Part 4

Fort Gibson, or Cantonment Gibson (a cantonment being deemed not so permanent as a fort), located here on the east bank of the Grand River a few miles above the Arkansas, in the southwest corner of the United States possessions, was only a small post established among the Cherokee, Creek and Choctaw Indians of the Indian Country. Of these, the Cherokees were the most numerous around the post. They had their principal village, named Tah-lon-tees-kee, down the Arkansas about thirty miles; they lived in quite a civilized fashion, with their rulers and councils, and comfortable houses, and well-cultivated farms. White people had married into the tribe, and they even kept slaves.

Sam Houston was a Cherokee; he had been adopted by the old head chief John Jolly――whose Indian name was Oo-loo-te-kah; and took part in the councils that made the laws, and was given the name Col-lon-neh, which meant The Raven. He was one of the few white men who could speak the Cherokee language.

But lately Sam Houston had left the Cherokee town of Tah-lon-tees-kee; he had married a half-Cherokee woman named Tyania Rodgers, and with her had settled across the Grand River opposite Fort Gibson, where he had taken up land, built a log house, and was farming and trading.

Ernest saw him frequently, at the post and also across the river. There was something mysterious about Sam Houston. Nobody appeared to understand what had got into him, except that he had been disappointed in his marriage back in Tennessee, and had separated from his wife there, resigned his governorship of Tennessee, and had fled as far as he could from all his white acquaintances. He never breathed a syllable about the cause of his trouble; people respected him for that. He never permitted a word to be uttered blaming his first wife; and people respected him for that. He “took his medicine,” as the saying was. But no one could respect his habits, especially his drunkenness.

He wore Cherokee Indian costume constantly――usually a slovenly costume, as when Ernest had first seen him, but again a “full dress” of beautiful white doeskin hunting-shirt, yellow buckskin leggins, beaded moccasins, a brilliant red blanket as a cloak, and a kind of crown of wild-turkey feathers. Thus he stalked about.

He hunted much, alone, with bow-and-arrow and with gun. He had spells when he would answer nobody except in Cherokee. And he had other spells when he lay on the ground drunk, even at the fort itself. Then his wife Tyania, who was as large and as stately as himself, would seek him and take him home to the log house across the Grand River. He was known as “Drunken Sam”; and even his Indian brothers called him “Big Drunk” instead of Col-lon-neh, The Raven.

It was a sad step downward for any man to take; and for a man who had been as great as Sam Houston――――! Yet, sober or drunk, he still had about him a dignity that bespoke his better days in the past, and perhaps promised better days to come. He almost always greeted Ernest very kindly, and Ernest could not help but like him.

The tall Texan, Dick Carroll, soon left for the down-river and the Mississippi. Whether he had persuaded General Houston to help Texas, nobody knew; but at any rate, he promised to keep an eye out for Ernest’s uncle, in case that the sergeant had returned to the Arkansas as far as Fort Smith, say. As for the trunk, Ernest never saw it again, or the steamboat either!

The fall, crisp and bright, with occasional flurries of snow, merged into winter, and December opened brave and sunny, with bracing days and sharp starry nights. Then, ere a week had passed, through the post circulated the news that Sam Houston had gone. On his bob-tailed pony he had ridden away, as if for Texas at last. Only his wife Tyania remained in the log cabin across the Grand.

Of course there were many reports. One rumor declared that he had gone to Texas by request of President Jackson, to make treaties with the Comanches and the other Texas Indians, for the United States. This rumor afterwards proved true. Another rumor said that he had been asked by the President to investigate the people and affairs in Texas, and to see what the likelihood was that it would separate from Mexico. This rumor also afterwards seemed to be proved true. But John Henry, another trader at Fort Gibson, stated:

“Sam Houston has gone to Texas to stay. He’s been intending that a long time. And not six months ago he said to me, on the bank of the Grand River: ‘Henry, let’s go to Texas. I’m tired of this country and sick of this life. It’s no place or occupation for me. Anyway, I’m going, and in that new land I will make a _man_ of myself again.’ He also said he’d make a fortune for both of us, if I’d go with him.”

