Frontier Times Magazine

"The Remarkable Life Story of Quanah Parker

2023-09-03

"The Remarkable Life Story of Quanah Parker"

Quanah Parker, the celebrated Comanche chief, passed away suddenly at his home on the Comanche reservation, located four miles west of Cache, Oklahoma, on February 23, 1911. He had a truly extraordinary life. Parker was born in 1844, the son of Peta Nocona, a renowned and fierce Comanche chief, and Cynthia Ann Parker, a white woman from a pious family near Groesbeck, Limestone County, Texas. Cynthia Ann was captured by Comanches and Kiowas led by Peta Nocona in 1836, eight years before Quanah's birth.

Before 1847, when the Comanche tribes were restricted to government-prescribed reservations, Quanah's life was marked by scenes of violence and bloodshed. He witnessed and participated in numerous deadly encounters between his father's Comanche people and the white settlers to whom his mother belonged.

The story of Quanah Parker's life truly begins in 1833 when his maternal grandfather, John W. Parker, and her father, Silas M. Parker, along with several relatives, emigrated from Cole County, Illinois, to Texas. They settled in Limestone County, near the present site of Groesbeck. This pioneer community, known as Parker's Fort, was situated on the west side of the Navasota River and remained peaceful as they cleared land, cultivated crops, and lived off the plentiful game. However, the outbreak of the Texas Revolution in 1836 forced them to abandon their homes temporarily and seek refuge on the Trinity River due to fears of Mexican forces and their Indian allies.

After General Sam Houston's victory at San Jacinto, the settlers returned to Fort Parker, unaware that a tragic fate awaited them. On May 19, 1836, the fort was attacked by a band of Indians, resulting in the deaths of several settlers, including Quanah Parker's grandfather, father, and others. Cynthia Ann Parker, along with other women and children, was taken captive.

In the chaos that followed, Cynthia Ann and her daughter, Prairie Flower, were separated from the rest of the captives and eventually integrated into Comanche life. Prairie Flower passed away in 1864, and Cynthia Ann in 1870; they were buried in Foster's graveyard in Henderson County, Texas. Quanah Parker later reinterred his mother's remains near his home in Cache, Oklahoma, in 1910.

Quanah Parker was a striking figure, tall and commanding, with a strong physique and piercing eyes, embodying the image of a warrior. He possessed wisdom and prudence, acting as a bridge between his Comanche heritage and the rapidly changing world around him. As the head chief of the Comanches, Kiowas, and Apaches at the time of his death, he played a pivotal role in pacifying his people and encouraging them to adapt to reservation life. Parker believed strongly in education, and several of his fifteen children received college educations.

His dedication to peace and understanding between cultures earned him respect, and he traveled widely, gaining insight into the ways of the white settlers. In a speech he delivered at the Dallas Fair, he remarked on the similarities between individuals of different races, noting that some people, both Native American and white, were "no good," emphasizing their shared humanity.

Quanah Parker's legacy extends to the naming of Parker County in honor of his mother's family and Quanah, Hardeman County, named after him. His influence on his people, his commitment to education, and his role as a bridge between cultures make him a remarkable and enduring figure in history.

Taming the Savage Apache Followers of Geronimo .

2023-09-03

The Apache way of life has undergone a profound change. Once fierce warriors, they have embraced a path of peace and civilization. Gone are the traditional blankets and moccasins, replaced by the attire of white traders—store-bought clothes and sturdy brogans. In this transformation, the Apaches have also become farmers, tilling the soil. Their children, once captives of war, now receive education in Indian schools, making them the only prisoners of war in the entire United States.

Among all the Native American tribes, the Apaches were notorious for their bloodthirstiness and cruelty. Their brutal frontier attacks horrified the world a quarter of a century ago. Until the capture by Miles and Lawton, they terrorized the entire border, even extending their warfare into Mexico.

In 1876, due to complaints from the Mexican government about Geronimo and his Apache followers raiding Sonora, the United States relocated the Apaches from their reservation to San Carlos, Arizona. However, Geronimo and his band of half-naked warriors repeatedly fled back to Mexico, leading to their return to San Carlos. In 1882, Geronimo resumed hostilities, raiding Sonora once more. He and his band were later cornered in the Sierra Madre mountains by U.S. troops under George H. Crook.

The Apaches' cruelty was legendary; they often tortured for sheer sadistic pleasure. Even young Apache boys took delight in tearing apart live birds, mice, or any game they captured. As they grew into men, their viciousness intensified, terrorizing the entire region. Settlers were mercilessly murdered, ranches burned, and men, women, and children slaughtered and scalped. In gruesome acts, they would strip prisoners, bury them near ant hills to be consumed by ants, and carry out other unspeakable atrocities.

John Joy Sr., a determined pioneer, dedicated his life to avenging the brutal murder of his wife and daughter by Comanches. He pursued the Indians relentlessly, becoming an expert in Indian woodcraft. His reputation as an avenging Nemesis grew, and he was known to camp alone in the wilderness, always ready to defend himself with his trusty rifle.

In 1872, tragedy struck again when Mrs. Hazlewood's husband, Peter Hazlewood, was killed during an Indian raid. She married again and eventually settled in Ingram, Kerr County.

The Taylor and McDonald ranch, established near Harper, Texas, was a testament to the resilience and determination of these pioneers. The settlers' clothing was handmade or obtained through trade, reflecting the harsh conditions they faced.

Mrs. Hannah Taylor, after surviving captivity, felt a divine calling to become a preacher in the Methodist circuit. Her fervent sermons were filled with shouts of praise for her deliverance.

Matthew Taylor, her husband and a Methodist circuit rider, bore witness to the changing Texas frontier and the challenges faced by pioneers. They found strength in faith, family, and their unwavering determination to build a new life in the Texas wilderness.

In these trying times, spinning wheels, weaving blades, and warping bars were essential tools in every frontier household, enabling them to create their own clothing and adapt to their ever-changing surroundings.

The Trail of Blood Along the Texas Border

2023-09-03

The Trail of Blood Along the Texas Border

Fredericksburg

This series of Frontier Stories was written several years ago by John Warren Hunter, now deceased. One article of the series will appear each month in Frontier Times.

In early 1855, Mathew Taylor and Joe McDonald, each with large families, left Illinois and settled on Spring Creek, fifteen miles west of Fredericksburg in Gillespie County. At that time, Fredericksburg was the chief seat of the Prince Solms Colony of Germans and was merely a village of pole cabins. The settlement formed by McDonald and Taylor was on the extreme border. The government maintained a small garrison of regulars at Fort Martin Scott, two miles below Fredericksburg, also at Ft. Mason, and later in the year, in 1855, Fort McKavett was established. The McDonald and Taylor families engaged in stockraising and farming, the latter to a limited extent wherever the waters of Spring Creek could be utilized for irrigation.

These men were devoutly religious, and after completing their little log cabins, they erected a family altar, installed the Bible as their guide, and taught their children to worship God and obey His divine precepts. Nature was generous to these pioneers. Game was plentiful, wild bees abounded in trees and caves, and life would have been a long, joyous round of rural pleasures if not for the continued menace of the savage Indians whose path intersected their settlement. Mr. Taylor recalled that the hunting grounds in those days encompassed the Upper Llanos, the Conchos, and the Guadalupe regions. During the buffalo season, he and his sons, along with the McDonald boys, paid their annual visit to the Conchos, established their camp near the spring at the confluence of the two main streams, where San Angelo now stands. They would remain there until the buffalo had left or had been driven away, and then return home laden with dried meats sufficient for the year's supply.

Mr. Taylor also mentioned that he and his brother-in-law, Joe McDonald, were the first to raise a crop of corn in Kimble County. They chose a spot in the forks of the Llano, in the river bottom, near where Junction City stands today. Using a rudimentary "bull-tongue" plow, they prepared the ground (about two or three acres), planted the corn, and returned to their homes on Spring Creek, which was thirty miles away. Later, they came back to plow and tend to their crop. When the corn reached the roasting ear stage, bears came to claim their share of the harvest, but enough was left to reward the pioneers for their labor.

