David Crockett

CHAPTER XII.

Ad­ven­tures on the Prairie.

Dis­ap­pear­ance of the Bee Hunter.–The Herd of Buf­fa­lo Crock­ett lost.–The Fight with the Cougar.–Ap­proach of Sav­ages.–Their Friend­li­ness.–Pic­nic on the Prairie.–Pic­turesque Scene.–The Lost Mus­tang re­cov­ered.–Un­ex­pect­ed Re­union.–De­par­ture of the Sav­ages.–Skir­mish with the Mex­icans.–Ar­rival at the Alamo.

Soon af­ter the bee-​hunter had dis­ap­peared, all were star­tled by a strange sound, as of dis­tant thun­der. It was one of the most beau­ti­ful of sum­mer days. There was not a cloud to be seen. The un­du­lat­ing prairie, wav­ing with flow­ers, lay spread out be­fore them, more beau­ti­ful un­der na­ture’s boun­ti­ful adorn­ings than the most artis­tic parterre, park or lawn which the hand of man ev­er reared. A gen­tle, cool breeze swept through the grove, fra­grant and re­fresh­ing as if from Ara­by the blest. It was just one of those scenes and one of those hours in which all ves­tiges of the Fall seemed to have been oblit­er­at­ed, and Eden it­self again ap­peared bloom­ing in its pris­tine beau­ty.

Still those sounds, grow­ing more and more dis­tinct, were not sounds of peace, were not eo­lian war­blings; they were mut­ter­ings as of a ris­ing tem­pest, and in­spired awe and a sense of per­il. Strain­ing their eyes to­ward the far-​dis­tant west, whence the sounds came, they soon saw an im­mense black cloud just emerg­ing from the hori­zon and ap­par­ent­ly very low down, sweep­ing the very sur­face of the prairie. This strange, men­ac­ing cloud was ap­proach­ing with man­ifest­ly great ra­pid­ity. It was com­ing di­rect­ly to­ward the grove where the trav­ellers were shel­tered. A cloud of dust ac­com­pa­nied the phe­nomenon, ev­er grow­ing thick­er and ris­ing high­er in the air.

“What can that all mean?” ex­claimed Crock­ett, in ev­ident alarm.

The jug­gler sprang to his feet, say­ing, “Burn my old shoes if I know.”

Even the mus­tangs, which were graz­ing near by, were fright­ened They stopped eat­ing, pricked up their ears, and gazed in ter­ror up­on the ap­proach­ing dan­ger. It was then sup­posed that the black cloud, with its mut­tered thun­der­ings, must be one of those ter­ri­ble tor­na­does which oc­ca­sion­al­ly swept the re­gion, bear­ing down ev­ery­thing be­fore it. The men all rushed for the pro­tec­tion of the mus­tangs. In the great­est haste they struck off their hob­bles and led them in­to the grove for shel­ter.

The noise grew loud­er and loud­er, and they had scarce­ly brought the hors­es be­neath the pro­tec­tion of the trees, when they per­ceived that it was an im­mense herd of buf­faloes, of count­less hun­dreds, dish­ing along with the speed of the wind, and bel­low­ing and roar­ing in tones as ap­palling as if a band of demons were fly­ing and shriek­ing in ter­ror be­fore some aveng­ing arm.

The herd seemed to fill the hori­zon. Their num­bers could not be count­ed. They were all driv­en by some com­mon im­pulse of ter­ror. In their head-​long plunge, those in front pressed on by the in­nu­mer­able throng be­hind, it was man­ifest that no or­di­nary ob­sta­cle would in the slight­est de­gree re­tard their rush. The spec­ta­cle was sub­lime and ter­ri­ble. Had the trav­ellers been up­on the open plain, it seemed in­evitable that they must have been tram­pled down and crushed out of ev­ery sem­blance of hu­man­ity by these thou­sands of hard hoofs.

But it so chanced that they were up­on what is called a rolling prairie, with its grace­ful un­du­la­tions and gen­tle em­inences. It was one of these beau­ti­ful swells which the grove crowned with its lux­uri­ance.

As the enor­mous herd came along with its rush and roar, like the burst­ing forth of a pent-​up flood, the ter­ri­fied mus­tangs were too much fright­ened to at­tempt to es­cape. They shiv­ered in ev­ery nerve as if strick­en by an ague.

An im­mense black bull led the band. He was a few feet in ad­vance of all the rest. He came roar­ing along, his tail erect in the air as a javelin, his head near the ground, and his stout, bony horns pro­ject­ed as if he were just ready to plunge up­on his foe. Crock­ett writes:

“I nev­er felt such a de­sire to have a crack at any­thing in all my life. He drew nigh the place where I was stand­ing. I raised my beau­ti­ful Bet­sey to my shoul­der and blazed away. He roared, and sud­den­ly stopped. Those that were near him did so like­wise. The com­mo­tion oc­ca­sioned by the im­pe­tus of those in the rear was such that it was a mir­acle that some of them did not break their heads or necks. The black bull stood for a few mo­ments paw­ing the ground af­ter he was shot, then dart­ed off around the clus­ter of trees, and made for the up­lands of the prairies. The whole herd fol­lowed, sweep­ing by like a tor­na­do. And I do say I nev­er wit­nessed a sight more beau­ti­ful to the eye of a hunter in all my life.”