“If he’ll make the man of himself, that’s enough; better than fortune,” quoth Lieutenant Neal, standing near. “And I believe he will. I’d feared his ambition was dead; but it isn’t, and anybody with ambition to be something higher is by no means hopeless. I’m glad he’s gone. The Cherokees and other Indians will miss him, though; he was their best friend.”

Ernest missed him, too; missed him already――and rather wanted to go to Texas, himself. However, on the very next day who should come riding into the post but Mr. Carroll the Texan, back from his trip down-river, and eager indeed over the tidings with which he was greeted.

“Sam Houston’s gone, they tell me! Gone to Texas! Pshaw! He must have crossed my trail, then, on his way down to Nacogdoches. But it’s good news. Hello, boy,” he cried, sighting Ernest. “I had word of your uncle. He was at Fort Smith, but he left for Texas before I could catch him. I reckon he didn’t know you were up here. If you’d like to follow him now’s your chance, for I’m off to Texas myself in the morning.”

“All right,” said Ernest. “I’ll go if I can get a horse.”

“A hoss!” laughed Mr. Carroll. “No boy who’s plucky enough to take the long trail into Texas shall lack a hoss. Not much!”

“Besides, he’s earned one,” declared the lieutenant, hearing. “He’s worked hard at whatever he was told to do, and my yellow pony that he’s been riding is his to keep; yes, and saddle and bridle, too.”

So Ernest, outfitted, by the friends whom he had made, not only with the yellow pony, and saddle and bridle, but also with clothes, provisions, and a buck-handled hunting-knife, found himself the next morning prepared to ride southward with Dick Carroll the Texan.

He was shaking hands and exchanging good-byes, when into the midst strode a young Cherokee, the nephew of Tyania, Sam Houston’s wife.

He bore a beautiful light little rifle, beaded hide bullet-pouch, and powder-flask of black buffalo horn scraped smooth and thin. Straight he marched to Ernest’s stirrup.

“Tyania send these,” he said, extending them. “You go to Texas. When you see Sam Houston you tell Sam Houston Tyania love him, she wait here for him, but she never go there.”

And he had hastened away before Ernest had had time even to thank him.

“By jiminy!” exclaimed the Texan, as Ernest, much flustrated and delighted, slung the bullet-pouch and powder-horn upon his shoulders and balanced the little rifle. “Now you’re sure fixed out, and that Mexican government had better mind how it behaves or Texas will be free.”

They left Fort Gibson behind them, and crossed the Arkansas River by means of an Indian flatboat ferry――to which the horses did not object at all. Almost due south they rode; straight for Texas, by a narrow trail that led through the timber and the prairies clear to Nacogdoches, which was the first town of any importance on the Texas northeastern frontier. Mr. Carroll was not certain that he wished to go to Nacogdoches; but he hoped to overtake General Houston, or at least to learn his whereabouts.

All day they rode; at night they camped. They passed through a portion of the Creek Indian nation (the Creeks looked much like the Cherokees); and after that they saw scarcely anybody except Choctaws (another half-civilized Indian people), until before they reached the Red River they sighted, at noon, ahead, three men sitting their horses in the trail, and grouped as if chatting.

“Sam Houston!” ejaculated Mr. Carroll. “Now we’ll know what’s what.” And he added, as they drew near: “Elias Rector, too. He’s United States marshal for Arkansas Territory. T’other one’s name is Harris, I think. Met him down at Little Rock. Major Arnold Harris.”

Sure enough, General Houston it was, his head thrust through a Mexican blanket, draped over his shoulders, and a large-brimmed whitey-gray wool hat on his crown. He looked larger than ever, but it was no wonder that Ernest had not recognized him, for he had been clean shaven. However, Mr. Carroll had sharp eyes.

The spot proved to be the focus of several trails; and as Mr. Carroll and Ernest arrived, the general was heavily dismounting from his bob-tailed pony.

“This bob-tailed pony is a disgrace,” declared the general. “He is continually fighting the flies, and has no means of protecting himself; and his kicks and contortions render his rider ridiculous. I shall be the laughter of all Mexico. I require a steed with his natural weapon, a flowing tail, that he may defend himself against his enemies as his master has done. Harris, good-bye; but first you must trade with me. What are your terms?”

“Very well, Sam, I will,” agreed Major Harris. “But we’ll each keep our own saddle and bridle.”