Shortly after the arrival of the Taylor and McDonald families, the Nixon and Joy families moved from Arkansas. The Nixons settled on Squaw Creek, and the Joys settled on Beaver Creek. These two settlements were roughly ten and sixteen miles from the Taylor settlement on Spring Creek. In those days, despite the distances, everyone considered each other as close neighbors, bound by a common sense of danger that forged deep bonds.

Just before the outbreak of the Civil War, Monroe McDonald married Miss Beckie Taylor, the daughter of Matthew Taylor. Around the same time, Lafe McDonald married Miss Alwilda Joy, the sister of Tobe Joy, who later gained renown as an Indian fighter.

To the old frontiersmen, it was a well-known fact that an Indian never forgets or overlooks a locality or settlement where one of his tribesmen has been slain. Revenge was almost certain to be exacted upon the dwellers of that particular area.

The settlers in Gillespie County were not seriously molested by the Indians until the beginning of the Civil War when U.S. troops were withdrawn from the frontier. Up until that point, the Indians were somewhat friendly, occasionally visiting the settlements, trading with the people, and sometimes leaving with unpaid horses.

The first in a series of troubles with these pioneers began in 1862 when an Indian approached Monroe McDonald's cabin, begging for food. Monroe supplied him and took him to his father, Joe McDonald, where he was kept under guard for a few days before being handed over to the sheriff of Gillespie County, who placed him in jail. What became of the Indian is uncertain, but rumors circulated that a cruel and swift vengeance was meted out to him.

In early February 1863, Captain John Banta and ten others, including the McDonald brothers, were scouting along Johnson's Fork of the Llano River. It was a cold day with a light mist in the air. They stumbled upon an Indian trail heading towards the Spring Creek settlement, and their intuitive knowledge of the frontier soon revealed that there were eleven Indians in the group, all on foot. They cautiously followed the trail until they reached a ridge overlooking the head draw of the Pedernales River, where they suddenly encountered the Indians. The Indians had not anticipated danger and had halted on a hillside, busy with their weapons, which were in poor condition due to the wet grass and long travel.

The Texans charged the Indians, who fled and tried to reach a group of live oaks in the valley below. As the Indians scattered, a running battle ensued. Each Texan engaged with his Indians, and when cornered, the Indians would turn and attempt to use their bows and arrows. However, the rain had dampened their bowstrings, making them ineffective. The Texans, armed with Colt's pistols, faced their own challenges, as the government-issued ammunition was of poor quality, especially the percussion caps, which were not waterproof. When placed on the tubes, the first shot would often jar the remaining five caps loose, causing them to fall off.

Despite these challenges, the battle intensified, and the Indians eventually rallied around their leader with defiant yells. The wounded Texans continued to charge until six Indians had fallen, including their chief. The remaining five Indians escaped into the brush and were pursued for some distance but ultimately got away.

During the last charge, a shot from Captain Banta's pistol had broken the old chief's back. While pursuing the fleeing Indians, the wounded chief managed to drag himself to a nearby live oak. When the pursuers returned, they found him reclining against the tree's roots. As they approached, he began to chant his death song, a strange and eerie melody that held their attention until he finished. The chief clutched a long knife and, summoning all his remaining strength, thrust it into his own heart before falling lifeless to the ground.

The Texans collected six scalps, six bows, six quivers of arrows, and a few worthless Indian articles as the spoils of their victory. While these trophies marked the end of six Indian lives, they also signified the end of Indian raids on their settlement, and the Texans returned home without suffering any losses.

Sometime after this event, around 1864, the Taylor and McDonald ranch was established on the Pedernales River near present-day Harper, about ten miles from Spring Creek. It appears that after his marriage, Monroe McDonald lived with or near his father-in-law, Mr. Joy, in Threadgill, which was several miles from the Taylor ranch.

During these challenging days, clothing for these pioneers was either homemade or traded, sometimes both. Spinning wheels, weaving blades, and warping bars were essential tools in every frontier household.

A few months after Captain Banta's encounter with the Indians near the Taylor ranch, another tragic incident occurred. Mrs. Lafe McDonald and her mother, Mrs. Joy, left the Joy ranch in a buggy, headed to the Taylor ranch with a load of thread they had spun. The thread was meant to be woven into cloth by Mrs. Taylor. However, a few miles into their journey, they were surrounded by a band of Indians and killed.

This raid appeared to be motivated purely by revenge. The Indians did not take the horse pulling the buggy or any items from it. The family only learned of the terrible tragedy when, a couple of hours after the two ladies left the ranch, the horse returned to the ranch gate, still harnessed to the buggy. When the family investigated, they discovered both women dead in the buggy. Mrs. McDonald's head had been severed and was found under the buggy seat, while Mrs. Joy's throat had been cut from ear to ear.

John Joy Sr., the husband and father, swore eternal vengeance against the Comanches upon viewing the remains of his wife and daughter. He was relatively well-off, owning a substantial stock of cattle, horses, and hogs, along with a good supply of money. He gathered his sons and declared his intent to dedicate them to the task of killing Indians. He placed them in charge of all the family's ranching interests, reserving for himself shelter, food, and means for the latest improved firearms and ammunition when he occasionally returned from his lengthy and arduous pursuit of the enemy.

From that point on, John Joy Sr. was solely focused on one thing: revenge. His all-consuming desire for revenge seemed to possess him, and he avoided the company of others, often traveling alone. Sometimes he walked, but more often he rode, typically mounted on a tough Spanish horse that was both fast and hardy. This horse was almost unyielding; it would never tire, and it would never give in. He didn't allow strangers to approach him, and he was always ready to defend himself with his trusty rifle, which was always close by. This horse had a deep aversion to Indians and would detect their presence from afar. John Joy Sr. was known to camp alone in the wilderness, and if an Indian came near during the night, the horse's alertness, snorting, and stomping would warn him of danger.

Over the years, John Joy Sr. became a skilled practitioner of Indian woodcraft, developing an uncanny ability to spot signs of their presence—whether it be a freshly turned stone, a broken twig, or a crushed blade of grass. His activities and endurance seemed superhuman. One day he would be atop one of the Twin Mountains on the Concho, scanning the plains and distant horizons for smoke from signal fires; the next day, he would be on a high peak overlooking the San Saba Valley. The day after, he would be meticulously examining the watering holes along the upper Llano, in valleys, on hills, in mountains, and among cedar brakes. He was a phantom of grim tragedy, a silent and ghostly Nemesis who never slept, always alert, moved by a single relentless impulse: revenge. Such was the veteran John Joy Sr.

It appeared as if this determined old pioneer had gained the power of omnipresence, as stories circulated of how he was always on the trail of every band of Indians that raided the region from the Guadalupe to the Colorado. Any Indian who ventured into that vast territory often found himself being pursued by an avenging Nemesis. John Joy Sr.'s steady aim never faltered, and his trusty rifle never fired in vain.

At one point, while returning home from a long scouting mission in the Llano region, and when he was just a few miles from his ranch, his keen eye spotted Indian sign. Upon closer inspection, he discovered the trail of three Indians who had passed on foot in the direction of the Taylor ranch. He silently and swiftly followed their tracks, which led him west of the Taylor ranch and across a divide. On the second day, at nightfall, he unexpectedly came upon them in their camp, nestled within a cedar brake along the banks of a small stream. They had shot a cow and were enjoying roast beef when a shot from his rifle struck one of them in the heart, setting off a deadly firefight. In the end, all three Indians were killed.

One of the Indians, a woman, survived for a short while, gravely injured. While the Texans did not recognize her language, her agony was apparent, and she was given a drink of water. She soon succumbed to her injuries. John Joy Sr. collected six scalps, six bows, six quivers of arrows, and a few trivial Indian belongings.

After this incident, around 1864, the Taylor and McDonald ranch was established on the Pedernales River near Harper, Texas, approximately ten miles from Spring Creek. It seems that after his marriage, Monroe McDonald lived with or near his father-in-law, Mr. Joy, in Threadgill, which was several miles from the Taylor ranch.

