Intensely Interesting Little Volume of
TRUE HISTORY
of the Struggles with Hostile Indians
On the Frontier of Texas
IN THE EARLY DAYS
Never Before Published In Book Form
A Real Cow Boys Experience With Indians and the Cow Trail
WRITTEN BY
M. L. JOHNSON
The Author lives in Dallas, Texas 4639 Marshall Street
PRICE 50 CENTSTHE LIBRARY OF
THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA
LOS ANGELESPREFACE
The Scrap of Real History of Indian War-fare published in this Little Volume is Intensely Interesting, and should not be lost to Future Generations. No “Dime Novel trash” in it—every Word in it is absolutely the Truth, and, in support of this statement, I offer the Record of the Indian Claim Agent at Washington, D. C. as proof, but our Government only keeps a short Record with no Particular History. I can at date (1923) give the names of at leat two eye-witnesses to These Struggles.
M. L. JOHNSON Dallas, Texas, 1923
“Lives of great men all remind us,
We can make our lives sublime,
And departing leave behind us
Foot prints on the sands of time.”M. L. JOHNSON
(the author)MY FIRST BUFFALO HUNT
I arrived at the John Hittson ranch on the head of Battle Creek, in Callahan county, early in September, 1867, •without losing my scalp, although I was chased by a small band of Kiowa Indians through Iron Ore gap, a few miles west of the town of Palo Pinto in Palo Pinto county on my way out to the ranch from Ft. Worth.
Hittson and his men were out on “a roundup” when I arrived, but W. D. Clark and his son John, were at the ranch, or rather branding pens, on my arrival, and I began to feel a trifle better after my lonely ride of 175 miles.
Buffalo were almost as plentiful as cattle at that time, all over that country, so I and John Clark decided to make a roundup of buffalo the next day. It would astonish people of this day and time to see the kind of firearms we intended to use in that buffalo hunt. Mine was an old fashioned cap and ball Colts six shooter, an old pistol that had been used during the Civil War that had just closed—I don’t know how many men it had already killed. Very often two, and even three chambers (barrels) would fire at one time, but I KNOW that old rusty (trusty) pistol was the cause of two or more Indians going to their “happy hunting ground” some time after that buffalo hunt.
John Clark, long since dead, who now has a sister in Ft. Worth by the name of Jane La-cava, had an old “Pepper-box” six shooter. There are but few people living today that ever saw one of these old pistols. The barrel of this pistol was simply a round piece of steel, or potmetal about the size and shape of an oyster can, only longer, with six holes drilled in it lengthwise, similar to a honey-comb.
It, too, shot the cap and ball, and took nearly an hour to reload it, but it did not fire two shots at once, and sometimes it did not fire at all.
Thus armed we proudly left the ranch next morning after my arrival, fully expecting to kill all the buffalo for five miles around the ranch. The buffalo were there all right, and plenty of them, but was it their time to die wholesale?
A buffalo can smell a man two miles if the wind if favorable, and when he gets scent of a man, he is gone—I never yet saw one stop running after getting scent of a man. If one gets the wind on a herd of buffalo, they are not near so shy, even if one tries to approach them on the open prairie in plain view of them. Well, we expected buffalo meat, hides and tallow before we came back to the ranch.
We had gone about two miles in a northwest direction from the ranch when we sighted, grazing on the slope of the hill, two cows and an old bull. This was my first sight of a buffalo, and so ecstatic was I at the sight of a buffalo that my heart seemed to crawl up in my throat—a real live wild buffalo. Kill them buffalo! Certainly we intended to bag every one of them.
We held a hurried council of war and decided that a bold charge was better and more honorable than to go sneaking around and shoot from ambush. It was nearly half a mile to where they were grazing, but we decided to make the charge from where we stood. We wanted to do the thing right or not at all, so we charged. Thinkof two gosling green boy¿ and two poor shabby Texas ponies with practically no gun worth “toating,” making a charge on a herd of buffalo at that distance and you will realize what chance we had in killing buffalo that day.
In our charge it was a mere accident that we had the wind coming from them to us, and foi that reason, they did not see us until we were within seventy-five yards of them and by this time our ponies were about exhausted but the buffalo were so poor they were nearly on the lift, especially the old bull which could not run half a mile to save his life.
We were now on the firing line, so to speak, and pop, pop went the old rusty pistols when we could get them to go off, but some-how we didn’t kill them as fast as we intended. It was a running fight, and I suggested to Clark that we concentrate our fire on the old bull who had by this time stopped running and defied us with a shake of his horns, followed by a savage charge at us which changed the complexion of what we were looking for. Our ponies were run down and our amunition about gone and that old bull had been worked up to a frenzy—our chances of escape began to look slim. The bull made several charges at us as we dodged from one mesquite bush to another. I had only one load in my pistol left, and I wanted to execute a death sentence on that bull with it. I knew that if I could get him to charge me while up in one of those small mesquite trees that I could shoot him in the loins and kill him. Finally the bull made the charge I was wanting and as I climbed up the tree he barely missed catching me in hishorns. I fired my last shot into his loins, over the kidneys, and the fight ended. The buffalo was too poor to be eaten by the coyotes. Since that day I have killed hundreds of buffalo, but nothing since then has ever excited me so much as my first day’s buffalo hunt.
HITTSON ROBBED OF 700 CATTLE
A Desperate Indian Fight.
The Indians had been so troublesome in West Texas that John Hittson, and his son, Jesse, concluded to move their entire stock of cattle and horses up to Deer Trail, Colorado. At that time their cattle were scattered over six or eight counties; Coleman, Callahan and Runnels counties being the hot-bed for depredations and their home ranches were located in these counties.
