THE RACE FOR THE CHAPARRAL.
It was a bugle and not a drum that summoned the garrison to answer at
their morning roll-call.
"Bowie," said Colonel Travis, just after he had dismissed the men, "I
don't want to ask too much. You're not under my orders, but I wish
you'd take a pretty strong patrol and scout off southerly. The Lipans
camped off toward San Antonio, but I'd like to feel sure that Great
Bear kept his promise and rode straight away. He isn't heavy on
promise-keeping."
"Not where scalps are in it," said Bowie. "He's in bad humor. I'll
go."
"You bet," remarked Crockett. "Castro hasn't many braves with him.
He'll be bare-headed before night if the Comanches can light onto him."
"All right," said Bowie; "but they won't strike us just now. I don't
want Castro wiped out. We're old friends."
"Mount your men well," said Travis to Bowie. "You may have hard
riding. Don't fight either tribe if you can help it. I must be off on
Houston's orders as soon as I can get away."
"I'll take a dozen," replied Bowie. "The fort 'll be safe enough just
now."
No further orders were given, but he picked both his men and his
horses, and he seemed to know them all.
They were good ones, the riders especially. They were all veterans,
trained and tried and hardened in Indian warfare, and ready for
anything that might turn up. They went into their saddles at the word
of command as if they were setting out for a merry-making, and the
little column passed through the gate-way two abreast, followed a
minute later by their temporary commander.
The Texan rangers were armed as well as was possible at that date. The
Colt's revolver had but just been invented, and the first specimens of
that deadly weapon found their way to Texas a few months later. Barely
two small six-shooters came in 1836, but these opened the market, and
there was a full supply, large pattern, sent on in 1837.
Just now, however, each man had horse-pistols in holsters at the
saddle. In each man's belt were smaller weapons, of various shapes and
sizes, and not one of them failed to carry a first-rate rifle. All had
sabres as well as knives, but they were not lancers. On the contrary,
they were inclined to despise the favorite weapon of the plains red men
and of the Mexican cavalry.
Bowie was now at the front, and he appeared to have some reason of his
own for making haste.
No such indication was given, however, by an entirely different body of
horsemen, five times as numerous, which was at that hour riding across
the prairie, several miles to the southeastward. These, too, seemed to
have a well-understood errand.
Their leader was about two hundred yards in advance of the main body,
and he paused upon the crest of every "rising ground" as he went, to
take swift, searching glances in all directions.
"Great Bear is a great chief!" he loudly declared. "He will teach
Castro and the Lipan dogs a lesson. They have set Travis against the
Comanches. Castro shall not ride into Chihuahua. I will hang his
scalp to dry in my own lodge. I will strike the Mexicans. Ugh!"
He spoke in his own tongue, and then he seemed to be inclined to repeat
himself in Spanish, for he was an angry man that day. It was not at
all likely that he would prove over-particular whether his next victims
were red or white, and he evidently did not consider himself any longer
within neutral territory.
Suddenly the Comanche war-chief straightened in his saddle, turned his
head, and sent back to his warriors a prolonged, ear-piercing whoop.
A chorus of fierce yells answered him, and the slow movement of the
wild-looking array changed into a swift, pell-mell gallop.
It had been a whoop of discovery. At no great distance from the knoll
upon which Great Bear had sounded his war-cry a voice as shrill and as
fierce, although not as powerful, replied to him with the battle-yell
of the Lipans. In another instant, the wiry mustang which carried an
Indian boy was springing away at his best pace eastward. Probably it
was well for his rider that the race before him was to be run with a
light weight.
Red Wolf was all alone, but if Great Bear was hunting Lipans, they, on
their part, were on the lookout for Comanches. Their cunning chief had
read, as clearly as had Travis, the wrathful face of Great Bear. He
had camped for one night in the comparatively secure vicinity of San
Antonio. Shortly after he and his braves began their homeward ride
that morning, he had given to his son and to several others orders
which were accompanied by swift gesticulations that rendered many words
needless. What he said to Red Wolf might have been translated,--
"We are to strike the chaparral on a due south line from the fort.