The temp­ta­tion to pur­sue them was too strong for Crock­ett to re­sist. For a mo­ment he was him­self be­wil­dered, and stood gaz­ing with as­ton­ish­ment up­on the won­drous spec­ta­cle. Speed­ily he reload­ed his ri­fle, sprung up­on his horse, and set out in pur­suit over the green and bound­less prairie. There was some­thing now quite lu­di­crous in the scene. There was spread out an ocean ex­panse of ver­dure. A herd of count­less hun­dreds of ma­jes­tic buf­faloes, ev­ery an­imal very fe­ro­cious in as­pect, was clat­ter­ing along, and a few rods be­hind them in ea­ger pur­suit was one man, mount­ed on a lit­tle, in­signif­icant Mex­ican pony, not much larg­er than a don­key. It would seem that but a score of this in­nu­mer­able army need but turn round and face their foe, and they could toss horse and rid­er in­to the air, and then con­temp­tu­ous­ly tram­ple them in­to the dust.

Crock­ett was al­most be­side him­self with ex­cite­ment. Look­ing nei­ther to the right nor the left, un­con­scious in what di­rec­tion he was go­ing, he urged for­ward, with whip and spur, the lit­tle mus­tang, to the ut­most speed of the an­imal, and yet scarce­ly in the least di­min­ished the dis­tance be­tween him and the swift-​foot­ed buf­faloes. Ere long, it was ev­ident that he was los­ing in the chase. But the hunter, think­ing that the buf­faloes could not long con­tin­ue their flight at such a speed, and that they would soon, in weari­ness, loi­ter and stop to graze, vig­or­ous­ly pressed on, though his jad­ed beast was rapid­ly be­ing dis­tance by the herd.

At length the enor­mous mov­ing mass ap­peared but as a cloud in the dis­tant hori­zon. Still, Crock­ett, his mind en­tire­ly ab­sorbed in the ex­cite­ment of the chase, urged his weary steed on, un­til the buf­fa­los en­tire­ly dis­ap­peared from view in the dis­tance. Cr­rick­ett writes:

“I now paused to al­low my mus­tang to breathe, who did not al­to­geth­er fan­cy the ra­pid­ity of my move­ments; and to con­sid­er which course I would have to take to re­gain the path I had aban­doned. I might have re­traced my steps by fol­low­ing the trail of the buf­faloes, but it had al­ways been my prin­ci­ple to go ahead, and so I turned to the west and pushed for­ward.

“I had not rode more than an hour be­fore I found, I was com­plete­ly be­wil­dered. I looked around, and there was, as far as the eye could reach, spread be­fore me a coun­try ap­par­ent­ly in the high­est state of cul­ti­va­tion–ex­tend­ed fields, beau­ti­ful and pro­duc­tive, groves of trees cleared from the un­der­wood, and whose mar­gins were as reg­ular as if the art and taste of man had been em­ployed up­on them. But there was no oth­er ev­idence that the sound of the axe, or the voice of man, had ev­er here dis­turbed the soli­tude of na­ture. My eyes would have cheat­ed my sens­es in­to the be­lief that I was in an earth­ly par­adise, but my fears told me that I was in a wilder­ness.

“I pushed along, fol­low­ing the sun, for I had no com­pass to guide me, and there was no oth­er path than that which my mus­tang made. In­deed, if I had found a beat­en tract, I should have been al­most afraid to have fol­lowed it; for my friend the bee-​hunter had told me, that once, when he had been lost in the prairies, he had ac­ci­den­tal­ly struck in­to his own path, and had trav­elled around and around for a whole day be­fore he dis­cov­ered his er­ror. This I thought was a poor way of go­ing ahead; so I de­ter­mined to make for the first large stream, and fol­low its course.”

For sev­er­al hours Crock­ett rode through these vast and lone­ly soli­tudes, the Eden of na­ture, with­out meet­ing with the slight­est trace of a hu­man be­ing. Evening was ap­proach­ing, still, calm, and bright. The most sin­gu­lar and even op­pres­sive si­lence pre­vailed, for nei­ther voice of bird nor in­sect was to be heard. Crock­ett be­gan to feel very un­easy. The fact that he was lost him­self did not trou­ble him much, but he felt anx­ious for his sim­ple-​mind­ed, good-​na­tured friend, the jug­gler, who was left en­tire­ly alone and quite un­able to take care of him­self un­der such cir­cum­stances.