About July 1st, 1872, we were ordered to roundup everything we could find in Runnels county. We started out from the main ranch on Battle Creek, Callahan county, and moved southward rounding up cattle as we went, standing guard at night to hold the cattle and horses. On the 10th of July we had rounded up about 700 head of cattle and drove them into the pens at old Picketville on the Colorado River, near where Ballinger now stands. This was the only pens in that county at this time, and we enjoyed an all-night’s sleep for the first time since leaving Battle Creek—never dreaming of what was going on around us that night.
We were up early next morning and discovered that the Comanche Indians (we knew themby the signs left) had stolen and carried off about 35 of our horses.
Fortunately they did not find all of our horese during the night, so we had enough horses left to mount all the “cowboys” in the outfit. When we did not stand guard over our horses, we made it a rule to put them out away from the Camp in bunches so that the Indians would not be likely to find them all thus scattered, and this precaution saved some of our horses. From the signs we observed the next morning, there must have been a large band of the redskins, so we decided to turn the cattle out and drive them to the home ranch on Battle Creek, Callahan county, some fifty miles to the northeast. We saw no Indians that morning until we had gone about five miles north־ of where Ballinger now stands, and on looking back in the direction of where we had stayed the night before, we saw about seventy-five Comanche warriors with a large herd of horses, about half a mile from us. The country was comparatively level with no timber or brush in sight, so we could see them plainly. We halted and made ready for the worst—examined our fire arms to see that they were all in commission, and then held a short council of war, and the Indians seemed to be doing the same thing.
Jesse Hittson, now living at Hardwick, near El Paso, Texas, and the only man, except the author, now living, proposed that we hoist a flag of truce and go out to meet the big Chief to form a kind of “treaty of peace,” as we were outnumbered ten to one.
By this time the main body of the redskinsbegan to advance on us slowly. It is strange that an old Indian fighter like Mr. Hittson, knowing the Comanches so well, would even think of going out to treat with a large band of Comanche warriors, but, as there seemed to be no chance of our escape, three of us volunteered to go with Hittson and, if possible, treat with them.
We had advanced on the Indians, with friendly tokens, until we had gone about 300 yards from our wagon and were about the same distance from the Indians, when the war-whoop was sounded by the chief and caught up by his entire band, followed by a charge at us that looked desperate.
You have heard of the “Rebel Yell” and have no doubt heard the College Yell; but pen and ink can not depict or describe the hellishness of the yell coming from the throats of a hundred Comanche warriors. Of course we had to run until we reached our wagon and here we took our stand to defend “the fort” or die game. The big chief was in the lead and came dashing up within fifty feet of us—Hittson declares he could have hit him with a rock.
Our forces consisted of twelve men as follows: Jesse Hittson, Jim Wilson, Ben Wilson, Bill Cockrell, Joe Smith, Ed Emerson, Frank Emerson, Charley Esllinger, “Dutchey,” the cook, the author of this article and two others—I can’t remember their names. All of this little party have long since gone “the way of the earth” except Jesse Hittson and the writer. Twelve men pitted against nearly a hundred picked Comanche warriors, the odds were not much in ourfavor, so we determined to sell out as dear as possible.
I forgot to say that when the Indians first began to advance on us, “Dutchey” our cook, deserted us and I never saw him afterwards; however he made his escape, going to S. S. Gholson’s cow camp and reported that we were all killed, and finally made his way back to the settlements at Weatherford.
We were well armed with modern firearms at that time—winchesters and “Colts” six shooters, and when they made the first charge we pumped hot lead into them so fast they had to retreat and hold another council of war, but Jesse Hittson had wounded the old chief who led the charge, and had to be carried off the battle ground by several of his braves. It has been established, beyond a doubt that this same old chief died at Lawton twenty-five years, after this fight from the wounds he received in his first charge at us.
This fight commenced about 10 o’clock on the morning of July 11, 1872, and lasted until about 6 o’clock in the evening—the longest struggle I have ever known by Indians.
After holding a council some distance away, they made another charge, almost in a body until they were within 200 yards of us when they divided into two columns which almost surrounded us as they ran by at full speed, pouring arrows and bullets at us from both sides, but doing little or no damage. In the mean time we had no time to read Sunday School tracts, but our business was to kill as many Indians as we could and during that mortal struggle for life we madeten or twelve “good Indians” out of bad ones־..
They continued charging us in the same way, never changing their tactics, for several hours, but at last they withdrew some distance and held council for nearly an hour, after which five of them advanced toward us making friendly signs which made us understand that they would formulate a treaty of peace.
We knew that the only treaty of peace these red skins ever paid any attention to was a well directed bullet. They observe that on the same principle a setting hen is made to lay, by wringing her neck. There is no honor according to our code, in their composition; they only respect a superiority of numbers, and a treaty to them is time given to take breath and make preparations for a more advantageous attack upon the too confiding white man.
We promptly declined and friendly relations with them and gave them to understand that hot lead was the only treaty they might expect. By this time fear had entirely left us and we had become desperate. My experience in battle is that, when one goes into it, he is terribly excited —literally scared to death until after the first few rounds are fought and then fear is all gone, and the biggest coward on earth will fight with as much unconcern as if hoeing in a garden.
Again, and again, they charged us, but after the first few charges they made on us, they would circle around us at long distance, yelling like a hundred panthers—the most unearthly sound the human ear has ever caught.
It seems unreasonable to say that these Indians did not kill a single one of us, but such isthe fact, and I refer the readers to Jesse Hittson who now (1923) lives at Hardwick, Texas.
Late in the evening they withdrew to a respectful distance and after a short consultation, they bunched their herd of horses and rounded up about all our cattle, 700 head, drove them off in a northwest direction, leaving about twenty Indians to stand guard over us until nearly sundown, when the whole band disappeared in . the distance.
Result: About ten or twelve Indians killed, several wounded and about twelve horses killed.
Two years later I quit the frontier of Texas, went to Fort Worth and there lived in peace a few years, and then moved to Austin, Texas, my present home. A few years later Mr. Hittson sued the government for the loss of his horses and cattle in this fight, but for several years he could not find an eye witness. Nearly all of the boys had died and my whereabouts was unknown to the Hittsons. After 40 years of waiting Mr. Hittson learned that I lived in Austin, Texas, and at once the suit against the government for $14,900 was renewed.
