Frontier Times Magazine

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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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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THE SUBLIME COURAGE OF A FRONTIER BOY

2018-08-06

John Warren Hunter, in 1910

FROM Hunter’s Frontier Times Magazine, January, 1948

Captain Cal Putman came to Texas in 1821, and with his family settled on the San Gabriel, in what is now Williamson county, and built the first house — a block house — erected in that territory, and not far from where Liberty Hill now stands. This was long before Austin was founded, and his nearest white neighbors were the Hornsbys, who had formed a settlement at Hornsby's Bend, on the Colorado. Indians often paid friendly visits at the block house, and were always shown kind treatment, and they seldom abused the favors shown them.

Early in the 1850s Mr. Putman moved to Llano county and settled on Hickory Creek, near House Mountain, where in the course of time he established a comfortable home. He and his good wife raised a large family, four sons and several daughters. In the fall of 1864, Captain Putman, accompanied by his son, Harve, started on a hunting expedition on the upper Llano river, in the territory now included in Kimble county. In those days game was abundant in this region, and large numbers of wild cattle roamed at will over the vast range. Most of the cattle were unbranded and were subject to the claims of any huntsman who chanced to come up with them on the range. This was the kind of game Mr. Putman was seeking, his aim being to lay in a sufficient supply of beef on this trip to supply the wants of his family for the winter.

Their outfit consisted of a small carryall wagon, without cover, in which was stored bedding, provisions, and several sacks of corn on the ear. The wagon was drawn by two horses, while an extra horse was led at the rear end of the vehicle. Their armament consisted of a double barrel shotgun and an old army rifle with about a half dozen rounds of ammunition, but this latter they expected to replenish when they reached Fort Mason, as they had to pass through that post on their way to their chosen hunting grounds. The United States troops had abandoned Fort Mason at the beginning of the war, and at the time in which I write, only a small company of rangers held the place for the protection of the few scattering ranchmen and their families, who lived on that part of the extreme border.

Great was Putman's disappointment when he reached Mason, to find that not a cartridge nor an ounce of powder could be had in the place. Taking an inventory of his stock, he found that he had six rounds of ammunition, two cartridges for his army gun, and four charges of shot, powder and caps for his shotgun. Being a dead shot with either gun, he reasoned that out of the six charges he could safely count on at least four fat beeves, and the flesh of these, when cured, would more than load his wagon. As to Indians, he apprehended no danger whatever. It had been a long while since they had raided that particular section. He knew the metal of his son, then about 14 years old, and an excellent shot and if perchance the Indians attacked them, the twain could run a bluff even with empty guns and stand them off. These reflections hastened his decision and they left Mason and headed for the Saline country, up on the Llano, aiming to reach the Saline creek that evening.

When they reached the Leon creek, about 20 miles west of Mason, they discovered a body of horsemen, which at first they took to be a squad of ranger or ranchmen, but on closer scrutiny the keen eye of Harve detected the Indian garb. The horsemen were at quite a distance when first seen, but were now approaching at a rapid gait. Seeing this, Putman drove into a grove of scattering postoak trees nearby and prepared for action by tying his horses securely to two trees, near which he had stopped his wagon, and by the time this was accomplished, the Indians, with loud yells, were upon them. There were thirteen of the red savages, and they made a furious charge. Being an old frontiersman, Mr. Putman knew that the sight of a gun in the hands of a white man when at bay became an object of dread and terror to the average Comanche, and acting on this knowledge, he told Harve to reserve his ammunition and not to fire until he gave the word, but to put on a bold front and to present his gun as if in the act of shooting every time an Indian got too close. This plan was carried out successfully in this first charge of the Indians, who fell back at a safe distance, dismounted and again advanced on the beleaguered, this time on foot. From the cover of trees they opened fire on the Putmans with a few guns which they had along, and this was kept up until it seemed they had exhausted their ammunition, when they advanced nearer and began to shoot arrows. Up to this time neither of the Putmans had fired a shot. Only yells of defiance from that wagon, coupled with invitations for the redskins to come a little nearer. Showers of arrows fell around them. Harve wore a white wool hat, a new one and the boy was very proud of his headgear. A new hat was a rarity, especially for a boy, in those days. An arrow pierced it and pinned it to a tree against which he was standing. This made him mad and he begged his father to let him shoot the Indian that sent that arrow through his new hat. The father told him to hold his ammunition and not to fire until he so ordered. However, this did not satisfy him; he was bent on getting even, and abandoning his tree, he gathered up and broke every arrow that fell within his reach, thus rendering them useless in case the Indians should prevail, which, just then, seemed highly probable. While thus engaged, his clothes were pierced in different places by arrows, and his father failed to give him the word "fire."

This failure of the Putmans to use their guns served to embolden the Indians, and gradually they came nearer. At close range the Indians fired a shot from a gun, the leaden missile passing through Captain Putman's thigh, rupturing one of the small arteries. About the same moment a shot struck Harve's foot, tearing away his shoe and leaving his big toe hanging by a mere shred. This was about 4 o'clock in the evening and the Indians became more bold when they saw the effects of their own shots, and yet when the white man's guns remained silent, an Indian, more daring than the rest, advanced to the wagon and fired on Harve at a range so close that the blaze of the gun set his clothes on fire. This was getting too close for the Captain, and although desperately wounded, he raised up his old shotgun and landed 8 buckshot into the carcass of the old copper colored savage. Almost at the same instant Harve drew a bead on another — the one who had shot up his new hat — and with a ball from his old army gun, sent him to the happy hunting grounds. Both of these Indians fell near the wagon and were speedily carried away by their comrades, who made a charge in full force in order to recover the bodies.

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The Indian killed by Captain Putman seemed to be the leader or chief of the band, and after his fall his followers seemed more determined than ever to have the horses and scalps of the Putmans. The charges were more frequent but not so close. Towards sundown, Captain Putman became so weakened from loss of blood that he fainted. Everything now depended on the bravery of the son, who, when the Indians made a charge, presented that terror inspiring gun, causing them to fall back. Realizing his father's condition, Harve took the water keg from the wagon and poured some of the contents in the Captain's face, which served to revive him.

When darkness came on the Indians withdrew to the channel of a small dry creek or branch about 300 yards distant, built a fire and seemed to be waiting for the rising of the moon, which came up about ten o'clock. At dark Captain Putman regained consciousness but was too weak to raise himself from the ground. What must be done? Being a large man, weighing over 200 pounds Harve found it impossible to lift him into the wagon, although he made several fruitless efforts.

Finally the father told him to leave him, mount on of the horses and go to Gamel's ranch, some five miles distant, and get help. Before leaving, Harve succeeded in getting his father in a sitting posture with his back against a tree. He next tore apart the box, or bed, of the frail wagon and with this material and the sacks of corn, he built a rude barricade about his father, and placing the loaded double barrel shotgun by his side, told him to shoot at the first object that came near his fort. He insisted on leaving the army gun also, contending that his father would, in all likelihood, stand in greater need of it, but to this the parent would not consent.

In one of the charges, an Indian had thrown a handsomely mounted tomahawk at Harve. This he secured and before leaving, placed it by the side of his father, knowing full well that in close quarters the brave old pioneer would put it to proper use.

When these hasty preparations were made, Harve bade his father be of good cheer, that he would soon return with help if help was to be had, and if no aid could be procured at the ranch, he would return alone and fight it out to a finish with the cowardly redskins. Mounting the best horse of the three, Harve quietly stole away in the darkness. His father had pointed out the direction in which the ranch lay and in less than an hour he had reached Mr. Gamel's and told his story. Tom Gamel and Jesper Chapman were soon in the saddle and the three hastened to the side of the wounded pioneer. The moon was rising when they reached the fortification where they found the Captain in the same position in which his son had left him, but his strength was so far gone that he scarce was able to speak above a whisper. The Indians were yet around their camp fire, and Harve insisted that he and the two men with him take chances on killing a few more of them. His father was desperately, probably fatally wounded, while he himself was suffering intensely from the loss of a toe and he thirsted for revenge. But wise council prevailed. Mr. Gamel told him that their only course was to act on the defensive. The enemy was too many for them and the best thing to do was to get the wagon bed together, hitch up, and get the wounded father to the ranch as soon as possible, and if the Indians made an attack, they would stay closely together and kill as many as they could.

It was after sunrise the next morning when they reached the Gamel ranch, where the Captain received the tenderest care. It was several weeks before he was able to return home, and his recovery was only partial. He never fully recovered from the effects of the wound he received in that fight, although he lived to a ripe old age. He died at his home near House Mountain some time during the year 1880.