During these challenging days, clothing for these pioneers was either homemade or traded, sometimes both. Spinning wheels, weaving blades, and warping bars were indispensable tools in every frontier household.

A few years after Mrs. McDonald's release from captivity, she married Peter Hazlewood. Unfortunately, during one of the last Indian raids in Gillespie County in 1872, Mr. Hazlewood was killed in a fight with the Indians on Spring Creek. Seven or eight years later, Mrs. Hazlewood married again, and at the latest reports, she was living in Ingram, Kerr County.

When the Indians, laden with stolen goods securely packed on horses, departed, Mrs. Hannah Taylor left the ranch in confusion and distress, not knowing where to turn. The following day, the folks at the Loss ranch, about twenty-five miles away, were startled by the appearance of Mrs. Taylor. Her frail shoes were worn from the rocky ground, her feet bled from numerous cuts and abrasions, her hands, arms, and face were covered with blood from contact with cactus and other thorn-bearing bushes. Her clothing was in tatters, and only remnants clung to her battered body. Her mind had temporarily succumbed to the ordeal, and she spoke incoherently, much like a child, occasionally breaking into fits of maniacal laughter in response to questions from the caring ranch people who quickly realized her misfortune.

In her time of need, the settlers rallied to provide her with care and attention. After many months of suffering, she eventually recovered and lived to an old age. Her husband, Matthew Taylor, was a Methodist circuit rider, and after her traumatic experience with the Comanches, she felt a divine calling to the ministry. She followed this call, becoming a preacher after professing sanctification and joining the holiness movement. Her fervent sermons were delivered at camp meetings, where she often erupted in shouts of praise and thanksgiving to the Lord for her deliverance. Her common expression during these shouts was, "Bless the Lord, the Injuns got me, but I got away agin'."

Matthew Taylor, her husband, led a life filled with hardships and challenges. He witnessed the transformation of the Texas frontier and the struggles faced by pioneers as they settled in the vast and often dangerous landscape. Despite the constant threat of Indian raids and the harsh conditions of frontier life, these settlers persevered, finding strength in their faith, their families, and their determination to build a new way of life in the Texas wilderness.

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Jack Hays, the Famous Texas Ranger

2023-09-03

Jack Hays, the Famous Texas Ranger

From Hunter's Frontier Times Magazine, October, 1923

In the annals of the Republic of Texas, few figures shine as brightly as Captain Jack Hays. He stands out among those who displayed remarkable talents during this era. Hays was a true guardian of the western border, engaged in over forty encounters, defending San Antonio and Southwest Texas against outlaws and indigenous tribes.

Government records of his time celebrated his patriotism and heroic deeds, which earned him national acclaim and endeared him to the people of Texas. Yet, today, his name and exploits have faded into obscurity, remembered only by a handful of survivors from the pioneer days and their descendants. These individuals recall Hays as a stalwart defender of the frontier, standing firm against the Comanche Indians and Mexican bandits who threatened their communities.

In times of peril and danger, Hays was a trusted figure, always responding with unwavering dedication and remarkable success. His adventurous and romantic achievements, too numerous to detail here, are a testament to his courage and leadership.

Early Life: Born at Fort Haysboro in Wilson County, Tennessee, on January 28, 1817, Hays faced adversity early in life. When both his parents passed away, leaving him with a younger brother and sister, they were raised by his maternal uncle, Abner Gage, a Mississippi planter. Despite these challenges, Hays received a basic education and gained expertise in surveying. By the age of fifteen, he was employed by land speculators in the region, accumulating savings. His pursuit of a civil engineering education was cut short by the Texas Revolution, prompting his response to Colonel Travis's call from the Alamo.

The Texas Ranger:

Arriving on the Brazos a month after the Battle of San Jacinto, Hays engaged in land surveying in Austin's colony when not called upon by the military. Armed with letters of introduction from President Jackson to influential Texans, he received advice from General Houston to enlist in the ranger service on the western frontier. He joined Deaf Smith's spy company as a private, arriving in San Antonio in late December 1836. There, he participated in the military funeral honors for the Alamo heroes on February 25, 1837. His first combat encounter occurred in March when he joined Captain Smith in hoisting the Texas flag near Laredo, defeating the enemy. After Smith's resignation, Hays joined Dawson's company and later served with distinction under Colonel Karnes. From February 1838 until 1841, he worked as a deputy surveyor in the Bexar district, later being elected surveyor of Bexar County.

The Ranger's Exploits:

Hays gathered a select group of men who aided him in many battles against Comanche Indians and bandits. In 1840, President Lamar authorized him to form a ranger company, marking the beginning of continuous combat against Indians and Mexican bandits. When Woll invaded Texas in 1842, Hays thwarted his plans by summoning 300 Texans and skillfully luring the enemy from the Alamo to the Salado, where the Mexicans faced a resounding defeat. Hays led his troops to the Hondo, boldly charging into the midst of the Mexican army and nearly forcing their surrender, had he received adequate support. Hays held a leadership role in San Antonio, where he enforced martial law until the Somerville expedition was formed. He then accompanied the expedition to the Rio Grande, returning to San Antonio upon its disbandment. He also scouted for the Mier expedition, attempting to dissuade its leaders from pursuing their ill-fated venture.

Hays' enduring legacy includes actions at various locales: Warin; Bandera Pass; Enchanted Rock; Sister's Creek, above Seguin; Anna Dulee; Paint Rock, among others. He relentlessly pursued the Comanches, dealing severe blows to them for their attacks on settlements. He also vigilantly tracked and fought Mexican bandits.

The Mexican-American War:

When the war with Mexico began in 1846, Hays commanded a ranger battalion, holding the rank of major. He was later authorized to raise a regiment to serve under General Taylor for six months, amassing a force of 1,300 rangers. These troops, including notable figures such as Ben McCulloch and Tom Green, provided vital scouting services before the Battle of Monterrey. During the battle, they played a pivotal role in capturing key locations, ultimately contributing to Monterrey's capitulation. Hays' regiment was mustered out in May 1847, but he remained in Texas to oversee its continued protection, albeit declining re-election.

Further Adventures:

In August 1848, Hays embarked on an exploratory mission to establish a route between San Antonio and El Paso. Although the government supported the project, it ended in disappointment due to lost guides, with the party only reaching Presidio del Norte after six grueling months.

In July 1849, Hays led a group of emigrants bound for California via El Paso, escorted by U.S. troops. Their journey was marked by hardship, and they reached San Diego in late December. From there, they sailed to San Francisco, arriving on January 10, 1850.

Life Beyond the Frontier:

Hays was welcomed by old friends and urged to accept the position of city marshal in San Francisco, which he did. He subsequently became sheriff of the city, serving two terms. In 1852, he, along with others, purchased a significant tract of land on the eastern shore of San Francisco Bay, founding the city of Oakland. President Pierce appointed Hays as the United States Surveyor of California, a position he fulfilled to the satisfaction of the people. Later, President Buchanan named him Surveyor General of Oregon.

Hays remained active in politics, deeply committed to the Democratic Party's success. He even attended the National Democratic Convention, where Samuel J. Tilden was nominated as a presidential candidate.

Legacy and Later Life:

Hays built a beautiful home on a farm in the foothills of Alameda County, north of Piedmont, where he lived until his passing on July 25, 1883, at the age of sixty-four. Posthumous eulogies published in California newspapers hailed him as a remarkable man, one of the most notable in the state's history.

Colonel John S. Ford, who served as adjutant in Hays' regiment under General Scott, emphasized Hays' bravery and leadership qualities. He described Hays as a modest, honorable, and courageous man who left a significant mark on Texas history.

General Henry McCulloch also spoke highly of Hays, praising his enduring legacy as a commander, citizen, and soldier.

Jack Hays' contributions to the Republic of Texas, the Mexican-American War, and the state of California left an indelible mark on history. His leadership and valor remain a testament to the spirit of the Texas frontier and its enduring legacy.