My evidence in the case saved the Hittson estate this large sum, and it was paid over to the Hittson estate by the government in 1909. (See Government Brief Indian Depredations.)
This narrative is literally true just as it oc-cured, with no exaggerations whatever, and should be of special interest to the peoole now living in Ballinger and Runnels counties from the fact that it has never before been published. The scene of this struggle is now in a densely popu-
9lated county. Farms, churches and school houses lie along this bloody trail of that murderous band of nearly a hundred Comanche warriors. The bear, buffalo, Indian and antelope are gone and a peaceful civilization has taken their places. Nothing but the little pestiferous prairie dog remains to contest his right to that beautiful country.
HOW I GOT MY FACE SHOT TO PIECES
I was working under W. D. Clark, of Fort Worth, who at that time was manager of John Hittson’s ranch, or more strictly speaking his branding pen, situated on the head of Battle Creek in Callahan county. There were but few cattlemen in that whole section of country and no settlers at all for hundreds of miles around— Weatherford, in Parker county was considered to be the dividing line between the white man and the Indians.
Frequent raids were made by Indians near Weatherford at that time (1868) and it was dangerous for anyone to go alone West of that place. Cattlemen always took the precaution to go in squads of from five to ten men in order to be prepared to meet the scalping Comanches and Kio-was. Those two tribes of Indians were the most heartless, warlike butchers that ever visited the frontiers of Texas.
Jim Carter, John Hazelwood, John and Jim Hart and John Hittson, about all the cattlemen in that country, had agreed to start branding mavericks’ early that year. On the first day of March, 1868, we made our first roundup on Sandy
10Creek about ten miles East of the Battle Creek camp, or pens, and, let me say here, that I am now 72 years old and during all my life I have seen wind and sand storms, but on that particular day was the worst dry sand storm I have ever beheld —the sun was almost completely hidden with sand in the air. This, article however, is not intended for sand storms, but for my experience with the hostile Indians. I was sent out about a half mile form camp to round up and bring a few horses that had been left to graze on the range—each cowboy had from two to three horses and even that number were almost ridden to death. I had rounded up the horses and started for camp with them; about 22 Comanches came in sight and my only chance was to make a run for the camp, but in my run I discovered that I had been cut off by another bunch of Indians between me and the camp—I dismounted and crawled up under a steep bank on Sandy Creek and decided to sell out to the best marksman. They passed by me several times in a ring fight, but the only damage they did me was a “Spencer” rifle ball which tore away one side of my face and had it not been for my comrades from the camp, who heard the shooting, the grass over my grave would have been growing for over fifty years!,
By that time my comrades had arrived my ammunition was about all gone, but when they arrived the Indians withdrew some distance pursued by our party, a running fight ensued by which one Indian was killed and several wounded—two of our party were wounded.
To my certain knowledge this was the first and only time that I ever knew or heard of an
11Indian being left dead on any battlefield. They always carry off their dead if possible.
WOUNDED KNEE FIGHT
The history of the Brule Sioux War has never been written, and I ask the readers to pardon me for giving them an account of one fight I was in, up in Dakota, and I promise that all my future experiences with Indians will be confined to West Texas.
In the decline of all nations of people a “Saviour” has arisen from among the people with prophesies false or true, they sought to better the conditions of their race.
Thus it was that a Messiah came among the Brule Sioux from Idaho with the wondrous tale that the plains of Nebraska and Dakota were now to be given back to their primeval condition of the buffalo and Indian—that these scenes were to be actually viewed by going into a dance or something like a hypnotic state produced by physical exhaustion; so when these tales of a reproduction of their barbaric splendor were told them at this time of distress, they believed it to be a divine, revelation and so accepted it. The Messiah painted hieroglyphics on cotton shirts and assured his followers that they would turn the bullets of the white man. They now had nothing to fear, and so nearly 6,000 of them went on the war-path. Chief Two Strikes was at the head of them. Their first hostile act was the killing of the government cattle herder. Then they took a Northwesterly course toward the Bail
1*4Lands, leaving destruction in their Wake. The Indian agent at Pine Ridge, fearing for his life, deserted his post. United States troops were telegraphed for and soon 3,000 soldiers were in the field under General Miles. On the North of Pine Ridge Agency 6,000 Indians were depredating—one mile South there was encamped a band of Indians under Chief American Horse—settlers were deserting their homes—Rushville was filled with fright and fugitives.
The state troops were ordered out and consisted of 2,000 men. They were commanded by Brig. General L. W. Colby. On the 28th day of December, 1890, Col. Forsythe of the U. S. A. was ordered out to round up Big Foot’s band then depredating in the hills. We came on to them on the evening of December 28th, and marched them some eight miles to Wounded Knee Creek. 93 soldiers stood guard all night with the intention of disarming the Indians at day break—the weather was intensely cold.
I sat in a tent eating some hard tack and coffee when a volley of 100 rifles was heard to come from down the creek where the Indians were being guarded. In an instant the heavier boom of musketry followed the deafening sound of the Hotchkiss gun— the long expected battle was on!,
Does memory in any one ever serve to describe a battle accurately? I think not— the strain on the nervous system is so great that memory refuses to retain all the eye sees.
I saw a cloud of smoke, puffs of blue smoke, as the deadly triangle of so^i^s poured bullets into the struggling mass of Indi nans about the tepees. Wavering ranks of the blue as the with-
13ering fire was returned—frantic horses dashing riderless over the plain—forms in red blankets running hither and thither. Swift retreat of small parties followed by swifter pursuit of horsemen.
There were hand-to-hand conflicts here and there—the men in blue extemporizing boxes and sacks of grain for breastworks.
