Part 16

The Texans were now marched out from their jail and were formed in a long line. An officer soon approached with the jar in his hand, in which were one hundred and fifty-nine white beans and seventeen black ones. The poor Texans were to pass through a fearful ordeal, but they were all gamblers with life, so they took it philosophically. Soldiers will rush to almost certain death in the excitement of battle, but to stand and decide one’s fate by the drawing of a bean is worse than charging upon a spitting cannon.

The Mexican officers were very anxious to kill Captain Cameron, the gallant leader of the gaunt and half-starved Texans. They were therefore in great hopes that he would draw a black bean, and, for this reason, placed black beans on top, within the jar. He was also requested to draw first.

But one of the captives—a fellow named “Bill” Wilson—saw the trick, and, as Cameron placed his hand in the jar, the Ranger called out: “Dip deep, Captain! Dip deep!”

Cameron followed his advice, ran his fingers to the bottom, and pulled out a white bean. A look of satisfaction passed over the faces of the Texans, for they all loved the brave and unselfish Captain. The Mexicans scowled as the drawing went rapidly on.

All “dipped deep” and it was thus some time before a black bean was pulled forth. The Texans knew that some of them would be compelled to draw the black beans, but they grinned with delight as friend after friend extracted a white bean from the fateful jar. Most of the scouts showed the utmost coolness. One noted gambler from Austin, Texas, stepped up to the jar with a smile, saying: “Boys, this is the largest stake that I ever played for!” When he drew out his hand a black bean was between thumb and forefinger. Without changing the smile on his face, he muttered: “Just my luck! Good-by to dear, old Texas!”

One young fellow, almost a boy, drew a black bean, and giving one appealing look at his comrades, cried out:

“Boys, avenge my death on these hounds!”

As the drawing progressed, some of the petty Mexican officers did all in their power to annoy the prisoners. When one would draw a black bean they would express great sorrow, and would say: “Cheer up! Better luck next time!” although they knew that this was the last chance which the poor fellow would ever have.

One witty Texan cried out, when his time came to draw:

“Boys, I had rather draw for a Spanish horse and lose him!” He drew a white bean.

The time approached for “Big Foot” Wallace to have his turn, for the men drew in alphabetical order, and W was well down upon the list. The boys were “dipping deep” and nearly all of the white beans had been dipped out. As “Big Foot” reached into the jar there were about an equal number of black beans and white. His hand was so large that he had difficulty in squeezing it down to the beans.

The wily Ranger was under the impression that the black beans were a little larger than the white ones, so he scooped up two against the side of the vessel, and, getting them between his fingers, felt them with great care. The Mexicans were watching him very closely. “Hurry up!” cried one. “If you pull out two beans and one of them is a black one, you will have to take the black.”

“Big Foot” paid no attention to this remark. Life was now at stake. He deliberately felt the beans for some time and one seemed to be larger than the other. He let it go, drew out his hand, and breathed easier. He had drawn out a white bean. The next two men drew black.

The black beans had now all been extracted, and the last three Texans did not draw. An officer turned up the jar and three white beans fell to the ground. The condemned men were then placed in a row and the firing squad was detailed and counted off.

The irons were now taken from the unfortunate Texans and they were led away to execution, bidding their more fortunate companions good-by, as they moved off. Tears were running down the cheeks of the emaciated Texans as they bade their comrades a last adieu. A man named Whaling asked not to be blindfolded, saying that he wished to look the man in the face that shot him, and show them how a Texan could die. His request was refused.

The bold and intrepid Texan Rangers were now ready for execution. All were blindfolded, a sharp order rang out, and the crash of muskets woke the echoes of the high adobe walls of the quaint, rambling prison. Without a sound the condemned Texans fell to the ground, all of them dead save one. This man—a fellow named Shepherd—was wounded in the shoulder, although a Mexican musket was within a few feet of him when it had been fired. He feigned death, so that he was able to crawl off and escape to the mountains after the Mexicans had gone away. But the men of the south discovered that one of their victims had disappeared when they came to remove the bodies to the ditch which had been prepared for them. Scouts were sent out in every direction to hunt for the missing corpse. In ten days the Ranger was retaken and was shot.