Harve's wound healed, or to use his own expression, "the toe grew out again," but he never forgot the scratch the Indians gave him that day on the Leon, as was proven on many subsequent occasions.

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HARDSHIPS OF A GERMAN FAMILY

2018-07-18

By Bernard Manken, Boerne, Texas

A JOURNEY from Galveston to New Braunfels today is considered a pleasure trip. At night you enter a comfortable Pullman; next morning you enjoy a good breakfast in San Antonio; this ended you step on a train going northeast and in about an hour's time you arrive safely at your destination. Like a fairy tale though sounds the description of such a trip made in the year 1845-1846. Perhaps the younger generation have heard of the hardships and trials that our forebears had to undergo; but at the same time they can never fully realize the conditions as they actually existed then. In the following I will try to describe a trip of those bygone days.

I was then merely a boy of eleven years but even now the tragic details of such a trip live undimmed vividly before my eyes. My father was a wine grower on the banks of the river Rhine. The immigration fever, so prevalent at that time all through Germany, also struck my father. Partly alter going through half dozen poor crop years and probably the unrest of the year 1848 was already in the air. Duped by promises of the Nobility Club of Nayence, of whose true worth no one had a clear together conception, my father finally decided to also join to go to Texas under their terms. It was in the month of October 1845, that our family, embarked on the two masted schooner "Neptune" for our overseas trip which lasted in all 58 days, and was very agreeable.

As the sailing lasted longer than intended, we began to suffer for want of water. When we first sighted land we got a good impression of our new country, and as the boat sent out to meet us, it brought a pilot and some fresh meat. After a stay of a couple of days in Galveston, the company chartered a steamboat to take the passengers of the Neptune, and also the passengers of Hercules, which had arrived meantime, to land them at the port of Indianola.

As the steamer was nearing Pass Cavallo, a strong wind was blowing, making the passage of the Pass very dangerous. Not taking in consideration that the steamer was almost overloaded with human beings and their belongings, the pilot attempted, with true American daring, to cross the channel. The steamer stranded on the reef, sprang a leak, and was slowly filling with water. As Lady Luck would would have it, the water was not deep enough to submerge the steamer. The passengers and their belongings were hurriedly landed on the Island of Matagorda. The workers, when they finally got through, were waist deep in water, and the goods were piled together in one location and a guard put over them at night.

We Soon sighted a schooner coming our way loaded with cotton, which, after an agreement was made, hastened to unload the cotton on shore, taking in its place all the first class passengers of the Neptune and Hercules, and also all the tents and other goods and provisions to land them at Indianola. After eight days the vessel returned and got the balance of the passengers and their things of the Hercules, and after another dreary wait of eight days finally the last of the passengers of Neptune were relieved of their distress and landed at Indianola, happy to be on solid ground once more.

Indianola was at that time sparsely settled. The company that had agreed, after a cash stipulation was made in the old country with them, to land them safely and see to their comforts, failed utterly to do so. No building material or tools of any kind were on hand. In the first place no tents were intended for the peasants. The Company's store house was constructed of wreckage from the sea, so everybody did the best they could. It was rumored that we had to live in caves, which is an untruth, as by digging in four feet, the water will begin to seep in. On account of a scarcity of building material, a good many were compelled to dig sod and build sod houses, with whatever they could find for a covering, often entailing the severest hardships, as it all had to be brought together on our backs. Often after this work was completed, it began to pour down rain softening the sod so everything tumbled down, again making it, of course, look more like caves than living quarters. Father was unable to buy a tent or the goods for one so he built for us, out of rough lumber and Sod, some kind of a shack for shelter against the inclement weather. Naturally such a hut had hardly any ventilation and in consequence of the continued rains, everything became moldy. Then when it was not raining we had to have these huts to escape the burning rays of the sun. Under these circumstances it was no wonder that the people got sick and died. We had to live like this for several months.

In the spring of 1846 five young men, Fietsam by name, cousins of mine, came over from Germany. Meantime the Company had done better by us, giving those poor dejected immigrants some sort of comforts. Father bought goods for a tent to be used on our inland journey, and it had just been made. This tent also gave shelter to my cousins. The company had made a contract with a man by name of Torrey for the transportation of the immigrants to the new station of the immigrants at New Braunfels, Fredericksburg, and Llano grants. When the war broke out between the United States and Mexico, Mr. Torrey gave his best teams to the service of the United States and only those that were not fit for government service were put to our disposal for the trip inland.

After waiting quite awhile, my, father concluded to walk up from Indianola to New Braunfels to see if he could not procure accommodations and for the transport up to his destination. One of his nephews (Fletsam) accompanied him and they were lucky enough to get a wagon to come back with them. During father's absence the Company's agent informed us to get ready to go, as we were next on the list. What should we do now? It was uncertain if father could procure a wagon to take us up. As the Fietsam's also had the agent's consent to go, we packed the wagon with all of our goods and those of the Fietsams. With us on the same wagon went a family of. four, by name of Weber.

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On the 5th day of July, 1846, our wagon loaded with sixteen persons and their belongings left Indianola for New Braunfels. The first night we camped on Chocolate Creek. The second day, toward evening, one wagon wheel broke in the midst of an open prairie. Now we had to suffer for not providing enough vessels for a supply of water, also there was no wood around to cook with. We knew that a little further up, a man by the name of Kohler lived. My brother and one Fietsam went with him and told him of our predicament, and Kohler let them have a wagon and a yoke of oxen, so we moved on to the next watering place. The broken wagon and baggage we left behind. While we were camped at the water, father returned but thoughtlessly let the wagon he had secured go on to Indianola, so having made his trip on foot to New Braunfels all in vain. My father repaired the broken wheel, the remaining goods were loaded on and the journey resumed, but not for long. This time an axle broke, which again was repaired by father, and we finally reached Victoria. The distance between this place and Indianola is about forty miles and it took us all of fourteen days to make it. Upon our arrival in Victoria we were all more or less sick, and our hands and faces were sore and swollen from mosquito bites. We consulted a doctor, but got no relief from his medicine. To make things worse, we had to take a new teamster, a negro with six yoke of oxen. Why this change we did not know. We had to leave the Weber family in Victoria to make the load lighter. The negro brought us very considerately to Spring Creek and left us in the midst of a lot of hills. Here we buried my dear mother and one of the Fietsams, who were sick when we left Indianola. While here father got acquainted with a man by name of Sewald; later known throughout Comal county as Treasure Hunter Sewald. Mr. Sewald gave us all the assistance he could to bury our dead, but later on was indirectly the cause of a great sorrow to us by him selling a Spanish stud horse to father.

We were left at Spring Creek for quite a while where no meat and no vegetables were to be had, and but little meal left of the barrell which father had bought on the coast, and, worst of all all we were still more or less sick. Finally another teamster took pity on us and carried us as far as the Widow Burkhart's place, where now Hochheim is situated. Here the teamster turned two yoke of oxen loose and took the other along with him. We had this advantage, there was good water and we could also buy milk.

So the time slipped by, and looked as though everybody had forgotten about us, and worst of all, disease was taking on a more malignant form. While there first one of the Fletsams died, then followed his brother, the one who had so laboriously made it on foot with father, up to New Braunfels, and finally the youngest brother of Fletsams also died. These three brothers were about the first to be interred in the then new cemetery at Hochheim. When the last one was buried, that same day the Americans had a picnic in progress in the near neighborhood, but all attended the funeral and I remember very distinctly that many a tear glistened in the eyes of those stalwart sons of the pioneer country when they saw the body of the handsome young man lowered into his last resting place. My brother Henry, and the last of the five Fletsam brothers, also took sick but still managed to keep their spirits up. My father fearing that he would lose all of his dear ones went to Burkhart's offering to pay them liberally if they would consent to take us to New Braunfels. A young man promised to do so, and went and got two yoke of oxen from Mr. Torrey and two of his own and drove us as far as Peach Creek. The crossing of this creek was very boggy and when we were in the middle of the creek the wagon bogged down so that the team was unable to get us out again, and Mr. Burkhart went back to get more teams. While he was gone it began to rain. My sick brother sought shelter under a tree, where my sister tried her best to protect him with an umbrella. But still it rained. and it seemed as if we were doomed to drown and be washed away. After awhile we were delighted to see my sister, Rose, coming from New Braunfels with help. Sister Rose had taken an earlier opportunity to get to New Braunfels where she accepted a place as a servant girl. When we were at Hochheim, father wrote to her to try her best to get help so we would get out of our deplorable state. A friend of father's, Hankhamer, by name, passing by, promised to deliver the letter to the family that my sister was with. But they failed to give the letter to my sister. Nevertheless, they had to broadcast the news of death and disaster and perhaps added a little. Of course when my sister heard all of this, it nearly drove her to despair, and she concluded to take the first chance to go down to where her dear ones were to verify the truth of the reports. There on the Peach Creek, or rather in the creek she met us. Father had to pay those heartless teamsters well to get us out of the mud and water. They had also sent along a teamster to take us to New Braunfels. Meanwhile Mr. Burkhart arrived with more oxen, and was willing enough to take us up himself declaring that the other teamster with only two yoke of oxen could not get through, but he would not let Mr. Barkhart have the Torrey oxen and so Burkhart had to be content, but when he left us he waived all responsibility of the safe arrival of his charges. That same afternoon our teamster took us two miles on to near a cotton gin belonging to Mr. Jones, the birthplace of Judge Jones, who later moved to near Curry's Creek. Kendall county. The teamster pretended he was looking for oxen. He left us and never returned. My sister wrote to Mr. Burkhart for help, and he responded promptly by sending a Swiss man by name of Katerle, with two yoke of oxen.