As he rode along, much dis­turbed by these un­pleas­ant re­flec­tions, an­oth­er nov­el­ty, char­ac­ter­is­tic of the Great West, ar­rest­ed his at­ten­tion and elicit­ed his ad­mi­ra­tion. He was just emerg­ing from a very love­ly grove, car­pet­ed with grass, which grew thick and green be­neath the leafy canopy which over­ar­ched it. There was not a par­ti­cle of un­der­brush to ob­struct one’s move­ment through this nat­ural park. Just be­yond the grove there was an­oth­er ex­panse of tree­less prairie, so rich, so beau­ti­ful, so bril­liant with flow­ers, that even Colonel Crock­ett, all un­ac­cus­tomed as he was to the de­vo­tion­al mood, reined in his horse, and gaz­ing en­tranced up­on the land­scape, ex­claimed:

“O God, what a world of beau­ty hast thou made for man! And yet how poor­ly does he re­quite thee for it! He does not even re­pay thee with grat­itude.”

The at­trac­tive­ness of the scene was en­hanced by a drove of more than a hun­dred wild hors­es, re­al­ly beau­ti­ful an­imals, qui­et­ly pas­tur­ing. It seemed im­pos­si­ble but that the hand of man must have been em­ployed in em­bel­lish­ing this fair cre­ation. It was all God’s work. “When I looked around and ful­ly re­al­ized it all,” writes Crock­ett, “I thought of the cler­gy­man who had preached to me in the wilds of Arkansas.”

Colonel Crock­ett rode out up­on the prairie. The hors­es no soon­er es­pied him than, ex­cit­ed, but not alarmed, the whole drove, with neigh­ings, aud tails up­lift­ed like ban­ners, com­menced cours­ing around him in an ex­tend­ed cir­cle, which grad­ual­ly be­came small­er and small­er, un­til they came in close con­tact; and the Colonel, not a lit­tle alarmed, found him­self com­plete­ly sur­round­ed, and ap­par­ent­ly the pris­on­er of these pow­er­ful steeds.

The lit­tle mus­tang up­on which the Colonel was mount­ed seemed very hap­py in its new com­pan­ion­ship. It turned its head to one side, and then to the oth­er, and pranced and neighed, play­ful­ly bit­ing at the mane of one horse, rub­bing his nose against that of an­oth­er, and in joy­ous gam­bols kick­ing up its heels. The Colonel was anx­ious to get out of the mess. But his lit­tle mus­tang was not at all dis­posed to move in that di­rec­tion; nei­ther did the oth­er hors­es seem dis­posed to ac­qui­esce in such a plan.

Crock­ett’s heels were armed with very formidable Span­ish spurs, with prongs sharp and long. The hunter writes:

“To es­cape from the an­noy­ance, I beat the dev­il’s tat­too on his ribs, that he might have some mu­sic to dance to, and we went ahead right mer­ri­ly, the whole drove fol­low­ing in our wake, head up, and tail and mane stream­ing. My lit­tle crit­ter, who was both blood and bot­tom, seemed de­light­ed at be­ing at the head of the heap; and hav­ing once fair­ly got start­ed, I wish I may be shot if I did not find it im­pos­si­ble to stop him. He kept along, toss­ing his head proud­ly, and oc­ca­sion­al­ly neigh­ing, as much as to say, “Come on, my hearties, you see I ha’n't for­got our old amuse­ment yet.” And they did come on with a vengeance, clat­ter, clat­ter, clat­ter, as if so many fiends had broke loose. The prairie lay ex­tend­ed be­fore me as far as the eye could reach, and I be­gan to think that there would be no end to the race.

“My lit­tle an­imal was full of fire and met­tle, and as it was the first bit of gen­uine sport that he had had for some time, he ap­peared de­ter­mined to make the most of it. He kept the lead for full half an hour, fre­quent­ly neigh­ing as if in tri­umph and de­ri­sion. I thought of John Gilpin’s cel­ebrat­ed ride, but that was child’s play to this. The proverb says, ‘The race is not al­ways to the swift, nor the bat­tle to the strong,’ and so it proved in the present in­stance. My mus­tang was obliged to car­ry weight, while his com­peti­tors were as free as na­ture had made them. A beau­ti­ful bay, who had trod close up­on my heels the whole way, now came side by side with my mus­tang, and we had it hip and thigh for about ten min­utes, in such style as would have de­light­ed the heart of a true lover of the turf. I now felt an in­ter­est in the race my­self, and, for the cred­it of my bit of blood, de­ter­mined to win it if it was at all in the na­ture of things. I plied the lash and spur, and the lit­tle crit­ter took it quite kind­ly, and tossed his head, and neighed, as much as to say, ‘Colonel, I know what you’re af­ter–go ahead!’–and he cut dirt in beau­ti­ful style, I tell you.”

