NaNoWriMo--09 The Devil in Texas

Devil in Texas -- Chaps 4, 5

2009-11-02T19:46:00.001-08:00

CHAPTER 4

Back in Clarendon

“Forgive me, Mama” he said. “Forgive me my arrogance. Forgive me my pride. Forgive me…” There was so much to ask forgiveness for. He wanted to cry, but he hadn’t cried in years.

He felt the pistol in his pocket. “And forgive me for what I am about to do.” He knew suicide was a sin in the Catholic Church — that the soul could not seek forgiveness or grace. The Baptists were a little less firm on that point. After all, they preached that the one who once attains salvation has it for good. So, carrying that point to its ultimate degree, suicide was no worse than any other sin, for which the Baptist has received forgiveness. But if you pressed one, you never got that answer.

The fact is, Tex didn’t give a damn about what the Baptists thought anyway. He hadn’t for years. Though he had known lots of good folks who were Baptists, they never quite seemed to offer the grace they liked to preach about.

“Now the fair Angelina runs glossy and gliding

The crooked Colorado runs weaving and winding…”

Tex stopped humming and sighed deeply. He couldn’t sing that song without thinking of Papa. Papa loved the song as much as he loved Texas.

The only thing he loved more was Mama – mi angelita, he called her. My little angel. He would come in from work, snatch her in his arms, and waltz around the room to that song. She would always blush, but she loved it. Tex seemed to have some vague memory of Papa holding him in his arms and singing the song, but he thought maybe he just imagined it.

He had reached the edge of town and once again felt the pistol in his pocket. “I wonder what it’s like.” he thought. Dusty could probably tell him. He’d heard that Dusty got hit at Gettysburg. He wished he could talk to Dusty right now.

“Hell”, he thought. “As long as I’m wishing, I may as well wish to speak to Papa. Papa damn sure knows what it’s like to get hit by a bullet….

CHAPTER 5

Papa

Frank Miles had come to Texas from South Carolina even before Austin got approval from the Mexican government. He wasn’t exactly running, but he had no desire to go back—especially after he met Angela. He had been sort of a free spirit, but once he married his “little angel”, he got serious and began putting together a plantation. Angela was never comfortable with the idea of slavery, but it didn’t faze Frank, so he imported some slaves and started growing cotton. Angela started having babies and soon the Miles family was well on their way to prosperity. Texas was a Mexican state at the time, and Mexico was having a hard time settling into a form of government. When Santa Anna declared himself dictator and negated the Constitution of 1824, the whole country was thrown into turmoil, Texas more than the rest.

Frank had “gone with Ol’ Ben Milam into San Antonio” in 1835 and ousted General Cos, which only angered Santa Anna more. Frank had gone again to San Antonio when the Mexican army had marched on Texas, only to be sent out with a message to General Houston from Colonel Travis. He thus escaped the fate of those “brave defenders” of the Alamo, and charged the Mexican lines at San Jacinto a few weeks later. In the mopping up after that battle, Frank had been the one to bring in what he thought was a typical Mexican foot soldier, only to find out it was “El Presidente” himself – General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna.

Frank had lost a lot of friends at the Alamo, and would have killed the General on the spot, but Houston insisted that, as the leader of Mexico, he was more valuable to Texas alive. Frank grudgingly agreed, and Houston was proved right – Santa Anna signed the Treaty of Velasco, in which the Mexican army was to retreat across the Rio Grande, and Santa Anna was to work for Texan Independence.

Things didn’t work out that way, and Santa Anna went back on his word almost as soon as the ink was dry. War of a sort continued between to two nations – Mexico and the Republic of Texas – for the next ten years, with raids into each country by the other.

In the meantime, though, Frank continued to work and to build up his holdings. He was convinced that Texas was Heaven on earth, and was glad to get the chance to raise his family there. Like his own father had done, he focused his attention on the oldest son, who he intended to groom to take over the plantation. Dusty was a free spirit like his father, however, and would not be tied to a cotton plantation. Adventure for Dusty was chasing Indians or bandits or — on one occasion which almost cost his life – on a fool’s errand to Santa Fe to establish trade between that city and Austin.

Frank understood – and envied -- his boy’s adventures, so he put his hopes in Tex. The plan was that Tex would learn the cotton farming business and all that it entailed – planting, chopping weeds, picking, baling, ginning, transporting to market. Of course slaves would do all of the manual labor – and overseers would do a lot of the management – but Tex would follow in his father’s footsteps and be overall manager. That was fine with Tex, but Santa Anna changed all of that.

In 1841 Dusty went off on the Texan – Santa Fe Expedition. None of the participants – freighters, businessmen, and soldiers – had a clue how to get from Austin to Santa Fe. The result was that they entered New Mexico territory --disputed between Mexico and Texas – lost, starving, and totally at the mercy of the locals, who considered themselves loyal to the Mexican government. The “Santa Fe Pioneers”, as they called themselves, were supposedly strictly on a trading venture, but Governor Armijo of New Mexico considered them invaders and treated them accordingly. They were marched under harsh conditions to Mexico City where they were imprisoned. Some had died on the trail to Santa Fe, some had died on the march, some died in prison – and some were executed. All suffered.

