THE SALT LAKE WAR AND A LONG TREK
At the foot of the Guadalupe Mountains, one hundred miles east of El
Paso, Texas, are situated several large salt deposits known as the
Salt Lakes. These deposits were on public state land. For a hundred
years or more the residents along the Rio Grande in El Paso County and
in northern Mexico had hauled salt from the lakes free of charge, for
there was no one to pay, as the deposits were not claimed by any owner.
All one had to do was to back his wagon to the edge of the lake and
shovel it full of salt and drive off.
From San Elizario to the Salt Lakes was just ninety miles, and there
was not a drop of water on the route. The road that had been traveled
so long by big wagon trains was almost as straight as an arrow and in
extra fine condition. The salt haulers would carry water in barrels to
what was known as the Half-way Station, about forty-five miles from
San Elizario. Here they would rest and water their horses and leave
half their water for the return trip. The teamsters would then push on
to the lakes, load their wagons, rest the teams a day or two, and on
their return trip stop at the Half-way Station, water their animals,
throw the empty barrels on top of the salt and, without again halting,
continue to San Elizario on the Rio Grande.
[Illustration: _Geo. W. Baylor_]
Charley Howard, after his election as judge of the El Paso District,
made his home at the old town of Franklin, now known as El Paso. He saw
the possibilities of these salt lakes as a money-making proposition
and, knowing they were on public land, wrote his father-in-law, George
Zimpleman, at Austin, to buy some land certificates and send them to
him so he could locate the land covering the salt deposits. As soon as
the land was located Judge Howard forbade anyone to haul salt from the
lakes without first securing his permission. The Mexicans along both
sides of the Rio Grande adjacent to El Paso became highly indignant
at this order. A sub-contractor on the overland mail route between
El Paso and Fort Davis named Luis Cardis, supported the Mexicans and
told them Howard had no right to stop them from hauling salt. Cardis
was an Italian by birth, had come to El Paso County in 1860, married a
Mexican wife, identified himself with the county, and become prominent
as a political leader. He was a Republican, while Judge Howard was
a Democrat. Cardis and Howard soon became bitter enemies, and in
September, 1878, this conflict between them became so acute that
Howard killed his opponent with a double-barreled shotgun in S. Shultz
and Brothers' store in Franklin. This at once precipitated the contest
known as the Salt Lake War, for grave threats were made against Howard
by the Mexicans.
After killing Cardis, Judge Howard fled to New Mexico, and from
his seclusion in that state he called on the governor of Texas to
send rangers to El Paso to protect him and the courts over which he
presided. At that time not a company of the Frontier Battalion was
within five hundred miles of that town. El Paso was seven hundred
and fifty miles by stage from San Antonio or Austin and the journey
required about seven days and nights' travel over a dangerous route--an
unusually hard trip on any passenger attempting it.
The governor of Texas, therefore, sent Major John B. Jones from Austin
to Topeka, Kansas, by rail and thence as far west into New Mexico as
the Santa Fe Railroad ran at that time, and thence by stage down to
El Paso. Major Jones dropped into the old town of Franklin (now El
Paso) unheralded and unknown. He sat about the hotel and gained the
information he needed, then made himself known to the authorities and
proceeded at once to organize and equip a company of twenty rangers.
John B. Tays, brother to the Episcopal minister of that district, was
made lieutenant of the new command, which was known as a detachment of
Company "C" and stationed in the old town of San Elizario, twenty-five
miles southeast of El Paso.
Soon after this detachment of rangers had been authorized, Judge Howard
appeared at San Elizario and sought protection with it. No sooner had
it become known that Judge Howard was back in Texas than the ranger
company was surrounded by a cordon of armed Mexicans, two or three
hundred in number, who demanded the body of the jurist. Lieutenant Tays
refused to surrender Howard, and the fighting began, and was kept up
two or three days at intervals. Sergeant Maltimore, in passing through
the court yard of the buildings in which the rangers were quartered was
shot down and killed by Mexican snipers located on top of some adobe
buildings within range of the quarters. Then an American citizen, a Mr.
Ellis, was killed near Company "C's" camp.