The survivors—in irons—were started on foot for the City of Mexico. They were half starved. They were derided, hooted at, and beaten by the populace. “Big Foot” Wallace suffered terribly, for the shackles were too small and cut deep into the flesh. His arms became badly swollen.

When the poor prisoners arrived at San Louis Potosi, the Governor’s wife came to look at the half-fed men and particularly noted the condition of Wallace. Her sympathies were at once aroused and she ordered the chains to be taken off. The officer who commanded the Mexican troops refused to do so, saying that only the Governor had authority to give such an order.

“I am the Governor’s wife,” replied the woman. “I command you—in his name—to take off these terrible bands.”

To this the soldier consented. Sending for a blacksmith, he had the shackles removed. The Governor’s wife bathed the swollen arms of “Big Foot” Wallace with her own hands.

“You should be President of Mexico,” said the half-dead Ranger.

The prisoners were marched onward and soon arrived at an Indian village about eighteen miles from the City of Mexico. Here an order came from Santa Anna to shoot Captain Ewing Cameron. He had drawn a white bean, but the Mexican leader did not respect his former decision. The order was kept a secret from the balance of the prisoners out of fear that they would make a demonstration. That night Cameron was put in a room alone, with a separate guard. The rest of the prisoners suspected some treachery and were fearful of the fate of their brave leader.

Next morning, when they were all marched out, each Texan filled his shirt full of rocks, determined to die for their captain if need be.

“Why are you getting those rocks?” asked the guards.

“It is for ballast,” replied “Big Foot” Wallace. “We want to walk better.”

The Mexican soldiers made no attempt to take the stones away. They were probably afraid to do so, as they saw a desperate look upon the faces of the Rangers. As they marched on, the prisoners frequently inquired about Cameron and wanted to know if he were going to be shot.

“No! No!” replied the Mexicans. “Go on! Your Captain will soon be with you!”

Somewhat reassured, the Rangers went forward, but, when they were about a mile from the town, they heard a platoon of soldiers fire their muskets in their rear. Some one cried out: “Brave Cameron has been massacred, boys! A finer man never breathed!”

It was only too true. The patriotic Texan had met his death unflinchingly,—a victim of the treachery of the wily Santa Anna.

Texas was then an independent Republic, for it had not yet been admitted into the Union. The United States had nothing to do with protecting the citizens of Texas, and the young Republic did not have forces enough to invade Mexico with an army, so as to rescue these unfortunate men. The British consul, however, had a good deal to say about the killing of Cameron, and had a personal interview with Santa Anna regarding it. He severely condemned this cruel procedure.

The Rangers were now closely confined in a miserable dungeon. Many went insane and died. Twenty-four succeeded in digging their way out, underneath the wall. Four scaled over the high enclosure and made their way back to Texas in safety. “Big Foot” Wallace, himself, had a fit of temporary insanity, but he recovered and managed to live through the months of terrible imprisonment. The Texans were so badly fed that they caught the rats which ran across the dungeon floor and ate them. Meanwhile Santa Anna’s wife was continually pleading with her husband to liberate the miserable men. The stern dictator was greatly attached to her, and would grant almost anything that she asked.

Friends of the Texans were using their best endeavors to have the prisoners released. Through the influence of his father and Governor McDowell of Virginia, “Big Foot” Wallace was finally set free. Upon the fifth day of August, 1844, he and four others were allowed to go, after an imprisonment of twenty-two months. Upon the same day the good wife of Santa Anna died,—regretted and beloved by every Texan who had worn the chains of Mexico. Soon afterwards an order came to set free the remainder of the Texans, for Santa Anna had promised his wife—on her death-bed—that he would release them. To his honor be it said that he kept his promise.

The intrepid “Big Foot” was, of course, delighted with his freedom. Taking ship at Vera Cruz, he soon reached New Orleans, and from there found his way back to his old cabin upon the Medina River. Many settlers had taken up ranches near by, so he was no longer alone. Still the Indians were very thick, and there were frequent brushes with the wild riders of the plains.