This could not last long. The wild steed of the prairie soon out­stripped the heav­ily bur­dened mus­tang, and shoot­ing ahead, kicked up his heels as in de­ri­sion. The rest of the herd fol­lowed, in the same dis­re­spect­ful man­ner. Crock­ett jogged qui­et­ly on in the rear, glad to be rid of such trou­ble­some and dan­ger­ous com­pan­ions. The hors­es soon reached a stream, which Crock­ett af­ter­ward learned was called the Nava­so­la Riv­er. The whole herd, fol­low­ing an ad­ven­tur­ous lead­er, rushed pell-​mell in­to the stream and swam to the oth­er side. It was a beau­ti­ful sight to be­hold these splen­did an­imals, in such a dense throng, cross­ing the stream, and then, re­freshed by their bath, sweep­ing like a whirl­wind over the plain be­yond.

Crock­ett’s ex­haust­ed pony could go no fur­ther. He fair­ly threw him­self up­on the ground as if in de­spair. Crock­ett took from the ex­haust­ed an­imal the sad­dle, and left the poor crea­ture to roll up­on the grass and graze at plea­sure. He thought it not pos­si­ble that the mus­tang could wan­der to any con­sid­er­able dis­tance. In­deed, he ful­ly ex­pect­ed to find the ut­ter­ly ex­haust­ed beast, who could no longer stand up­on his legs, dead be­fore morn­ing.

Night was fast clos­ing around him. He be­gan to look around for shel­ter. There was a large tree blown down by the side of the stream, its top branch­ing out very thick and bushy. Crock­ett thought that with his knife, in the midst of that dense fo­liage with its in­ter­lac­ing branch­es, he could make him­self a snug ar­bor, where, wrapped in his blan­ket, he could en­joy re­fresh­ing sleep. He ap­proached the tree, and be­gan to work among the al­most im­per­vi­ous branch­es, when he heard a low growl, which he says he in­ter­pret­ed to mean, “Stranger, these apart­ments are al­ready tak­en.”

Look­ing about to see what kind of an an­imal he had dis­turbed, and whose dis­plea­sure he had man­ifest­ly en­coun­tered, he saw the bril­liant eyes glar­ing through the leaves of a large Mex­ican cougar, some­times called the pan­ther or Amer­ican li­on. This an­imal, en­dowed with mar­vel­lous agili­ty and strength, will pounce from his lair on a deer, and even a buf­fa­lo, and eas­ily with tooth and claw tear him to pieces.

“He was not more than five or six paces from me,” writes Crock­ett, “and was ey­ing me as an epi­cure sur­veys the ta­ble be­fore he se­lects his dish, I have no doubt the cougar looked up­on me as the sub­ject of a fu­ture sup­per. Rays of light dart­ed from his large eyes, he showed his teeth like a ne­gro in hys­ter­ics, and he was crouch­ing on his haunch­es ready for a spring; all of which con­vinced me that un­less I was pret­ty quick up­on the trig­ger, pos­ter­ity would know lit­tle of the ter­mi­na­tion of my event­ful ca­reer, and it would be far less glo­ri­ous and use­ful than I in­tend to make it.”

The con­flict which en­sued can­not be more graph­ical­ly de­scribed than in Crock­et’s own words:

“One glance sat­is­fied me that there was no time to be lost. There was no re­treat ei­ther for me or the cougar. So I lev­elled my Bet­sey and blazed away. The re­port was fol­lowed by a fu­ri­ous growl, and the next mo­ment, when I ex­pect­ed to find the tar­nal crit­ter strug­gling with death, I be­held him shak­ing his head, as if noth­ing more than a bee had stung him. The ball had struck him on the fore­head and glanced off, do­ing no oth­er in­jury than stun­ning him for an in­stant, and tear­ing off the skin, which tend­ed to in­fu­ri­ate him the more. The cougar wasn’t long in mak­ing up his mind what to do, nor was I nei­ther; but he would have it all his own way, and ve­toed my mo­tion to back out. I had not re­treat­ed three steps be­fore he sprang at me like a steam­boat; I stepped aside and as he lit up­on the ground, I struck him vi­olent­ly with the bar­rel of my ri­fle, but he didn’t mind that, but wheeled around and made at me again. The gun was now of no use, so I threw it away, and drew my hunt­ing-​knife, for I knew we should come to close quar­ters be­fore the fight would be over. This time he suc­ceed­ed in fas­ten­ing on my left arm, and was just be­gin­ning to amuse him­self by tear­ing the flesh off with his fangs, when I ripped my knife in­to his side, and he let go his hold, much to my sat­is­fac­tion.

