Part 21

But there came a time when they grew tired of the exchange, and longed for their old life of roving freedom. Their brethren had obtained the horse; and this was an additional attraction which a prairie life presented. They grew tired of the petty tricks of the Christian superstition,—to their view less rational than their own,—they grew tired of the toil of constant work, the childlike chastisements inflicted, and sick of the sound of that ever-clanging clapper,—the bell. In fine, they made one desperate effort, and freed themselves forever.

The grand establishment of San Saba, on the river of the same name, fell first. The troops were abroad on some convert-hunting expedition. The Comanches entered the fort,—their tomahawks and war-clubs hidden under their great robes of buffalo-hide: the attack commenced, and ended only with the annihilation of the settlement.

One monk alone escaped the slaughter,—a man renowned for his holy zeal. He fled towards San Antonio, pursued by a savage band. A large river coursed across the route it was necessary for him to take; but this did not intercept him: its waters opened for a moment, till the bottom was bare from bank to bank. He crossed without wetting his feet. The waves closed immediately behind him, offering an impassable barrier to his pursuers, who could only vent their fury in idle curses. But the monk could curse too. He had, perhaps, taken some lessons at the Vatican; and, turning round, he anathematized every “mother’s son” of the red-skinned savages. The wholesale excommunication produced a wonderful effect. Every one of the accursed fell back where he stood, and lay face upward upon the plain, dead as a post! The monk, after baptizing the river “Brazos de Dios” (arm of God), continued his flight, and reached San Antonio in safety,—where he duly detailed his miraculous adventure to the credulous converts of Bejar, and the other missions.

Such is the supposed origin of the name Brazos de Dios, which the second river in Texas bears to this day. It is to be remarked, however, that the river crossed by the monk was the present Colorado, not the Brazos: for, by a curious error of the colonists, the two rivers have made an exchange of titles!

The Comanches—freed from missionary rule, and now equal to their adversaries by possession of the horse—forthwith commenced their plundering expeditions; and, with short intervals of truce,—periods _en paz_,—have continued them to the present hour. All Northern and Western Texas they soon recovered; but they were not content with territory: they wanted horses and cattle and chattels, and white wives and slaves; and it would scarce be credited, were I to state the number of these they have taken within the last half-century. Nearly every year they have been in the habit of making an expedition to the Mexican settlements of the provinces Tamaulipas, New Leon, and Chihuahua,—every expedition a fresh conquest over their feeble and corrupt adversaries. On every occasion they have returned with booty, consisting of horses, cattle, sheep, household utensils, and, sad to relate, human captives. Women and children only do they bring back,—the men they kill upon sight. The children may be either male or female,—it matters not which, as these are to be adopted into their tribe, to become future warriors; and, strange to relate, many of these, when grown up, not only refuse to return to the land of their birth, but prove the most bitter and dangerous foes to the people from whom they have sprung! Even the girls and women, after a period, become reconciled to their new home, and no longer desire to leave it. Some, when afterwards discovered and ransomed by their kindred, have refused to accept the conditions, but prefer to continue the savage career into which misfortune has introduced them! Many a heart-rending scene has been the consequence of such apparently unnatural predilections.

You would wonder why such a state of things has been so long submitted to by a civilized people; but it is not so much to be wondered at. The selfishness that springs from constant revolutions has destroyed almost every sentiment of patriotism in the Mexican national heart; and, indeed, many of these captives are perhaps not much worse off under the guardianship of the brave Comanches than they would have been, exposed to the petty tyranny and robber-rule that has so long existed in Mexico. Besides, it is doubtful whether the Mexican government, with all her united strength, could retake them. The Comanche country is as inaccessible to a regular army as the territory of Timbuctoo; and it will give even the powerful republic of the north no small trouble to reduce these red freebooters to subjection. Mexico had quite despaired of being able to make an effort; and in the last treaty made between her and the United States, one of the articles was a special agreement on the part of the latter to restrain the Comanches from future forays into the Mexican states, and also cause them to deliver up the Mexican captives then in the hands of the Indians!

It was computed that their number at the time amounted to four thousand! It is with regret I have to add, that these unfortunates are still held in bondage. The great republic, too busy with its own concerns, has not carried out the stipulations of the treaty; and the present Comanche war is but the result of this criminal negligence. Had energetic measures been adopted at the close of the Mexico-American war, the Comanche would not now be harrying the settlers of Texas.