One day—near Fort Inge—the pioneer discovered the track of the famous Big Foot Indian, where he and six followers had crossed the road. The old fellow’s footprint was fourteen inches in length, and, as he had seen it several times before, the plainsman knew that there was trouble in the wind. When he reached the fort, he found a friend of his named Westfall.

“That Big Foot redskin is around,” said he. “This means horse stealing. If the old cuss does get your stock, just let me know and I will join you in a little Injun round-up.”

“All right,” Westfall replied. “If I need you, I will let you know.”

As Wallace expected, in three or four days a Ranger came after him with the information that all of Westfall’s horses had been stolen and that he was needed—very badly needed—to assist in their recapture. The Indians had ridden up the Nueces Canyon to its source, and then had crossed over to the headwaters of the South Llano, where they had gone into camp in a dense cedar grove. They thought that they had captured all of the white men’s horses, and so would not be followed. As they had shot a small bear, they proceeded to cook it over a glowing fire.

But the redskins did not remember that the white settlers had some very good mules, which they had not captured. On these the Texans followed the Indian trail, and soon located the redskin encampment by the smoke from the fire. Westfall rested, but did not cook anything. He was waiting for morning, before making the attack.

As day dawned, the plainsman crept towards the Indian camp; accompanied by a youth named Preston Polly. The other men—four in number—were told to come on when they heard his gun. At first the two whites descended into the bed of a gorge to a point opposite the camp of the famous Big Foot Indian. When nearing the smoke from the fire, a trail was discovered, which led down the hill to a pool of water fed by two deep springs. Below the pool was some rank, coarse grass. Westfall and the boy halted in this.

Suddenly, as he peered beneath some bushes, Westfall saw an Indian coming towards the pool of water. He was mounted upon a pie-bald pony, and was a tall, well-formed brave. The plainsman lay still, scarcely daring to breathe. Silently he cocked his rifle and kept his eyes upon the savage.

In a few moments the Indian came into full view. The heart of the plainsman beat quickly, for before him was the terrible Big Foot: his face all daubed up with vermilion paint, and eagle feathers in his scalp-lock. Motioning to the boy to remain absolutely quiet, Westfall slowly raised his rifle. At this moment the horse discovered the ambushed marksman and snorted. Big Foot turned quickly in order to see what was the matter and was for a moment stationary. Bang! The burly chieftain—the scourge and terror of the border—pitched forward upon his face. He had been shot clean through the heart.

True to their orders to approach when they heard the discharge of a rifle, the other men came up quickly, on the run. They charged up the hill, past the body of the dead chief, and into the camp of the red men. The Indians had gone, but the stolen horses were all in camp, except those ridden away by the redskins. The pioneers ate a good portion of the bear meat, which was fat, juicy, and well roasted.

When they examined the big chief, they found that he was indeed the giant of a man, for he was seven feet tall and weighed about three hundred pounds. His hand clutched the bridle-reins so firmly that his pony was unable to pull away from him. His hair was fully a yard in length and he had strong arms and legs. Upon his right knee was the mark of a bullet where he had been wounded some years before. The white men took his moccasins in order to prove that it was the real Big Foot; rounded up their horses; and were soon travelling back to their ranches. The great chief was buried without ceremony.

“Big Foot” Wallace was shortly afterwards commissioned by the Governor of Texas to raise a company of Rangers for frontier defense. He was made Captain and appointed his friend Westfall a Lieutenant. They were soon to see plenty of stiff fighting.

The hardest battle which they engaged in was on Todos Santos (All Saints) Creek, at a place called the Black Hills, sixteen miles from the town of Cotulla. Eighty redskins were near this spot, and had camped near a waterhole, which the whites wished to get to, as they had been three days without water. The plainsmen had come through prickly pear and cat-claw bushes only to find the Indians in their path. A stiff fight ensued. The Rangers circled around the savages for over an hour, and, after they had wounded a good many, charged the remainder. There was hand-to-hand fighting, but the red men were finally driven away, leaving twenty-two of their number dead upon the ground, among whom was their chief. “Big Foot” Wallace had dispatched him with a rifle, which had been presented to him by Colonel James Bowie, from whom the bowie knife took its name.