“He wheeled about and came at me with in­creased fury, oc­ca­sioned by the smart­ing of his wounds. I now tried to blind him, know­ing that if I suc­ceed­ed he would be­come an easy prey; so as he ap­proached me I watched my op­por­tu­ni­ty, and aimed a blow at his eyes with my knife; but un­for­tu­nate­ly it struck him on the nose, and he paid no oth­er at­ten­tion to it than by a shake of the head and a low growl. He pressed me close, and as I was step­ping back­ward my foot tripped in a vine, and I fell to the ground. He was down up­on me like a night-​hawk up­on a June-​bug. He seized hold of the out­er part of my right thigh, which af­ford­ed him con­sid­er­able amuse­ment; the hin­der part of his body was to­wards my face; I grasped his tail with my left hand, and tick­led his ribs with my haunt­ing-​knife, which I held in my right. Still the crit­ter wouldn’t let go his hold; and as I found that he would lac­er­ate my leg dread­ful­ly un­less he was speed­ily shak­en off, I tried to hurl him down the bank in­to the riv­er, for our scuf­fle had al­ready brought us to the edge of the bank. I stuck my knife in­to his side, and sum­moned all my strength to throw him over. He re­sist­ed, was des­per­ate heavy; but at last I got him so far down the de­cliv­ity that he lost his bal­ance, and he rolled over and over till he land­ed on the mar­gin of the riv­er; but in his fall he dragged me along with him. For­tu­nate­ly, I fell up­per­most, and his neck pre­sent­ed a fair mark for my hunt­ing-​knife. With­out al­low­ing my­self time even to draw breath, I aimed one des­per­ate blow at his neck, and the knife en­tered his gul­let up to the han­dle, and reached his heart. He strug­gled for a few mo­ments and died. I have had many fights with bears, but that was mere child’s play. This was the first fight ev­er I had with a cougar, and I hope it may be the last.”

Crock­ett, breath­less and bleed­ing, but sig­nal­ly a vic­tor, took qui­et pos­ses­sion of the tree­top, the con­quest of which he had so valiant­ly achieved. He part­ed some of the branch­es, cut away oth­ers, and in­ter­twin­ing the soft­er twigs, some­thing like a bird’s nest, made for him­self a very com­fort­able bed. There was an abun­dance of moss, dry, pli­ant, and crispy, hang­ing in fes­toons from the trees. This, spread in thick folds over his lit­ter, made as lux­uri­ant a mat­tress as one could de­sire. His horse-​blan­ket be­ing laid down up­on this, the weary trav­eller, with serene skies above him and a gen­tle breeze breath­ing through his bow­er, had no cause to en­vy the oc­cu­pant of the most lux­uri­ous cham­ber wealth can fur­nish.

He speed­ily pre­pared for him­self a fru­gal sup­per, car­ried his sad­dle in­to the tree­top, and, though op­pressed with anx­iety in view of the prospect be­fore him, fell asleep, and in bliss­ful un­con­scious­ness the hours passed away un­til the sun was ris­ing in the morn­ing. Up­on awak­ing, he felt very stiff and sore from the wounds he had re­ceived in his con­flict with the cougar. Look­ing over the bank, he saw the dead body of the cougar ly­ing there, and felt that he had much cause of grat­itude that he had es­caped so great a dan­ger.

He then be­gan to look around for his horse. But the an­imal was nowhere to be seen. He as­cend­ed one of the gen­tle swells of land, whence he could look far and wide over the un­ob­struct­ed prairie. To his sur­prise, and not a lit­tle to his coster­na­tion, the an­imal had dis­ap­peared, “with­out leav­ing trace of hair or hide.” At first he thought the mus­tang must have been de­voured by wolves or some oth­er beasts of prey. But then it was man­ifest they could not have eat­en his bones, and some­thing would have re­mained to in­di­cate the fate of the poor crea­ture. While thus per­plexed, Crock­ett re­flect­ed sad­ly that he was lost, alone and on foot, on the bound­less prairie. He was, how­ev­er, too much ac­cus­tomed to scenes of the wildest ad­ven­ture to al­low him­self to be much cast down. His ap­petite was not dis­turbed, and he be­gan to feel the crav­ings of hunger.

He took his ri­fle and stepped out in search of his break­fast. He had gone but a short dis­tance ere he saw a large flock of wild geese, on the bank of the riv­er. Se­lect­ing a large fat gan­der, he shot him, soon stripped him of his feath­ers, built a fire, ran a stick through the goose for a spit, and then, sup­port­ing it on two sticks with prongs, roast­ed his sa­vory viand in the most ap­proved style. He had a lit­tle tin cup with him, and a pa­per of ground cof­fee, with which he made a cup of that most re­fresh­ing bev­er­age. Thus he break­fast­ed sump­tu­ous­ly.

He was just prepar­ing to de­part, with his sad­dle up­on his shoul­der, much per­plexed as to the course he should pur­sue, when he was again alarmed by one of those wild scenes ev­er oc­cur­ring in the West. First faint­ly, then loud­er and loud­er came the sound as of the tram­pling of many hors­es on the full gal­lop. His first thought was that an­oth­er enor­mous herd of buf­faloes was sweep­ing down up­on him. But soon he saw, in the dis­tance, a band of about fifty Co­manche In­di­ans, well mount­ed, paint­ed, plumed, and ban­nered, the horse and rid­er ap­par­ent­ly one an­imal, com­ing down up­on him, their hors­es be­ing urged to the ut­most speed. It was a sub­lime and yet an ap­palling spec­ta­cle, as this band of half-​naked sav­ages, their spears glit­ter­ing in the morn­ing sun, and their long hair stream­ing be­hind, came rush­ing on.