“So be it,” answered the general. “Now, Jack,” he said to his bob-tailed pony, as he stripped him, “you and I must part. You have been a good and faithful servant to me, but, Jack, there comes a time in the life of every man when he and his friends must separate. You are a faithful pony. You are a hardy pony. You are a sure-footed pony. But cruel man has made you defenseless against the common enemy of your kind, the pesky fly. Where I am going they are very thick. The Almighty in His wisdom gave you a defense, but man has taken it from you, and without a tail you are helpless. I must therefore with pain and anguish part with you.”

So saying, he changed the saddle and bridle to the larger horse, which had a fine long tail.

“Houston,” spoke the third man, the United States marshal, “I’d like to give you some little keepsake before we separate, but I have nothing except my razor. Will you take it? I never saw a better one.” And he extracted it from his saddle-bag and extended it.

“Major Rector,” proclaimed the general, much as if he were making a public speech, “I accept it. This is apparently a gift of little value, but it is an inestimable testimony of the friendship which has lasted many years, and proved steadfast under the blasts of calumny and injustice. Good-bye. God bless you. When next you see this razor it shall be shaving the President of a Republic.”

“How are you fixed for money, Sam?” inquired Major Harris. “You may need some where you’re going.”

“Money?” answered the general, solemnly. “Unfortunately, I am always in need of money.”

“Then let me divide with you. I’ve more with me than I can use, and you can repay me at your leisure.”

“Thank you,” acknowledged the general, pocketing what was proffered. “Remember my words, Harris, I shall yet be the president of a great republic. I shall bring that nation to the United States, and if they don’t watch me closely I shall be the President of the White House some day. Good-by.” And reining his horse around, he rode down one of the trails.

He apparently had not noticed Mr. Carroll and Ernest. But the two other men, taking another trail, saluted civilly as they passed.

“Well,” remarked the Texan, to Ernest, and gazing after the rapidly receding form of the general, “I reckon Sam Houston’s bound for Texas, all right. Didn’t I tell that steamboat captain and the rest of you that Houston would rise again? He’s made up his mind and nothing can stop him.”

Thus speaking, the Texan touched his horse, and with Ernest rode onward into the south.

That evening they half waded, half swam their horses, across a ford of a rapid river. On the farther bank Mr. Carroll raised his hat as if in a salute, and turned to Ernest with a smile.

“Now you’re in Texas, lad,” he said. “That was the Red River.”

They made camp, and lay down together in their wet clothes, feet to the fire, while a flock of turkeys (minus one which had supplied a supper) querulously piped in the trees beside the water before they, also, settled for the night.

Texas! Was ever a land elsewhere so vast and yet so beautiful as this, thought Ernest, as throughout the next day he and the Texan steadily rode onward, threading deeply-grassed prairies, circuiting patches of rich timber, crossing streams and swamps, and seeing scarce a sign of human life, but horses and deer and turkeys in abundance. Where were the Texas settlers?

Mr. Carroll laughed.

“Down yonder we’ll find ’em,” he said. “But the country’s not crowded. Every man has plenty room. This is principally Comanche range――and those fellows we don’t want to see!”

After such long travel that Ernest completely lost track of the days, they came to the first real token of civilization: a straight, well-travelled road, with marks not only of horses’ hoofs but of wheels.

“The Royal Road,” explained Mr. Carroll, pausing. “Laid out by the Spanish before the Texas settlers entered. Runs clean across the middle of Texas between Nacogdoches of the east and San Antonio of the west. But we don’t follow it. We strike down by the San Felipe trace, for Gonzales. If we followed the San Antonio road we’d pass too far north.”

Presently he turned off, to the left, upon a much lesser road――another of those Texas trails or “traces.” Evidently this was the San Felipe trace. Now they met a few people, mainly hunters on horseback; and that night they stopped with a settler family at whose ranch-house, a rude log cabin, glassless and floorless, they were made more than welcome to a supper of corn-bread, venison and honey, and to a husk bunk.

The next afternoon Mr. Carroll pointed ahead.

“San Felipe on the Brazos,” he announced. “First American town founded in Texas, headquarters of Steve Austin’s colony, and sort of capital for the whole outfit of us. We’ll stop there to-night, and at Burnam’s on the Colorado to-morrow night, and day after we’ll push on through to Gonzales.”