After several days of desultory fighting, the leaders of the mob, under
flag of truce, sought an interview with Lieutenant Tays. The lieutenant
finally agreed to meet two of the leaders, and while the parley was in
progress armed Mexicans one at a time approached the peace party until
forty or fifty had quietly surrounded Lieutenant Tays and put him at
their mercy. The mob then boldly demanded the surrender of the ranger
company, Judge Howard, and two other Americans, Adkinson and McBride,
friends of the judge, that had sought protection with them.
There is no doubt that the Mexicans intimidated Lieutenant Tays after
he was in their hands and probably threatened him with death unless
their demands were granted. The lieutenant returned to the ranger camp
with the mob and said, "Boys, it is all settled. You are to give up
your arms and horses and you will be allowed to go free."
The rangers were furious at this surrender, but were powerless to help
themselves, for the mob had swarmed in upon them from all sides. Billie
Marsh, one of the youngest men in the company, was so indignant that
he cried out to his commander, "The only difference between you and a
skunk is that the skunk has a white streak down his back!"
Judge Howard, seeing the handwriting on the wall, began shaking hands
and bidding his ranger friends goodbye. As soon as the Mexicans had
gotten possession of the rangers' arms they threw ropes over the
heads of Howard, McBride and Adkinson. Then, mounting fast running
ponies, they dragged the unfortunate men to death in the streets of
San Elizario and cast their mutilated bodies into pososas or shallow
wells. The Mexicans then disappeared, most of them crossing the Rio
Grande into Mexico.
Lieutenant Tays at once resigned as commander of the rangers, and
Private Charles Ludwick was made first sergeant and placed in charge
of the company until the governor of Texas could send a commissioned
officer to take command of it. Had Lieutenant Tays held out twenty-four
hours longer, a thing which he could easily have done, he would have
escaped the disgrace and mortification of surrendering himself and his
company to a mob of Mexicans, for within that time John Ford with a
band of New Mexico cowboys swept into the Rio Grande valley to relieve
the besieged rangers. On learning of the fates of Howard, McBride,
Adkinson, Ellis, and Sergeant Maltimore, the rescue party raided up
and down the valley from San Elizario to El Paso and killed several
armed Mexicans accused of being part of the mob that had murdered the
Americans. The present battalion of Texas Rangers was organized May 1,
1874, and in all their forty-six years of service this surrender of
Lieutenant Tays was the only black mark ever chalked up against it.
Afterward, when I arrived in El Paso with Lieutenant Baylor I had
many talks with Privates George Lloyd, Dr. Shivers, Bill Rutherford,
and Santiago Cooper,--all members of Tays' company--and most of them
believed Lieutenant Tays had a streak of yellow in him, while a few
thought he made a mistake in agreeing to an interview with the mob,
thereby allowing himself to be caught napping and forced to surrender.
Conditions in El Paso County were now so bad that Lieutenant Baylor was
ordered into the country to take command of the ranger company. Before
leaving to assume his command, Lieutenant Baylor was called to Austin
from his home in San Antonio and had a lengthy interview with Governor
Roberts. Baylor was instructed by his excellency to use all diplomacy
possible to reconcile the two factions and settle the Salt Lake War
peaceably. The governor held that both sides to the controversy were
more or less to blame, and what had been done could not be undone, and
the restoration of order was the prime requisite rather than a punitive
expedition against the mob members.
On July 28, 1879, Private Henry Maltimore and myself reached San
Antonio from Austin and presented our credentials to Lieutenant Baylor,
who thereupon advised us that he had selected August 2nd as the day to
begin his march from San Antonio to El Paso County. In his camp on the
San Antonio River in the southern part of the city the lieutenant had
mustered myself as sergeant, and Privates Henry Maltimore, Dick Head,
Gus Small, Gus Krimkau, and George Harold.
Early on the morning of August 2, 1879, our tiny detachment left San
Antonio on our long journey. One wagon carried a heavy, old-fashioned
square piano, and on top of this was loaded the lieutenant's household
goods. At the rear of the wagon was a coop of game chickens, four
hens and a cock, for Lieutenant Baylor was fond of game chickens as a
table delicacy, though he never fought them. His family consisted of
Mrs. Baylor, two daughters--Helen, aged fourteen, and Mary, a child
of four or five years--and Miss Kate Sydnor, sister of Mrs. Baylor.
The children and ladies traveled in a large hack drawn by a pair of
mules. Rations for men and horses were hauled in a two-mule wagon,
while the rangers rode on horseback in advance of the hack and wagons.
