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Recollections of a Texas Ranger.

By Isaac Motes.

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.

The white settlers were so aggravated by having their horses stolen that they resorted to all sorts of expedients to keep the Indians from getting them. The savages, however, kept up their thieving excursions till there were no horses left in some neighbourhoods, especially near rivers, down which the Indians came from the north and north-west, under cover of the timber along the waterside. If they could not get away with a horse, they would kill it rather than leave it alive to its owner. The settlers built strong log stables, with stout doors, which they fastened from the inside, climbing out themselves through a hole in the roof. Still, with wonderful cunning, the Indians got the horses, or killed them by shooting them with arrows through the cracks between the logs.

A friend of mine with whom I often stopped in South-West Texas told me how, on one occasion, the Indians got two fine horses from him when there seemed absolutely no chance for them to be stolen. He had a stable made of heavy oak logs, with a stout door fastened by a strong wooden pin, which one of his grown sons drove in with a maul on this particular evening, having seen Indian signs in the neighbourhood that day. Then the settler and his sons went to sleep in the hay-loft, under the same roof, with their loaded guns beside them. Not a sound disturbed them during the night, but when morning came the stable door was open and the horses gone. The Indians had found how the door was fastened and, by steady perseverance, succeeded in working the pin out. Probably the job took them hours, but they had plenty of time.

Old frontiersmen are the most superstitious class of people in the world. They all believe in omens and portents, things that forebode death and disaster. Their lives are spent amid dangerous surroundings, and they are suspicious of everything that seems unusual or ominous, and often attach uncanny significance to things which would make no impression upon the ordinary citizen living in a peaceful community.

One of the surest signs of approaching death to the old plainsman and Indian fighter is the scream of the "death-bird." The "death-bird" is supposed to fly about at night or hover near white men or women and children to give warning of the approach of Indians, wild beasts, or other great dangers. Its cry is the most piercing, nerve-racking wail that ever smote upon human ears. There is an almost human expression in it, as though it were the scream of a woman or child in mortal fear; and there is no mistaking its note among all the other night-birds of the plains. It never warns people unless there is no possible escape by other means, and woe to the man who hears its cry and heeds it not. As far as I have been able to discover no human eye has ever looked upon this mysterious "death-bird," for it flies only on dark nights, never uttering its warning at any other time, and the folk it honours with its attentions are thrown into such a state of fear, expectancy, and dread that curiosity as to the appearance of the bird is far from their thoughts. It is supposed, however, to be an owl, black as midnight, with very long wings and a large head and mouth, which superstitious people who claim to have seen the creature declare to be strangely like the head and mouth of a human being.

Almost every old Ranger and frontiersman has a weird story to tell as to the "death-bird" having saved the life of someone or other from Indians or outlaws. Most of the stories, however, are second-hand narratives, and I found when they had been sifted down they had almost always happened to someone other than the narrator. It was extremely rare that they were personal experiences, and they generally happened in some distant part of the State at some remote time. I had been a Ranger twenty years before I met a man, in whom I had the utmost confidence, who had a personal experience to relate wherein the "death-bird" had warned him of danger and saved his life. Up to this time I had doubted the truthfulness of these stories, and scouted the idea that such a bird existed. About seven years after this my friend, in company with two other Rangers, was ambushed and killed one night by renegade Mexicans down on the Rio Grande border, and on this occasion there was no "death-bird" to save his life, so I was still a little dubious.

Three years later, however, I met with an adventure which removed the last vestige of doubt from my mind. In the autumn of 1880, with five other Rangers, under command of a lieutenant, I was stationed at Eagle Pass, on the Rio Grande. About the middle of November I was sent to San Antonio with important despatches for the colonel commanding. I was selected for the trip because I had the fleetest horse of any man in the force, a big black thoroughbred, for which I had paid three hundred dollars when he was only two years old, and at a time, too, when horseflesh was cheap. For three years I had ridden this horse daily on all our scouting expeditions. He had borne me safely through many dangers, and I loved him almost as if he had been a human being.

I left San Antonio on my return one morning at eleven o'clock and rode seventy miles by nine o'clock that night, arriving at the Nueces River and Turkey Creek bottoms. The weather became threatening in the afternoon, and at night dense clouds obscured the light from the stars, and as there was no moon it became so appallingly black when we entered the thick timber of the "bottoms" that I could not see an inch before my eyes, and even my horse could not find his way around the trees, bushes, and fallen timber. There was no rain, no lightning, no thunder, and no wind—simply a thick pall of clouds which seemed to rest upon the tops of the trees—while a curious soft murmuring sound seemed to come from the bottom lands. I would have stopped immediately upon reaching the timber, but I had heard that afternoon that Indians had been seen along the river within the past twenty-four hours, and I had noticed the trail of what I believed to be Indian ponies crossing my road about six o'clock. So somehow or other I felt my way through the pitch-darkness till we were perhaps three hundred yards from the edge of the Nueces bottom. Then, dismounting, I took off my saddle and, letting down my lariat, looped the end around my left wrist so that my horse could graze, and yet waken me if he got too far away. Lying down under a large live-oak with my head on the saddle, I soon went to sleep with the subdued murmuring sound still echoing in my ears. I intended to rest a few hours, until the clouds lifted, and then continue my journey to a settlement twenty miles farther on. The tree under which I lay was a very large one, and I found next morning that the top limbs were dead, the tree having been struck by lightning some years before.