To prove the incapacity of the Mexicans to deal with this warlike race, it only needs to consider the present condition of the northern Mexican states. One half the territory in that extensive region has returned to the condition of a desert. The isolated “ranchos” have been long since abandoned,—the fields are overgrown with weeds,—and the cattle have run wild, or been carried off by the Comanches. Only the stronger settlements and large fortified haciendas any longer exist; and many of these, too, have been deserted. Where children once played in the security of innocence,—where gayly-dressed cavaliers and elegant ladies amused themselves in the pleasant _dia de campo_, such scenes are no longer witnessed. The rancho is in ruins,—the door hangs upon its hinge, broken and battered, or has been torn off to feed the camp-fire of the savage; the dwelling is empty and silent, except when the howling wolf or coyote wakes up the echoes of its walls.

About ten years ago, the proud governor of the state of Chihuahua—one of the most energetic soldiers of the Mexican republic—had a son taken captive by the Comanches. Powerful though this man was, he knew it was idle to appeal to arms; and was only too contented to recover his child by paying a large ransom! This fact, more than a volume of words, will illustrate the condition of unhappy Mexico.

The Comanche leads a gay, merry life,—he is far from being the Indian of Cooper’s description. In scarcely any respect does he resemble the sombre son of the forest. He is lively, talkative, and ever ready for a laugh. His butt is the Mexican presidio soldier, whom he holds in too just contempt. He is rarely without a meal. If the buffalo fails him, he can draw a steak from his spare horses, of which he possesses a large herd: besides, there are the wild mustangs, which he can capture on occasions. He has no work to do except war and hunting: at all other times he has slaves to wait upon him, and perform the domestic drudgery. When idle, he sometimes bestows great pains upon his dress,—which is the usual deer-skin tunic of the prairie Indian, with moccasons and fringed leggings. Sometimes a head-dress of plumes is worn; sometimes one of the skin of the buffalo’s skull, with the horns left on! The robe of buffalo pelt hangs from his shoulders, with all the grandeur of a toga; but when he proceeds on a plundering expedition, all these fripperies are thrown aside, and his body appears naked from the waist to the ears. Then only the breech-clout is worn, with leggings and moccasons on his legs and feet. A coat of scarlet paint takes the place of the hunting-shirt,—in order to render his presence more terrific in the eyes of his enemy. It needs not this. Without any disguise, the sight of him is sufficiently horrifying,—sufficiently suggestive of “blood and murder.”

THE PEHUENCHES, OR PAMPAS INDIANS.

The vast plain known as the “Pampas” is one of the largest tracts of level country upon the face of the earth. East and west it stretches from the mouth of the Rio de la Plata to the foot-hills of the Andes mountains. It is interrupted on the north by a series of mountains and hill country, that cross from the Andes to the Paraguay River, forming the Sierras of Mendoza, San Luis, and Cordova; while its southern boundary is not so definitely marked, though it may be regarded as ending at the Rio Negro, where it meets, coming up from the south, the desert plains of Patagonia.

Geologically, the Pampas (or plains, as the word signifies, in the language of the Peruvian Indians) is an alluvial formation,—the bed of an ancient sea—upheaved by some unknown cause to its present elevation, which is not much above the ocean-level. It is not, therefore, a _plateau_ or “table-land,” but a vast natural meadow. The soil is in general of a red color, argillaceous in character, and at all points filled with marine shells and other testimonies that the sea once rolled over it. It is in the Pampas formation that many of the fossil monsters have been found,—the gigantic _megatherium_, the colossal _mylodon_, and the giant armadillo (_glyptodon_), with many other creatures, of such dimensions as to make it a subject of speculation how the earth could have produced food enough for their maintenance.

In giving to the Pampas the designation of a _vast meadow_, do not suffer yourself to be misled by this phrase,—which is here and elsewhere used in rather a loose and indefinite manner. Many large tracts in the Pampas country would correspond well enough to this definition,—both as regards their appearance and the character of the herbage which covers them; but there are other parts which bear not the slightest resemblance to a meadow. There are vast tracts thickly covered with tall thistles,—so tall as to reach to the head of a man mounted on horseback, and so thickly set, that neither man nor horse could enter them without a path being first cleared for them.

Other extensive tracts are grown over with tall grass so rank as to resemble reeds or rushes more than grass; and an equally extensive surface is timbered with small trees, standing thinly and without underwood, like the fruit-trees in an orchard. Again, there are wide morasses and extensive lakes, many of them brackish, and some as salt as the sea itself. In addition to these, there are “salinas,” or plains of salt,—the produce of salt lakes, whose waters have evaporated, leaving a stratum of pure salt often over a foot in thickness, and covering their beds to an extent of many square leagues. There are some parts, too, where the Pampas country assumes a sterile and stony character,—corresponding to that of the great desert of Patagonia. It is not correct, therefore, to regard the Pampas as one unbroken tract of _meadow_. In one character alone is it uniform in being a country without mountains,—or any considerable elevations in the way of ridges or hills,—though a few scattered sierras are found both on its northern and southern edges.