Crock­ett was stand­ing in full view up­on the banks of the stream. The col­umn swept on, and, with mil­itary pre­ci­sion, as it ap­proached, di­vid­ed in­to two semi­cir­cles, and in an in­stant the two ends of the cir­cle reached the riv­er, and Crock­ett was sur­round­ed. Three of the sav­ages per­formed the part of trum­peters, and with won­der­ful re­sem­blance, from their lips, emit­ted the peal­ing notes of the bu­gle. Al­most by in­stinct he grasped his ri­fle, but a flash of thought taught him that, un­der the cir­cum­stances, any at­tempt at re­sis­tance would be worse than un­avail­ing.

The chief sprang from his horse, and ad­vanc­ing with proud strides to­ward Crock­ett, was struck with ad­mi­ra­tion at sight of his mag­nif­icent ri­fle. Such a weapon, with such rich or­na­men­ta­tion, had nev­er be­fore been seen on the prairies. The ea­ger­ness with which the sav­age re­gard­ed the gun led Crock­ett to ap­pre­hend that he in­tend­ed to ap­pro­pri­ate it to him­self.

The Co­manch­es, though a very war­like tribe, had held much in­ter­course with the Amer­icans, and friend­ly re­la­tions then ex­ist­ed be­tween them and our Gov­ern­ment. Crock­ett, ad­dress­ing the chief, said:

“Is your na­tion at war with the Amer­icans?”

“No,” was the re­ply; “they are our friends.”

“And where,” Crock­ett added, “do your get your spear-​heads, your ri­fles, your blan­kets, and your knives?”

“We get them from our friends the Amer­icans,” the chief replied.

“Well,” said Crock­ett, “do you think that if you were pass­ing through their coun­try, as I am pass­ing through yours, they would at­tempt to rob you of your prop­er­ty?”

“No,” an­swered the sav­age; “they would feed me and pro­tect me. And the Co­manche will do the same by his white broth­er.”

Crock­ett then in­quired of the chief what had guid­ed him and his par­ty to the spot where they had found him? The chief said that they were at a great dis­tance, but had seen the smoke from his fire, and had come to as­cer­tain the cause of it.

“He in­quired,” writes Crock­ett, “what had brought me there alone. I told him I had come to hunt, and that my mus­tang had be­come ex­haust­ed, and, though I thought he was about to die, that he had es­caped from me. At this the chief gave a low chuck­ling laugh, and said that it was all a trick of the mus­tang, which is the most wily and cun­ning of all an­imals. But he said that as I was a brave hunter, he would fur­nish me with an­oth­er. He gave or­ders, and a fine young horse was im­me­di­ate­ly brought for­ward.”

The sav­ages speed­ily dis­cov­ered the dead body of the cougar, and com­menced skin­ning him. They were great­ly sur­prised on see­ing the num­ber of the stabs, and in­quired in­to the cause. When Crock­ett ex­plained to them the con­flict, the proof of which was man­ifest in his own lac­er­at­ed skin, and in the wounds in­flict­ed up­on the cougar, they were great­ly im­pressed with the val­or he had dis­played. The chief ex­claimed sev­er­al times. in tones of com­min­gled ad­mi­ra­tion and as­ton­ish­ment, “Brave hunter! brave man!” He al­so ex­pressed the earnest wish that Crock­ett would con­sent to be adopt­ed as a son of the tribe. But this of­fer was re­spect­ful­ly de­clined.

This friend­ly chief kind­ly con­sent­ed to es­cort Crock­ett as far as the Col­orado Riv­er. Crock­ett put his sad­dle on a fresh horse, and hav­ing mount­ed, the chief, with Crock­ett at his side, took the lead, and off the whole band went, scour­ing over the path­less prairie at a rapid speed. Sev­er­al of the band were squaws. They were the trum­peters. They made the prairie echo with their bu­gle-​blasts, or, as Crock­ett ir­rev­er­ent­ly, but per­haps more cor­rect­ly says, “The old squaws, at the head of the troop, were bray­ing like young jack­ass­es the whole way.”

Af­ter thus rid­ing over the green and tree­less ex­panse for about three hours, they came up­on a drove of wild hors­es, qui­et­ly pas­tur­ing on the rich herbage. One of the In­di­ans im­me­di­ate­ly pre­pared his las­so, and dart­ed out to­ward the herd to make a cap­ture. The hors­es did not seem to be alarmed by his ap­proach, but when he got pret­ty nigh them they be­gan to cir­cle around him, keep­ing at a cau­tious dis­tance, with their heads el­evat­ed and with loud neigh­ings. They then, fol­low­ing the lead­er­ship of a splen­did stal­lion, set off on a brisk can­ter, and soon dis­ap­peared be­yond the un­du­la­tions of the prairie.

