MY FIRST BRUSH WITH INDIANS
The latter part of August, 1875, Private L.P. Seiker was sent on
detached service to Fort Mason, about fifty miles due east of our camp.
While there a runner came in from Honey Creek with the report that a
band of fifteen Indians had raided the John Gamble ranch and stolen
some horses within twenty-five steps of the ranch house. The redskins
appeared on their raid late in the evening and the runner reached Mason
just at dark.
Lam Seiker had just eaten his supper and was sitting in the lobby of
the Frontier Hotel when the message came. He hurried to the livery
stable, saddled his horse, Old Pete, and started on an all-night ride
for the company. The nights in August are short, but Seiker rode
into our camp about 8 o'clock the following morning and reported the
presence of the Indians.
The company horses were out under herd for the day, but Captain Roberts
sent out hurry orders for them. Sergeant Plunk Murray was ordered
to detail fifteen men, issue them ten days' rations and one hundred
rounds of ammunition each. Second Sergeant Jim Hawkins, Privates Paul
Durham, Nick Donnelly, Tom Gillespie, Mike Lynch, Andy Wilson, Henry
Maltimore, Jim Trout, William Kimbrough, Silas B. Crump, Ed Seiker,
Jim Day, John Cupps and myself, under command of Captain Roberts,
were selected as the personnel of the scout. As can be imagined I was
delighted with my good fortune in getting on the party and looked
forward with intense satisfaction to my first brush with Indians.
The mules were soon packed and by the time the horses reached camp the
scout was ready. Sergeant Hawkins, as soon as the men had saddled their
horses, walked over to the captain, saluted and told him the scout was
ready. Before leaving camp Captain Roberts called to Sergeant Murray
and told him that he believed the Indians had about as many horses as
they could well get away with, and that they would probably cross the
San Saba River near the mouth of Scalp Creek and follow the high divide
between the two streams on their westward march back into the plains.
If the redskins did not travel that way the captain thought they would
go out up the Big Saline, follow the divide between the North Llano
and San Saba Rivers westward and escape, but he was confident the band
would travel up the divide north of Menardville. He determined to scout
that way himself, and instructed Murray to send two rangers south over
to the head waters of Bear Creek to keep a sharp lookout for the trail.
These two scouts were to repeat their operations the next day, and if
they discovered the Indian trail Murray was to make up a second scout
and follow the redskins vigorously.
His plan outlined, Captain Roberts gave the order to mount, and we
rode toward Menardville, making inquiry about the Indians. All was
quiet at this little frontier village, so we crossed the San Saba River
just below the town, and after passing the ruins of the Spanish Fort,
Captain Roberts halted his men and prepared to send out trailers. Two
of the best trailers in the command were ordered to proceed about four
hundred yards ahead of the party and keep a close watch for pony tracks
while they traveled due north at a good saddle horse gait. The main
body of men, under the captain himself, would follow directly behind
the outposts.
Our party had traveled about eight or nine miles when Captain Roberts'
keen eyes discovered a lone pony standing with his head down straight
ahead of us. He sighted the animal before the trailers did, and
remarked to us that there the trail was. The outposts halted when they
saw the pony and waited for us to come up. Sure enough, here was the
Indian trail probably twenty yards wide. Captain Roberts dismounted
and walked over the sign, scrutinizing every pony track, bunch of
grass and fallen leaf. He then examined the old pony. The animal was
cut with a lance, with his back sore and his feet all worn out. It was
then between 12 and 1 o'clock, and the captain thought the Indians had
passed that way about sunrise, for the blood and sweat on the horse was
now dry. The trail showed the raiders were driving rather fast and were
probably thirty-five or forty miles ahead of us. The captain decided it
would be a long chase and that we would just have to walk them down if
we caught them at all.
There was no water on this divide so we took the trail without stopping
for dinner. Captain Roberts had a fine saddle horse, Old Rock, and we
followed the trail at a steady gait of five or six miles an hour. At
sundown we reached the old government road that runs from Fort McKavett
to Fort Concho. We were then about twelve or fifteen miles south of
Kickapoo Springs, so we turned up the road, reaching the springs late
at night. The horses had not had a drop of water since leaving the San
Saba that morning, and, facing a hot August sun all day, the men were
pretty well tired out when they reached camp, had supper and gotten to
bed. We estimated we had ridden about sixty miles since leaving camp.