About this time my sick brother died, and was buried in a small graveyard near the Jones estate. A member of the Jones family also took sick and they had to send to Gonzales for a doctor. My sister undertook to go, as she was a fearless rider, using that horse which father had bought from Mr. Sewald. Returning, a bunch of mustang horses crossed her path. Her mount was bent on following them but was held back by Sister when he reared up and fell over on her, the pommel of the saddle striking her with full force near her heart. We took her along in a serious condition, but when we got to Seguin death relieved her suffering. She is resting in the cemetery at that place. Father had to leave the last of the surviving nephews, Fietsam, in the tender care of the Jones family, where he speedily recovered his health. It was in September when we arrived at New Braunfels under the able guidance of Mr. Katerle, the trip taking fully three months. Soon after getting to New Braunfels my other sister, Barbara, died and was buried at the cemetery in New Braunfels.

Fifty-six years have passed since those eventful days. My days have been filled with joys and sorrows, but I very well recollect the happenings undimmed and clear. My aim in putting this down on paper is mainly to remind the youth of today that they owe to the pioneers all honor and respect for blazing the trail for their own prosperity and the wonderful developments the country now enjoys.

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WHITE MEN ATE NIGGER MEAT

2017-08-13

J. Marvin Hunter, Sr.

From J. Marvin Hunter’s Frontier Times Magazine, May, 1949

Austin Callan, well known Texas writer, recently contributed the following article to the San Angelo Standard, which tells of a Menard county pioneer's harrowing experience in eating human flesh. Mr. Callan says:

"There are memorable names connected with the early history of West Texas. I like to think and I like to talk of them. They were great guys, living in a great section of a great state. Just now I am thinking of a remarkable man I knew in boyhood. He had a great heart and a great mind. His name was Adam Bradford. He lived in the Menard area for many years, sweetening the people with honey, making them laugh at his wit, and meeting every obligation of a good man at all times.

"One day we were talking about the Southwest and its noble foundation pillars, and he reminded me that there were 'giants' among the early settlers. He recalled rugged, rough and tumble men who were at match for highwaymen, rattlesnakes, or anything else tough that roamed the sunset valleys when not a single man had his permanent dwelling between the wilds of New Mexico and the Concho river.

"At the time of my meeting with Bradford, he was 75 years of age and that was more than 50 years ago. He told me of a venture of his boyhood, which took place out on the lone prairie now more than 100 years ago. He went on some kind of a mission to Santa Fe, and was returning to West Texas when his party came upon a wagon load of negroes, seated around a fire eating some delicious looking 'beef steak.' His party was invited to dismount and have supper. They were hungry and readily accepted the hospitality. It was near sundown and they staked out their horses and made down their beds.

"Little did any of us think how in the midst of the desert those darkeys managed to acquire such nice meat," Bradford said. "But we didn't much care how they did. The main thing was that they did, and we would share it with them."

"The next morning Bradford arose early, and began looking for his horse. He saw the animal grazing back of a little thicket nearby and on reaching that thicket a ghastly scene was presented to his amazed eyes. A partly carved up Negro lay on the ground. He was horrified to think of having spent the night in such a camp. As far as I know that was the only evidence of human eating human ever recorded in Texas. I think it was a true story for no man ever accused Bradford of a falsehood. He came into this Western section as a boy and lived to a ripe old age among the people who honored him with their confidence."

The parents of the editor of Frontier Times moved to Menardville in 1884. Adam Bradford was living there at the time, and he died there in 1902 or 1903, at the ripe age of 89 years, honored and respected by everybody in Menard county. The writer has heard him relate many of his thrilling experiences with Indians. In regard to the "nigger" episode, Mr. Callan does not mention that when Bradford and his companion made the gruesome discovery, which indicated that "nigger meat" had been served, their rage was furious and the three negroes in the camp paid the extreme penalty for their cannibalism.

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BLOODY KATE BENDER OF KANSAS

2017-08-02

By Roscoe Logue

J. Marvin Hunter’s Frontier Times Magazine, March, 1944

In the spring of 1871 the Bender family moved to the southeastern portion of Kansas and homesteaded. In the main they were an uncouth, unsociable German family of four, the elderly parents, their queer son, John, and a 20-year-old daughter, Kate. She was the exception, brilliant, sociable, and attractive in fact; seemingly such a contrast from the others one might suspicion that the stork on some tempestuous night in the confusion of hurried calls had delivered the wrong bundle. But she was a decoy and a snare—the plotter—the master mind. Her bosom nursed as foul a heart as ever fiction painted, a ghoul haunting the darkest recesses of Hell's Half Acre.

This family was destined to make history for the Sunflower State so bloodcurdling and ghastly that men to this day shudder when they hear the story of the "house of Horrors" which might have added to the name of "Bleeding Kansas." Kate was the backbone, the brains, and the central figure in this dismal and benighted role. Where they came from nobody knew, and typical of sparsely settled communities, it was "nobody's business." About 14 miles east of Independence they erected their cabin "by the side of the road." But not to "view the races of men go by." They did not go by, at least not all of them. The westbound travelers with wagons and teams or saddle horses, sometimes loaded with bags of gold and silver bullion, passing through the community, suddenly disappeared as if taken to heaven in a whirlwind. Local inhabitants were never harmed, as the family desired to be in "good standing" in the community wherein they resided. A strange paradox— the closer one was to danger the more secure he was. Their only victims were those traveling alone from afar headed for the frontier and beyond communication and who they thought would never be traced to their door.

The Bender's domicile was evidently carefully planned before their arrival to that treeless, windswept prairie. They easily picked a location beyond the view of their nearest neighbor, who was miles away. Their long, rough board shanty was divided into two rooms by stretching a wagon sheet across the center. The back room was the kitchen, and a table was placed next to the canvas partition with a bench between, so close that one's form in sitting down could be plainly seen to an observer in the next room. Their invisible means of support was camouflaged by a crude sign nailed over the door advertising "Groceries." They also solicited night lodgers, which had an appealing tone to the tired, dusty wayfarer along that lonesome road.

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There was another gruesome detail of that "haunted hut"—the pit. A trap door was put in the floor, over which was placed their huge, legless cook stove. This dropped abruptly into a cellar large enough to dump a corpse temporarily. A well was dug and a barn erected. An orchard, an untimely thing to the average nester, was set out, which they kept freshly harrowed and cultivated to a fault. Everything was then in readiness for the fearful tragedies to come.

Two years elapsed before the Benders were suspicioned as being a lurking evil in the community. Neighbors, however, in those days did not assail each other on mere suspicion, but after repeated inquiries had been made concerning parties that were supposed to have passed that way, the leary populace shunned the place as they would "pestilence and death." That entire end of the State became alarmed. It seemed as if some power, invisible, yet dimly sensed, had settled over the community to direct this gruesome work, unseen, unheard and unmolested. It was a "port of missing men." But "murder will out." The blood of murdered men seemingly cries from the ground. However when danger was scented on every hand the neighbors were loath to believe that these neighbors, with whom they had visited and traded, could be such fiends.

But the fatal day came to the Benders, and strangely, without a tint of local color. One Dr. York of Independence was the last victim of their lust for blood. He had been visiting in Fort Scott and was returning home. On entering the realm of the Benders he too, disappeared from the face of the earth. He had a brother, Colonel York, prominent in the high legal and political circles of the State, and was of the type that would not allow a calamity of this magnitude to go unsolved or unavenged. He was satisfied that the Doctor had not passed the Bender "dead line," so he gathered a posse and started for the Bender home. He questioned and cross-questioned Kate and John, and not being prepared for this unexpected visit their stories varied, and Kate was terribly upset. She talked glibly, acknowledged that he had been there, told of his resting awhile, purchasing some sardines and riding away. Colonel York knew human nature as he did legal terms; he had the experience, and every word, look or gesture, and the general uneasiness and resentful looks of the parents, sealed his conviction that on that spot his brother was cast into eternity Kate changed the subject to occult powers in which she claimed to be marvelously gifted. She was not "in tune" at that moment, but if he would return later all alone she would proffer this service to help locate his brother, and manifested much concern over his disappearance. Even if Kate had possessed genuine faith in the success of her "seance," this proposition sealed her already impending doom. It struck Colonel York as a wail issuing from the dark ages or trying to sidestep him by chicanery. The posse rode away. Naturally now the extermination of the Benders was as light a task as cleaning out a den of luckless coyotes.