The _Thistle Pampas_, as we take the liberty of naming them, constitute perhaps the most curious section of this great plain; and not the less so that the “weed” which covers them is supposed not to be an indigenous production, but to have been carried there by the early colonists. About this, however, there is a difference of opinion. No matter whence sprung, the thistles have flourished luxuriantly, and at this day constitute a marked feature in the scenery of the Pampas. Their position is upon the eastern edge of the great plain, contiguous to the banks of the La Plata; but from this river they extend backwards into the interior, at some points to the distance of nearly two hundred miles. Over this vast surface they grow so thickly that, as already mentioned, it is not possible for either man or horse to make way through them. They can only be traversed by devious paths—already formed by constant use, and leading through narrow lanes or glades, where, for some reason, the thistles do not choose to grow. Otherwise they cannot be entered even by cattle. These will not, unless compelled, attempt penetrating such an impervious thicket; and if a herd driven along the paths should chance to be “stampeded” by any object of terror, and driven to take to the thistles, scarce a head of the whole flock can ever afterwards be recovered. Even the instincts of the dumb animals do not enable them to find their way out again; and they usually perish, either from thirst, or by the claws of the fierce pumas and jaguars, which alone find themselves at home in the labyrinthine “_cardonales_.” The little _viscacha_ contrives to make its burrow among them, and must find subsistence by feeding upon their leaves and seed, since there is no other herbage upon the ground,—the well-armed thistle usurping the soil, and hindering the growth of any other plants. It may be proper to remark, however, that there are two kinds of these plants, both of which cover large tracts of the plain. One is a true thistle, while the other is a weed of the artichoke family, called by the Spanish Americans “cardoon.” It is a species of _Cardunculus_. The two do not mingle their stalks, though both form thickets in a similar manner and often in the same tract of country. The cardoon is not so tall as the thistle; and, being without spines, its “beds” are more easily penetrated; though even among these, it would be easy enough to get entangled and lost.

It is proper to remark here, that these thistle-thickets do not shut up the country all the year round. Only for a season,—from the time they have grown up and “shoot,” till their tall ripened stalks wither and fall back to the earth, where they soon moulder into decay. The plains are then open and free to all creatures,—man among the rest,—and the Gaucho, with his herds of horses, horned cattle, and sheep, or the troops of roving Indians, spread over and take possession of them.

The young thistles now present the appearance of a vast field of turnips; and their leaves, still tender, are greedily devoured by both cattle and sheep. In this condition the Pampas thistles remain during their short winter; but as spring returns, they once more “bristle” up, till, growing taller and stouter, they present a _chevaux-de-frise_ that at length expels all intruders from their domain.

On the western selvage of this thistle tract lies the grass-covered section of the Pampas. It is much more extensive than that of the “cardonales,”—having an average width of three hundred miles, and running longitudinally throughout the whole northern and southern extension of the Pampas. Its chief characteristic is a covering of coarse grass,—which at different seasons of the year is short or tall, green, brown, or yellowish, according to the different degrees of ripeness. When dry, it is sometimes fired,—either by design or accident,—as are also the withered stems of the thistles; and on these occasions a conflagration occurs, stupendous in its effects,—often extending over vast tracts, and reducing everything to black ashes. Nothing can be more melancholy to the eye than the aspect of a burnt pampa.

The grass section is succeeded by that of the “openings,” or scanty forests, already mentioned; but the trees in many places are more closely set; assuming the character of thickets, or “jungles.” These tracts end among the spurs of the Andes,—which, at some points, are thrown out into the plain, but generally rise up from it abruptly and by a well-defined border.

The marshes and bitter lakes above mentioned are the produce of numerous streams, which have their rise in the Great Cordillera of the Andes, and run eastward across the Pampas. A few of these, that trend in a southerly direction, reach the Atlantic by means of the two great outlets,—the “Colorado” and “Negro.” All the others—and “their name is legion”—empty their waters into the morasses and lakes, or sink into the soil of the plains, at a greater or less distance from the Cordillera, according to the body of water they may carry down. Evaporation keeps up the equilibrium.

Who are the dwellers upon the Pampas? To whom does this vast pasture-ground belong? Whose flocks and herds are they that browse upon it?