I heard the bugle notes sounding “Charge;” again their mellow cadence said “Fire at Will.” Above the sound of the rifle shots and cannonade came the weird shrill “Hi, Yi, Hip, Zi,” and anon, after an effective volley, rose the sullen roar of voices whose cry was, “Remember Custer.”
Indians were pinned to earth with bayonets; squaws dashed here and there with long knives attempting to stab the soldiers—they too, were shot. Thirty minutes of the hottest fight and the Indians were fleeing to the hills—they gained the gullies and shot the soldiers in pursuit.
The trench at the Wounded Knee fight was dug 60 feet long, 9 feet wide and 6 feet deep, and 251 bodies were piled “pell mell” into it.
The field of carnage is the most dreadful thing the human eye can dwell on, and I wish it were effaced from my memory for in after years I have heard in fitful slumber those dying yells and piteous cries of agony.
I know of but one survivor, a sucking Indian baby girl, found strapped on the back of her stiff, frozen, dead mother, four days after the battle. How that infant could stand, and live, in that condition no one could even guess, but such is the fact and she was taken from her dead mother by Gen. L. W. Colby, of Beatrice, Nebraska, andtaken to his home and adopted. I have her picture when she was about 12 years old, and the last time I heard from her, she was still living.
Now if this account does not appeal to the reader as being the plain truth, and nothing but the truth I ask the reader to send to the Indian agent at Washington, D. C., and I am positive he will verify every word of it, the most exciting, horrible account of an Indian fight that a human eye has ever witnessed, and I shall offer proof positive that every word of it is the truth and nothing but the truth.
Austin, Texas. Dec. 19, 1904. Secretary of War, Washington, D. C.
Hon. Sir:-
How many soliers of the 7th. Cavalry were killed and wounded in the fight at “Wounded Knee” with the Sioux Indians, out in Dakota, Dec. 28th., 1890; and will you please give me the present address of Col. Forsythe, who commanded that fight?
I want to publish all the facts obtainable, and will thank you in advance for this information, and for any other information connected with the war with the Sioux Indians.
Yours very truly,
M. L. JOHNSON.
Request to be informed of the number of soldiers of the 7th Cavalry killed and wounded in the fight at “Wounded Knee”, and any other information in connection with the War with Sioux Indians, for the purpose of publication.
ff״Also requests to be advised of the present address of Major-General James W. Forsythe, U. S. A., retired.
Received from the War Department.
Washington, D. C. December, 23, 1904. Mr. M. L. Johnson,
Austin Texas.
It appears from the official records that the losses of the 7th Cavalry in the action with the Sioux Indians at Wounded Knee, South Dakota, December 29th, 1890, were 1 officer and 29 enlisted men killed and 2 officers and 32 enlisted men wounded.
A “Report of operations relative to the Sioux Indians in 1890 and 1891” including the action at Wounded Knee, is printed in the Report of the Secretary of War for the year 1891, pages 177 to 251. The War Department has no copies of this report available for distribution, but it can probably be found in almost any large public library; or, as it was printed as Volume 1 of Part 2 of Executive Document No. 1, House of Representatives, 52d Congress, 1st Session, a copy can probably be obtained from the Superintendent of Documents, Washington, D. C.
The address of Major General James W. Forsyth, United States Army, retired, is reported to be “Columbus Club, Columbus, Ohio.”
F. C. AINSWORTH, The Military Secretary.
INDIANS CREMATE A MAN
The following account of Indian warfare is too
16horrible to go in print, but it is a part of Texas history and should be recorded, and it shows accurately what scenes of hardships the early settlers had to endure long before this county was made safe for peaceful settlers.
The Indians knew no rules in war—■their only object in view was to kill, scalp, torture and steal.
In the spring of each year it was customary for all the cattlemen to round up all the cattle they could find and mark and brand all “mavericks” (unbranded young stock cattle), in his own mark and brand, and by so doing, he became the legal owner, and every spring they would go at it in a hurry.
During the spring of 1870 Hittson and his entire force of cowpunchers had finished branding the young cattle—turned them loose and were rounding up beef cattle to drive to Denver, Colo., where he had at that time a ranch at Deer Trail, about 50 miles East from Denver.
As late as 1870 we were well armed with winchester rifles and all the Colts sixshooters we could well carry for we well knew that we were likely to need them at any moment, day or night.
Our first round-up was to be uo in Young county in the vicinity of old Fort Belknap, so we pushed forward rounding up cattle as we went North from Callahan county.
We had rounded up about 500 fat beeves when we had arrived at old Fort Belknap—‘“layed over” to rest one day, and this day's rest saved us from one of the bloodiest Ind ׳an fights I have ever witnessed. Next morning we were late getting off and even that delay was in our favor, as I willsoon show.
We decided to work East of Belknap that day, so we started out, rounding up cattle as we went East, and when we reached Salt Creek, about 12 miles from Belknap, we found a U. S. train ot wagons, which was trying to reach the fort with provisions for the soldiers.
Now the sight, sickening sight, that I saw there will never be erased from my memory I The Indians had killed and robbed that train and had tied one man’s arms and legs, standing erect, between the rear and front wheels of a wagon and built a fire under him which had actually burnt out his bowels and they had fallen to the ground—of course he was dead—all the dead were scalped and their bare shining skulls was another sickening sight. At this sight I solemnly vowed that I would kill some of those Indians or be killed by them, sooner or later, and right here let me say that, that vow was made good many times before I gave up the Western country.
We learned afterward that only two of the men saved their lives by running to a clump of timber when the Indians first came in sight.
The full account of this horrible massacre has never been published. The government at Washington D. C., has a complete record of it, but the government does not publish such news.
Now if any of my readers are “from Missouri” and have to be shown, tell them to write to the Secretary, of War, or to the Indian Agent, at Washington, and I will guarantee they will get practically the same account as the one I have written.
18The chiefs who committed this crime were finally taken prisoners by Lieut. General Sheridan, and were tried, convicted and sent to the penitentiary for life. The following letter from officials at the penitentiary of Texas gives the final history of these “two big chiefs.”