San Felipe was a straggling little town, with scattered houses of logs and of thick, rough-sawed siding like clapboards, and dusty but wide streets, centering about two public squares or plazas. There was a tavern, run by a settler named Whitesides, and a double log house where lived Stephen Austin himself, the “Father of Texas.” He was away from town, just now, on business. Mr. Carroll thought that at least 1500 people formed the population of the San Felipe neighborhood. The farms were said to be the most prosperous in Texas.

This night’s lodging was at the house of another friend――Mr. R. M. Williamson, one of whose legs was bent at the knee, so that he moved by help of a crutch. He had been alcalde, or mayor, of San Felipe, and was called “Three-legged Willie.” He seemed to be a fine man, of quick, decisive action.

What he and Mr. Carroll talked upon, late into the night, Ernest did not know――he did not stay awake to hear.

“Thirty miles to-day,” quoth the Texan, as in the morning he and Ernest ambled out of San Felipe. “Fifty to-morrow, and then we’re there.”

The trace continued into the west. And again it was a rather lonesome trail, save for the very few ranches, and an occasional traveller by horse――now and then an American in buckskins or coarse cloth, and now and then a swarthy Mexican enveloped in a blanket. If there were 20,000 Americans settled in Texas, they must be settled at great intervals; and this Ernest soon learned was true.

“Yon’s the Colorado,” informed Mr. Carroll, toward evening, as they jogged slowly, saving their horses for the longer ride to-morrow. “The Burnams live across on the west bank. Hope the captain’s at home. Want you to meet him. He’s four-square. One of the original Austin settlers, he is. Came out hereabouts from East Texas along in ’22. Took sick in the War of 1812, and he was the porest man in Texas, I reckon. Born pore, in fact――and when he married, in Tennessee, his wife had to sell her stockings to get plates to eat off of. But he’s getting ahead, now, and he’s a powerful Injun fighter. That’s the kind of stuff we have in Texas, to make a state; and it’s the right stuff, too.”

Burnam’s Crossing was a ford at the Colorado River, but a ferry was operated here, also, in high water. From the east bank, where another settler lived, the Burnam ranch could be seen, opposite: a log house built like a block-house, and several out-structures. Ernest and his guide plashed through the water.

Yes, Captain Burnam was at home, for when they drew up before the hitching rail in front of the ranch yard a bearded man hastened from the corral to greet them.

“Howdy? Light and come in,” he called, cheerily. “Oh, boys! Put up these gentlemen’s hosses.”

A young man issued from the corral and with a word to Mr. Carroll led the two horses away. Ernest was introduced to Captain Burnam; and in the house to the rest of the family. At supper there was another boy, of dark eyes and hair, whose name was James Hill――or James Monroe, they called him, by his middle name, when they didn’t call him plain Jim.

He was older than Ernest, being fourteen, but he was a boy, just the same; and although there were boys in the Burnam family, Ernest was glad to meet as many boys as possible. It would have been pretty stupid, in Texas, without boys.

“I live out just a small piece,” explained James Monroe. “You going to Gonzales, I reckon?”

“I guess so,” responded Ernest.

“Mr. Carroll some of your kin?”

“No. I’m looking for my uncle.”

“Who’s he?”

“Sergeant John Andrews, of the United States Army. But he’s been discharged, and he’s somewhere in Texas.”

“Wasn’t that an army sergeant named Andrews who was killed by the Karankawas down on the Trinity, couple of months ago, dad?” blurted one of the Burnam boys.

“Sh!” warned his mother; but it was too late.

“That so?” queried Mr. Carroll of Captain Burnam. “Hadn’t heard. What about it?” And Ernest waited, breathless.

“So’s the tell,” acknowledged Captain Burnam, slowly. “There was a party of traders massacred by the Karankawas, and a man by name of John Andrews, from the United States Army, was among ’em. He was a newcomer. They all were newcomers or they wouldn’t have been so careless.”

Silence fell.

“That’s sure too bad,” volunteered Jim Hill, to Ernest. “Maybe ’twasn’t your uncle. Did you know him well?”