BLOODY INDIAN RAIDS IN COOKE COUNTY, TX

2019-12-09

W. S. Adair

Mrs. Sarah Witt McCutcheon, who makes her home with her son, W. R. Sheegog, 6120 Gaston avenue, Dallas, now in her eightieth year, recollects clearly some of the incidents of the Indian raid in Cook County in January, 1868.

"It was at daylight Sunday morning, Jan. 8, 1868, "Mrs McCutcheon said. ''Father and brother Hardin had gone to join other settlers in repelling the Indians.

Brother, my little sister, two little brothers and I were alone in the house. We saw some of the Indians throw down the fence and run off fifteen head of horses that were in the lot, and others approaching our house. At the same time father and brother, who had not been notified that Indians had been seen in the neighborhood of our house, returned, and entered the house from the rear. They had but one gun. Father got out in front with that and Hardin and the rest of them bustled about trying to make it appear as if there were a number of armed men in the house. The Indians came up within thirty yards of the house, whooped and shot at the house, and once struck it with a pistol ball but were afraid to come on. Indians were great cowards in front of white men with guns in their hands.

“The Indians surrounding our house were watched by 200 or 300 of their band from the top of a hill half a mile away. We could plainly see them performing the war dance and hear the war whoop with which they accompanied the dance by way of encouraging their brethren below. They had several hundred head of horses which they had stolen. It was a time of awful suspense for mother and us children, and no doubt for father and brother, too, but the Indians, lacking the courage to brave father's gun, which carried but a single charge, at length withdrew.

''Mrs. Edward Shegog, my sister-in-law, who lived three miles from us, was a prisoner in the band of the Indians on the hill and could see all that took place around our house. She afterward told us that she had not the slightest doubt that those of us who escaped the arrows and tomahawks of the Indians would soon join her.

"The day Mrs. Shegog was captured, her father, Joe Manasco, living seventeen miles west of Gainesville, noticing signs of Indians and knowing that his son-in law, Edward Sheegog, was away from home hastened to his house and started to take Mrs. Sheegog, her infant child, her nieces, May and Lizzie Manasco, 8 and IO years old, and a little negro boy to his own home. On the way the Indians fell upon the party, killed Mr. Manasco and carried Mrs. Sheegog and the children and the negro boy away.

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"The first stop the Indians made after capturing Mrs. Shegog was on the hill overlooking our house. That night the Indians made a hard ride. The weather had turned very cold, and, having been stripped of her clothing and even of her hair which the Indians cut close to her scalp, Mrs. Sheegog suffered intensely. During the night the Indians, thinking perhaps that she would soon die, left her on the prairie, but, strange to say, threw a buffalo robe over her. Toward daybreak she saw a light a short distance away, but feared to approach it, lest she should again fall into the hands of the Indians. As it got lighter she saw a house and white people stirring about it. To her great joy it turned out to be the dwelling of Samuel Doss, the big cattle man, near Gainesville.

“The bodies of her nieces were found on the prairie, but they were without marks of violence. The girls had evidently been abandoned by the Indians, as Mrs. Sheegog had been, and had frozen to death. The two little girls were the older sisters of Mrs. A.W. Walker, 3712 Beverly Drive, Dallas. Mrs. Walker was still an infant at the time. In their flight, Mrs. Sheegog saw an Indian kill her baby by striking its head with a pistol. Its body frozen to the ground was found at the place indicated. The settlers searched far and wide for the body of the negro boy, for they had little doubt that when he showed signs of perishing from the cold his captors dropped him on the prairie, too.

"The settlers mustered what force they could and pursuing the Indians, came up with them, and had a running fight in the night. Among the prisoners was a Miss Carrollton, 16 years old, who had been captured on the raid. She was riding a wild horse, which, taking fright at the confusion and uproar of battle, ran away with her, carrying her far from the scene of strife, and thus enabling her to escape since the Indians were too busy at the moment to follow her. She held onto the horse for many miles as it flew over the frozen prairie as if pursued by wolves, until from sheer exhaustion she fell off. In the course of the night she became able to stir and made her way to a ravine, which afforded some shelter from the cold north wind that swept the plains. When the sun rose, she saw a house in the distance. It was the home of Dr. Davidson, a few miles from our house. When the Indians came to the Carrollton home, Mrs. Carrollton and her daughter were alone in the house. They murdered Mrs. Carrollton and carried the daughter away. I never knew the Carrolltons, nor did I ever hear Miss Carrollton’s first name. I do not know what became of her.

"From what I heard at the time and afterward read of the raid, the Indians upon crossing from the reservation into Texas divided into two bands and ravaged a wide scope of country. They stole horses, burned houses, murdered men and murdered or carried away women, and children. They burned more houses at the beginning of their progress than toward the end, for as they went they accumulated such a drove of horses that they were kept busy handling them, and had no time to destroy property. I do not know personally, but learned from the "Book of Pioneers'' that nine persons were murdered on this raid. They were Mr. Leatherwood, Mr. and Mrs. Tom Fitzgerald, Arthur Parkhill, Mr. Loney, Mrs. Carrollton, Joseph Manasco, and May and Lizzie Manasco, with the negro boy missing or unaccounted for.

“After the raid the settlers of Cooke County became discouraged and began to leave the country. Father at once sold his land for almost nothing, since nobody wanted Cooke County lands at that time, and moved to Whitesboro.

"I do not know when my Uncle Preston Witt came to Texas, but it was early enough for him to take part in the battle of San Jacinto, and afterward in the Mexican War of 1846. He brought home from the field of San Jacinto a ring, a mantle, and some other things worn by Santa Anna. He gave the mantle to his friend Dr. B. S. Shelburne of Lebanon, Collin County, who in turn gave it to his daughter, now Mrs. W. A. Smith. 4303 McKinley Avenue, Dallas, who still has it. Uncle Preston induced father to come to Texas.

"We left our home near Alton, Ill., for Texas in 1849, and were three months on the way. I was 4 years old at the time. Mother was in failing health and the doctor said the trip would be good for her. He was so far correct that she completely regained her health. We settled six miles east of Plano, Collin County, where father located on 360 acres of land. Father, the Rev. Eli Witt, was a Baptist minister, and I have heard him say that he preached the first Baptist sermon that was preached in Dallas. He preached in the courthouse, a log structure with a puncheon floor. I have forgotten the year, but it must have been in 1850 or 1851. When we settled in Collin County the people feared prairie fires more than they feared Indians. The native grass was thick and tall, and when it caught fire, the blaze swept the country, unless checked. All the settlers took the precaution to plow or burn spaces around their premises which the flames could not leap. We lived in Collin County until 1863, when we moved to Cooke County.

"Father and Uncle Hamp Witt bought 2,400 acres of land near the present town of Muenster, with a view of raising horses, but learning that the Indians stole horses as fast as they were brought into that part of the country, they abandoned the idea and sold their land for 25c an acre in Confederate money, which turned out to be worthless when the Southern Confederacy fell.

''Uncle Preston Witt built the first grist mill operated in Dallas County. He hauled the machinery, or parts of it, on a wagon from Illinois and set it up near the present town of Carrollton. It was a treadmill, operated by oxen. Later he bought an engine and was thus also the owner of the first steam grist mill in the county. The Indians raided as far in as Dallas after Uncle Preston settled here. Once the settlers followed a band of marauders and had a fight with them somewhere north of Fort Worth. In this fight Uncle Preston killed an Indian in a hand-to-hand fight and took his scalp, which he kept as a souvenir. I often saw the scalp at his house. Uncle Preston Witt was the father of the late John T. Witt and the grandfather of Jack F. Witt of Dallas.

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CAPTIVITY OF THE SIMPSON CHILDREN

2019-12-03

From J. Marvin Hunter's Frontier Times Magazine, Vol 18 No. 05 - February 1941

Among the residents of Austin in the days of its partial abandonment, from the spring of 1842 to the final act of annexation in the winter of 1845-6, was an estimable widow named Simpson. During that period Austin was but an outpost, without troops and very exposed to inroads from the Indians.