Ride a mile to the west of our line of march. Keep your eye out for
enemies. If you see any, get back to us full speed. Great Bear has
sixty braves. Maybe more. We are only twenty. He would wipe us out."
Away went Red Wolf. He was only a scout, but he was a youngster doing
warrior duty, and he felt as if the fate of the whole band depended
upon him. It was another big thing to add to his remarkable
experiences of the day before,--a fort, guns, a grand cock-fight, and
the heroes of the border,--white chiefs who were famous among all the
tribes. More than all, and he said so as he rode onward, he had been
spoken to by the Big Knife of the palefaces, and he had not only seen
but had handled the "heap medicine knife" itself. He was now almost a
brave, with a name given him by the hero, his father's friend, and he
was burning all over with a fever to do something worthy of the change
in his circumstances.
He was well mounted, for he was the son of a chief, and there had been
a drove of all sorts to select from. The mustang under him was a
bright sorrel,--a real beauty, full of fire, and now and then showing
that he possessed his full share of the high temper belonging to his
half-wild pedigree.
Mile after mile went by at an easy gait, and the watchful scout had
seen nothing more dangerous than a rabbit or a deer. He was beginning
to feel disappointed, as if his luck were leaving him. It was hard
upon a fellow who was so tremendously ready for an adventure if none
was to be had. He even grew less persistently busy with his eyes, and
let his thoughts go back to the fort.
"Heap big gun," he was remarking to himself. "Kill a heap. Shoot away
off."
At that instant his pony sprang forward with a nervous bound, for his
quick ears had caught the first notes of Great Bear's thrilling
war-whoop. Red Wolf went with him as if he were part of him, while he
drew the rein hard and sent back his shrill reply.
"Great Bear!" he exclaimed. "Catch Red Wolf? Ugh! No! Take heap
Comanche hair."
The other warriors were not yet in sight, but there was a great deal of
"boy" in his boastful threat, considering the known prowess of their
leader.
The sorrel pony was having his own way, and the horse carrying Great
Bear must have been not only fast but strong, or he would have been
left behind in short order. It was not so, however; and now, as higher
rolls of the prairie were reached and climbed, the entire yelling band
were now and then seen by the young Lipan.
"Poor pony!" he remarked of some of them, for their line was drawing
out longer as the better animals raced to the front and the slower fell
to the rear. All were doing their best, and some were even catching up
with Great Bear. It would, therefore, be really of no use for Red Wolf
to stop and kill him, unless he were ready, also, to take in hand and
scalp a number of other warriors.
"What Red Wolf do now? Ugh!"
It was a question which was running through his mind hot-footed, and it
was not at first easy to shape a satisfactory answer.
A white boy would have been likely to have let it answer itself. He
would have ridden as straight as he could to rejoin the band of Lipans
and to tell his father that the Comanches were coming. He would have
thought only of getting them to help him in his proposed fight with
Great Bear.
Red Wolf was an Indian boy. All his life, thus far, he had been
getting lessons in Indian war-methods. He had heard the talks and
tales of chiefs and noted braves in their camps and councils. He had,
therefore, been taught in a redskin academy of the best kind, and he
was a credit to his professors.
"Ugh! No!" he exclaimed, at last. "Comanche find chaparral. No find
Lipan."
He had no need to urge his pony, but he rode southward, not eastward.
Already, in the distance, he could see the endless, ragged border of
the chaparral. It began with scattered trees and bushes out on the
prairie. These increased in number and in closeness to each other,
until they thickened into the dense, many-pathed labyrinth. The
pursuers also could see, and they could understand that if the fugitive
they were following was leading them toward Castro's party, they must
close up to him now or never.
The whoops which burst from them as they dashed along were loud, but
short, sharp, excited.
"Whoop big!" shouted Red Wolf. "Heap yell! Castro hear whoop."
He had noted that the wind was blowing in the right direction. It
could carry a sound upon its wings far away to the eastward, but two
very different kinds of human ears received and understood the fierce
music the chasers were making.