At this stage there was a lull in the activities surrounding the Bender tragedy, and after two weeks the report came that the Benders had fled from the country and that the possemen had shifted from the scene.

A crowd gathered at the deserted home. Many opinions and solutions were offered, but finding the doors locked they did not touch a thing. A report was received that an unattended wagon and team was found on the outskirts of Thayer, the nearest passenger station. It was immediately identified as belonging to the Bender outfit. It was now known that the Benders were either killed or were in flight. People from all parts of Eastern Kansas came to help clear up the mystery. The house was broken into and the first thing discovered was the foul, stench-laden pit. Near an apple tree in the garden, which had not been cultivated during their absence, the loose dirt of the last grave had settled below the hard dirt of the bank and betrayed what was once a 3x6 excavation. This was dug into, and Dr. York's body was unearthed. Eight more bodies were uncovered in the orchard, and the body of a little girl was found in the well; she had apparently been thrown in alive. The others had had their heads caved in and their throats cut. This latter was apparently the handiwork of Kate. They had been robbed and partially disrobed, and thrown in face downward.

The Benders seated their victims with back to the curtain. Kate would entertain and wait upon them, and when the imprint of their head bulged through the curtain they were slugged with a heavy iron hammer found in the front room, then the body was dumped into the pit until a favorable time for burial. Then in the darkest hours of the night the victim was removed from the pit and buried in the garden. Harrowing followed, which brought the soil to a uniform level and freshness.

The Benders, though diligently hunted, did not leave a trace behind. Whether they fled through fear of a mob, and had two weeks the start, or —well, let us read between the lines:

Colonel York was seeking the murderers of his brother; he was not the type to leave a beast unslaughtered that had spilled his nearest kinsman's blood, and the lethargy of the neighborhood spurred hint on an individual course, common in the pioneer west. It is not logical to believe that the posse rode away that evening without further action and evince the calm unconcern that they did following the Benders' disappearance. It is known that Colonel York, after his visit to that "neck of the woods," manifested a silent satisfaction over their supposed flight. He was prominent in matters of state and had no desire for publicity in connection with a justifiable gang slaying. Supposedly they returned at some timely hour between dusk and dawn to the Bender house, and dealt gently but firmly with the family, who were convinced by their grim, determined looks, that they meant business; ordered John to book up the team, which would suggest flight; had Kate to lock the doors to postpone the discovery that they were really gone forever; and when once out in the darkness, in some lonely spot, where the foot of man would not tread for years, inflicted the same fate, justifiably, that the "killers" had so often inflicted atrociously upon others. Then the wagon and team was driven to Thayer and abandoned. Four people, two appearing to be women, boarded the train for a certain town, but got off at another. This was so cleverly carried out that York was never generally or publicly accused.

The morbidly curious in quest of the gruesome still probe about the old Bender home site. They might think that in the Benders' hurried departure they had left buried some of their ill-gotten gold. This isolated prairie home was a true likeness of the Devil's own workshop; a gloomy picture, sitting as the "death trap," the pit representing the bloody morgue, and the orchard as the ghost-haunted reposing ground for skeletons and the decaying bodies of human beings. A ghastly setting, befitting the obnoxious tastes of the brutal Benders. Thus, as a warning to all evil doers, passes this ill-fated family that paid the penalty which Providence inevitably invokes when principle and human rights are disrespected.

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WHEN MEN BECOME BEASTS - Brutal Lynching, Paris TX, 1893

2017-07-28

From J. Marvin Hunter’s Frontier Times Magazine, April, 1934

THERE ARE TIMES when the frenzied mob knows no law when men's reason seems to be thrown to the winds, and vengeance swift and terrible is meted out to a beast in human form, as was the case in the burning of the Texas negro near Paris, Texas, in 1893. This horrible gruesome affair is vividly remembered by many people yet living in, the State, for it was given wide publicity in the newspapers at the time. The little three-year-old daughter of Sheriff Vance was carried away from home, and two days later was found murdered, hidden away, after having been brutally mistreated. The negro, Henry Smith, who afterwards confessed to the crime, had assisted in the search for the missing child. As soon as suspicion pointed to him as being the murderer he was arrested and made a full confession. A mob soon gathered and the negro was taken out and burned at the stake. The scene and manner of his death was described in an article which appeared in the San Antonio Express at the time, and is as follows:

"On a large cotton float a box had been placed and on top of that a chair. Here Smith was placed and securely bound, then surrounded by armed men to prevent an outburst from individuals, he was driven slowly to the public square, around it, and out to place of death. Thousands followed the doomed man in his ride of despair, and the streets were lined with other thousands watching it pass. It was solemn, as befitted a cortege of death. Limp and quivering in terror, his face drawn and distorted and ashen with the agony of thought and the horror of his impending doom, the figure of Henry Smith was an awful sight but at the thought of pity up rose a vision of that other innocent torn and outraged form that he had wrought.

"Out on the bare prairie, where stood scattering bois d'arc shrubs, the scaffold had been built. Four uprights supported ten feet square, railed in except on the south side, where a stair ascended. In its center a strong post was set and braced on the other side.

"As the wagon approached Henry Vance, the father of Smith's victim appeared on the platform and asked the crowd, now densely packed for hundreds away and numbering 10,000 people, to be quiet; that he wanted a while to get his vengeance, and then he would turn him over to anyone that wanted him. Here came the wagon and Smith was carried up of the platform and stripped to the waist and placed against the stake. His legs and arms and body were securely corded to it and he was delivered to Vance's vengeance and to expiate his crime.

"A tinner's furnace was brought on filled with irons heated white. Taking one Vance thrust it under first one and then the other side his victim's feet, who helplessly writhed as the flesh scarred and peeled from the bones. Slowly, inch by inch, up his leg the iron was drawn and redrawn, only the nervous jerking twist of the muscles showing the agony being induced. When his body was reached and the iron was pressed to the most tender part of his body he broke silence, for the first time and a prolonged scream of agony rent the air. Slowly across the body, slowly upward traced the irons, the withered, scarred flesh marking the progress of the awful punishment. By turns Smith screamed, prayed, begged and cursed his torturers. When his face was reached his tongue was silenced by fire and thenceforth he only moaned or gave a cry that echoed over the prairie like the wail of a wild animal.

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"Then his eyes were put out and not a finger breadth of his body being unscorched his executioners gave way. They were Vance, his father-in-law and Vance's son, a boy of 15 years of age. When they gave over punishing Smith they left the platform.

"Smith and his clothing about his lower limbs were saturated with oil as was the body and platform. The place beneath was filled with combustibles and the whole was saturated with oil and fire simultaneously set to his feet and the stack below.

"A cold, sleeting rain had been falling since noon. Silhouetted against the dark leaden sky the platform loomed bare and gaunt and above it a head drooped on a breast and blackened and scorched was the body and so still was it that all believed him dead. Slowly the flames crawled up his limbs and wrapped him in their blueish veil. A moment they burned and the head slowly raised and a broken quivering cry broke the breathless silence and was echoed back by shouts and cries from the more thoughtless below. Then the cords binding the arms burned and he raised the crisped and blackened stumps to wipe the sightless sockets of his eyes. Then burned the cords about the waist and he toppled forward upon the platform and lay there writhing and quivering in the greedy flames that thrust through the crevices. One foot was still fast and held him on the bed of flames. With one supreme effort the body, still animated by the supreme desire of escape, rolled over on its face, rose upon its arms, reached up and caught the railing and with a convulsing effort tore the bound leg loose and stood reeling on the stumps of its feet, raised itself nearly upright against the railing and then sitting upon the burning platform, its head and arms lying upon the railing and the legs dangling over the edge and there hung a moment though, as this had nearly exhausted its little strength.

“Then, as the flames swirled around him, by another effort he slipped over the edge and fell to the ground. It lay still but was thrust into the mass of fire beneath the scaffold from which it came, in a few minutes crawling out only to be thrust back again and the debris of the fire was piled on top and so did death come to Henry Smith.