Mrs. Simpson had a daughter named Emma, fourteen years of age, and a son named Thomas, aged twelve. On a summer afternoon in 1844, her two children went out a short distance to drive home the cows. Soon their mother heard them scream at the ravine, not over 400 yards west of the center of the town. In the language of Col. John S. Ford, a part of whose narrative I adopt: ''She required no explanation of the cause; she knew at once the Indians had captured her darlings. Sorrowing, and almost heartbroken, she rushed to the more thickly settled part of the town to implore citizens to turn out and endeavor to recapture her children. A party of men were soon in the saddle, and on the trail.

They discovered the savages were on foot -- about four in number -- and were moving in the timber, parallel to the river, and up it. They found on the trail shreds of the girl's dress, yet it was difficult to follow the footsteps of the fleeing red men. From a hill they discovered the Indians just before they entered the ravine south of Mount Bonnell. The whites moved at a run, yet they failed to overtake the barbarians. A piece of an undergarment was certain evidence that the captors had passed over Mount Barker. The rocky surface of the ground precluded the possibility of fast trailing, and almost the possibility of trailing at all. Every conceivable effort was made to track the Indians, and it proved unavailing. They were loath to return to Austin to inform the grief-stricken mother her loved ones were indeed the prisoners of savages, and would be subject to all the brutal cruelties and outrages of a captivity a thousand times more terrible than the pangs of death. The scene which ensued, when the dread news reached Mrs. Simpson's ears, can not be painted with pen or pencil. The wail of agony and despair rent the air, and tears of sympathy were wrung from frontiersmen who never coiled when danger came in its most fearful form. The pursuing party was small. All the names have not been ascertained. Judge Joe Lee, Columbus Browning and Thomas Wooldridge, were among them.

Pursuit under the then condition of the almost defenseless people of Austin was impossible. No further tidings of the lost children were had for a year or more. About that time, Thomas Simpson was ransomed by a trader at Taos, New Mexico. He was finally returned to his mother, and then the fate of Emma became manifest. Thomas said his sister fought the Indians all the time. They carried her by force, dragged her frequently, tore her clothing and handled her roughly. Thomas was led by two Indians. He offered no resistance, knowing he would be killed if he did.

The Indians then divided for a short time, the sister in the charge of one and the brother of the other couple. When they reunited on Shoal creek, about six miles from Austin, Thomas saw his sister's scalp dangling from one's belt. No one will ever know the details of the bloody deed. Indeed, a knowledge of Indian customs justifies the belief that the sacrifice of an innocent life involved incidents of a more revolting character than mere murder. In the course of time the bones of the unfortunate girl were found near the place where Mr. George W. Davis erected his residence, and to that extent corroborated the account of Thomas Simpson. It is no difficult matter to conceive what were the impressions produced upon parents then living in Austin by this event. It is easy to imagine how vivid the conviction must have been that their sons and daughters might become the victims of similar misfortunes, suffering and outrages.

In the language of Col. Ford: ''Let the reader extend the idea, and include the whole frontier of Texas in the scope, extending as it did, from Red river to the Rio Grande, in a sinuous line upon the outer tiers of settlements, and including a large extent of the Gulf coast. Let him remember that the country was then so sparsely populated it was quite all frontier, and open to the incursions of the merciless tribes who made war upon women and children, and flourished the tomahawk and the scalping knife in the bedrooms and the boudoirs as well as in the forests and upon the bosoms of the prairies. When he shall have done this he can form an approximate conception of the privations and perils endured by the pioneers who reclaimed Texas from the dominion of the Indian and made it the abode of civilized men.

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INDIAN ATROCITIES IN PARKER COUNTY

2018-09-13

From Hunter’s Frontier times Magazine, August, 1944

Hon. G. A. Holland

In July, 1862, Hiram Wilson and his brother-in-law, Mr. Fulton, were preparing to make sorghum. They sent William Wilson, 12, and his cousin, Diana Akers, 10, an orphan girl, to drive up steers that were to pull the sweep to grind the cane. The Indians, seven in number, captured the children about 10 a. m., and forced each of them to ride behind an Indian to Mount Nebo, about three miles away, which is nine miles south of Weatherford. They spent the day there, Diana crying all the time. The Indians kept a lookout most all day from the top of a tree, where they could get a good view. Late in the afternoon the captors got much excited; a caravan of covered wagons came in sight of the Weatherford road with many loose horses, just the kind they were looking for. They went into camp not far away. When night came on, two of the Indians guarded the children, while the other five went after the campers' horses, which they secretly drove away.

By mimicking owls as a signal, the Indians got together with the prisoners and horses. They drove near the home of the captives, where the children heard the familiar bark of the family dog and the crowing of the rooster. Riding behind their captors, the party crossed the Brazos, the waters glistening in the moonbeams, but its beauties meant no more to them than did the lonesome howl of the wolf, or the hideous hoot of the owl. They were rushed on, in constant fear of death, little Diana crying all the while. They traveled all the dreary night, going through parts of Parker and Hood far into Erath county. When daylight came they had gone so far they felt secure, and stopped for rest and sleep. They rolled the boy in a blanket to keep him from trying to run away and laid him on the ground. Diana lay down by his side, all bruised and sore from the long ride, and they slept a little. Diana's eyes were red and swollen from crying and loss of sleep. The children expected all the time to be killed.

In breaking camp they seized the children, tied both onto an old roan mare, turned them loose and drove them with the herd. During the day they killed calves they found on the range and ate the meat raw. The children, though starving, could not eat the raw flesh. The Indians loitered along Sunday creek until night. They killed a cow and with a knife and flint kindled a fire, scorched some of the meat for the children, a little of which they ate without salt. This was the third day out. When night came they made a long drive for a pass in the Palo Pinto mountains, near where Ranger note stands. The children were still riding the old roan mare, but were not tied on. They began to have less fear of being killed and talked as they went along, trying to lay plans to escape.

When the party got nearer the top of the mountain, the Indians seemed to get suspicious and waited for a while. They howled like a wolf, gobbled like a turkey and hooted like an owl, but got only the echoes from the valley. They moved on very slowly and cautiously, two Indians in front, next the two children on the old roan, then the herd of horses and the other five Indians in the rear.

Just as they reached the top of the mountain, a volley of rifle shots rang out in the clear, still, moonlight air. With the first shot the horses were killed from under the two Indians in front, and the old roan from under the children. The Indians disappeared, but the shooting continued. The persons shooting thought the children were Indians and kept shooting at them, killing horses all around them, until they screamed and held up their hands, making them understand that they were captive children. The attacking party was composed of about thirty rangers and citizens who were waylaying the pass for another bunch of Indians known to be in the country. The children were taken to Stephenville, where Diana was found to be so bruised and sore from the long ride that she could not travel horseback. Other means of conveyance was provided and they were sent home, with enough captive experience to last the remainder of their days.

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In April, 1865 James McKinney and family, his wife, a girl 6, a boy 3, and a baby in its mother's arms, living in Jack county, had been to Springtown on a visit and to do some shopping. While there he traded his six-shooter for merchandise. They traveled in an ox-wagon as was the custom at that time. They stopped at noon at the P. M. Jenkins home, later the John Frazier home. When leaving there they asked for the Jacksboro road.

William Shadle, father of the lamented Sam Shadle, deceased, and our esteemed townsman, Virgil Shadle, gave the following account of one of the most brutal Indian depredations in the county, a copy of which was found among Sam Shadle's papers after his death:

Mr. Shadle and a man by the name of Jenkins were hunting cattle in the north part of the county near Agnes. While riding along a sandy trail Mr. Shadle saw small tracks in the sand. Jenkins contended they were coon tracks. They followed only a little way when to their surprise a weak, small voice called from the brush, "Papa, papa." On looking they found a little boy three years old, entirely nude! When the child saw neither of the men was his father, he tried to run away. Mr. Shadle caught him and found his little body full of brims and scratches and his side pierced with a lance. The Indians had stripped him, pierced his side and left him for dead. He lived through the night and escaped wolves and other wild animals, but could not tell who he was nor why there, except to say, "Booger man did it."

