Part 11

A witch I knew lost her husband, and his death was put down to his wife's machinations. Nevertheless, the polite Papuan women came to blend their voices with the wailing of the newly-made widow. In a few years, spite of her uncanny reputation, the witch-widow became a wife once more. Her second husband must have been a brave man, or possibly he was a sorcerer, and intended to counteract his wife's powers with more potent charms than her own.

In Wedau, directly anyone died, the house filled with wailing men and women, some of whom were paid mourners. Crying had to continue until after the funeral, and was extremely painful to listen to.

Marriage takes place early in Papua, so it was quite possible to have great-grandparents or children weeping at the grave. Imagine a whole family tree, with its collateral branches, all lifting their voices at once and with much energy, and you have a feeble idea of what a death in Wedau involved. The mourners usually called on the dead man by the relationship they bore to him, and seldom mentioned his name. After burial, in fact, the name was "popola," and must not be spoken. A small boy who was staying with me on a visit told me most emphatically that he must leave at once if I so much as mentioned the name of his dead grandfather.

At one of the villages up the coast a curious custom prevails. The mission girls and I went to witness the funeral of an old man. In the middle of the house, on the floor, the deceased lay in state. The poor old man's face was exposed to view, and was a ghastly sight, for the kinsfolk had rouged its cheeks, possibly to give it a semblance of life!

After some time spent in wailing, the procession proceeded to the grave. As the corpse was about to be placed in it the village policeman glanced at me, and requested to know whether I thought the grave was deep enough! It seems he had been required by the Government to superintend the digging of graves, and wished a foreigner's approval of the way he had fulfilled his task. What would have happened if I had suggested delaying the funeral to dig deeper, however, I shudder to think.

When I first went out to Papua there were only five other white women on the north-east coast, though there were a few at Samarai, the port. Naturally life under these conditions was very different from that in civilized countries. Roads there were none; but as we generally walked along the beach, or went by boat, this did not much matter, and there were a few tracks along which we walked in single file, with tall reeds or grass rising perhaps to six feet on either side of us. Gloves were unnecessary, and even veils were too hot to be worn. The best time of the day was the evening, though the early morning was deliciously cool. The Wedauans rose at an unearthly hour, and I have heard an astonished visitor at about 7 a.m. ask, "Is she ill?" on hearing that I was still in bed. But though we got up as a rule before seven we found a rest at midday almost imperative. My days went quietly and quickly enough. Sellers of edible ants, coco-nuts, and other foodstuffs came when it suited them or when they required tobacco, and patients who were receiving treatment usually arrived about 9 a.m. Then I could settle down to translation work, while the boy and girl boarders busied themselves in the garden or fished in the sea. In the afternoon we had school in the village for two hours, followed by classes or visiting the natives in their homes. They were most cordial, and would often make me a present of a sticky piece of taro or a fibrous sweet potato picked steaming out of the big earthenware pot. We all sat on the shingly floor, though perhaps I was given a mat to spread under me, and we would talk of pigs, crops, babies, and other matters till after service it was time for me to return to the house. It was not very exciting, but certainly a very happy life.

We tried the experiment of keeping sheep, but for various reasons, such as the presence of spear grass and attacks from village dogs or pigs, were compelled to give it up. Still, while we had them it was possible to taste fresh mutton occasionally, and I remember one of the lady missionaries coming in great glee to her fellow-workers. "Hurrah!" she cried. "A lamb has had sunstroke; we shall have fresh meat."

Fowls have always been difficult to rear, as there is little a village dog will not force his way through when he knows of their existence. On one occasion one of these daring animals killed a mission fowl in broad daylight, only to be immediately shot by a watchful missionary. We ate the fowl that night, while the villagers feasted royally on the dog. So, in spite of the double catastrophe, nothing was wasted.

Though cannibalism is still practised among the inland tribes, and even occasionally on the islands adjacent to the mainland, the coastal natives have to be content nowadays with pigs' flesh. They are very fond of giving feasts, and the last photograph shows a group of feast-givers decorated for the occasion, with gay feathers stuck in their fuzzy hair, which is teased out with a comb something like a many-pronged wooden toasting-fork. They hang egg cowrie shells on their arms, putting on all the finery they possess, and smearing their faces with lime.

All this preparation often took place days beforehand, for a feast in Papua is nothing if not movable. It used to be announced for a certain day, but at the appointed time all the necessary pigs might not have been brought in, or some expected visitors might not have arrived, or a pig already present might have struggled free from its bonds and have had to be hunted for a day or two. No one ever seemed to mind the delay, however. With well-bred calmness they waited until everything was quite ready, and then the feast began.