One of the mus­tangs re­mained qui­et­ly graz­ing. The In­di­an rode to with­in a few yards of him, and very skil­ful­ly threw his las­so. The mus­tang seemed to be up­on the watch, for he adroit­ly dodged his head be­tween his forefeet and thus es­caped the fa­tal noose. The In­di­an rode up to him, and the horse pa­tient­ly sub­mit­ted to be bri­dled and thus se­cured.

“When I ap­proached,” writes Crock­ett,” I im­me­di­ate­ly rec­og­nized, in the cap­tive, the pesti­lent lit­tle an­imal that had shammed sick­ness and es­caped from me the day be­fore. And when he caught my eye he cast down his head and looked rather sheep­ish, as if he were sen­si­ble and ashamed of the dirty trick he had played me. I ex­pressed my as­ton­ish­ment, to the In­di­an chief, at the mus­tang’s al­low­ing him­self to be cap­tured with­out any ef­fort to es­cape. He told me that they were gen­er­al­ly hurled to the ground with such vi­olence, when first tak­en with the las­so, that they re­mem­bered it ev­er af­ter; and that the sight of the las­so will sub­due them to sub­mis­sion, though they may have run wild for years.”

All the day long, Crock­ett, with his con­voy of friend­ly sav­ages, trav­elled over the beau­ti­ful prairie. To­ward evening they came across a drove of fat buf­faloes graz­ing in the rich­est of earth­ly pas­tures. It was a beau­ti­ful sight to wit­ness the skill with which the In­di­ans pur­sued and hunt­ed down the no­ble game. Crock­ett was quite charmed with the spec­ta­cle. It is said that the Co­manche In­di­ans are the finest horse­men in the world. Al­ways wan­der­ing about over the bound­less prairies, where wild hors­es are found in count­less num­bers, they are ev­er on horse­back, men, wom­en, and chil­dren. Even in­fants, al­most in their ear­li­est years, are taught to cling to the mane of the horse. Thus the Co­manche ob­tains the ab­so­lute con­trol of the an­imal; and when scour­ing over the plain, bare­head­ed and with scanty dress, the horse and rid­er seem ver­ita­bly like one per­son.

The Co­manch­es were armed on­ly with bows and ar­rows. The herd ear­ly took fright, and fled with such speed that the some­what ex­haust­ed hors­es of the Co­manch­es could not get with­in ar­row-​shot of them. Crock­ett, how­ev­er, be­ing well mount­ed and un­sur­passed by any In­di­an in the arts of hunt­ing, se­lect­ed a fat young heifer, which he knew would fur­nish ten­der steaks, and with his dead­ly bul­let struck it down. This was the on­ly beef that was killed. All the rest of the herd es­caped.

The In­di­ans gath­ered around the slain an­imal for their feast. With their sharp knives the heifer was soon skinned and cut up in­to sa­vory steaks and roast­ing-​pieces. Two or three fires were built. The hors­es were hob­bled and turned loose to graze. Ev­ery one of the In­di­ans se­lect­ed his own por­tion, and all were soon mer­ri­ly and even af­fec­tion­ate­ly en­gaged in this pic­nic feast, be­neath skies which Italy nev­er ri­valled, and sur­round­ed with the love­li­ness of a park sur­pass­ing the high­est cre­ations of art in Lon­don, Paris, or New York.

The In­di­ans were quite de­light­ed with their guest. He told them sto­ries of his wild hunt­ing ex­cur­sions, and of his en­coun­ters with pan­thers and bears. They were charmed by his nar­ra­tives, and they sat ea­ger lis­ten­ers un­til late in­to the night, be­neath the stars and around the glow­ing camp-​fires. Then, wrapped in their blan­kets, they threw them­selves down on the thick green grass and slept. Such are the joys of peace and friend­ship.

They re­sumed their jour­ney in the morn­ing, and pressed along, with noth­ing of spe­cial in­ter­est oc­cur­ring un­til they reached the Col­orado Riv­er. As they were fol­low­ing down this stream, to strike the road which leads to Bexar, they saw in the dis­tance a sin­gle col­umn of smoke as­cend­ing the clear sky. Has­ten­ing to­ward it, they found that it rose from the cen­tre of a small grove near the riv­er. When with­in a few hun­dred yards the war­riors ex­tend­ed their line, so as near­ly to en­cir­cle the grove, while the chief and Crock­ett ad­vanced cau­tious­ly to re­con­noitre. To their sur­prise they saw a soli­tary man seat­ed up­on the ground near the fire, so en­tire­ly ab­sorbed in some oc­cu­pa­tion that he did not ob­serve their ap­proach.