Mr. Shadle wrapped the child in his saddle blanket, took him to the home of William Kincannon some distance away, but could not get him identified. They then went to Mr. Jenkins' home, where they learned from Mrs. Jenkins that a family passed there the day before inquiring the way to Jacksboro. Mrs. Jenkins, with the help of Mrs. William Shadle, now of Poolville, picked the briars and thorns out of the child's body, dressed his wounds, and put clothes on him.

Shadle and Jenkins, with others, returned, and about a mile from where the child had wandered or been carried, found the wagon hung against a tree, with an arrow in one of the oxen; they soon found Mrs. McKinney had been killed and scalped. The father, who evidently had tried to protect the baby, was also murdered and scalped. The baby had been taken by the heels and hurled against a tree and a wagon hub, which was shown by unmistakable evidence. The little girl, 6, was carried away. On following the trail they found fragments of her clothing. It was supposed she fought and cried until the Indians killed her. The mutilated body was found. The remains were loaded in a wagon and taken to Goshen and buried in one grave. The little boy, Joe McKinney, grew to manhood near Springtown, then lived for many years at Jacksboro.

In the year 1867, Isaac Briscoe lived one-half mile north of Agnes, in Parker county, with his wife and two daughters, 14 and 16, and two smaller children. They were honest, hardworking, Christian people, living happily and contented, as did the settlers of that day. Mr. Briscoe had a turning lathe with which he made furniture for the settlers. He was operating it under a large grapevine shade when a band of between 75 and 100 indians dashed up to his unprotected home. They killed and scalped Mr. and Mrs. Briscoe, and with a broadaxe chopped up their bodies in the presence of the children, then took all the horses and household goods they could find. They took the two young ladies and the two smaller children captives and carried them away. No trace of them was ever obtained. It was as though the earth had swallowed them up, and in the absence of any report of what happened, and what the captives were forced to endure, we feel that it would have been much better for them if they had been murdered on the spot. The young ladies were just reaching womanhood— lighthearted and free, with the prospects of a useful and happy life before them. A sad reflection to us—father and mother slain, little brother and sister's fate unknown, perhaps killed in their presence; that which awaited them could not be foretold. The worst we can imagine might have been consolation when compared to what did happen.

Mr. and Mrs. Briscoe were buried in the same grave at old Goshen, where in their unmarked resting place they await the final judgment day. It is hoped that on that resurrection morn the missing children will be united with father and mother. There went a family of six, with not one left to tell the story.

Onward went the tyrants, with booty and prisoners, passing the Culwells, Mayos, Montgomerys and others and gathering up horses and robbing home.

Hez Culwell, long-time Poolville resident, and Tom Mayo went to Mr. Allen's to give the alarm. The Indians got there at the same time, shot at them, killing Mayo's horse from under him. The boys ran through the house. Hez carried one of Mrs. Allen's children and she the other. They went out the back way, down a creek bank out of view, waded the creek bed through holes of water and carried the children to safety. When the Indians found the Allen home vacated they took charge and appropriated everything of use to be found. Mrs. Allen afterwards made an inventory of their loss, which she reported as being: Five feather beds and five straw beds, 40 quilts and blankets, 400 pounds of flour in sacks, all their clothing except what they had on; all dishes that were not taken were broken; a new piece of homespun cloth just finished and still in the loom, which represented many months of work, and other small articles not mentioned. We give this that the reader may have a better understanding of what occurred when a home was robbed by Indians.

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OX WAGONS, INDIANS, AND WINCHESTERS

2018-09-12

From Hunter’s Frontier Times Magazine, June, 1934

By Muster Neora KeelI

IN THE YEAR 1850 my grandparents with my mother and her two brothers crossed the plains from Missouri to California in six ox wagons. There were 175 wagons in the entire train, for many other families went along at the same time.

They had been on the road six days, when by accident my mother, then just a child 12 years of age, fell out of the wagon. The wheels ran angling across her body. My grandmother had some homespun sheets; so she tied the four corners of one to the wagon bows and put a feather bed in it. In this hammock-like arrangement, my mother rode all the rest of the slow and painful journey to California. It was six weeks afterwards before she could sit up, and for quite a while of this time they did not think she would ever be able to sit up again. They were three months on the way over.

Just a month ahead of my grandfather, the Indians had attacked a wagon train, massacred all the people, and burned the wagons. The same bunch, 300 warriors strong, came to my grandfather's train. I say "my grandfather's train," for he was captain. The story of their encounter with these Indians, as we have often heard it from Mother as she would sit and tell it follows below under the heading of

"Indians Coming! Corral the Wagons!" "Indians Coming! Corral the Wagons! "

Early one morning, Father and Dave Doudle, the interpreter, spied a lone horseman ahead of them.

Father says, "Dave, looks like Indians." Dave says, "No "

But about 11 o'clock, Dave came to father and exclaimed, "Sure they are Indians, Corral the wagons! Put the women and children in as few wagons as possible and put those wagons inside the circle!"

And just as soon as the wagons began to circle, everybody knew what was conning.

My father raised his white flag; the Indians raised their red.

On came the savages with their war yell. About a hundred of them had circled around, when all at once their leader gave a peculiar yell and every one of them halted. Twelve of them held a council. Then they came to my father's wagon and gestured. Dave Doudle did not wish them to know he could interpret, for he knew what it would cost the train. But after a while Father found out the Indians wanted 30 fat beeves, so they gave them freely. At once they all became peaceable and quiet.

Father had the compass and square and the letter G painted on his wagon, sheet before he started. When the Indians learned whose wagon it was, they called for Father's family. So father took the chief by the hand and led him to the wagon inside the circle. Seeing me in my hammock, he bemoaned my pitiful condition. Taking hold of my hand, he patted and rubbed my head, with me scared nearly to death.

Our train had to strike camp that night and 50 of the warriors galloped off over the hill. In the meantime, Dave had let himself be known in their native tongue, and then such shouting and hollering as they did, I never heard before.

The next day, Dave and the chief showed Father 500 men, women and children coming over the hill. They put Father up on a chair and he then shook hands with every one of them. For three days afterwards he carried his arm in a sling. We camped right there five days. When we left, the chief had my father go in peace, telling him he would not he molested on the rest of the journey.

Then occurred a most dreadful thing. In our train there was a young boy newly married, a know-it-all. No one could tell him anything. He swore he would kill the first Indian he saw. We came upon an old Indian squaw, white headed. Sure enough, this boy drew his pistol and shot her dead, everyone begging him not to. My father was 50 wagons ahead and did not even hear the report of the pistol. Father said he did not know the boy had such a weapon, or he would have taken it away from him.

Three days afterwards they looked back and saw 150 warriors coming at break-neck speed. They never stopped until they came to the three horsemen, my father, Dave and another man who was a preacher. They asked who killed the squaw. Neither of the three men knew.

"If you do not tell us," they said, "we'll massacre the whole train."

Father halted the wagons, took the Indians back with him and the other two men. When they came to the fiftieth wagon, a little boy 10 years old spoke up and said the fellow who killed the squaw was in that wagon covered up with a feather bed.

"Come out," demanded my father, "and tell why you did this thing; if you do not, every one of us will be killed."

The boy came out and told them. His parents and his wife's parents tried to buy the Indians off, but no. They took him a short way from the wagon, hung him up feet foremost, and flayed (skinned) him alive.

They then told my father they could go, but not to touch that man. The whites had to do as the Indians said. It almost killed the young wife and the boy's mother and father. They lay for three days in such a condition that the others did not think they would or could live.

After several days travel we came to the Pecos River in Western Texas. It was running bank full. Our cattle were so thirsty they simply fell in on their heads. Some were drowned and some swam out. The wheels were taken off and the wagons placed three together lengthways. This made a raft. So they ferried everything across in this way. And that is how we got over Pecos River at Horsehead Crossing in far Western Texas long, long ago, and then went on our way, again to California.

The foregoing concludes my mother's part of my story. The rest, which we heard her rehearse many times, I shall now tell myself.