During the day Captain Roberts' horse cast a shoe, so Tom Gillespie
shod him by firelight, as it was the captain's intention to resume the
trail at daylight.
The following morning Captain Roberts took a southwest course from
Kickapoo Springs and paralleled the Indian trail we had left the
evening before. It was late in the day before we picked the trail up
again, and many of the boys were afraid we had lost it altogether, but
the captain laughed at their fears and never doubted that we should
find it again. The Indians, as their trail showed, were now traveling
over a tolerably rough country, which made our progress slow. About
noon we found some rain water, and, as it was fearfully hot, we camped
for dinner and to give the horses a short rest.
When the boys went out to catch their mounts we found that we had
camped right in a bed of rattlesnakes. Two of our horses had been
bitten. Jim Day's Checo had a head on him as big as a barrel, while
the captain's horse, Old Rock, had been bitten on his front leg just
above the ankle, and it had swollen up to his body. Neither of the
animals was able to walk. Jim Day could not be left alone in that
Indian country, so Captain Roberts detailed Private Cupps to stay with
Day until the horses died or were able to travel,--in either case they
were then to return to camp. The animals soon recovered and Day and
Cupps beat us back to camp.
The pack loads were now doubled on one mule so Captain Roberts could
ride the other. Reduced to thirteen men, we followed the Indians until
night. It was a hard day on both men and beasts, so we camped where
we found a little water in a draw that drained into the South Concho
River. Considering the way we had come the captain thought we had
covered sixty miles during the day's ride. We had two rather old men
on the scout, Mike Lynch and Andy Wilson, and they were nearly all in.
I awoke Andy at 2 a.m. to go on guard. The poor fellow was so stiff he
could hardly stand, and I tried to get him to go back to bed, telling
him I would stand his guard, but he was game, and in a few minutes
hobbled out to the horses and relieved me.
Early in the morning we were up and traveling. The mule Captain Roberts
was riding did not step out as fast as Old Rock had done, and the boys
had an easier time keeping up. We camped at noon on just enough rain
water to do us and took up the trail again after dinner. The trailers
stopped suddenly, and as we rode up Captain Roberts asked what was the
matter. They said it seemed as though the Indians at this point had
rounded up the horses and held them for some cause or other.
The captain dismounted and swept the country with his field glasses.
He circled around where the horses had been standing and found where
a lone Indian had walked straight away from the animals. He followed
the tracks to an old live oak tree that had been blown down. Then the
reason for the stop became apparent: the Indians had sighted a herd
of mustangs grazing just beyond this tree and the redskin had slipped
up on them and killed a big brown mare. Captain Roberts picked up the
cartridge shell the old brave had used and found it to be from a .50
caliber buffalo gun. We also found the mustang, from which the Indians
had cut both sides of ribs and one hind quarter.
Captain Roberts was much elated.
"Boys," he said with a smile, "we now have ninety-five chances out of
a hundred to catch those Indians. They will not carry this raw meat
long before stopping to cook some. We have followed them now over one
hundred and fifty miles, and they have never stopped to build a fire.
They are tired and hungry and probably know where there is water not
far away."
He spoke with such confidence that I marveled at his knowledge of the
Indian habits.
We were now on the extreme western draw of the South Concho River, far
above the point at which the water breaks out into a running stream.
Finally the trail led out on that level and vast tract of country
between the head of South Concho and the Pecos on the west. These
Indians turned a little north from the general direction they had been
traveling, and all of a sudden we came to some rock water holes.
Here the redskins had built three fires, cooked both sides of the
mustang ribs and had picked them clean. From this high table land they
could look back over their trail for fifteen miles. The captain thought
they had been there early in the morning, as the fires were out and
the ashes cold. We did not lose any time at this camp, but hurried on,
following the trail until late in the evening, when the trailers again
halted. When we came up we found that the trail that had been going
west for nearly two hundred miles had suddenly turned straight north.
Captain Roberts seemed to be puzzled for a time, and said he did not
understand this move. About one mile north there was a small motte of
mesquite timber. This he examined through his glasses, seeming to me
to examine each tree separately. The trail led straight into these
trees, and we followed it. In the mesquite timber we found the Indians
had hacked some bushes partly down, bent them over, cut up the horse
meat they had been carrying with them into tiny strips, strung it on
the bushes and, building a fire beneath them, had barbecued their
flesh. The redskins had made the prettiest scafelo for meat cooking I
ever saw. We found plenty of fire here, and the captain was sure we
would have an Indian fight on the morrow.