You will be told that the Pampas belong to the republic of Buenos Ayres, or rather to the “States of the Argentine Confederation,”—that they are inhabited by a class of citizens called “Gauchos,” who are of Spanish race, and whose sole occupation is that of herdsmen, breeders of cattle and horses,—men famed for their skill as horsemen, and for their dexterity in the use of the “lazo” and “bolas,”—two weapons borrowed from the aboriginal races.

All this is but partially true. The proprietorship of this great plain was never actually in the hands of the Buenos-Ayrean government, nor in those of their predecessors,—the Spaniards. Neither has ever owned it—either by conquest or otherwise—no further than by an empty boast of ownership; for, from the day when they first set foot upon its borders to the present hour, neither has ever been able to cross it, or penetrate any great distance into it, without a grand army to back their progress. But their possession virtually ceased at the termination of each melancholy excursion; and the land relapsed to its original owners. With the exception of some scanty strips along its borders, and some wider ranges, thinly occupied by the half-nomade Gauchos, the Pampas are in reality an Indian territory, as they have always been; and the claim of the white man is no more than nominal,—a mere title upon the map. It is not the only vast expanse of Spanish-American soil that _never was Spanish_.

The true owners of the Pampas, then, are the red aborigines,—the Pampas Indians; and to give some account of these is now our purpose.

Forming so large an extent, it is not likely it should all belong to one united tribe,—that would at once elevate them into the character of a nation. But they are not united. On the contrary, they form several distinct associations, with an endless number of smaller subdivisions or communities,—just in the same way as it is among their prairie cousins of the north. They may all, however, be referred to four grand tribal associations or nationalities,—the _Pehuenches_, _Puelches_, _Picunches_, and _Ranqueles_.

Some add the _Puilliches_, who dwell on the southern rim of the Pampas; but these, although they extend their excursions over a portion of the great plain, are different from the other Pampas Indians in many respects,—altogether a braver and better race of men, and partaking more of the character of the Patagonians,—both in point of _physique_ and _morale_,—of which tribes, indeed, they are evidently only a branch, In their dealings with white men, when fairly treated, these have exhibited the same noble bearing which characterizes the true Patagonian. I shall not, therefore, lower the standard—neither of their bodies nor their minds—by classing them among “Pampas Indians.”

Of these tribes—one and all of them—we have, unfortunately, a much less favorable impression; and shall therefore be able to say but little to their credit.

The different names are all native. _Puelches_ means the people living to the east, from “_puel_,” east, and _che_, people. The _Picunches_ derive this appellation, in a similar fashion, from “_picun_,” signifying the north. The _Pehuenches_ are the people of the pine-tree country, from “_pehuen_,” the name for the celebrated “Chili pine” (_Araucaria_); and the _Ranqueles_ are the men who dwell among the thistles, from _ranquel_, a thistle.

These national appellations will give some idea of the locality which each tribe inhabits. The _Ranqueles_ dwell, not among the thistles,—for that would be an unpleasant residence, even to a red-skin; but along the western border of this tract. To the westward of them, and up into the clefts of the Cordilleras extends the country of the Pehuenches; and northward of both lies the land of the Picunches. Their boundary in that direction _should be_ the frontiers of the _quasi-civilized_ provinces of San Luis and Cordova, but they are not; for the Picunche can at will extend his plundering forays as far north as he pleases: even to _dovetailing_ them into the similar excursions of his _Guaycuru_ kinsmen from the “Gran Chaco” on the north.

The Puelche territory is on the eastern side of the Pampas, and south from Buenos Ayres. At one time these people occupied the country to the banks of the La Plata; and no doubt it was they who first met the Spaniards in hostile array. Even up to a late period their forays extended almost to Buenos Ayres itself; but Rosas, tyrant as he may have been, was nevertheless a true soldier, and in a grand military expedition against them swept their country, and inflicted such a terrible chastisement upon both them and the neighboring tribes, as they had not suffered since the days of Mendoza. The result has been a retirement of the Puelche frontier to a much greater distance from Buenos Ayres; but how long it may continue stationary is a question,—no longer than some strong arm—such as that of Rosas—is held threateningly over them.

It is usual to inquire whence come a people; and the question has been asked of the Pampas Indians. It is not difficult to answer. They came from the land of Arauco. Yes, they are the kindred of that famed people whom the Spaniards could never subdue,—even with all their strength put forth in the effort. They are near kindred too,—the Pehuenches especially,—whose country is only separated from that of the Araucanians by the great Cordillera of Chili; and with whom, as well as the Spaniards on the Chilian side, they have constant and friendly intercourse.