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How my grandfather came back from California by boat by way of the Isthmus of Panama, made other wagon trips across the plains again, and finally settled down in Tarrant, Texas, I need not now recount. My mother married Fleming Van B. Derrick, at Tarrant, July 13, 1850. Two years later, the Civil War began. My mother had to part with my father and never saw him for four long years. How my young mother met and faced trying experiences of those times will make up the rest of this story,

She raised her own corn, kept the wolf from the door, raised most of her cotton, pulled the lint from the seed with her fingers, spun the thread, wove the cloth, and made clothes for the family. She did the same with the wool, which she sheared from her own goats.

She had to go three miles to water to do the family washing. This she did with her own hands. The clothes were boiled in a small oven or spider —so small that the larger pieces had to be boiled one at the time.

At length there came a day when the community in which my mother lived got entirely out of breadstuff. They had meat in abundance but no bread and no salt. They killed and dressed their own beef and pork. One day when she and a neighbor had dressed a hog, the question came up of what they were going to do for bread, for they had not had any for three or four days. There had been some talk of plenty of wheat being owned and held by some planter over on or near the Louisiana line.

Mother said to the neighbor woman, "If you will go with me, we'll go and get us a load of wheat."

"All right," joined in the other woman, "I had just as soon be killed by Indians as to starve to death.”

My mother owned a fine span of large black mares. These were put to the wagon and off went the two women for a 10 to 15 day's journey and made it in just 8 days. They offered him $25 for just five bushels.

He spurned the offer—had no wheat to sell or give away either. Then my mother said to him

"Sir, I am neither beggar nor thief: but I have come after wheat and in search of bread. When they found their wheat man sure enough they expect to get it."

By this time the old man had become very angry.

"You need not get so full of wrath, " Mother told him, "God will certainly reward you for your wrath."

For a second time the man got worse.

My mother picked up her Winchester and turned toward two of the slaves that were in the yard.

"Show me the wheat granary," Mother commanded.

They hesitated.

"I mean just what I say," were the words of Mother that broke the great stillness.

So the old man turned to the slaves and told them to go on.

One of them got a cedar tub to measure the wheat in. Mother drove up to the granary, filled her wagon bed, with the double side-boards, full to the brim.

As she drove back past the house, Mother was hailed by the planter's wife. Mother again offered pay, but the man refused it.

"Where do you live and what is your name?" the planter inquired.

Mother told him.

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The man then motioned to his wife, who went back into the house. Presently here came two slaves with a sack of coffee. Then they brought a barrel of sugar, a 100-pound barrel of salt, a 50-pound of honey, and of syrup.

The planter told Mother to go by the mill, 10 miles out of her way, and have the wheat ground into flour, saying that he would pay for the grinding, She agreed. He gave her a slip of paper for the mill man, and then as they parted he said to Mother and her neighbor woman:

"If you honest women are also brave enough to risk your lives for five other families, surely I can afford to give something."

They went away and arrived safely at home. Not a soul did they encounter, although the Indians were raiding just five miles west of their route.

In a short while the Indians were out raiding again. A messenger came telling about it. The nearest neighbor was five miles away. Mother left her baby with her two younger sisters, saddled her horse, buckled her pistol around her waist, took her Winchester on her saddle (side-saddle), and off she rode up into Wise County, after her horses and cattle. She was gone eight days—did not see a house, or a soul, or a fire. Had no one to face the danger with her.

The night of the eighth day, she came upon a fine thicket to bed her cattle in just a mile from home. She bedded them down and struck out. Half a mile from home, she saw on a high hill, lighted by the sky, the figure of a single horseman. Mother gave him time to come pretty close, then put spurs to her horse so as to go by him out in the bushes. As Mother dashed past, she heard a familiar voice call out, “Miss Sidney! Oh, Miss Sidney! Is dat you?"

It was the voice of a feeble old darkey the neighbors had sent out to meet her,

Mother got her cattle and horses safely corralled before the Indians came on. Those two mares she put in the smokehouse. The Indians tried every way to get her to open the door, but she refused. They shot the mares full of arrows; my mother cut out 50 the next morning.

Mother and those little girls sat up all night. Just before day, everything became quiet. The Indians had gone. They carried off five head of cattle, but not a horse. My mother happened to have one of the oxen her father had driven across the plains. Strange to say, he was left in the lot. He was the only ox that had survived the last trip and was given to my mother. Ten miles further westward the Indians killed a family of seven and burnt the house down. And there were many other terrible Indian depredations in those pioneer days.

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HARROWING EXPERIENCE OF MRS. KIRBY

2018-09-12

From Hunter’s Frontier Times Magazine, July, 1927

Indians in 1871 killed the husband and two children of Mrs. E. K. Kirby, 76-year-old-resident, living with her daughter 20 miles north of Uvalde. Although Mrs. Kirby remembers vividly the details of the Indian raid, it is only upon rare occasions that she can be induced to talk about the killing of her three loved ones, the wounding of her 18-month-old-babe, Joel; the kidnapping of her little girl, and the fearful pain in her shoulder as she jumped from a 20 foot bluff to escape the Indians who had shot her in the shoulder and were intent upon scalping her. Mrs. Kirby was then Mrs. Terry.

The horror of the toll of life taken by the Indians has remained with the pioneer woman. She married again several years after the raid, and she has tried to make the best of life. Every calamity seems small when compared to the disaster which cost her so much, she declares.

"Just because the crops fail, or the cattle die, is no reason for anyone to be discontented. People of today should be happy and content because they can live in peace and security, and because they are not forever cursed with the dread of an Indian raid," said Mrs. Kirby.

"We were living in a tent located on a small hill about a half mile from Center Point, and had been there about a month before the Indian raid," said Mrs. Kirby. "My husband, Mr. Terry, was cutting timber to build us a home. One afternoon in January, while he was shaving shingles about 200 yards from our tent, he called me to bring him some tobacco. I started with it, but when I was halfway to him, Indians rushed out of the brush and shot him.

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"I turned and ran toward my children, who were in the tent. However, the Indians reached the children before I did. They pierced Carrol, my three year old boy, with a lance, and crushed the life from my 6-week-old baby with a rock. I became crazed with fright and jumped from the bluff back of the tent, thinking that I would die with my family and cheat the Indians. One of the Indians' bullets struck me in the shoulder. Later I counted nine bullet holes in my dress.

"The jump from the bluff, by some miracle, failed to seriously injure the fear-crazed woman. She made her way to the home of a neighbor, and gave the alarm. A party of men set out immediately for the scene of the murders. The Indians were gone, and had taken with them the little girl, Martha. Joel, 18- month-old child, was found alive in the tent. He was rushed to his mother and her care had much to do with the saving of his life. Joel is now living on a ranch 10 miles south of Leakey, in Real County.

A company of heavily armed men set out, hoping to recover the stolen girl and exact vengeance for their bloody crimes. The pursuers learned that the Indians had also captured Jack Hardy, a negro boy of the Center Point community. Riley Van Pelt, who lives in the neighborhood of Rio Frio, while then only a small boy, remembers the incident and relates the story of the pursuit. The little girl was brought to the house, where she remained until the men could rest sufficiently to take her home.

"Hardy, the negro boy, who was also captured by these Indians, used to live at Center Point, and he has told me about the raid. He said that he saw Mrs. Kirby jump from the bluff and he thought that she could not possibly live. When the Indians neared the Rio Frio settlement with two Indian guards to herd the stolen horses on a hill, while the others went down into the valley after more hores, Hardy succeeded in slipping away from his guards while they were interested in watching their companions below.

"While crawling through the brush, Hardy said that he heard the crackling of a twig, and prepared to see one of his captors, but he looked up into the satisfied countenance of an old milk cow." continued Van Pelt. "he succeeded in reaching some men below in the field, who organized a searching party and overtook the redskins."

Bill Pruitt, who lived near the Leakey Settlement, and John Patterson, were in the party of white settlers who overtook the Indians, and both glimpsed the girl at the same time. Both started after the Indian behind whom the captive was riding, and pressed him so closely that he knocked the little girl off as he abandoned his horse and plunged into the brush. After seeing the girl, the men followed the redskins some distance, but found only a trail of blood, and a bloody blanket, filled with bullet holes.