In a mo­ment, Crock­ett, much to his joy, per­ceived that it was his lost friend the jug­gler. He was all en­gaged in prac­tis­ing his game of thim­bles on the crown of his hat. Crock­ett was now re­stored to his com­pan­ion, and was near the plain road to Bexar. In de­scrib­ing this scene and the de­par­ture of his kind In­di­an friends, the hunter writes:

“The chief shout­ed the war-​whoop, and sud­den­ly the war­riors came rush­ing in from all quar­ters, pre­ced­ed by the old squaw trum­peters squalling like mad. The con­jur­er sprang to his feet, and was ready to sink in­to the earth when he be­held the fe­ro­cious-​look­ing fel­lows that sur­round­ed him. I stepped up, took him by the hand, and qui­et­ed his fears. I told the chief that he was a friend of mine, and I was very glad to have found him, for I was afraid that he had per­ished. I now thanked him for his kind­ness in guid­ing me over the prairies, and gave him a large bowie-​knife, which he said he would keep for the sake of the brave hunter. The whole squadron then wheeled off and I saw them no more. I have met with many po­lite men in my time, but no one who pos­sessed in a greater de­gree what may be called true spon­ta­neous po­lite­ness than this Co­manche chief, al­ways ex­cept­ing Philip Hone, Esq. of New York, whom I look up­on as the po­litest man I ev­er did see; for when he asked me to take a drink at his own side­board, he turned his back up­on me, that I mightn’t be ashamed to fill as much as I want­ed. That was what I call do­ing the fair thing.”

The poor jug­gler was quite over­joyed in meet­ing his friend again, whom he ev­ident­ly re­gard­ed with much rev­er­ence. He said that he was very much alarmed when he found him­self alone on the path­less prairie. Af­ter wait­ing two hours in much anx­iety, he mount­ed his mus­tang, and was slow­ly re­trac­ing his steps, when he spied the bee-​hunter re­turn­ing. He was laden with hon­ey. They had then jour­neyed on to­geth­er to the present spot. The hunter had just gone out in search of game. He soon re­turned with a plump turkey up­on his shoul­ders. They built their fire, and were joy­ous­ly cook­ing their sup­per, when the neigh­ing of a horse near by star­tled them. Look­ing up, they saw two men ap­proach­ing on horse­back. They proved to be the old pi­rate and the young In­di­an with whom they had lodged a few nights be­fore. Up­on be­ing hailed they alight­ed, and po­lite­ly re­quest­ed per­mis­sion to join their par­ty. This was glad­ly as­sent­ed to, as they were now en­ter­ing a re­gion des­olat­ed by the war be­tween the Tex­ans and the Mex­icans, and where many small bands of rob­bers were wan­der­ing, ready to plun­der any weak­er par­ty they might en­counter.

The next morn­ing they crossed the riv­er and pushed on for the fortress of Alamo. When with­in about twen­ty miles of San An­to­nio, they be­held about fif­teen mount­ed men, well armed, ap­proach­ing them at full speed. Crock­ett’s par­ty num­bered five. They im­me­di­ate­ly dis­mount­ed, made a ram­part of their hors­es, and with the muz­zles of their ri­fles point­ed to­ward the ap­proach­ing foe, were pre­pared for bat­tle.

It was a par­ty of Mex­icans. When with­in a few hun­dred yards they reined in their hors­es, and the lead­er, ad­vanc­ing a lit­tle, called out to them in Span­ish to sur­ren­der.

“We must have a brush with those black­guards,” said the pi­rate. “Let each one sin­gle out his man for the first fire. They are greater fools than I take them for if they give us a chance for a sec­ond shot. Colonel, just set­tle the busi­ness with that talk­ing fel­low with the red feath­er. He’s worth any three of the par­ty.”

“Sur­ren­der, or we fire!” shout­ed the fel­low with the red feath­er. The pi­rate replied, with a pi­rat­ic oath, “Fire away.”

“And sure enough,” writes Crock­ett, “they took his ad­vice, for the next minute we were salut­ed with a dis­charge of mus­ketry, the re­port of which was so loud that we were con­vinced they all had fired. Be­fore the smoke had cleared away we had each se­lect­ed our man, fired, and I nev­er did see such a scat­ter­ing among their ranks as fol­lowed. We be­held sev­er­al mus­tangs run­ning wild with­out their rid­ers over the prairie, and the bal­ance of the com­pa­ny were al­ready re­treat­ing at a more rapid gait than they ap­proached. We hasti­ly mount­ed and com­menced pur­suit, which we kept up un­til we be­held the in­de­pen­dent flag fly­ing from the bat­tle­ments of the fortress of Alamo, our place of des­ti­na­tion. The fugi­tives suc­ceed­ed in evad­ing our pur­suit, and we rode up to the gates of the fortress, an­nounced to the sen­tinel who we were, and the gates were thrown open; and we en­tered amid shouts of wel­come be­stowed up­on us by the pa­tri­ots.”