I must have slept for some time, but it seemed to me my eyes had barely closed when a piercing, wailing scream in the tree above me brought me instantly to my feet—a scream so startling that it seemed to vibrate every nerve in my body. Even if I had never heard so much as a whisper as to the peculiar character of the "death-bird's" cry I should have recognised it, for never before or since have I heard such a wild, foreboding shriek. The cry was long and wailing—the first note sharp, like the crack of a six-shooter, then trailing off into a long-drawn-out, ominous wail. The bird was doubtless sitting on one of the dead limbs above me, and at the first note of alarm had flown off across the bottom, the cry becoming more weird and portentous the farther away it got.

I took notice of this in a kind of subconscious way, for my faculties were strung to their highest tension to discover the danger that I was convinced menaced me. Even before the cry died away I heard my horse drawing in its breath in a sort of sob, as though uneasy and somewhat excited. Then I noticed that the lariat looped to my wrist was drawn suspiciously tight. This impression had hardly formed in my mind before the lariat suddenly drew a little tighter, then slackened perceptibly. Instantly it occurred to me that an Indian was out there with my horse, that he had the lariat in his hand, and was perhaps running his hand along it towards me to untie it, thinking it was tied to a stake, when, having got near enough to hear me as I sprang to my feet, he cut the line with a knife, causing the momentary tightness, followed by the slackening.

The thought that an Indian was making off with my valuable horse so filled me with fury that I was driven almost to desperation, and forgot for an instant the necessity for caution. Slipping the looped lariat off my wrist, I drew my six-shooter and crept as softly as I could out in the direction of my horse. I could still hear him sniffing out there in the brush, and thought I heard him stepping among sticks as though he was being led away. This so enraged me that I pushed through the brush faster and more recklessly than ever, gripping my six-shooter, though I realized I was doing a foolhardy thing, for an Indian can see in the dark much better than a white man. Still, it seemed impossible for me to resist the impulse to pursue my horse.

I had groped my way perhaps twenty feet when I stepped on to some dry twigs, which cracked sharply under my weight. Simultaneously I heard the ominous throb of a heavy bow-string, and as I ducked my head, quick as thought, an arrow took off my hat and tore through my hair, scorching my scalp as though a red-hot iron rod had been laid across my head. Upon this my horse became so excited that he began to rear, plunge, and snort. I stood irresolute, fearing to fire in that direction lest I should kill the animal. From the sound the horse was making I believed he was pulling considerably on the halter and backing towards me. While I stood there, in a fever of uncertainty, I again heard the dull hum of the bow-string and ducked to avoid the arrow, but instead of its coming toward me there was a wild, almost human, cry from my horse, and he reared and fell heavily to the ground, then staggered to his feet again and came towards me, uttering the most agonizing cry that ever tortured human ears. When perhaps ten feet from me he again fell and lay still, moaning with pain. A mad fury of rage possessed me at my beauty's agony, and I leaped blindly forward in the darkness, not caring whether I lived or died if only I could kill that brute of an Indian. I made towards where I heard my horse fall, feeling for him with my left hand, and just as I touched him I heard once more the twang of the Indian's bow-string, and again an arrow whizzed at me, tearing away the lobe of my ear. In ducking this time I sank to my knees and found myself between my dead horse's fore and hind legs as he lay with his belly towards me, with my left hand resting on his body. I marked carefully the direction of the bow-string's hum, and as my knees touched the ground I raised myself up and fired twice in quick succession, afterwards sinking down low again behind the horse's body.

There was no sound from the redskin to lead me to believe I had struck him, so I crouched down between the feet of my dead horse, gripping my six-shooter, expecting the Indian or Indians to be upon me every minute. But minutes and hours passed, and still I heard not the faintest sound from that direction. Nevertheless, I dared not move, but spent the remainder of the night where I was, protected by the animal's body.

As the grey light of coming day began to steal into the bottom I peered anxiously around me, searching for signs of the Indian, either dead or alive. I could see nothing of him through the bushes and vines, so when it became light I got up and walked cautiously in the direction from which the arrows had come. About fifty yards away I discovered traces of blood, and following these for a short distance I found where the Indian had lain down and dragged himself, leaving a plainly discernible trail. Following this for about three hundred yards farther I came to a tiny little gully about a foot deep. In one place the limbs of a low tree overhung it, and here the gully appeared to be nearly full of leaves. Looking about, I saw what I took to be an arrow sticking up above the leaves. I approached very cautiously, watching for the slightest movement, but there was none, and the arrow still stuck out at an angle of about forty-five degrees. Six-shooter in hand I drew nearer, and found an Indian lying there dead in the gully. It was obvious what had happened. Becoming too weak to crawl, my enemy had stretched himself in this gully, raked the dead leaves over his body, covering himself from view very artfully, and then, with bow and arrow, ready to shoot me if I had followed him and overtook him while he was yet alive, he had lain there, bearing the pain of his wounds with stoical fortitude, until death came to his release.