Huntsville, Texas, May 15th, 1913 Mr. M. L. Johnson.
Austin, Texas.
Dear Sir: Complying with you request of the 13th inst, we enclose herewith prison record of No. 2,107, Satanta, Kiowa, Chief, who received a life sentence for murder of Government train in Young Co., Texas, in 1870, was tried and convicted at Jacksborough, Texas in 1871. This man was liberated on parole by Gov. Davis, August 19th, 1873, on the recommendation of the President of the U. S.
Was returned to prison Nov. 8th, 1874, for violating his parole—committed suicide, by jumping from the second landing of the hospital, Oct. 11th, 1878;
We also enclose prison records of No. 2,108 Big Tree, another Kiowa Chief, who received the same sentence as Satanta. This Indian was liberated on parole August 19th, 1873, and was never returned to the penitentiary. Both of these Indians were Kiowas from the Indian Territory. Hoping this will give you information desired, beg to remain,
Yours very truly,
Oscar F. Wolff, Secretary Prison Commission.
19OX WAGON TAKEN ON CONCHO RIVER and
OX WAGON REDEEMED
“At this time I was a mere lad 17 years old and was working for John Hittson, who was then in the cattle business, ‘not for his health,’ but for the money that was in it. His ranch, or rather branding pens, was situated on the head waters of Battle Creek in Callahan county.
“In August, 1867, we had rounded up about one thousand head of fat cattle and started to drive them to old Ft. Sumner, ’way up on the Pecos river in New Mexico, where army of U. S. troops were stationed to keep on the reservation about 17,000 Navajo Indians who, at that time were peaceful because they were not allowed to even go out on a hunt for fear they would go on the “war path.”
“We hit the old Chisholm Trail,” (sometimes called the Goodnight Trail), a cow trail across the plains made by John Chisoholm long before our narrative begins, and moved Westward along this trail, passing old Ft. Chadbourne and crossing the Colorado river a few miles to the Southwest of this place. Thence across the county to the North Concho river; thence up the Concho to its very source. Thence due West across the “Staked Plains” to Horse Head Crossing on the Pecos River, then up the Pecos to the end of our journey.
“We encountered no Indians on our outward journey—delivered the cattle to the government at Ft. Sumner. On the return trip nothing transpired worthy of mention until we reached the falls on the Pecos. Just East of the falls, on
20a small elevation, about 400 yards from the falls, we found a pole about 5 or 6 feet long stuck in the earth, and standing straight up, with a man’s head on the top of it!,
“The man had been scalped and his head cut off and was on top of this pole!, We did not find the body of the man but learned afterwards that his name was Williamson—that his small party had been completely wiped out of existance by a murderous band of hostile Indians. This was in December, 1867, and the weather was rather chilly, but we pushed our way homeward. We finally reached the head of the Concho and to our dismay we saw just to the North of us a band of Indians, about 30 in number, who made a direct charge at us.
“By way of explanation I wish to say that nearly every one of our party, except one man who was driving our loose horses, was in the ox wagon at that time. Before we had time to even find our guns among the bed clothes the Indians were upon us and our only chance of escape was to “take to the brush” and leave everything behind—even our horses.
“I think this band of Indians was Kiowas— these Indians were not quite so bad as the Com-fl nches—however we retreated in haste and hid as best we could and watched them. They paid no attention to us after they captured everything we had, and drove our horses and ox wagons off in a North direction. There we were, about 240 miles from the ranch and to travel afoot was extremely dangerous, but we pushed for home on foot.
“There was plenty of game for food but it was
21cold and we had no bedding. Finally after many hardships we landed at Sam Gholson’s hut on the Colorado, near old Ft. Chadbourne, but there was no one to say “welcome boys, come in” so we kicked down the the rickety door, took out some bread stuff and marched on some 85 miles more to our ranch. As well as I remember this is a list of our party; John Hittson, “boss” Chester Wentworth, Frank McLaura, James Hart, John Hart, the writer of this article, and a negro by the name of Andy, and Newt Kirksey.
“John Hart is still living at Baird, Callahan county Texas, or was a few years ago; Jess Hittson now lives at Hardwick, Texas, a distance Northeast of El Paso. The writer lives in Dallas, Texas.
“If the reader cares to know how we again got possession of the ox wagons I will explain it in my next chapter.
Second Part.
After our long hike from the extreme head of the North Concho we rested a few days, and then began to plan a way to redeem our wagon, oxen and bedding. Some of the boys objected to any attempt at rescuing our old plunder because the trip was wrought with so much danger, and besides this, the trip was a long one over a wilderness, at that time inhabited only by bear, buffalo, antelope, Mexicans lions and wolves. Finally after wrangling over the question for several days, John Hittson called for volunteers to make the trip with him. Mr. Hittson was the owner of the entire outfit and did not want to loose it. This was in January, 1868, and it was cold and the hired cowboys hesitated to volunteer,but finally John Hart said he would go, and if necessary, would “fight them d—ned Indians to a finish.” Ches Wentworth next volunteered, as he said he did not want to be called a coward. Jim Moore, Frank McLaura, and the writer of this article also volunteered to go and help bring that wagon home, get scalped, or bring home a few scalps.
Now I ask the reader to keep in mind the fact that Ballinger was not on the map and that there was not a single house or family within a hundred and fifty miles of Ballinger. There were a few U. S. soldiers stationed at old Ft. Concho, where the Conchos come together and where San Angelo now stands—propably a few soldiers were stationed ar old Ft. Chadborne, up the Colorado some distance above Ballinger. Our outfit consisted of six men, all told, and two pack horses on which our bedding and provisions were strapped with ropes.
We pushed Westward at the rate of about 40 miles each day, keeping constant lookout for Indians, for we well knew their tactics.
On we went day after day until we were in the vicinity of our destination. We decided to lay over and wait until night before we arrived at the very spot where we had been robbed.