Two men traveling to New Mexico in a two-wheeled cart asked permission
to travel with us for protection. Naturally we made slow progress
with this unique combination. As well as I can remember, 1879 was a
rather dry year, for not a drop of rain fell upon us during this seven
hundred-mile journey. When we passed Fort Clark, in Kinney County,
and reached Devil's River we were on the real frontier and liable to
attack by Indians at any time. It was necessary, therefore, to keep a
strong guard posted at all times.
Around our camp fires at night Lieutenant Baylor entertained us with
accounts of early days on the frontier. He was born August 24, 1832,
at old Fort Gibson in the Cherokee nation, now the State of Oklahoma.
His father, John Walker Baylor, was a surgeon in the United States
Army. Lieutenant Baylor was a soldier by training and by inheritance.
In 1879 he was in his forty-seventh year and stood six feet two inches
tall, a perfect specimen of a hardy frontiersman. He was highly
educated, wrote much for papers and magazines, was a fluent speaker
and a very interesting talker and story-teller. He was less reserved
than any captain under whom I ever served. He had taken part in many
Indian fights on the frontier of Texas, and his descriptions of some
of his experiences were thrilling. Lieutenant Baylor was a high-toned
Christian gentleman and had been a member of the Episcopal Church
from childhood. In all the months I served with him I never heard him
utter an oath or tell a smutty yarn. He neither drank whisky nor used
tobacco. Had he written a history of his operations on the frontier and
a biography of himself it would have been one of the strangest and
most interesting books ever written.
I have not the power of language to describe Lieutenant Baylor's
bravery, because he was as brave as it is possible for man to be. He
thought everyone else should be the same. He did not see how a white
man could be a coward, yet in a fierce battle fought with Apache
Indians on October 5, 1879, I saw some of his rangers refuse to budge
when called upon to charge up a mountainside and assault the redskins
concealed above us in some rocks. George Harold, one of the attacking
party, said, "Lieutenant, if we charge up that hill over open ground
every one of us will be killed."
"Yes, I suppose you are right," declared Baylor, a contemptuous smile
on his face. Then, pointing to some Mexicans hidden behind some
boulders below us, he added, "You had better go back to them. That is
where you belong."
Lieutenant Baylor was as tender hearted as a little child and would
listen to any tale of woe. He frequently took men into the service,
stood good for their equipment and often had to pay the bill out of his
own pocket. All men looked alike to him and he would enlist anyone when
there was a vacancy in the company. The result was that some of the
worst San Simone Valley rustlers got into the command and gave us no
end of trouble, nearly causing one or two killings in our camp.
Baylor cared nothing for discipline in the company. He allowed his men
to march carelessly. A scout of ten or fifteen men would sometimes
be strung out a mile or more on the march. I suppose to one who had
commanded a regiment during the Civil War a detachment of Texas
Rangers looked small and insignificant, so he let his men have pretty
much their own way. To a man like myself, who had been schooled under
such captains as Major Jones, Captain Coldwell, Captain Roberts,
and Lieutenant Reynolds, commanders who were always careful of the
disposition and conduct of their men, this method of Baylor's seemed
suicidal. It just seemed inevitable that we would some time be taken by
surprise and shot to pieces.
Another peculiarity of this wonderful man was his indifference to
time. He would strike an Indian trail, take his time and follow it to
the jumping off place. He would say, "There is no use to hurry, boys.
We will catch them after a while." For instance, the stage driver and
passenger killed in Quitman Canyon, January, 1880, had been dead two
weeks before the lieutenant returned from a scout out in the Guadalupe
Mountains. He at once directed me to make a detail of all except three
men in camp, issue ten days' rations, and have the men ready to move
early next morning. An orderly or first sergeant is hardly ever called
upon to scout unless he so desires, but the lieutenant said, "You
had better come along, Sergeant. You may get another chance to kill
an Indian." It seemed unreasonable to think he could start two weeks
behind a bunch of Indians, follow up and annihilate the whole band, but
he did. Give Comanches or Kiowas two weeks' start and they would have
been in Canada, but the Apaches were slow and a different proposition
with which to deal.