From the trees the trail swung west again. The redskins were traveling
slowly now, as they evidently thought they were out of danger. Just
before sundown the scout halted, and we were ordered not to let any
smoke go up lest the band we were trailing should spot it and take
alarm. As soon as we had cooked our supper Captain Roberts had the
fires carefully extinguished. It had been a good season on the table
lands and there were many ponds filled with water, some of them one
hundred yards wide. We camped right on the edge of one of these big
holes and where the Indians had waded into it the water was still
muddy. The boys were cautioned not to strike a match that night as we
were certain the Indians were not far ahead of us. We covered between
forty and fifty miles that day.
Camp was called at daybreak. We dared not build a fire, so we could
have no breakfast. We saddled our horses and again took the trail.
Old Jennie, the pack mule, was packed for the last time on earth, for
she was killed in the fight that shortly followed. As soon as it was
light enough to see a pony track two of the boys traced it on foot
and led their horses, the remainder of our party coming along slowly
on horseback. By sunrise we were all riding and following the trail
rapidly, eager to sight the marauding thieves. We had traveled some
five or six miles when Paul Durham called Captain Roberts' attention
to a dark object ahead that looked as if it were moving. The captain
brought his field glasses to bear on the object specified and exclaimed
it was the Indians.
He ordered the boys to dismount at once, tighten their cinches, leave
their coats and slickers and make ready to fight. As we carried out
this order a distressing stillness came over the men. Captain Roberts
and Sergeant Hawkins were the only ones of our party that had ever
been in an Indian fight, and I suppose the hearts of all of us green,
unseasoned warriors beat a little more rapidly than usual at the
prospect of soon smelling powder. Captain Roberts called out to us in
positive tones not to leave him until he told us to go, and not to draw
a gun or pistol until ordered, declaring that he wanted no mistake on
the eve of battle. He ordered the pack mule caught and led until we
went into the fight, when she was to be turned loose.
The Indians were out on an open prairie dotted here and there with
small skirts of mesquite timber. The captain thought our only chance
was to ride double file straight at them in the hope they would not
look back and discover us. We moved forward briskly, and as luck would
have it, we got within four or five hundred yards of the redskins
before they sighted us.
At once there was a terrible commotion. The Indians rounded up their
stock and caught fresh mounts almost in the twinkling of an eye. Then,
led by their old chief, they took positions on a little elevated ground
some two hundred yards beyond the loose horses. The redskins stationed
themselves about fifteen or twenty feet apart, their battle line when
formed being about one hundred yards wide. As each warrior took his
station he dismounted, stood behind his horse and prepared to fire when
given the signal.
The captain with a smile turned to us and said, "Boys, they are going
to fight us. See how beautifully the old chief forms his line of
battle."
From a little boy I had longed to be a ranger and fight the Indians. At
last, at last, I was up against the real thing and with not so much as
an umbrella behind which to hide. I was nervous. I was awfully nervous.
We were now within one hundred steps of the redskins. Then came the
order to dismount, shoot low and kill as many horses as possible. The
captain said as we came up that every time we got an Indian on foot in
that country we were sure to kill him. With the first shot everybody,
Indian and ranger, began firing and yelling.
In a minute we had killed two horses and one Indian was seen to be
badly wounded. In another minute the redskins had mounted their horses
and were fleeing in every direction. Captain Roberts now ordered us to
mount and follow them. The roar of the guns greatly excited my pony
and he turned round and round. I lost a little time in mounting, but
when I did get settled in the saddle I saw an Indian running on foot.
He carried a Winchester in his hand and waved to another Indian who
was riding. The latter turned and took the one on foot up behind him.
As they started away for a race I thought to myself that no grass
pony on earth could carry two men and get away from me and Old Coley.
The Indians had a good animal, but I gradually closed on them. The
redskin riding behind would point his gun back and fire at me, holding
it in one hand. I retaliated by firing at him every time I could get
a cartridge in my old Sharps carbine. I looked back and saw Ed Seiker
coming to my aid as fast as old Dixie would run. He waved encouragement
to me.