This place is situated at the very extreme head of the Concho and from there on West was a desert where not even a wolf or a raven could live at that time, but at this place there was a small pond which sometimes had a little water, and there was but one mesquite tree anywhere in that part of the country.
We stopped near the small pond and John Hitt-son took his canteen and went to find some water —he also carried his gun and six-shooter. All at once Hittson screamed for help. An old buffalo, and the only one in that country, was chasing him around and around. He had no time to stop and shoot the savage thing and all he could do was to dodge right and left to keep from being killed. Just before we got to where he was he had managed to climp up that lone tree.
It would make the Devil blush to have heard Hittson cursing that savage buffalo. When he was safe in the tree he filled the buffalo full of lead but there were no coyotes in that country to eat him.
Next morning we stayed close together and made a search for our wagon and oxen. We found the wagon and oxen about one mile from the pond. The yoke was still on the oxen but they had been loosened from the wagon by the Indians. They had burned all of our bed clothes and poured what flour and meal we had on the ground and we could see plainly they had had a “‘war dance” on it.
HAZLEWOOD KILLED
At the time this narrative begins it was rather early for the cattlemen on the frontier to begin to make preparations for the spring round-up for branding “mavericks,” but they had decided to commence early that year (1868).
Geo. W. Hazelwood, whose branding pen was on Sandy Creek, in Callahan county, had gone down East to buy horses, and had just returned with them on the first day of March, 1868.He had taken the precaution to put his horses out in two squads the night before, so that, in case the Indians made a raid, he would have two chances of saving some of his horses.
The next morning he went after the horses himself and brought in one bunch safely, with no sign of any Indians, and at once went out for the purpose of bringing in the second bunch, and that was the last time Hazelwood was seen alive. There were several men at the ranch, (branding pens) ; among them was Jim Carter, Elisha Carter, John Hazelwood, now in Arizona: Thomas Hazelwood, now living in San Angelo (then old Ft. Concho) ; the last two named being sons of Geo. W. Hazelwood; and one of the Funderbug cowboys, and one or two others whose names I do not remember.
Mr. Hazelwood stayed out so long that we suspected something had happened and so we went to look for him.
We found him dead in a bunch of small live oak trees—he had put up such a gallant fight in his struggle for life, and the damage he had done to the Indians, caused them not to scalp him.
We took the trail of the Indians and pursued them Northward up near the line of Young county, where we overtook them.
Hazelwood had killed one Indian, and had badly wounded two others of the band, one of whom was a negro. A squad of Indians had gone on ahead with the horses—so we got no horses— but we captured the two wounded, and dead Indian.
Now I ask the reader of this account to re-
23member that we did not take the two wounded Indians to any hospital, or send for a doctor, but we “did the doctoring” with hot lead.
The way the Indians carried off their dead and wounded was to fasten two of their rudely-made tent poles on both sides of a horse, to the saddle, and let the rear end drag on the ground, with a buffalo hide stretched across from each pole.
If the reader cares to find another eye-witness to this fight, I kindly ask him to go over to San Angelo, Texas, and converse with Mr. Tom Hazelwood, who at this time lives in that beautiful little city on the Concho River. He is the son of the Hazelwood who was killed and a nice gentleman, too.
TEXAS RED ANT
and
ROY HITTSON LETTER
There are various species of ants to be found in almost every country of the world, and more especially, in the warmer climates they can be found of enormous size.
To a casual observer it may seem strange to say that, in Texas, there is one species of ant about 3-4 of an inch long which speak a real language, build good roads, farm and harvest their crops with surprising intelligence.
There are few farmers in the United States who plant, cultivate and save their crops with more precision than the Texas Red Ant—I say Texas Ant because I know of no other locality where this species of ant is found. To any one who will take the trouble to observe the habits
26and characteristics of this little, insect, the following narrative will dispel all skepticism and prove to be a literal truth.
Like the honey bee, they lay in their home all the winter, except on a warm sunny winter day, they come out to bask in the sun, although they do no work during the winter months.
The first intimation of spring in Texas is when the Red Ant comes out of his hole in the ground and goes vigorously to work. Their hole in the ground, below the entrance, is divided up into many rooms and departments—by digging down about one foot, any one can see the store room where they store their food for winter, the result of a summer’s work, and one may see they have drained it properly and stored it in the driest room, otherwise it would get wet and sour, and, *of course would be unfit for food. Then again, they have a specially constructed room in which to deposit their eggs, which usually hatch in early spring, and last, but not least, they have several sleeping rooms in which they stay all winter.
When springtime opens they come out by le-lions and go to work, although, unlike the bee, they have no king, queen or overseer, they work in the most perfect harmony all the summer. The first work they do, when they come out, is to cut down all weeds for several feet around their home—they clean this space as clean as a dining table—carrying off all the rubbish and piling it clear out of their way. They then go to work cutting away and clearing up all vegetation, for a distance of about 20 feet, except such grass, and weeds as bear small seed, such
27as they wish to store away 'in the summer and fall, this they leave and cultivate by keeping all other vegetation cut down until harvest time— then they gather in the ripe seed and choice blades of grass for winter use.
But this is by no means the only farm they cultivate, for they have been known to go as far as 200 feet from their home in every direction—cultivate and harvest their crops.
They invariably cut out and keep up a nice little road leading out thru the tall grass and weeds to every farm they cultivate, and they travel these roads constantly from morning til night all the summer, and there is never a time during the days in summer but what some of them are at work—they seem to work in relays.
They have a distinct language which they undoubtedly speak and they understand each other, too.
I have many times gone out into the tall grass and weeds fifty or a hundred feet from their home, where none of their roads lead, and found a lone ant which I would feed with a few crumbs of bread and watch the result. This ant would gather up a crumb and strike a bee line for home. Before arriving at home he would probably fall into one of their numerous roads, in which he would meet many of his comrades, going in the opposite direction. The ant with the crumb of bread would invariably stop every ant along his road, stick their heads together, tell his empty-handed brother “something” and move on toward home. I have further noticed that every ant this one met, and apparently spoke to, would go directly to the identical place out in the tallgrass where I dropped the crumbs of bread. Now if these insects have no language, (but they have) there is something in their wisdom that is past finding out.