"Every scrap of his clothing was eagerly sought by relic hunters and when the flames had at length died away the charred fragments of his bones were raked out and carried away."

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A TRAGIC EXPEDITION

2017-06-09

From J. Marvin Hunter’s Frontier Times Magazine, May, 1929

This Narrative of Fremont's Retreat From the San Luis Valley is Given as told by Thos. E. Breckenridge, a Survivor of the Expedition, to J. W. Freeman and Chas. W. Watson.

Our expedition left Westport, now called Kansas City, October 19, 1848, and followed the line afterwards pursued by the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railroad, to Fort Bend on the Arkansas River. At Fort Bend we found "Old Bill" Williams, one of the oldest mountaineers and guides in the West, a man of forty years' experience in the mountains and among the tribes which inhabited the country between the Pacific coast and the Mississippi river. Williams had been with Fremont's Topographical Corps on its trip from St. Louis to Sutter's Fort, California, in 1845. He was engaged by Fremont to guide our expedition, although he disagreed with Fremont in regard to the route to be followed.

The route outlined by Col. Fremont and Senator Benton led to Pueblo in the Arkansas Valley, thence to Hardscrabble, and over the West Mountain and the Sangre de Cristo range, striking the Rio Grande, which was to be followed to its source.

After resting one day at Fort Bend, we resumed the journey up the Arkansas Valley, reaching Pueblo, which consisted of half a dozen adobe houses.. We then pushed in a southwesterly direction about forty-five miles to Hardscrabble, where we stopped a week to recuperate and prepare for severe work in the mountains. The weather was unusually cold for the month of November, and the snow fell almost daily during our stay in camp.

Until we reached the summit of Wet Mountain, our party consisted of thirty-three men but at that point, Dick Wooton, one of Colorado's pioneers who had joined us at Fort Bend, turned back. After a good long look at the valley below and the snow-capped Sangre de Cristo mountains beyond, he exclaimed: "There is too much snow ahead for me", and immediately mounted his horse and disappeared down the mountain toward Hardscrabble, That was the last we saw of Dick Wooton. I have always since thought that Wooton's head was level on the subject of mountain travel in the winter.

After crossing the Sangre de Cristo range our stock was put on short rations, only one quart of corn a day being allowed to each animal. The men fared no better, as our flour was exhausted; but we thought we would find an abundance of wild game when we reached the valley of the Rio Grande, since called San Luis Valley, as well as plenty of grass for the stock. We were continually searching for something better, and the conditions were daily growing worse.

It was hard work pushing through the heavy snowdrifts, but the men worked cheerily, although we advanced only five or six miles a day. Our clothing was seldom dry and the snow fell continually. Little did we imagine the suffering that was before us.

On reaching the valley of the Rio Grande we found the snow about three feet deep. The weather had changed; it was very cold, and the northwest wind blew the snow in great clouds; but we pushed on, beating trails for the stock in the hope of reaching the Rio Grande as soon as possible, where we thought we would find grass for the stock. Our march to the river was very slow on account of the keen, piercing wind blowing the snow in our faces, the stock continually trying to turn around and go back to the trail. It seems to me those mules had a premonition of their fate. Animal instinct had forewarned them of the suffering in store in the gloomy mountains at the head of the Rio Grande. We could see the storm clouds approaching from the west, a great dark barrier rolling toward us.

Just before we reached the river, about three o'clock in the morning, we were aroused from our sleep by the announcement that our mules were gone. They had stampeded, and three of us were detailed to follow. It was intensely cold, but we immediately struck their trail, and at the end of four hours we overtook them. There were no prayers said in driving those mules back to camp. We reached the river only to find it frozen over and snow fully as deep as any place in the valley. The heavy storms had driven the game away and the snow covered the grass to such an extent that it was impossible for the mules to get even a mouthful to eat. The outlook was gloomy, indeed, but there was no grumbling among the men.

In camp there was a disagreement between Colonel Fremont and Williams. Williams was a man that said but little, but he was a long time with Fremont that night and when we turned in (we bunked together) he said they had disagreed in regard to which route we should follow. He said the snow was deeper and the weather more severe than he had ever known it to be before. He said he advised a route out of our difficulties, to go south around the San Juan Mountains, and then west along what is now the line between Colorado and New Mexico.

We pushed up the river, plunging through the snow and making but slow progress. Our provisions were almost gone, and we were obliged to do what had been done in 1845 in Nevada—Kill and eat the pack-animals. We would camp early and climb the cottonwood trees that grew along the river, cutting off the branches to feed the mules.

We continued to advance up the river, the snow growing deeper day by day. The weather was terribly cold and many of the men were frostbitten. We could see the mountains ahead, and on account of their tremendous height and distance, we felt it would be impossible to cross the range. Colonel Fremont knew it too, for he talked to Williams again, and Williams advised returning to the Sagauche, or south to New Mexico; but Colonel Fremont thought he could make a short cut over the La Garita Mountains and accomplish the same thing, for we turned north, left the Rio Grande, and began to ascend the mountains, following a little stream which I now think is Embargo Creek. Our trail lay through deep mountain gorges and among towering crags and steep declivities, which at any other time of the year, would have been dangerous to traverse, Several of our animals stumbled and fell headlong over the cliffs and were dashed to pieces on the rocks. To make matters worse it had commenced snowing again. It seemed as if the elements were against us, but the men held up well, and although all were more or less frozen, I cannot remember hearing one word of grumbling. Men would push ahead and make a trail until tired out when others would take their places. At night, all wet to the skin, we would gather around the great campfires, cook and eat our mule meat, and then wrapping ourselves in wet blankets, would go to sleep.

I have spent many winters in the mountains but have never experienced storms similar to these. On the seventeenth day of December, after many ineffectual attempts to force our way up the mountains, we found it impossible to make further headway. We remained in camp several days hoping the storm would cease, living on the carcasses of the faithful mules that had died from the cold and hunger. The storm continued night and day. It was impossible to see in any direction, for the high wind filled the air with drifting snow at all times. We could hear the roar of the snow slides as they rushed from the steep sides of the mountain peaks to the valleys below, carrying everything before them. Sometimes they were far away, at other times so close that the sound was like the crash of artillery. It is impossible for one who has never been placed in a similar position to imagine the state of terror we were in during our stay in that camp. Rightly it has been named "Camp Desolation."

We lived in holes dug in the snow, with campfires in the center. There were several such fires, and each camp was separate, as the snow was so deep that the men could not look into the next pit. We had as provisions for thirty-two men, probably fifty pounds of sugar about as much coffee, and a small quantity of macaroni and candles. I mention the candles as provisions for they were afterward found to be a luxury indeed. Our staff of life consisted of frozen mule meat. It was soon evident that to remain in camp meant to us starvation and death, and it became our main topic of conversation how to get relief. The snow growing deeper day by day, our hope of relief ever growing less, as our poor pack animals were dying fast. They had absolutely nothing to eat, and had eaten each other's manes and tails until there was not a hair left, At night their cries of hunger but added to the horror of our situation.

Finally Christmas eve came. We had been in camp eighty days, when Colonel Fremont sent for me to come to his tent. He had been studying the situation and our chances for escape. He admitted that the situation was very serious, but he was not despondent. He had a plan which he thought would give us relief if carried out. "Breckenridge," he said, "we have been in many tight places together, and I know you are one of the hardest, toughest men I have, and you are able to endure more than the average man; but what I shall ask of you will try both your nerve and endurance to the utmost. Relief we must have, and as soon as possible, and a small party can get along faster than a large one; therefore, I have concluded to send yourself, Kreutzfelt, and Bill Williams, under King, down the river for relief. King, Kreutzfeldt and Williams have volunteered—now will you go?" I said, "I will go. If anyone can make the trip, I can." He then said he thought Taos was probably the nearest point where we could get aid, and the distance was, as near as we could estimate, about one hundred and eighty miles.

In the morning we were ready to start. On account of the depth of the snow, we planned to carry as little weight as possible with us. We took one blanket apiece, a few pounds of sugar, a little macaroni, and a few candles. We had three Hawkins' rifles, and one pound of powder. We also had one shotgun. With this equipment our little band of four was to start on a desperate trip of one hundred and eighty miles, on foot, in the dead winter, through the roughest country of America. I will never forget that Christmas breakfast. We had no luxuries, but plenty of variety, especially in meats. The bill of fare was not prepared for the occasion, being in use every day.

BILL OF FARE - CAMP DESOLATION December 25, 1848.

MENU Mule

SOUP Mule Tail

FISH Baked White Mule Boiled Gray Mule

MEATS Mule Steak. Fried Mule. Mule Chops. Broiled Mule. Stewed Mule. Boiled Mule. Scrambled Mule. Shirred Mule. French-fried Mule. Minced Mule.