"Forward! Gallop!" rang from the heavily-bearded lips of the commander
of horsemen coming from the northward.
"Comanches! Colonel Bowie!" shouted a grizzled veteran behind him.
"That's Great Bear's band, you bet!"
Another whoop swept by them on the wind as Bowie replied to him,--
"And they've struck the Lipans, I'm afraid. We must try and get into
it before too much mischief's done. On, boys! We'll give him a
lesson."
Silence followed, but the men looked at the locks of their rifles and
felt of their belt pistols as they went forward. It was no light
matter to act as police, or even as peacemakers, in that part of the
world.
The other listeners were nearer and could hear more distinctly, but no
sound was uttered by the warriors with Castro when their chief drew his
rein and held up a hand. Every man of them knew, or thought he knew,
just what it all meant, but more news was coming.
One brave who had been some distance in their rear, as a lookout in
that direction, came on at full speed, followed by another whose duties
had detailed him more to the westward. Both brought the same errand,
for the first exclaimed, as he came within speaking range,--
"Ugh! Heap Texan," and the other, whose eyes may have been sharper,
added, "Big Knife! Many rifle?"
"Comanche! Great Bear!" roared Castro, in a deep-toned, wrathful
voice. "Red Wolf lose hair! Ugh! Chaparral!"
He knew that his son must in some way have been the immediate cause of
that whooping, but his first duty as a leader was to save his party,
letting his vengeance wait for a better opportunity. He led on,
therefore, toward the only possible refuge, muttering as he went.
"Ugh!" he said. "Heap boy. Run against Comanche! Young chief! Ugh!
Go to bushes. No good wait for Big Knife. Not enough Texan. Too many
Comanche."
He might well be anxious concerning his promising son, but Red Wolf's
hair was yet upon his head, for the wind tossed it well as his fleet
mustang carried him past the outermost clump of mesquit-bushes.
"Whoop!" he yelled. "Red Wolf beat Great Bear! All Lipans get away.
Ugh!"
He had not beaten his pursuer by more than two hundred yards, however,
and several other Comanches were now as near as was their chief.
Could there be such a thing as an escape from all of them? Would not
the entire swarm go in after him and surely find him, no matter what
path he might take? The situation looked awfully doubtful in spite of
the moderate advantage which he had thus far maintained.
Closer grew the trees. Nearer to each other were the thick "tow-heads"
of bushes. On went Red Wolf, veering to the left around each
successive cover, but seeming to push directly into the chaparral. It
was a complete cover now, and he was well hidden at the next sharp,
sudden turn that he made to the eastward.
Paths, paths, paths, fan-like, but that none of them were straight, and
fan-like was the spreading out of the wily Comanches. Or perhaps they
were more like a lot of mounted, lance-bearing spiders, that were going
in to catch a young Lipan fly in that web.
As for him, he had whooped his very loudest just before he reached the
chaparral, and a gust of wind had helped him like a brother. Again
Castro had raised a hand, but now he shouted fiercely,--
"Hear heap boy! Red Wolf! No lose hair yet. Ugh! Whoop!"
For all he knew, nevertheless, he may have been listening to the last
battle-cry of his brave son. He and his braves were at that moment
riding in among the bushes, while more than half a mile away, upon the
prairie, galloped Bowie and his riflemen.
"Reckon we'll git thar jest about in time to see 'em count the skelps,"
remarked one ranger.
"Reckon not," replied another. "Those Lipans are as safe as
jack-rabbits if once they kin fetch the chaparral."
Red Wolf had reached it, but he was by no means safe. Great Bear
himself had dashed in so recklessly that he and his first handful of
fast racers were galloping upon the wrong paths. They discovered their
error, or thought they did, in a minute or so, but a minute was of
importance just then. They lost it before a kind of instinct told them
to wheel eastward if they expected to find the Lipans.
That had been the direction taken by one of their best-mounted comrades
on entering the chaparral, and the soft thud of his horse's hoofs had
now reached the quick ears of Red Wolf.
"Ugh!" he exclaimed. "One!"
He had pulled in his panting pony, and he now unslung his bow and put
an arrow on the string.
