3 Years Among the Comanches (Memoirs). Nelson Lee
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and the Guadaloupe. On three sides it is surrounded by a high, rocky, perpendicular bluff, from fifty to a hundred feet in height, and not far back from the extreme point, where we were encamped, as it were, at the base of the triangle, rose a high hill. Early in the morning, one of the party, while at breakfast, discovered an Indian horseman on the height, evidently a spy. Presently another made his appearance by his side. For some time we watched these apparitions as they appeared and vanished, until we became fully satisfied they were the outrunners of a numerous party, and that we were completely hemmed in. Experience taught us, at once, that the main body was collected on the opposite slope of the hill, and that our position was critical in the extreme. In this emergency, Hays called us together, as was his custom always under circumstances of peculiar peril, and addressed us. After setting forth the imminent dangers that evidently surrounded us, he stated the course he had resolved to adopt, if it met our approbation, which it did, unanimously. Mounting at once, we rode directly towards the horsemen on the height, at a slow pace, waving branches, and making every conceivable sign of peace. Halfway up the ascent, the Indian group on the summit, which till now had gazed motionlessly down upon us, their outline standing out clear and distinct between us and the sky beyond, suddenly wheeled and disappeared. That instant Jack Hays turned to the right, and calling on us in a low but determined voice to follow, we swept, like a tornado, round the side of the mountain, taking the Indians completely by surprise. They were two hundred in number, and fought well and bravely, but our revolvers, fatal as they were astonishing, put them speedily to flight.
In this encounter with the Comanches, memorable thereafter as the battle of Walker’s Creek, with the loss of only three men and four wounded, we left ninety of our enemies dead upon the field. Long after, while again ranging in that quarter, I beheld their bones bleaching in the sun.
Connected with this battle of Walker’s Creek there were many incidents of an interesting and thrilling character. Among our number was one known as Big Sam Taylor. At the first onset, an arrow struck him near the eye, passing downwards through his cheek, and out by the side of his neck. In attempting to extract it, the upper portion broke off, leaving the remainder in the wound. Nevertheless, in this condition he fought through the entire engagement, afterwards recovering, though henceforward bearing a most ugly scar.
Near the close of the fight, Hays came upon a chief lying on the ground, with a broken thigh. He attempted to take him prisoner, but the prostrate warrior had plainly resolved to yield his liberty only with his life. Quick as a flash of light, he fixed an arrow to his bow, sending it to the heart of a Ranger named Mott, one of the three we unfortunately lost. He struggled against his conquerors with all the strength and fierceness his broken limb permitted him to exercise, nor would he, in the least, yield the measure of a hair, until a pistol ball had sent the stern old warrior to his eternal rest.
Chapter IV.
Custom of the Rangers on the march—Bitten by a rattlesnake— The Spaniard's cure—The alligator of the Aransas—Dread of reptiles—Antonio Perez, the traitor to Jiberty—Mexican robbers surprised at a grand fandango—The leaders shot—Excursion into Mexico—Description of the Rio Grande—Lost in a log—Capture of a herdsman—Plight from Matamoras—Battle of Rio Frio—Return to San Antonio—Temporary disbandment.
It was an invariable custom while ranging on the frontier, especially when there was any probability an enemy was in the neighborhood, to pursue the following mode of life: Two hours, more or less, before sunset, we halted; always by a stream of water if possible. Some gathered wood and kindled a fire—some took charge of the horses, while others sallied out in quest of game for supper. Having satisfied the cravings of appetite, as soon as darkness began to overspread the prairie, we mounted, and riding an hour or more directly out of our general course, halted for the night in the most secluded situation we could discover. The object was to sleep as far as possible from the smoke, which the cooking of our supper necessarily created, and which, as it curled into the air, was impossible to hide from the observation of the enemy. Two hours before daybreak we were again on our horses, and thus we passed day after day, and night after night, scouring in all directions the wide plains of Texas.
A day or two subsequent to the battle of Walker’s Creek, while on our way back towards San Antonio, we reined up, as usual, to prepare our evening repast near the bank of a small stream. It happened that I dismounted by a cluster of musquete bushes, and as I struck the ground an enormous rattlesnake bit me on the ankle. I had before frequently witnessed the deadly effects resulting from the bite of these venomous reptiles, and I confess, my nerves, which had not failed me in the hour of battle and in the face of death, were now completely unstrung. A sickening, dreadful sensation came over me, terrible beyond all force of language to convey—a sense of sorrow that I had not fallen in the recent battle and escaped the horror of going to my long account in such an abominable way.
There was a Spaniard among our number who witnessed the incident. He immediately thrust his knife through the serpent’s neck, pinning it to the ground, and instantly began cutting portions of flesh from the still living and wriggling monster, and applying it to the wound. I could feel it draw, and in a few minutes the white poultice thus applied would change to a perfect green. These applications were continued until nearly the entire body of the snake was used. The remedy proved effectual, inasmuch as I suffered nothing from it afterwards save a slight soreness, though from that time forward, I always experienced an instinctive dread on approaching a musquete thicket, far more disagreeable than when charging an enemy.
I once met with a somewhat similar adventure on the Aransas, near the Gulf. Stopping a few days at the ranche of an old acquaintance, to while away an idle hour, I started out on a deer hunt with one of his Mexican herdsmen. It happened that my first shot broke both the hind legs of a noble stag, when he plunged into the stream, at this point some fifty yards in width, swimming to the opposite shore, but unable to ascend the bank. Anxious to secure him I swam across, having only a belt around me, which held a hunting knife. As I approached, he made for the other shore, when he was again wounded by the Mexican. Several times both of us crossed the stream. On my last passage, when perhaps two-thirds over, I discovered at no great distance, a huge alligator making directly towards me. He was at least fourteen feet in length, and had been undoubtedly attracted by the blood which tainted the water. My first impulse was to draw my knife and turn upon him, but a second thought determined me to exercise that discretion which is the better part of valor, and accordingly, I venture the assertion that in all aquatic feats of which we have any account, there never has been known a specimen of “taller swimming” than I then and there performed. Fortunately, I reached the shore and succeeded in scrambling to the top of the bank just as the monster came like a great battering ram against it. It was a luxury to plant a rifle ball in that alligator’s eye, and as he rolled over, a lifeless heap, to indulge the satisfaction of knowing that he would frighten the wits out of a poor devil no more forever.
Others have often expressed their entire indifference to these reptiles, and really seemed to disregard them altogether, but for my own part, the alligator, the centipede, the rattlesnake, and, more than all, the cottonmouth moccasin, during my excursions over the prairies and along the rivers of Mexico and Texas, were sources of perpetual apprehension and annoyance.
We arrived in San Antonio, after the battle of Walker’s Creek, sooner than we were expected, and surprised a robbing party, Mexican guerrillas, in possession of the city; the inhabitants entirely at their mercy. The American residents kept themselves secluded, the stores were closed, and the ordinary business of the town had utterly subsided. They were insolent and lawless beyond endurance, and carried on their depredations to an extent almost incredible. They were a portion of a band of five or six hundred desperadoes, commanded by one Antonio Perez, a native of Bexar, and well known to all its citizens. He had formerly rendered effective service in the cause of Texas, was a man of property and favorably esteemed, but like many of his countrymen, eventually proved a traitor to the friends of liberty, descending from the position of a patriot to the level of a thief and robber.
Receiving