DAMNED Mule. Mule on Toast (without the toast) Short Ribs of Mule with Apple Sauce (without the apple sauce)

RELISHES Black Mule, Brown Mule, Yellow, Bay Mule, Roan Mule, Tallow Candles.

BEVERAGES Snow, Snow-Water, Water

It really made no difference how our meats were cooked, it was the same old mule.

Before our departure I handed Colonel Fremont a sack, which every man was supposed in those days to carry, called a "possible sack". I told the colonel that in the sack was all the money I had, $1200.00 in Spanish doubloons, and I wished him to take charge of it, and bring it out with him when he came, and if anything should happen to me to send the money to my father in St. Louis. Colonel Fremont promised this, saying, "If anything happens, and it is lost, I will see that the money is made good to you."

The sack with the coin was left behind when Colonel Fremont broke camp. Human life at that time was of more value than Spanish coin. I have never had the loss made good to me by the government as promised. The following spring several men who did not wish to go on to California were sent into the mountains to the old camp to recover such property as had been left there. Bill Williams was in the party. They secured valuables, but on their return trip were attacked by a band of Indians and the entire party was massacred.

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The first day out we advanced about five miles and at night camped under a large tree, making a fire of such dry limbs as we were able to break from the trunk, We slept but little on account of the intense cold. In the morning, after eating scant rations, we rolled our blanket s around the little store of provisions and were ready for another day's journey. By accident the sugar was tipped over in the snow and lost—to our great misfortune.

The second day's travel was about the same as the first. We camped at night under a pinyon tree, where we suffered greatly from the cold. The next morning the storm showed signs of abating. When ready to start, I found that my feet were numb, but we had not gone far before they began to warm up and I discovered from the peculiar, painful pricking sensation that they were frostbitten.

We reached the river about four o'clock in the afternoon of the third day as hungry as wolves. Two tallow candles, the last of our supplies, had served as breakfast hours before. This situation was growing desperate. We had traveled in three days but a short part of our journey, and there was not an ounce of food in sight. Before night I had the good fortune to kill a small hawk, which was cooked and divided among the four of us. The meal was rather limited and a trifle tough, but in our condition we could not afford to be particular.

We found some drift wood and kindled a good fire, but that was the only comfort. Starvation and death had begun to stare at us. In the morning we awoke early, stirred the fire, took a drink of water for breakfast, and set out. The progress was slow on account of frostbitten feet, At noon, in the absence of dinner, we buckled up our belts a couple of holes. In the afternoon the carcass of an otter was noticed on the ice. It did not take long to start a fire and cook a delicious morsel, though it was, by long odds, the gamiest I ever attempted to swallow.

As we struggled down the river, our feet became so sore and inflamed from freezing that we were obliged to sacrifice a portion of our blankets to wrap around them. We did not throw our boots away, but carried them along, suspecting that they might come into use for roasts, when we got so hungry that we could endure no longer. That night one of them was browned very nicely over the fire.

For days we had nothing to eat but parched leather. My memory is clouded concerning a portion of the time, so near was I to death, but to the best of my recollection, we lived eight days on our boots, belts and knife scabbards. It is an utter impossibility to describe the agony of those days.

On the afternoon of the last day before leaving the river, we had noticed Williams looking out toward the east with his hand over his eyes. We asked no explanation, knowing that if he had any information to impart we would receive it in due time.

That night while we were sitting despondently around the campfire, Bill said, "Boys, you saw me looking down the river this afternoon. Well, the river, just below where we are, makes a great oxbow bend. The distance across the neck between the rivers is about fifteen miles. The distance around by the river is much greater. My advice is to cross this neck, and not try to go round, and I have good reasons for asking you to take this course. This afternoon I saw smoke down the river bend. At first I was not sure, it was so thin and hazy, but later I became sure it was smoke, and boys, it don't come from the campfire of a white man—it is the smoke of an Indian camp, and if these are Indians on the bend, they are Utes."

We were glad to hear him say that they were Utes; we knew that Bill had lived among this tribe and could speak their language, and I had heard that he had a squaw among them. We would engage them to go back with us to the camp in the mountains and rescue our comrades.

Bill sat with his head between his hands for a long time as if in deep thought. Then he looked up and said, "I have and explanation to make. When I was a young man I was adopted by the Utes and lived among them. I was sent to Taos for supplies for my friends and was betrayed on a drunken spree. It was during this I blindly led the soldiers against my comrades. It was the meanest act of my life. For my treachery, every Ute Indian seeks my scalp".

It is needless to say that we crossed the loop, but that fifteen miles seemed to stretch out to eternity. In that distance were crowded in all the agonies of hell. The weather had cleared up, causing us to suffer from snow blindness. Only those who have been similarly affected can appreciate what agony this means. There was no timber or wood of any description to make a fire. At night we would pack the snow down and make a hole. In this we would spread a blanket; then sitting in a circle, with our feet together, we would draw the remaining part of the blanket over our head to shelter us from the piercing wind. Every day our blankets grew smaller. Those around our feet would wear out, and we were obliged to tear off new strips to protect them. God only knows how we suffered down in those holes in the snow. Sleep was out of the question except for a few minutes at a time.

Through the day we went staggering in, limping and toiling and growing weaker every day. We talked but little, and suffered in silence. I do not recollect that there was ever a word of regret for having started on this mission to do or die. Our stock of burnt boots was now gone. We began to chew the leather of our knife scabbards as we staggered on. When these were gone, we began on our belts.

There was no game in sight, although we still carried our guns. During those terrible days, while crossing this fifteen miles of snow, our one thought was to get to the river where we pictured game in plenty. When we were within a quarter of a mile of the river, King stopped and said, "I can go no further, I am sorry, but I am tired out, and will sit here until I am rested. When I am a little rested, I will follow."

We urged the poor fellow to make one more effort, offering to assist him, and telling him that when we reached the river the worst part of the journey would be over, and we should find plenty of game. Knowing that he was starving we tried to stimulate him with the hope of a good meal. It was of no use. He was even then too far gone. Poor King. He was about to cross that other river from whose bourne no traveler returns. Sadly we left him lying in the trail, "to rest," as he said, but "at rest" would more properly convey the idea of our feeling.

It required two hours to traverse that quarter of a mile. We suffered the greatest agony with our frozen feet. At last we arrived at the river about four o'clock in the afternoon, and setting fire to a large heap of driftwood hugged it close for warmth. We could not but think of King, and Kreutzfeldt volunteered to go back and help him into camp. Williams declared the exertion would be useless. He knew King was dead even before we reached the river. I asked him why and learned that while we were toiling through the snow he had looked back and seen a raven circling over the place where we had left our comrade. The circles had grown smaller and smaller, until the bird lit on the snow where King lay. This was a sign of death, which Williams declared he had never known to fail. Kreutzfeldt, however, was determined to go.

When he returned after some hours he reported that King was dead, and from the position of the body evidently had not moved after we left him. Kreutzfeldt now became very despondent. His mind seemed to dwell upon the poor fellow's death. When he had approached King he thought the latter was asleep, and was much startled to find his old companion dead. I could see that shock was affecting his mind. He could talk of nothing else.

That night I dreamed of mother's kitchen at Christmastime; of the roast meats and turkeys, the pumpkin pies and the cakes and fruit. Then I would awake to experience the terrible feeling of emptiness, the indescribable painful craving for food.

In the morning we broke camp and started down the river, not caring if we were alive by night. At this time I was the strongest of the party, so I went ahead and broke the trail. Toward night Kreutzfeldt played out entirely, and lying down, refused to go further. Before we had left the camp in the mountains we had agreed that if any of our party gave out, no time should be wasted on him. We were to push on and leave him to his fate.

But we concluded to wait for a short time and do what we could for our comrade. There was driftwood a few rods away which we set afire. Kreutzfeldt was dragged and rolled to a position near the fire.

Williams and I concluded that Kreutzfeldt would die before morning, and that we could do no good by staying. It was a very trying time. Williams being the older man, I was willing to do as he advised. His plan was for me to go on down the river, and in the course of time he would slip quietly away from Kreutzfeldt and follow.

I started on sorrowfully, so weak that I could walk but a few steps at a time without falling. Then I would crawl on my hands and knees until it was a relief to walk again. After going a short distance I went to the bank of the river, hoping I might see some kind of game. Putting some snow on my eyes to cool them, so that I could see, I raised my head cautiously above the bank and saw distinctly five deer but a few yards away, standing sideways to me.