"Red Wolf young chief!" he said. "Wait for Comanche! Tell Big Knife!"
It was not altogether imprudence or bad management to let his
hard-pushed mustang breathe for a few moments. It might be called
cunning to let his enemies go by him if they would. But stronger than
any cunning, or than any prudence concerning his horse, was his burning
ambition to do something that he could boast of afterwards. What is
called Indian boasting is only the white man's love of fame in another
form. Each red hero is his own newspaper, and has to do his own
reporting of his feats of arms.
The hoof-beats came nearer, swiftly, upon a path which crossed his own
at the bushes behind which he had halted.
Twang went the bow, the arrow sped, and a screeching death-whoop
followed. The Lipan boy did but prove himself altogether a son of
Castro when he sprang to the ground and secured his bloody war-trophy
at the risk of his life. The pony and the weapons of the fallen brave
were also taken. Then once more Red Wolf was on the sorrel dashing
onward, while behind him rose the angry yells of the Comanches, who had
heard the death-cry and knew that one of their number had "gone under."
"Ugh! Heap boy! Save hair!" was the hoarse-toned greeting given to
his son by Castro three minutes later.
"Comanche!" said Red Wolf, holding up his gory prize. "Great Bear
come. Not many braves right away. Too many pretty soon. Heap run.
Ugh!"
Castro understood the situation well enough without much explanation,
and his prospects did not seem to be very good. He and his braves were
too few to win a pitched battle and too many for concealment.
"Ugh!" he replied to Red Wolf. "Great chief no run. Die hard. Heap
fight."
The one thing in his favor was the first mistake made by Great Bear.
It had kept him from being in person among the next half-dozen of the
braves who had gone to the left, so very close upon the heels of Red
Wolf. Even their wrath for the fate of their foremost man did but send
them on the more recklessly to avenge him. They whooped savagely as
they galloped past his body at the crossing of the paths. They still
believed they had only one Lipan to deal with, but they were terribly
undeceived, for their blind rush into the presence of Castro and his
warriors was as if they had fallen into a skilfully set ambuscade.
They were taken by surprise, outnumbered, almost helpless, and down
they went, not one of them escaping.
Away behind them, the fast-arriving main body of the Comanches listened
to the death-shouts and to the Lipan whoops of triumph, and they obeyed
the astonished yell with which their leader summoned them to gather to
him at the spot where he had halted.
"Too many Lipan," he said, to a brave who rode in with a kind of
report. "Castro great chief. Heap snake. No let him catch Great Bear
in chaparral trap. Wait. Comanche fool. Lose hair for nothing. Red
Wolf heap young brave. Kill him dead."
That was indeed fame for the young Lipan warrior. Not only had he been
recognized by his pursuer, but the great war-chief of the Comanches
believed that the son of his old enemy was proving himself another
Castro, as courageous and as cunning as his father. A mere boy, not
yet sixteen, had become of such importance that he must be killed off,
if possible, to prevent the future harm that he would be likely to do.
Red Wolf's ambuscade had not been of his own planning, but he had
performed his accidental part of it remarkably well.
"Red Wolf, young chief! Son of Castro!" said his father, proudly.
"Big Knife good medicine. Saw boy. Old friend tell name. Ugh! Good!"
To his mind, therefore, Colonel Bowie had been a kind of war-prophet,
declaring the capacity of the boy he had named, giving him "good
medicine," or tremendous good luck, and now his correctness as a
prophet had been unexpectedly established. So said more than one of
the Lipans who had been at the fort and had witnessed the performance
with the wonderful medicine knife.
Now, during a number of minutes, all the chaparral was still, for even
the wild creatures were hiding and the human beings talked by motions
and not by spoken words. Not one of the latter, on either side, could
as yet shape for himself a trustworthy idea concerning the numbers or
the precise locality of his enemies. All had dismounted, however, and
the hard-ridden horses had a chance to recover their wind. No less
than seven of them, that had been very good Comanche ponies that
morning, had now changed their tribe and had become Lipans, whether
they would or not.