Finally the old brave ceased shooting, and as I drew a little closer
he held out his gun at arm's length and let it drop, probably thinking
I would stop to get it. I just gave it a passing glance as I galloped
by. He then held out what looked to be a fine rawhide rope and dropped
that, but I never took the bait. I just kept closing in on him. He now
strung his bow and began using his arrows pretty freely. Finally he
saw I was going to catch him, and turned quickly into a little grove
of mesquite timber. I was considered a fairly good brush rider, and
as we went in among the trees I drew right up within twenty steps of
the brave, jumped from my mount and made a sort of random shot at the
horse, Indian and all. The big .50 caliber bullet struck the Indian
pony just where its head couples on its neck, passed through the head
and came out over the left eye. It killed the horse at once and it
fell forward twenty feet.
The old warrior, hit the ground running, but I jumped my horse and ran
after him. As I passed the dead horse I saw the front rider struggling
to get from under it. To my surprise I saw he was a white boy between
fifteen and sixteen years old with long bright red hair.
By this time Ed Seiker had arrived and was dismounting. The fugitive
warrior now peeped from behind a tree and I got a fine shot at his face
but overshot him six inches, cutting off a limb just over his head. He
broke to run again, and as he came into view Ed placed a bullet between
his shoulders. He was dead in a minute. As Ed and I walked up to the
dead Indian we found he had also been shot in one ankle and his bow had
been partly shot in two. In his quiver he had left only three arrows.
Seiker and I hurried back to the dead horse to help the white boy, but
he had extricated himself and disappeared. We then returned to the
dead warrior and Seiker scalped him. We took the Indian's bow shield
and a fine pair of moccasins. I also found a fine lance near where the
horse fell, and I presume it was carried by the white boy. We found the
redskin had no Winchester cartridges, and this was why he dropped the
gun--he could not carry it and use his bow. We went back over the trail
but were unable to find the gun the brave had dropped as a bait.
By noon that day the boys had all returned to where the fight had
begun and the Indian horses had been left. Jim Hawkins and Paul Durham
captured a Mexican boy about fifteen years old. He looked just like
an Indian, had long plaited hair down his back, was bare headed, wore
moccasins and a breech-clout. Had he been in front of me I would surely
have killed him for a redskin. Captain Roberts spoke Spanish fluently,
and from this boy he learned that the Indians were Lipans that lived in
Old Mexico. He was taken back to our camp and finally his uncle came
and took him home. He had been captured while herding oxen near old
Fort Clark, Texas, and an elder brother, who was with him at the time,
had been killed.
The boys were then sent back by Captain Roberts to find the white lad
that had been with the Indian Seiker had killed. Though we searched
carefully we could find no trace of the mysterious youngster. Some
years later I learned that this boy's name was Fischer and that his
parents went into Old Mexico and ransomed him. He was from Llano
County, and after his return he wrote, or had written, a small
pamphlet that contained an account of his life with the Indians. He
told of being with old Chief Magoosh in this fight. He declared he hid
in the grass within sight of the rangers while they were hunting him,
but was afraid to show himself for fear of being killed.
When the rangers had all gathered after the fight our pack mule,
Jennie, was missing. We supposed in the run that she had followed the
Indians off. Six months later Ed Seiker was detailed to pilot a body of
United States soldiers over that same country to pick out a road to the
Pecos River. He visited our old battlefield and found Jennie's carcass.
She had a bullet hole in the center of her forehead. The Indians in
shooting back at their attackers probably hit her with a chance shot.
The pack saddle was still strapped to her body, but wolves had eaten
all the supplies. Five hundred rounds of ammunition were still with
her, showing that no one had seen her since the day of her death.
Lacking Jennie's supplies, we did not have a blooming thing to eat but
the barbecued horse meat we had captured from the Indians. This had no
salt on it, and I just could not swallow it. In the fight we killed
three horses and one Indian and captured the Mexican lad. At least two
redskins were badly wounded, and as victors we captured fifty-eight
head of horses and mules, several Indian saddles and bridles and many
native trinkets. Not a man or a horse of our party was hurt, the pack
mule being our only fatality. All voted Captain Roberts the best man in
the world.
We turned our faces homeward, hungry and tired but highly elated over
our success. The second day after the fight we reached Wash Delong's
ranch on the head waters of the South Concho River. Mr. Delong, a fine
frontiersman, killed a beef for us and furnished us with flour and
coffee without cost. Three days later we were back at our camp at Los
Moris. The stolen stock was returned to their owners, and thus ended my
first campaign against the Indians.