On one such occasion there were nearly a thousand people present, and fifty pigs, two thousand coco-nuts, and huge piles of taro were distributed. The feast-givers got nothing; that is a universal custom. The recipients likewise neither cooked nor ate a morsel until they got home, for it is considered good form in Papua to eat nothing but to carry away everything, thus practically reversing our notions of hospitality. There was a great heap of dismembered pigs lying on the ground, and the presiding genius of the feast, with his assistants, threw these violently towards the guests. Each important man had retainers who ran forward and bore the joint off, while the less fortunate ones kept up a running fire of comment--identifying a pig's head as having been the contribution of some particular man, or reproving the hill-folk for their awkward gait, telling them not to fear precipices on the coast, and so on.

At this particular feast one man, an ex-policeman, lost his temper completely. As his share of pork was thrown forward, the distributor took the opportunity of accusing him of certain misdemeanours. This so enraged the accused that he sprang to his feet brandishing a very unpleasant-looking knife about two feet long. His friends, not much impressed, stolidly brought him his pork and quite disregarded his angry commands to throw it away. Finally he subsided, muttering. In earlier days this would have been, no doubt, but the prelude to a very lively little battle, and spears would soon have been in action. The culprit, however, had served under Government, and knew what power it possessed to punish offenders.

(_To be continued._)

_Recollections of a Texas Ranger._

+By Isaac Motes.+

Being some exciting incidents of forty years' service with one of the finest corps of frontiersmen in the world--the Texas Rangers. Born horsemen and Indian fighters, in the early days they were the sole representatives of law and order on the border, combining the functions of policemen, magistrates, and, very often, executioners as well.

The forty years from 1855 to 1895 were strenuous years for me. A mere boy almost, just turned eighteen, I emigrated to Texas in the former year, and being a good shot with rifle and revolver, and owning a good horse, I joined the Ranger force, having nothing else to do. For two score of eventful years I spent the best part of every day in the saddle, taking part in some of the most dramatic, tragic, and nerve-trying episodes of frontier life.

Those were exciting times indeed. There was but little law in West Texas during the first half of those forty years, and the Rangers exercised far more power and authority than at the present day. The State was full of savage Indians and renegade Mexicans, as well as "bad men" from the other States of the American Union.

The Rangers were chosen with very great care. A man must be brave, of good character, preferably unmarried, a good shot, a good horseman, and must be possessed of a horse worth not less than a hundred dollars. He must be absolutely fearless of danger, and prepared to give his life at any time in enforcing the law and in the protection of the settlers on the frontier and their families. The Rangers had to deal with wild, vicious, lawless characters and criminals, Indians, Mexicans, and outlaws from other States--all of them men who would fight to the death rather than surrender. Of necessity, therefore, the Rangers had to carry things with a high hand, often passing sentence on captured criminals and executing them without the ceremony of a trial.

From 1855 to 1870 the Rangers were chiefly employed in ridding Texas of the Comanche Indians, incidentally keeping Mexican desperadoes from crossing the border and protecting the stage-coaches which carried the United States mail, in all of which work they had the hearty assistance of the United States troops stationed at the different forts in Western Texas. Every Ranger felt it his duty to live up to the reputation which the corps had gained for fearlessness and untiring perseverance in hunting down criminals. Thus it was that the Texas Rangers have been for generations the most dreaded set of law officers in the South-West among malefactors.

In the year 1856, soon after coming to Texas, I was at Fort Inge, in the employ of the United States Government as a scout. That year a mail route was opened between San Antonio and El Paso, six hundred miles distant. The contract for delivering the mail was let to Captain William Wallace, an old Texas Ranger and Mexican War veteran, and six mounted guards were furnished by the Government to accompany the coach. The Rangers were generally selected for this dangerous duty because they knew the State better than the United States cavalry. For two years I was one of these guards. Our route lay through the wildest part of the State, where we were exposed to attacks from Indians and outlaws all the way. We had numberless fights with Indians and many narrow escapes. Two of the guards were killed during the year 1856 by Indians, who shot them from behind clumps of cactus. We rode close behind the mail coach, to prevent the Indians cutting us off from the stage, and capturing the loose mules which we always took along for service in case of accident.

The prettiest fight we had with redskins on any of these trips was at the crossing of Devil's River. This is a deep, rocky stream, with very high bluffs, a good place for Indians to make an attack. The west bank was much higher than the east bank, and crowned with trees and large boulders. We stopped on the east bank one day at noon to eat our lunch, and were just ready to cross and continue our journey when twenty-seven Indians attacked us from the west bluffs, keeping themselves well hidden among the rocks.