The girl was kept at the Van Pelt place for several days, and, since the general belief among the settlers was that the mother had been killed, she was taken by one of the men, whose intention it was to adopt her.

"The raid occured in January," said Mrs. Kirby, and l did not get my daughter back until some time in April. People living near Rio Frio thought the negro boy knew what he was talking about when he told them I was dead, so they would not give my little girl to me at first. She was with the Indians eight days, and people who helped to capture her kept her for the rest of the time until she was returned to me."

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CHIEF SATANTA'S ELOQUENT SPEECH / MASSACRE OF HENRY WARREN'S TRAIN

2018-09-03

From J. Marvin Hunter’s Frontier Times Magazine, May, 1938

At a peace council held in October, 1867, on the Arkansas river, in the present state of Oklahoma, between United States peace commissioners and the principal chiefs of four Indian tribes, Satanta, principal chief of the Kiowas, said:

"It has made me glad to meet you, the commissioners of the Great Father. You, no doubt, are tired of much talk of our people. Many of them have put themselves forward and filled you with their sayings. I have kept hack and said nothing—not that I did not consider myself the principal chief of the Kiowa nation—but others, younger, desired to talk, and I left it to them. Before leaving, however—as I now intend to go—I come to say that the Kiowas and Comanche have made with you a peace, and they intend to stick to it. If it brings prosperity to us, of course we will like it better. If it brings poverty and adversity, we will not abandon it, because it is our contract, and it will stand.

"We hope now that a better time has come. If all would talk and then do as they talk, the sun of peace would forever shine. We have warred against the white man, but never because it gave us pleasure. Before the day of apprehension came, no white man came to our village and went away hungry. It gave us more joy to share with him than it gave him to partake of our hospitality. In the far distant past there was no suspicion among us. The world seemed large enough for both the red man and the white man. But its broad plains seem now to have contracted, and the white man grows jealous of his red brother. He once came to trade; he now comes to fight. He once came as a citizen; he now comes as a soldier. He once put his trust in our friendship, and wanted no shield but our fidelity. He once gave us arms and powder, and bade us to hunt the game. He once made a home and cultivated the soil; but he now builds forts and plants big guns upon their walls. We then loved him for his confidence; he now drives us to be his enemies. He now covers his face with a cloud of jealous anger, and tells us to be gone—like the offended master speaks to his dog. We thank the Great Spirit that all these wrongs are now to cease, and the old times of peace and friendship are come again.

"You come as friends. You have patiently heard our complaints. To you these complaints have seemed trifling. To us they are everything. You have not tried, as many do, to get our lands for nothing. You have not tried to make new bargains merely to get the advantage. You have not asked to make our annuities less, but unasked you have made them larger. You have not withdrawn a single gift, and voluntarily you have provided new guarantees for our advantage and comfort. When we see these things we say, 'These are men of the past.' We at once gave you our hearts. You have them. You know what is best for us all. Teach us now the road to travel, and we will not depart from it forever. For your sakes the green grass shall not be stained with the blood of the whites. Your people shall again be our people, and peace shall be our mutual heritage. If wrong comes we shall look to you to right them. We know you will not forsake us. Tell your people to be as you have been.

"I am now old and will soon join my fathers; but those who come after me will remember this day. The time has now come when I must go. Goodbye. You may not see me again, but remember Satanta, the white man's friend."

It is hard to understand how any human being, after uttering the lofty sentiments expressed in the eloquent speech quoted above, could go out from that peace council and continue the heartless butcheries he committed. The speech is a model of simplicity, eloquent in language, and ennobling in thought. It was after this speech that Satanta, Satauk and Big Tree captured Henry Warren's wagon train near Jacksboro, in Jack county, Texas, tied the captured teamsters to the wagon wheels and burned the entire train, including the helpless men, which resulted in their trial at Jacksboro. Texas, the first instance where an Indian was tried in the civil courts of Texas for murder. In this trial Satanta was convicted and sentenced to be hanged, but the sentence of death was later commuted to life imprisonment, by Governor E. J. Davis of Texas, and he was later paroled and allowed to go back to his people. Even after this he continued his butcheries, murdered little children, and carried away their mothers and sisters into a captivity far worse than death. It would seem that their pitiful cries and shrieks would be sufficient to damn his soul forever by an avenging God.

In November, 1874. Satanta was recaptured, and placed in the penitentiary at Huntsville, where he finally ended his life by jumping or throwing himself from an upper window of the prison.

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MASSACRE OF HENRY WARREN'S TRAIN

From J. Marvin Hunter’s Frontier Times Magazine, April, 1947

The day following General Sherman's ride over the government road leading from Fort Griffin to Jacksboro, one of the most horrible Indian massacres in the annals of Texas history took place near the Young county line. And it was this foul deed which caused the General to positively make up his mind in favor of a different Indian policy by his government. In the commanding officer's quarters of the old territory post it was definitely agreed that the Kiowa chiefs were to be held to "strict accountability" for this Young county massacre.

The Kiowas were on a government reservation at that time and were actually living out of white men's hands, yet they depredated upon them mercilessly. In 1869 a treaty of peace had been made between this tribe and the Washington government, but throughout the East the policy of "benevolent assimilation" was so popular that it was being followed by most of the Indian agents. At the very moment Sherman was in Fort Richardson, the Indians swooped down upon a wagon train owned by Henry Warren, which carried freight between Fort Richardson and Fort Griffin, and murdered seven of the guards. The savages chained one of the guards to a wagon wheel and literally roasted him to death, laughing in his face as he begged for mercy. There were 150 Kiowas in this attack on the party of twelve guards and teamsters. They were led by Satanta, Big Tree and Satank, the former being a most treacherous Indian chief, who was described as "a beggar in the pale face's camp, a demon on his trail." This was the straw that broke the camel's back and caused the reversal of a policy that was depopulating a big part of Texas.

When the teamsters and guards saw the savages rushing down upon them, they quickly corralled their wagons and defended themselves as best they could, but the odds were against them. Only five men of the wagon train party escaped and one of these was badly crippled. The five hid in dense brush until the foe departed. Satanta boasted of this outrage to the Indian agent and seemed to think that he had committed a deed against the Tehannas (Texans) that would be pleasing to the Great White Father in Washington.

When General Sherman took Satanta to task, however, he declared that Kicking Bird, Lone Wolf and certain of his young and foolish warrior chiefs were responsible for the Warren wagon train massacre. He proved himself to be a miserable craven and tried hard to beg off, but the General told him that he was responsible for cowardly murder and that he would have to face his accusers in the courts of Texas.

He was then heavily chained, along with Big Tree and Satank and sent to Jacksboro, Texas, for trial. While the prisoners were returning from the trial, Satank released himself, grabbed a gun and undertook to shoot one of the guards, but a well directed volley suddenly ended his career. The other two prisoners were tried in district court a short time later. Sam Lanham, later Governor of Texas, was the prosecuting attorney, and both chiefs received the death sentence. Later, however, the sentence was commuted to life imprisonment, by E. J. Davis, and the Indian chiefs were placed behind the bars of the State penitentiary.

Following General Sherman's visit to Texas and his inspection of various frontier forts in the Southwest, the government inaugurated a vigorous campaign in Texas against the redskins. General Mackenzie. who was in command at Fort Richardson, fought a decisive battle with the Kiowa and Comanche Indians in Palo Duro Canyon, September 25, 1874, defeating them so completely that their power for offense was thereafter broken. During the progress of this battle Mackenzie killed about 1500 head of the Indians' horses so as to keep the remnants of the tribes from making further raids on white settlements.

General Grierson, in command at Fort Sill, was removed to Fort Davis, and helped to clean up the section infested with hostile Indians west and northwest of Fort Worth. Later General Grierson was sent to Fort McKavett, at the head of the San Saba river, and in conjunction with General Mackenzie's soldiers, fought an engagement with a band of Indian raiders near the town of Menardville. The raiders were killed, most of them, and the surviving ones fled over the adjacent hills, chanting a weird and plaintive tune as they departed for the last time from this, their favorite haunt, of Southwest Texas.

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