The redoubtable Wallace was one of the first to enlist in the Mexican War of 1846, and served under the famous Texan Jack Hays. The war, as you know, was brought on by a dispute over the boundary-line between Mexico and the United States, and, as many of the Rangers had old scores to settle with the Mexicans, they did good service in the campaign which ended in the capture of the City of Mexico. “Big Foot” Wallace was a second Lieutenant and acquitted himself nobly, particularly in the storming of Monterey, where he captured the very officer who had held the fatal bean-pot when the Texans were drawing for their lives at Solado. To his credit be it said that he let the fellow go.

The famous plainsman never married, although he was once engaged to a belle of Austin, Texas. He was taken ill, shortly after pledging his troth, and had the misfortune to lose all of his hair. As soon as he was able to travel, he left town and hid himself in a cave in the mountains. Here he resided until his hair grew out again. Meanwhile his sweetheart had grown tired of waiting for him and had married another man. As she turned out to be a terrible scold, he was lucky.

The old scout was the proud possessor of four dogs—half-bred specimens—which he prized very highly. He called them Rock, Ring, Speck and Blas, and was particularly fond of Rock, who was so well trained that he could follow an Indian by his scent. Wallace could always tell by the dog’s actions when Indians were around, and, when night came, would feel perfectly secure when his pets were on guard near by. The faithful animals would lie near him and would make no noise unless some wild man, or still wilder animal, approached.

One morning Rock gave unmistakable signs that Indians were near by, so the scout took his gun in order to watch for the redskins. As none put in an appearance, he told his dogs to “go on and find.” They rushed forward, yelping, and he soon heard them baying loudly. Coming to the spot, he saw an Indian down in a gully with the dogs around him. They were endeavoring to bite him, but he kept them from seizing him by throwing his blanket over their heads. Wallace raised his gun to fire, but, seeing that the poor redskin was afraid, he lowered his piece. Then, calling his pets to his side, he made signs to the Indian to come towards him.

When the redskin approached, “Big Foot” saw that he was unarmed, save for a small knife which he held in his right hand. This was broken in two.

“I have been a captive among the Comanches,” said the red man. “I have had nothing to kill game with and am nearly starved. Pray give me something to eat, Señor. I broke my knife while trying to open a terrapin.”

The old scout’s heart was touched by the sad spectacle before him. He took pity on the poor savage, and, leading him to his cabin, there gave him all that he could eat. He then turned him over to the Indian agent at San Antonio. This shows that, although keen in pursuing hostile redskins, the famous Ranger could be also kind and gentle to the unfortunate.

The fame of “Big Foot” Wallace was great among the pioneers of Texas; so great, in fact, that when he appeared at the Dallas fair in 1898, hundreds crowded around him in order to take his hand and talk with the famous scout. All had heard of the giant plainsman and wanted to see him. Shortly after Christmas, of this year, he caught a heavy cold, and died on the seventh of January, 1899, in his eighty-third year. To the very end his eyesight was so keen that he had no need of glasses, and he was apparently hale and hearty up to the last. Thus peacefully closed the career of one of the most adventurous men who ever hunted, fished, and fought the red men and Mexicans upon the wide plains of Texas.

Although buried in Medina County, where he had built his first log cabin, shortly after his death, a bill was passed in the legislature, so that his remains were taken up and were deposited in the State cemetery at Austin. This was a city which he had helped to build. He had also assisted in the construction of the first well which had been sunk there. He had been among those who had killed the last herd of buffalo on the plains near by.

Here—in the peace of the rolling plain—lies the last of the Great Captains of those gallant Rangers of the Texan prairie. His spirit slumbers where the coyote and Indian once followed the dun-colored herds of buffalo, and where—in the blue azure of the cloudless sky—the wheeling vulture watched the canvas-covered wagons of the emigrant trains, which brought a people who were to construct great and populous cities, where was then only dust and desolation.