“No, I never saw him; but he was to take care of me,” faltered Ernest.

“Well,” said Mr. Carroll, quickly, “don’t you mind, boy. You’re no worse off. I’d sort of adopted you, anyway. So you come along to Gonzales, and I’ll see you don’t suffer, you bet.”

“Of course. Never mind. You stay with Dick Carroll and he’ll make a Texan of you,” spoke Mrs. Burnam. “Just forget your uncle and those Injuns.”

Ernest gulped.

“I guess I will,” he said. They all were trying to be so kind to him that he could not say anything else. And he did like Dick Carroll.

James Monroe Hill left, after supper, to ride over to his home. He told Ernest he’d see him again; and he did.

The start for the fifty-mile ride to Gonzales was made at daybreak, with the hospitable Burnam family waving good-by from the block-house. The winding trace led across numerous streams, and past several isolated ranches; and near sunset Dick Carroll again pointed before.

“Gonzales――little old Gonzales,” he informed. “She’s the last of the white settlements, but she’s home, and it’s good to see her again.”

They entered another straggling town, smaller than San Felipe. Dick exchanged greetings with the people whom he passed; he turned his horse and Ernest’s into the public corral, for the night, and led the way, through the dusk, for supper and bed in his own cabin, which was to be Ernest’s also.

III

SANTA ANNA PROVES FALSE

Ernest awakened in the morning full of curiosity. While Dick Carroll was attending to some business matters, after breakfast, he himself had time to explore his new home. Gonzales was not much of a town, as yet, being smaller than San Felipe. However, it was lavishly laid out, six miles square, in blocks divided off by broad straight streets, which ran out into the open country, the majority indicated only by surveyor’s stakes and some indicated not at all. There were a Market Square, and a Military Plaza, and other public parks (as required by Mexican law); a hotel called Turner’s Inn; a sort of a fort, in case of Indian attacks; a store or two; and about twenty houses of logs and clapboards, and well scattered. On many of the squares there was only a single house; and on others none at all. The main residence section was the southwest corner of the tract, called the “inner” town. To north and east extended the “outer” town, sparsely occupied by ranches.

This Gonzales was located on a timbered prairie, from which trees had been cut for house building. The Guadalupe River flowed in a curve on the west edge of town, and a few families had settled across on the west side of the river. In the north of the “outer” town was a heavy timber patch, which Smith’s Creek separated from a green prairie to the south; and through the town wended Kerr’s Creek, along which the first cabins had been erected, in 1825, when Colonel Green DeWitt (who owned all the vast colony tract) and Major James Kerr, of the Missouri senate, brought in the first settlers.

In honor of Don Rafael Gonzales, governor of Coahuila and Texas, was the settlement named; in 1826 it had been destroyed by the Indians and was rebuilt in 1827.

Even yet it was in constant danger from the Indians, particularly the Tawakanas; and it had been loaned a six-pounder brass cannon by the presidio of San Antonio, for protection. The cannon was not mounted, but it was kept in readiness.

Gonzales was the westernmost of the American settlements in Texas. Further west there was only old San Antonio de Bexar or Bejar――usually styled by the last word, pronounced “Behar.” It was seventy-five miles by road, and was strictly a Mexican town, although Americans lived there. Years before it had been established as a Roman Catholic mission, where were stationed priests and soldiers to educate and control the Indians. The mission part was abandoned, but as a presidio or garrison of Mexican soldiery, and as the principal Mexican military post in Texas, old Bejar was considered of much importance. The road to it was lonely and unsettled.

East of Gonzales, about eighty miles, was San Felipe――Stephen Austin’s town; south sixty miles was Goliad or Goliath, formerly the Mexican military post of La Bahia, on the lower San Antonio River; and down the Guadalupe, below Gonzales, about the same distance, was Victoria. But the country between, surrounding Gonzales, was all wild and unoccupied, and Gonzales was a real frontier settlement.

Dick Carroll “bached” it in his little log cabin; here he and Ernest slept and cooked their meals. Ernest on his first day was set at work herding horses on the prairie north of the houses; and thinking hard while sitting his yellow pony, and listening to Dick Carroll and the other men, in his hours off duty, he soon got a pretty clear idea of the situation in Texas.