I have been in many trying situations in my life, and in many places where death stared me in the face, but there was more excitement crowded into that moment than in all of the other years of my life put together. There they stood—what if they should run away. This was the supreme moment. Life or death rested on that shot. Usually I had plenty of nerve, but now, weakened by starvation and nearly blind, I had scarcely the strength to lift my rifle, when I did so I could not see through the sights on the barrel, I realized that if I missed that shot, Williams and Tom Breckenridge would never leave the Rio Grande Valley. Suddenly I thought of poor Kreutzfeldt, there in the snow, dying. I trembled like an aspen leaf. If I brought down one of the deer, his life would be saved. My nerves were steady on the instant. I would shoot and shoot to kill. I dashed more snow into my eyes, and pushing my rifle up over the bank, pointed it at the direction of the deer, and pulled the trigger. I was so weak from excitement that I could not walk, and I crawled out on the bank. To my inexpressible delight one deer was down. It proved to he a three-pronged buct. I was momentarily insane for joy. I cut the deer open, and tearing out its liver, devoured it as ravenously as I have seen hungry wolves devour the flesh of a buffalo. It was the sweetest morsel I ever ate.

With my knife I cut off a piece and started back stronger, a hundred times stronger, than when I crawled up the bank on my hands and knees. I had never lost hope, but now it was supreme within me. I was a new man. I could have danced for joy had it not been for my poor mutilated feet.

I hastened up the river where I had left Kreutzfeldt by the fire, carrying the venison with me. Williams was the happiest man I ever saw when his eyes fell on my burden. He came and took the meat in his long bony hands, and began tearing off great mouthfuls of the raw flesh like a savage animal. I hurried on to poor Kreutzfeldt. Poor fellow, there was but little life left. After a while he roused up and asked if he had not heard the report of a gun. I held the meat to his mouth. The change was instantaneous. It put new life into him. He seemed to be dazed. All at once it seemed to occur to him that we were saved. He sprang to his feet and hugged and kissed me, calling me his savior and preserver, and exhibiting more strength than one would expect in a man who had lain down to die. Moving our camp nearer the spot where the deer was killed, we built another fire. Kreutzfeldt was so elated over his meal of raw meat that he went out and brought in the carcass of the deer, a piece at a time, entrails and all. We felt that we might have use for everything.

That night we were three of the happiest men on earth. We sat up and cooked venison until midnight then turned in to our remnants of blankets. We cooked and ate deer meat all the next day. Strange to say, none of us were inconvenienced in the least from overeating.

While we were making ready to start the next morning, we saw a party of four coming on horseback from the river. On the instant all was excitement. It was natural for us to suppose they were Indians, and if so, it meant fight. To be sure we were outnumbered, but we felt strong now after our feasting, and just a bit inclined for a skirmish, and as we placed ourselves in positions that would give us the most advantages, Williams remarked that when the fight was over the Indians would have more hair or we would have more blankets.

We watched the party as it came slowly on. Suddenly Williams rose to his feet and shouted to the top of his lungs.

At the head of the party was Fremont himself. At first he did not recognize us, so changed and emaciated we were. Fremont's party had left the camp in the mountains with the intention of following the river, for they had confidence that we would eventually reach the settlement, His men were scattered along the river, suffering the terrible agonies of cold and hunger. Fremont had met a party of six Ute Indians who were trapping on the river. He sent their ponies and such provisions as they could spare, with one of their number as guide, back to the relief of his men now pushing on as fast as possible in search of further assistance,

Fremont remained just long enough to cook some venison, then pushed on, ordering us to follow as fast as we could, to the settlement which the Utes said was about forty miles down the stream, and leaving ten or fifteen pounds of jerked venison.

We immediately started on our journey) strong in the faith that we could get through—full of hope. Only forty miles! The distance was nothing—we felt strong.

But our frozen feet soon gave out. We were compelled to get down on our hands and knees. For nearly the entire distance we crawled through ice or snow. Before half the distance was covered our remnants of blankets had been used to wrap our frozen limbs. Our suffering was almost beyond description. Those who have been affected by snow blindness can appreciate our position. Our feet had been so frozen and thawed that the flesh had come off. It was a painful operation to dress those horrible sores. We were obliged to use day after day the same old pieces of woolen blankets covered with deer's tallow. Truly, that last forty miles was a trail of blood. It required ten days to reach the settlement—ten days of most excruciating pain. Looking back, after so many years, I cannot understand how we lived through it.

We finally reached the settlement, about ten o'clock at night. The people had been expecting us, as Fremont and his party had stopped there and informed them we were on the way. The settlement was located in a small valley, and called the "Red River Settlement." We were received very kindly by the Mexicans who did everything to alleviate our distress. The Alcalde's wife a Mexican woman, attended to our frozen limbs, bathing them several times a day in juniper tea. During the next three weeks the survivors of Colonel Fremont's party were brought in, many of them in a critical condition. When we first reached the Rio Grande there had been thirty-two of us — eleven had died from exposure and starvation.

I have been in the mountains many winters, but never experienced a storm that equaled in severity that of 1848.

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Mrs. Holmsley Went Up the Chisholm Trail.

2017-05-23

D. K. Doyle

From J. Marvin Hunter’s Frontier Times Magazine, July, 1927

Going up the Chisholm Trail with the cowboys and herds of cattle in the seventies.

Traversing the extensive, unpeopled stretches of country between the cattle ranges of Texas and the shipping points in Kansas when San Angelo was merely Concho Post and other flourishing towns of West Texas were as yet without beginning.

Meeting Indians and shooting buffalo on the way.

Traveling for miles where there were no signs of habitation and sometimes blazing new trails. Interesting experiences to be recalled by any man.

But it isn't a man; it's a woman.

Mrs. Minta Holmsley of Comanche is among those pioneers who recall with fond reminiscence, that they "went up the trail." So far as she knows there are only two women who can claim this distinction. The other is Mrs. Amanda Burks of Cotulla, vice president of the 0ld Trail Drivers' Association, and generally known as the "Queen of of the trail."

Mrs. Holmsley's husband, Captain James M. Holmsley, who died in 1882, was a very prominent cattleman and merchant in West Texas in the early days and the firm of Kingsberry & Holmsley made immense shipments of cattle .

On two of the trips Mrs. Holmsley accompanied her husband when the cattle were being driven to Kansas. One of them was over the old Chisholm Trail, but the other was over a new route and a large part of the time was spent in a buggy with her husband, ahead of the outfit, selecting the route over which they were to come.

On the drive which she speaks of, the cattle were divided into four herds with 2,200 head in each herd. There were five cooks along, and several bosses, a bookkeeper and the cowboys bringing the total number in the party to about 100. It was an interesting phase of pioneer life, never again to be duplicated.

While it was a pioneer life it was not so "primitive" in the sense that the term is so generally used, for on the trip over the Chisholm Trail, excepting such time as she chose to ride a cow pony, Mrs. Holmsley traveled in a $1,700 carriage that her husband had bought for her.

"And what was the big result of these trips?"' Aunt Minta asks. "Why to get my name in a medical journal in Kansas City," she answers her own question, since she knows you would never guess it.

One of the cooks went into the woods," she explains, "and got poisoned with poison oak. He was in a bad condition, with his whole body swollen from the poisoning. I went into the medicine box that was carried along with the outfit and got out the medicines that we had. I reasoned that cream of tartar was cooling, that sulphur would purify the blood and that salts would carry off the poison from the system. So I worked well together a mixture of cream of tartar, sulphur and salts and began to administer it. He showed improvement after the first dose and was soon well."

Going to Kansas City at the end of this trip, Mrs. Holmsley visited in the home of a doctor and his wife and there related her experience with her patient. That night the doctor attended a meeting of the medical society and the next she knew of it was to read, in the medical journal, much to her surprise, an account of her prescription and how it was originated.

She later used the same prescription with fine results when she found a poison oak victim when visiting in Fort Worth, she states with some pride.

On the latter of their trips, which was in 1877, when Capt. and Mrs. Holmsley were in advance of the outfit in their buggy one day, they saw, as they thought, Indians approaching them. Captain Holmsley raised his hat above his head in a signal which his Men understood to mean "come and come quick." The cowboys left their herds and came on the run arriving in a few minutes, but not before the couple had been faced by two men, one of whom they recognized, in an Indian disguise, as John Wesley Hardin, who had been widely known as a desperado and who was then under indictment in Comanche County for murder.

Hardin and his companion fled before the cowboys arrived, Mrs. Holmsley states, and Capt. Holmsley detailed a couple of men to follow them and report on their movements. They were traced to a railroad station and this eventually led to Hardin's capture in the same year in Florida.