Captain Wallace ordered us to hold our fire, knowing that the savages would presently get bolder and come out where we could see them better. Thinking we were cowards, they soon began to show themselves, and the chief was heard to say that they would come down and scalp the white men, as we were afraid to fight. We were all good shots and had good rifles, which we kept ready for instant use. As the Indians made preparations to descend the bank, Captain Wallace made us creep under the stage as if frightened at the arrows which came down from the bluffs. The redskins, seeing this, came out into the open and bunched together in plain view. Captain Wallace now gave the signal to fire, and his own rifle cracked, followed instantly by our six, and five Indians fell and rolled down the bank a short distance among the rocks. The remainder scattered at once, and nothing was seen of them for some time. They were hidden behind the rocks close by their dead, but were afraid to risk showing themselves. Our one volley had given them enough of us, and they were anxious to leave, but, according to their custom, they wished to carry their dead warriors with them.

Presently we saw a lasso thrown from behind a rock and fall among the dead Indians; the survivors were trying to rope them and drag the bodies to cover. They threw many times, and succeeded in catching and dragging them all in except one. This man had fallen farther down the bank than the others, and his arms hung over the bluff, so that he was hard to lasso. Loop after loop came down, and finally he was caught under the arms and dragged away. The Indians did not show themselves again, and at last we harnessed up the mules, turning back to Fort Clark to get reinforcements, as we feared an ambuscade by a larger force. During the fight a number of arrows hit the stage and stuck in, and we allowed them to remain where they were during many trips. They were examined with a great deal of curiosity and awe by Eastern visitors whenever we came into San Antonio.

In the autumn of 1870 a band of Comanches came raiding near Bastrop, Texas. Close to this town lived a man named Craig, who was the owner of a pair of fine grey horses, which, with many others, the Indians stole. Craig was greatly distressed about the loss of his team, and called on his neighbours to help him recover them, and quite a number responded, including several friendly Indians. In the neighbourhood lived a Tonkaway Indian named John. He was a good trailer and fighter, and immediately joined the party, following the trail of the Comanches very rapidly.

On the afternoon of the first day out we discovered the robbers camped in a ravine. They were cooking meat, and it was the smoke of their camp fire which led us to their position. We promptly charged, but the Indians discovered us in time to make their escape, leaving one of Craig's horses behind. We had ridden all day with nothing to eat, so we at once proceeded to help ourselves to the roast meat left by the fugitives. While thus engaged we heard a yell, and, looking round, saw a solitary warrior on a hill, mounted on Craig's other horse. Seeing us watching him, the Indian yelled again and began wheeling the horse about in a circle. He had a brand-new bridle on this horse--probably obtained from a looted store in Bastrop--and as he wheeled his mount rapidly the metal on the bridle glistened in the sunshine, although the Indian must have been a quarter of a mile away. There was a man in the party named Bates, who was riding a very fast horse, and Tonkaway John said if Bates would let him have the horse he would catch the Comanche and bring back his scalp, together with Craig's horse. "All right," replied Bates, "but don't you lose my horse."

When the Comanche saw John coming he galloped off across the valley, yelling defiance, and no doubt thinking he could easily get away. When he saw the Tonkaway gaining on him, however, he began whipping and kicking furiously, but it was all of no avail--Bates's horse steadily overtook the grey. The Comanche now strung his bow, and a battle with arrows commenced between the two red men, but the hostile Indian was soon stuck full of arrows and at the mercy of John, who rode quickly up alongside of him. They must have been fully a mile and a half from us, but there was not a bush or a shrub to obstruct the view, and in the bright light of the setting sun and the clear, thin atmosphere of the prairie we could see them as plainly as though within two hundred yards of them.

The Comanche, badly wounded, now threw away his bow and began to beg for his life. John, however, paid no attention to him, but grabbed him by his long, coarse hair, pulled him from his horse, and, dismounting, killed and scalped him with his long knife. Remounting, he came back yelling triumphantly, leading Craig's horse with one hand and waving the scalp with the other. Craig had now recovered both his horses, so he was profuse in his thanks, and never finished talking about the bravery of Tonkaway John.

In a fight we had with Indians on the Upper Brazos River, in the year 1876, we captured a big Comanche chief named Black Wolf. We took him to Fort Griffin, intending to turn him over to the colonel commanding, but he refused to have anything to do with the prisoner. As he was one of the most bloodthirsty Indians on the frontier, however, the officer recommended us to shoot him. None of us fancied the job, and as some friendly Tonkaways, who had been in this fight, had a special grudge against the Comanche, he was turned over to them to be killed, although we little thought at the time how they proposed to carry out the death-sentence.