They carry off their dead, but strange to say they do not bury them—they pile them up, however.
They Go To War.
Generally there are from five to ten thousand ants in one colony or home, and where these colonies are situated not more than five or six hundred feet apart they sometimes meet in deadly conflict. I once observed a battle in which two colonies met in the open. They had mustered their armies and were in deadly conflict when I first observed them. They fought for two days and nights and the captives, which were not killed, were carried away by the conquering army. In that conflict they would sometimes ball up together in a round ball about the size of a goose egg.
They Are Poisonous.
The sting of this species of ant is very poisonous, although its sting is not fatal it is very painful and nothing, so far as I know will relieve the pain, and when one is set upon and stung by several ants simultaneously it has been known to prove fatal.
My daughter, when quite young, was stung by several of these ants and it was all we could do to save her life, and but for a doctor, she would have died.
Here in Texas it frequently happens that a colony of ants can be found in the front yard of a farm house, which is exceedingly annoying.The only remedy to exterminate them is to pour into their “den” about a quart of Bi-sulphide of Carbon (high life) which sends* its deadly fumes down through every crevice.
THE GREAT ROUNDUP
When I think of the last great roundup, On the eve of eternity’s dawn,
I think or the past and cowboys,
Who have been with us here, and have gone.
And I wonder if any will greet me On the sands of the evergreen shore,
With a hearty “God bless you! old fellow” That I’ve met with so often before.
I think of the big-hearted fellows
Who will divide with you blanket and bread,
With a piece of stray beef well roasted,
And charge for it never a “red.”
I often look upward and wonder
If the green fields will seem half so fair,
If any the wrong trail have taken,
And fail to “be in” over there.
For the trail that leads down to perdition Is paved all the way with good deeds;
But in the great roundup of ages, “Dear boys,” this won't answer your needs.
30THE FOLLOW1NQ INCIDENTS H&VE BEEN
ADDED SINCE THE FIRST EDITION
JOHN CHISHOLM ROBBED OF 800 FAT CATTLE IN 1867
My first trip to Ft. Sumner with cattle was in June, 1867, and our herd of cattle was being driven one day behind that of John Chisholm.
Day after day we could see the dust ahead of us from the tramp of his herd of cattle. Nothing of importance transpired until we reached the mouth of Black River where it empties into the Pecos River up in New Mexico, where we overtook John Chisholm’s outfit. The Navajo Indians from Ft. Sumner (supposed to be on the Reservation at that time) had robbed Chisholm and his men of everything they had.
A fight insued but fortunately, none of his men had been killed— some were shghly wounded, and three or four horses killed. Mr. Chisholm sued the Government for the loss of his cattle and horses, but I was not a witness to■ the fight and do not know the outcome of his suit; however, I understand the Government paid for his loss a few years afterwards.
Now a few words about the Navajo Indians may 1 ot be amiss: There were said to be 17,000 of these red skins on. the Reservation at Ft. Sumner, and the Government was feeding them at enormous expense, and pretending to keep them on Reservations. They were peaceful, as long as they were on the Reservation, but when they were given permission to go out on a hunt, they would put on their “War Paint" and became exceedingly hostile, even worse than the Comanches or Kiowas of Texas.
They became so troublesome that the cattlemenwere in danger anywhere on the Pecos River. It' is surprising that our Government would ever give them permission to leave the Reservation.
The Government finally had to pay for most of the damage they did, and this in addition to the support of the Indians, was enormous. At that time 1867 these Indians were exceedingly superstitious. They were afraid to even touch the body of one of their tribe when one died, and in con-siquence, I saw many human skulls and bones lying on the prairie near Ft. Sumner. The Government finally stopped this practice of disposing of the dead. These Indians, like all other tribes, believed in “the great spirit? and the “happy hunting ground”
I was standing near the Fort o׳ne day when a soldier came in with one of these skulls in his hand and made a motion to pitch it toward an Indian. An officer observed this and told the soldier “not throw that skull at the Indian,” but he disregarded his superior officer, and threw the skull at the Indian —thereupon the Indian drew his bow and arrow and plunged an arrow into the bowels of the soldier and he died in less than 24 hours.
County Judge at Palo Pinto Murdered
By Indians
Mr. W. L. Evans, of Dallas, Texas, and a neighbor of mine, was one of the party who made a search for his body, related the particulars of this raid by Indians. I have gone to Considerable trouble to establish it as literally true in every particular. The name of the party is withheld for good reasons.It will, no doubt, be of interest to any or all of the “Old Timers” in Palo Pinto County. The County Judge maintained his residence several miles in the country east of Palo Pinto. At week-Ends he usually rode home on horse-back, and on July 11th, 1872 he made his last ride toward his Earthly home.
After two days waiting his family reported him micsing and at once a searching party of 14 men instituted a search for the Judge. They were stationed two or three hundred yards apart, and began combing the woods eastwards. They had gone several miles when their attention was called to a flock of Buzzards flying around in a circle— some of them were perched on the tree-tops. The party made a search near these trees and found his half-eaten body. The buzzards had devoured most of the flesh. He had been scalped and his skull was crushed by some blunt insturmen't.
A tremendous rain had began to fall, and being late in the evening, all the searching party could do was cover up all that remained of the Judge’s body with brush that evening, and go back to Palo Pinto to prepare for moving the body. The !next day his body was given a decent burial.
No doubt there are some of the old settlers, at this time, (1925) in Palo Pinto County, who can remember the facts as stated above.
It is a matter of Record in Palo Pinto County.