But if these were only disguised as Indians, real Indians were to be met with just a little bit later, though still not such as to molest the party. Just about this time, says Mrs. Holmsley, they met with a band of several hundred unarmed Sioux Indians, some of those who at an earlier period fought with Sitting Bull when Custer was killed and who were then being taken to a reservation in the Indian Territory.

Robert T. Hill, now one of the prominent American geologists went with the Kingsberry & Holmsley outfit on this trip. Hill was then starting away to school. He had been working in a printing office in Comanche and was known as "the rock boy," since he spent his spare time in the hills examining the geological specimens of the country, and brought back many rocks to the printing office with him. "He had a pile of rocks as big as that bed and as high as the table”, said Mrs. Holmsley, recalling these reminiscences a few days ago. Hill wanted to go away to school and Capt. Holmsley encouraged him in the project, arranging for him to make the trip into Kansas with the cattle outfit as the beginning of his journey to school.

One day some grazing buffalo were sighted lit a distance and Capt. Holmsley and some of the others decided to go buffalo shooting. Mrs. Holmsley spoke of going, too, and Hill told her to get on his pony and threw a blanket over the saddle and Mrs. Holmsley mounted. "We rode sideways then because we didn't have any better sense", is an explanation interpolated by Aunt Minta at this point.

They rode toward the buffalo, undiscovered by them until they approached near enough to make a run upon them. Mrs. Holmsley was riding just behind the men, and just as spurs were put to the horses for the dash toward the buffalo, her pony ran into a deep buffalo trail, or rut, throwing the pony down and hurling the rider violently to the ground. She got up, remounted her pony and returned to camp, saying nothing there of what had happened. Her husband and the other men. intent upon their attack on the buffalo, had not seen the accident, nor noted her absence until she was well on her way back to camp. When they came back they asked her what was the matter and she told them she had a headache. "And that was the truth." she says, "for I certainly did have a headache when I got up from that fall." But she took care during the next few days that no one should see how her arm was bruised black and blue, and she never did tell her husband nor Hill nor any of the rest of them of the tumble that she and the pony had.

If action, near tragedy, suspense and a happy ending are the elements that make up a successful story, here they are found to be ready for some writer in the last incident to be related concerning Mrs. Holmsley and the trips up the pioneer trails.

Arriving at EIlis, Kan., the steers for the markets had been placed in the cornfields of the country and kept there until in the winter. Mrs. Holmsley was at Ellis and Messrs. Holmsley and Kingsberry had gone to Kansas City, St. Louis or other points on business.

There was a ball one night at the hotel where Mrs. Holmsley was staying, and there was a deep snow outside. "I was on the ballroom floor," she relates, "with all my finest finery on, when a telegram for Kingsberry & Holmsley was brought to me. It was from a commission firm in Chicago, asking that the best steers be shipped at once, intimating that top prices could be gotten for them then, but that the market might be down soon. I didn't know where to find either Messrs. Kingsberry or Holmsley, but I thought it was time for action."

So, leaving the ballroom, out into the snow she went to find the railroad agent and arrange for cars. Then to a livery stable to get a buggy and make a twenty two mile drive to the cornstalk fields where the cattle were, to arouse the foreman and get him into action for the shipment. Returning to town, having made an all night job of her task, she looked after the sanding of the cars. Before a great while the several cars of cattle were on their way to Chicago.

Two or three days later Messrs. Kingsberry and Holmsley returned and simultaneously with their arrival came the news of the great break in the cattle market. You have ruined us! You have ruined us!!" they exclaimed when informed what the young Mrs. Holmsley had done.

They were the picture of gloom. They were the bluest looking men I ever saw," says Mrs. Holmsley, "and I stood there with them in the hotel feeling bluer than they looked for I certainly didn't want to ruin them."

While they were standing there a messenger boy came in with a telegram for Mrs. Holmsley. The telegram is as from the commission firm, congratulating her on having made one of the biggest and best sales that had been made in Chicago. The sale was consummated Iwo days before the market broke. If the "Ain't It a Grand and Glorious Feeling" artist had been at work then he would have had the best subject that has ever been his lot to work into a picture.

Mrs. Holmsley still lives in Comanche in the home that was built by her husband over fifty years ago, some six or seven years before his death.

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BIGFOOT WALLACE STUFFED WITH HICKORY NUTS

2016-12-30

By Chas. T. Carlton.

From Frontier Times Magazine, January, 1924

Yesterday, in San Antonio, I was standing on a street corner talking to a man from Mineral Wells. On the other side of the street was an old man waiting for a chance to cross the street. Once he was a young hero and often placed his life between the Indians and the homes of the early settlers of this section of the state. Today he is aged, grey, wears glasses and depends on a cane, but cars do not stop and give him a salute as they would Gen. Pershing. At last through the stream of swift-moving automobiles he sees a break and crosses over. As I met him he said in that winning, gentle voice of his, “Ah, my friend, I am glad to see you, I thought I would take a stroll up this way as a little exercise is good for me and I am on my way to town.” Then I said to him; “Captain Smith, this is my friend Dalton, who told me that his father was murdered by the Comanches as he was returning from a drive of cattle to Kansas City, within a few miles of home.”

Capt. Smith seemed to brighten up and began to relate some of the stirring things of his early days. He told of driving a herd of 500 wild cattle through the village of San Antonio and up to Leon Springs without the loss of one. A lady gave him a suit of clothes made from the cloth her mother wove, as an inducement to get him to drive the cattle. He also told this story of meeting with Bigfoot Wallace, which I give in his own language, as nearly as possible:

“When Texas was a young state in the 60’s and I was 15 years of age, we were living out about where Somerset is now, on a farm and as most of the men were in the army during the civil war, the defense of the home depended mostly on boys. The Comanche Indians made frequent raids into our section of the state coming down the Frio and Medina rivers during the full moon and stole and drove off our horses and often they would massacre men, women and children.

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“On this particular occasion I got all the boys that I could together and we scouted up the country in search of Indian signs and camped on the Chicon, 20 miles from Castroville. We had killed a maverick and were getting supper ready when Bigfoot Wallace came along, as he always did on such occasions, and took a hand in the proceedings. Many of the boys that were in this company were 14 years of age. After supper Bigfoot Wallace asked me who was in command of the outfit. I told him no one, that we just got together and started out to find some Indians. “Well,” he said, “you must be captain.’ I said, ‘Oh no!’ But he insisted and told the boys they ought to elect me captain and so they put it to a vote and I was elected captain and we organized a company of rangers there and then.

“Wallace told me that we ought to have a pack mule to take our things along and that there was one over there I might have it if we would go and get it. So we started out and hunted all day but never saw a sign of the mule. When we came in I told him about it and he said, ‘Well, I wanted you to have that mule. It belongs to Capt. Sam Lytle. He killed my dogs and I wanted to get even with him by giving you that mule.’ ‘No,’ I said, ‘you don’t; give me another man’s mule, I don’t want him.’

“After we had eaten our supper Bigfoot Wallace told us this experience he had with the Indians: ‘One evening I rode up to my shack as usual and tied my horse to the door and left the dogs outside with him and shut up everything tight and snug. Sometime during the night I heard the dogs whining and they kept it up. They could scent an Indian half a mile away and I knew something was wrong or they would not keep whining. I slipped over to the door and opened the portholes and looked out but could not see anyone or anything, but I was satisfied that there were some Indians around somewhere. I closed the porthole and went to moulding bullets for dear life. When daylight came I cautiously opened the door and looked out in every direction but saw nothing. Then I took my gun and buckled on my revolvers and went around the shack and down by the corral and found that all my horses were gone. The Indians had taken up four posts at the back side of the corral and cut the rawhide and let out all the horses and driven them away. I followed their trail a mile until I came to a mot of hickory and some distance away I saw a smoke. The ground where l was standing was covered with hickory nuts and I stooped and began filling my breeches and shirt with hickory nuts two or three inches thick all around my body. I was a sight and looked like a giant—could hardly waddle along. There was an old log lying near by and I led my horse up to it and managed to crawl through the high grass. When I came within good shooting distance I sorta raised up and saw two big bucks standing up and all the rest were down around the fire cooking their breakfast. I raised my old smooth bore rifle and drew a bead on the biggest of the two and let him have it. He jumped up in the air and yelled and he fell dead. I loaded me again while the whole bunch yelled and grabbed their bows and arrows. They tried to locate me, but they did not see the smoke in the grass. I raised up again and let the biggest one have the next shot and they saw the smoke and began circling around and shooting at me. I straightened up and pulled my two revolvers and they kept up a running fight. They must have shot a hundred arrows at me but they would strike the hickory nuts and bounce off. They must have thought I was the devil, for as soon as they had tied the two Indians on the horses they broke away and did not take a single one of my horses.’ ”

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