CAPTAIN JACK HAYS:

FAMOUS TEXAN RANGER AND COMMANDER OF VALIANT BORDER FIGHTERS

IT was the year 1840. Texas was still a wild country, but the white settlers were pressing forward to farm and to raise cattle and horses. The redskins did not like it. The Comanches were particularly troublesome: they had been severely chastised by General Burleson and a Colonel John H. More, so they had sworn to revenge themselves upon the white-skinned invaders. With a large body of painted warriors they made a raid upon the defenseless settlers of Texas. They sacked and burned the town of Linnville, partly destroyed Victoria, and commenced their retreat back to the mountains with a great deal of plunder. There were six hundred warriors and many squaws in the party of invasion.

In going down from the mountains the Indians had kept between the rivers, where there were no settlements, and consequently they were not discovered until a short time before the attack upon Linnville. Runners were immediately sent to the various settlements, and men began to cut across the country in small squads from the valleys of the Colorado, the Guadalupe, and San Marcos. All of them were excited and eager for revenge, none more so than General Burleson, who—at the head of a large company—was just starting for the scene of action. When about one hundred and fifty men had arrived—among them settlers from Guadalupe and San Marcos—they started for the Indians.

Among those who came riding to the defense of the Texan frontier was a splendid looking, young fellow, who was the perfect picture of manly vigor. Clad in blue shirt, buckskin chaparejos (large trousers slipping over those usually worn) and high-heeled boots, the youthful Texan was a noble example of health and agility. A broad sombrero was upon his head, while a cartridge-belt hung about his supple waist. His name was John Coffee Hays; better known as Jack Hays: the Ranger.

This celebrated scout and Indian fighter had been named after General Coffee, who commanded a brigade in the army of General Jackson, at the battle of New Orleans. He had been born in Wilson County, Tennessee, in 1818, but had come to Texas in 1837, when but nineteen years of age. A surveyor by profession, he had taken up a residence at San Antonio, where he was employed to measure lands upon the frontier. His life in the open had given him a hardy constitution, and no one could endure more hardships or privations than he. His talent as a commander and director of rough-and-ready fighters early developed, and he was soon among the leaders of the borderers in Southwest Texas.

With a wild hurrah, which spelled REVENGE, in large letters, the Texans started after the Indians, and, after travelling for nine miles upon their broad trail, caught up with them near a winding stream called Plum Creek. Two redskins had been left by the invaders as spies. They were upon a ridge and sat quietly upon their horses, watching the approach of the white men, until the Texans were almost within gun-shot. Both of these Indians had on tall hats which they had obtained at the looting of Linnville. You can well imagine how comical they looked, for a black, stovepipe hat hardly becomes a wild rider of the plains. With his thick, long hair it never quite fits, and it certainly gives the red man a most grotesque appearance.

One of the Texan Rangers had a long-range gun. Dismounting, he cried out:

“Boys! Just watch me make the redskins hump!”

At the crack of his rifle, the Indians wheeled their horses in order to run away. As they did so, both lost their plug hats. They moved swiftly to their comrades, warning them of the approach of the Rangers, who spread out in a fan-shaped line, and kept on after the retreating braves.

Now began a hot fight. The redskins were well armed and made a good showing, but nothing could withstand the terrible fire of the Texan rifles. After an hour of rapid shooting the Rangers charged with a wild, ear-splitting whoop. Jack Hays was well up in front of the line as they did so. The Indians broke and galloped away in a disorganized mass.

Many of the redskins had on fine coats and boots which they had stolen during the raid. Some of them even carried umbrellas. Their spare horses and mules were packed with stolen goods, and these were driven ahead by the squaws, while the warriors fought the battle. After about a mile of fighting, the Comanches rallied in large force and a sharp contest ensued. But they could not stand the accurate rifle-fire from the Texans, and again fled in a scattered mass.