched out his
great hand, which entirely swallowed Ernest’s.
“I remember him well, and I congratulate him. The hope of Texas is in
the youth who shall be reared within its borders.”
Ernest blushed. This was embarrassing, but a warm glow filled his
heart, and he determined to deserve those encouraging words. He did not
know whether he was doing right, yet now was his opportunity to deliver
his message; so he spoke it.