Baylor was one of the very best shots with firearms I ever saw. He
killed more game than almost the entire company put together. When we
first went out to El Paso he used a Winchester rifle, but after the
first Indian fight he concluded it was too light and discarded it for
a Springfield sporting rifle 45-70. He always used what he called rest
sticks; that is, two sticks about three feet long the size of one's
little finger. These were tied together about four or five inches from
one end with a buckskin thong. In shooting he would squat down, extend
the sticks arm's length out in front of him with the longer ends spread
out tripod-fashion on the ground. With his gun resting in the fork
he had a perfect rest and could make close shots at long range. The
lieutenant always carried these sticks in his hand and used them on his
horse as a quirt. In those days I used to pride myself on my shooting
with a Winchester, but I soon found that Lieutenant Baylor had me
skinned a mile when it came to killing game at long distance. I never
could use rest sticks, for I always forgot them and shot offhand.
I cannot close this description of Lieutenant Baylor without mentioning
his most excellent wife, who made the long, tedious journey from San
Antonio to El Paso County with us. She was Sallie Garland Sydnor, born
February 11, 1842. Her father was a wholesale merchant at Galveston,
and at one time mayor of that city. Mrs. Baylor was highly educated and
a very refined woman and a skillful performer on the piano. Her bright,
sunny disposition and kind heart won her friends among the rangers
at once. How sad it is to reflect that of the twelve persons in that
little party that marched out of San Antonio on August 2, 1879, only
three are living: Gus Small, Miss Mary Baylor, and myself.
When we had passed Pecan Springs on Devil's River there was not another
cattle, sheep or goat ranch until we reached Fort Stockton, two
hundred miles to the west. It was just one vast uninhabited country.
Today it is all fenced and thousands of as fine cattle, sheep and goats
as can be found in any country roam those hills. The Old Spanish Trail
traverses most of this section, and in traveling over it today one will
meet hundreds of people in high powered automobiles where forty years
ago it was dangerous for a small party of well armed men to journey.
While ascending Devil's River I learned that Lieutenant Baylor was not
only a good hunter, but a first class fisherman as well, for he kept
the entire camp well supplied with fine bass and perch, some of the
latter being as large as saucers.
Forty miles west of Beaver Lake we reached Howard's Well, situated in
Howard's Draw, a tributary of the Pecos River. Here we saw the burned
ruins of a wagon train that had been attacked by Indians a few months
before. All the mules had been captured, the teamsters killed and the
train of sixteen big wagons burned. Had the same Indians encountered
our little party of ten men, two women and two children we would all
have been massacred.
Finally we reached old Fort Lancaster, an abandoned government post,
situated on the east bank of Live Oak Creek, just above the point
where this beautiful stream empties into the Pecos. We camped here
and rested under the shade of those big old live oak trees for several
days. From this camp we turned north up the Pecos, one of the most
curious rivers in Texas. At that time and before its waters were much
used for irrigation in New Mexico, the Pecos ran bank full of muddy
water almost the year round. Not more than thirty or forty feet wide,
it was the most crooked stream in the world, and though only from
four to ten feet deep, was so swift and treacherous that it was most
difficult to ford. However, it had one real virtue; it was the best
stream in Texas for both blue and yellow catfish that ranged in weight
from five to forty pounds. We were some days traveling up this river to
the pontoon crossing and we feasted on fish.
At Pontoon Crossing on the Pecos we intercepted the overland mail route
leading from San Antonio to El Paso by way of Fredericksburg, Fort
Mason, Menard, Fort McKavett, Fort Concho, Fort Stockton, and Fort
Davis, thence west by Eagle Springs through Quitman Canyon, where more
tragedies and foul murders have been committed by Indians than at any
other point on the route. Ben Fricklin was the mail contractor. The
stage stands were built of adobe and on the same unchanging plan. On
each side of the entrance was a large room. The gateway opened into a
passageway, which was roofed, and extended from one room to the other.
In the rear of the rooms was the corral, the walls of which were six to
eight feet high and two feet thick, also of sun dried brick. One room
was used for cooking and eating and the other for sleeping quarters and
storage. The stage company furnished the stage tender with supplies and
he cooked for the passengers when there were such, charging them fifty
cents per meal, which he was allowed to retain for his compensation.