There were about twenty of the Tonkaways, armed with bows and arrows, and they took the chief--a Herculean fellow--and turned him loose in front of the fort. Then they began shooting at him from all sides. They had to be careful, however, not to miss him and shoot some of their own men, so for this reason it was not safe to shoot very strongly. The first arrow that struck the big Indian he pulled out, and rushed about here and there with it, trying to stab his enemies as they shot at him. The greater the number of arrows that struck him the more furious he became, and the faster he ran the more difficult it was for the archers to hit him. The Comanche was tall, with long, powerful arms, and could reach far with his curious weapon, and very soon it began to look as though he would put the whole band of Tonkaways to flight with only an arrow. They rushed around frantically, uttering shrill cries of rage, trying hard to kill the big chief, but being careful to keep out of reach of his long arms. While this went on we stood around the gate of the fort with the soldiers, watching the absorbingly interesting fight. The Comanche was soon stuck full of arrows, but they did not penetrate deeply and did not interfere in the least with his fighting powers. Presently he had most of the Tonkaways on the run, those in front trying to get out of the way of the arrow in his hands, those at his back and sides endeavouring to kill him without wounding any of their comrades. Springing this way and that he wounded several of the Tonkaways, and our captain began to fear he would kill some of them, so the colonel at the fort sent several soldiers out to drive the Tonkaways away. The Comanche was afterwards shot. Spite of the chief's terrible record, one could not help admiring his pluck, and his last battle was the bravest fight for life I have ever seen put up by a lone Indian.

During the time I was a Ranger, most of the Indians in Texas, whether hostile or friendly, were cannibals. The hostiles were probably greater cannibals than the friendlies, as association with white men had a restraining influence on the latter, but we had no opportunity to observe the hostile Indians as we could the friendlies. The Indians friendly to us, and who aided us at times in our wars with the Comanches, were the Tehuacanas, the Tonkaways, the Karankawas, and the Lipans; the Tonkaways and Lipans were especially friendly. But they were all more or less cannibals by instinct and practice, and it was only on account of the restraining influence of the white men that they did not indulge this revolting practice more often. No matter how friendly they were to us, and no matter how emphatically they were forbidden to eat their enemies, there were times when it seemed the Indians simply must give way to their natural appetites and indulge in a cannibal feast, followed by a scalp-dance.

Some few of the Ranger captains were not so strict in this regard as their colleagues, allowing the Indian allies to do more or less as they pleased with their slain enemies after a battle in which they had shown unusual bravery. But while our captain was glad to have the assistance of the friendlies, he drew the line sharply when it came to allowing them to indulge their cannibal instincts while under his command. In 1879 there was a fight, known as the Battle of Lost Valley, between our company of Rangers and the Comanches, where we were assisted by some friendly Tehuacanas and Tonkaways. The Comanches outnumbered us four to one, and the fight was hot and furious. The friendly Indians became much excited, and it was hard to restrain them. The Comanches were routed after many fierce hand-to-hand encounters. One of their braves was especially daring, wounding four of the Tehuacanas before he dropped dead--shot full of arrows, but fighting as long as he could cling to his horse. After the battle we were too busy attending to the wounds of our men to give attention to the friendlies until our captain noticed a pair of Indian hands tied to the saddle of one of the Tehuacana braves. He was the Indian who had finally killed the brave Comanche, and his trophies were the hands of the dead warrior.

"What are you going to do with those?" asked our captain, sternly, pointing to the gory souvenirs.

"Goin' to eat 'em. Maybe so make me brave," replied the Tehuacana.

"You rascal! If you don't drop them instantly I'll have you shot," thundered the captain, and very reluctantly the Tehuacana relinquished the hands.

The Tehuacanas say that the first member of their race was brought into the world by a wolf. "How am I to live?" asked the Tehuacana. "The same as we do," said the wolf, and that is just about how they have lived. The braver the enemy they slew in battle, the more liable they were to eat him, or, at least, want to do so, believing that this act would add to their own pluck.

After 1875 Indians became very scarce in Western Texas. They had been removed to the Indian Territory, north of Texas, partly by the United States soldiers and the Rangers, and partly by the gradual and inevitable advance of civilization. They were located on reservations in the Territory, and a strenuous endeavour was made by the Indian Agents and the United States troops to keep them there, but it was impossible to prevent small bands from crossing the border and descending suddenly and unexpectedly upon the scattered settlements in Texas to steal horses, loot stores, burn houses, and murder defenceless women and children. As the number of Indians grew smaller, however, they confined themselves more and more to prowling around on dark nights and stealing horses. Ostensibly they were now at peace with the white men, but having been run out of Texas mainly by the Rangers, the grievance rankled in their bosoms, and they occasionally came back in small squads and straggling parties on horse-stealing expeditions. If they could get away with a man's saddle-horse without fighting the owner they preferred to do so, but if necessary they were ready to fight.