Origin of the Cattle Business in West Texas
It is not known who first introduced cattle in West Texas, but up to and during the Civil War in 1861 to 1865, the Texas Frontier had but few set-tiers (Squatters) of any kind. During the four years of war the frontier was almost entirely deserted, and cattle run wild, and multiplied fast.
Buffalo and cattle did not cross, or mix blood, although there are millions of them belonging to no one. Just after the Civil War, cattle were as wild as buffalo. A few men however, saw the opportunity to get rich quick, and went West to “Grow up with the country.”
To make such a, venture they had to take with them plenty of horses and men to round-up and brand the cattle, and by so doing they became the legal owner. Very few of the cattle had been branded, and in most instances, the real owner had disappeared or was unknown—a few of the owners had come to claim their brands of cattle.
John Chisholm bore the name of being the biggest and slickest Cow Thief on the frontier, but he did not steal cattle, he did Just like all other cow men were doing—branded all the cattle he was able to round up—he simply best others at the game. During the cattle boom in the “sixties,” Texas furnished the world with most of the beef that was at that time consumed.
To these hardy cattle! men, the Indians were a constant source of annoyance, and heavy expense. Stealing horses, killing and scalping was their occupation, and the: “Cow Punchers” had to be on the arlert and go prepaired to fight these red skins, at any time, day or night.
Mr. Goodnight, a! pioneer, has tried several times, on his ranch in the Panhandle of Texas to cross the Buffalo with the Cattle, and bv actual test he has developed what he calls “Cattalo״—Hefound that they would cross only once, making half cattle and half buffalo, but would not cross any further.
The flesh of the buffalo is far superion, in taste, to that of the domistic cow, and the wild common cow on the plains of Texas in those days futrnished a much better tasted meat than the so called “Corn Fed Bzef” of this ׳day and time. The reader will perhaps notice a seeming conflict in dates in this little history, but the Author wrote it at odd times during three years.
THE SLAVE TRADE IN 1854.
The following pathetic account of the Slave Trade before the Civil War deserves a place in History. I was present at this sale; altho I was mot yet in my “teens,” the incident clings to my memory as if it had occurred only yesterday.
At stated periods in the ante-bellum days the slave buyer of the South visited Missouri towns and purchased his herds of black stock, even as the horse and mule men do today. Nevertheless, he dtreaded the call to the Southern cotton and cane fields as he did the gaunt figure of death which came to his cabin now and them and took his loved ones away.
The stories that had come from the land of the pine and ¡the date palm to the Missouri prairies may have been wild distortion. But one part of the traffic was not fancy —the breaking of the home ties by separating the family. For the slave was true to the mother of his children, and he loved her amd his kin with a strength of affection that is •rare to-day.The big annual sales occurred the first Monday in January, in one of the county seat towns. There was always a company of wide-hatted, long booted Southern buyers on hand to insure some lively bidding. The “stock” would stand around in groups tearfully awaiting their turn to fall into the hands of the stranger from “way down souf.”
“He’s gwine souf; po’ ׳niggah!,”
Thus one of the bondmen who stayed would speak of another who had been “1bid in.”
There was such a sale at Macon, Mo. in January, 1854.
“I have here, gentlemen,” said the auctioneer, “a strong limbed, healthy young negro, David Jen-kin by name, Sired by Tom Jenkins who lived to be a hundred, and could work almost up to the day he died. There ain’t a blemish about him ainywhere-you can see for yourself. I’m bid $1,000 as a starter. Yes, he’s married, that yellow gal there’s his wife, but you don’t need to take her ’less you want. Eleven hundred! Why gentelmen that nigger’s good for fifty years yet at the least!”
As the bidding proceeded the negro stood by the block, with his young wife’s arms around his neck and her face buried in his broad bosom.
Then occurred an incident which is without parallel in the history of American slavery. When Jenkins was finally bid in at an unusually fancy price, and was being torn from the arms of his wife, one Zimariah, a negro belonging to Dr. John Fort, walked up to the block and stated that he had his master’s permission to go “souf” in Jenkin’splace. Zimariah was a stalwart young giant, fully the! equal of Jenkins, an׳d without family ties.
“What do you say ?” asked the auctioneer of the speculator.
“I say I’d just as soon have this nigger as t’other,” replied the buyer, looking admiringly at the sinewy offering who had bared his arms and legs to show how well he was fashioned.
“it don’t make some difference to me,” said the auctioneer; “I get my commission just the same, but what the jumping blazes do you want to do it for, Zim— it ain’t your funeral.”
“Ah knows hit, sah,” said the big negro, as his eyes shot swiftly toward Jenkins and his wife. “Bat Ah cawn’t stain’ heah an’ see Zerella cry, cawse Ah —Ah lubs her merself!”
Nobody laid a wreath on Zim’s kinky head. Nobody heralded his ;act in poetry or in song. Nobody built him a monument when he died under alien skies. But when he passed down the lane with the chain gang, following in the wake of an armed horseman, he glanced to one side and saw by the fence a little yellow woman, flutttering a handkerchief, her eyes in tears. And this time he knew the tears were for him. And that was enough.
Such sacrifice as this poor human slave made, for one of his own color, is beyond all human computation. He has long since gone to his reward at Great Tribunal of God where, no doubt, he received a far better reward than any human hand could bestow on this earth.The author of this little history was born Sept. 7th 1848, in Cumberland County,־ N. C. My father. Kindred Johnson, moved'with his family to Macon Missouri in 1853, and then to Texas In 1855, settling near Greenville. In 1862, during the “Civil War”, we moved to Ft. Worth, Texas, settling in the Cross Timbers a few miles South of Ft. Worth
We lived at this place until I thought my-self a grown man, and in 1867 I went West as a cow boy. When I quit the Frontier, I went to School 4 years at Cleburne. Texas. Still longing for excitment, I went up in Dacota and Completely Surrendered my Wild desire for excitment at the “Wounded Knee” fight with the Brule Sioux Indians in 1890
M. L. JOHNSON