When the stage rolled into the station the tender swung open the gates
and the teams, small Spanish mules, dashed into the corral. The animals
were gentle enough when once in the enclosure, but mean and as wild as
deer when on the road. The stage company would buy these little mules
in lots of fifty to a hundred in Mexico and distribute them along the
route. The tiny animals were right off the range and real unbroken
bronchos. The mules were tied up or tied down as the case might be
and harnessed by force. When they had been hitched to the stage coach
or buckboard the gates to the corral were opened and the team left
on the run. The intelligent mules soon learned all they had to do
was to run from one station to the next, and could not be stopped
between posts no matter what happened. Whenever they saw a wagon or a
man on horseback approaching along the road they would shy around the
stranger, and the harder the driver held them the faster they ran.
On our way out our teams were pretty well fagged out, and often
Lieutenant Baylor would camp within a few yards of the road. The
Spanish stage mules would see our camp and go around us on the run
while their drivers would curse and call us all the vile names they
could lay their tongues to for camping in the road.
When we camped at a station it was amusing to me to watch the stage
attendants harness those wary little animals. The stage or buckboard
was always turned round in the corral and headed toward the next
station and the passengers seated themselves before the mules were
hitched. When all was ready and the team harnessed the driver would
give the word, the station keeper threw open the gates and the stage
was off on a dead run.
There should be a monument erected to the memory of those old stage
drivers somewhere along this overland route, for they were certainly
the bravest of the brave. It took a man with lots of nerve and strength
to be a stage driver in the Indian days, and many, many of them were
killed. The very last year, 1880, that the stage line was kept up
several drivers were killed between Fort Davis and El Paso. Several
of these men quit the stage company and joined Lieutenant Baylor's
company, and every one of such ex-drivers made excellent rangers.
From Pontoon Crossing on the Pecos River we turned due west and
traveled the stage route the remainder of the way to El Paso County.
At Fort Stockton we secured supplies for ourselves and feed for our
horses, the first place at which rations could be secured since leaving
Fort Clark. Fort Stockton was a large military post and was quite
lively, especially at night, when the saloons and gambling halls were
crowded with soldiers and citizen contractors. At Leon Holes, ten miles
west of Fort Stockton, we were delayed a week because of Mrs. Baylor
becoming suddenly ill. Passing through Wild Rose Pass and up Limpia
Canyon we suffered very much from the cold, though it was only the last
of August. Coming from a lower to a higher altitude we felt the change
at night keenly. That was the first cold weather I had experienced in
the summer.
Finally, on the 12th day of September, 1879, we landed safe and sound
in the old town of Ysleta, El Paso County, after forty-two days
of travel from San Antonio. Here we met nine men, the remnant of
Lieutenant Tays' Company "C" rangers. The first few days after our
arrival were spent in securing quarters for Lieutenant Baylor's family
and in reorganizing the company. Sergeant Ludwick was discharged at
his own request, and I was made first sergeant, Tom Swilling second
sergeant, John Seaborn first corporal, and George Lloyd second
corporal. The company was now recruited up to its limit of twenty men.
Before winter Lieutenant Baylor bought a fine home and fifteen or
twenty acres of land from a Mr. Blanchard. The rangers were quartered
comfortably in some adobe buildings with fine corrals nearby and within
easy distance of the lieutenant's residence. We were now ready for
adventure on the border.
When we arrived at Ysleta the Salt Lake War had quieted down and order
had been restored. Although nearly a hundred Mexicans were indicted
by the El Paso grand jury, no one was ever punished for the murder
of Judge Howard and his companions. In going over the papers of
Sergeant Ludwick I found warrants for the arrest of fifty or more of
the mob members. Though most of the murderers had fled to Old Mexico
immediately after the killing of the Americans, most of them had
returned to the United States and their homes along the Rio Grande.
I reported these warrants to Lieutenant Baylor and informed him that,
with the assistance of a strong body of rangers I could probably
capture most of the offenders in a swift raid down the valley. The
lieutenant declared that he had received instructions from Governor
Roberts to exercise extreme care not to precipitate more trouble over
Howard's death, and, above all things, not incite a race war between
the Mexican offenders and the white people of the country. He decided,
therefore, that we had better not make any move at all in the now dead
Salt Lake War. And of course I never again mentioned the matter to him.
Though the Salt Lake War was over, new and adventurous action was in
store for us, and within less than a month after our arrival in Ysleta
we had our first brush with the Apaches, a tribe of Indians I had never
before met in battle.