Before the Expedition, Dusty and Tex had been about as close as two brothers born twelve years apart could be, and Tex missed him sorely. But afterwards, Dusty’s affections went in other directions. The Miles boys were never close again.

When they were released from prison and began to dribble back home, the Texans were outraged. To make maters worse, a Mexican General named Woll had attacked San Antonio, held in briefly, and carried off some prisoners. The incident was relatively inconsequential, and only proved that Mexico had no business with Texas, as she could not hold nor govern it. But Woll’s actions stirred up Texans, Frank Miles among the rest.

Frank was angry over how Dusty had been treated, and took it as a personal affront. He brooded on the fact that it had been within his power to kill Santa Anna once. He often remarked how much better off Texas would be if she were rid of the menace of Santa Anna.

“I should have killed that cowardly son of a bitch when I had the chance” Frank was heard to utter on more than one occasion. When six – year – old – Tex began repeating the phrase, Angela insisted that Frank not say it any more. He agreed, but changing the way he talked did not change the way he felt. When Sam Houston, now president again, sent out a call for volunteers to fight under Alexander Somervell, Frank, a friend of Somervell’s and a great admirer of Houston, answered the call. With a wife, five children, and a plantation, no one would have blamed him if he had stayed home. Angela begged him to. Even Dusty told him he was too old to fight and reminded him that he had done his due for Texas, but Frank would not listen.

“I’ll not have fulfilled my responsibility to Texas -- and to my family – until I see that cowardly son of a bitch dead and Texas safe!”

Tex recalled being proud when the men marched off with Colonel Somervell, though there was no way he could know what the whole thing was about – and he certainly could not imagine that he would never see his father again. He remembered, after what seemed like forever, a big man coming in to see his mother, telling some long story about a black bean, and leaving his mother in tears. For years he hated the big man, and it took him some time to realize his father was not coming back. He was seven years old.

For a long time, Angela did what she had been doing – taking care of the household. Only Lupe and Tex were much of a problem as Dusty was pretty much on his own and the two older girls, Moni and Mali, helped their Mama a lot. With Dusty gone and Papa dead, Tex felt all alone. As he grew he resented the fact that his father had “deserted” his family and left him alone. Part of that resentment he turned on his mother and the rest of the family, but he kept a lot of it to himself.

Years later he was at a roadhouse in Castroville, marveling at the features of a pretty, young Alsatian woman, when a big man sat next to him. They chatted for a bit when the big man asked, “Say, somebody told me your name was Miles – that right?”

Tex asserted that was true and introduced himself as Tex Miles – had not yet begun using “TJ”.

“Chuy?” the big man asked. Tex bristled, but replied that he was not called that by his friends.

“Hell, boy, I’ve knowed you since you was messin’ in your drawers. You’re Frank and Angela’s youngest, ain’t you?”

Tex nodded, and wished the man would leave him alone.

“Frank Miles was a fine man” he added solemnly. “If I remember right, you’re daddy called you ‘Tex’. He stuck out his hand. “William Wallace is my name, son, though most folks call be Big Foot.”

Tex took it, though reluctantly. He now remembered the big man who had brought the news of his father’s death, and all the hatred and resentment he had held for his father came back to him.

“Maybe Frank Miles was a fine soldier, or a fine companion, or a fine planter, or a fine Texan, but what kind of father or husband would leave his family like that?” He paused. Big Foot was taken aback. “It seems to me that he could have done a lot more for Texas by being a good husband and father.” Tex shut up. He had already regretted pouring out his heart to a total stranger.

Big Foot stared at him for a minute. “Don’t blame you.” he finally said, and Tex, who had been staring at the table fighting back tears, looked at him in surprise. “No sir, I don’t blame you a bit. Little feller oughtta have his Paw around while he’s growin’ up.” He saw that he had Tex’s full attention. “But let me tell you a little about Frank Miles. We started out a-follerin’ Somervell to give Woll a whuppin’ on account of what he did in San Antone—teach him a lesson. We got a long ways from our base of supplies and Somervell realized he could not continue to pursue, but some of the fellas disagreed. ‘If we let this bastard go, how far into Texas will he go the next time – Gonzales? Austin? Galveston? Whose family will be safe? I got a beautiful wife and five young’uns that I am dyin’ to get back to, but if we don’t show these Mexicans we mean business they’ll be back and there’ll be hell to pay. How can I face my wife and my little boy and say I didn’t give all I had to make them safe? We’ve got to go after these sons of bitches. I…I let ‘em get away once.’

The look in Tex’s eyes showed he was softening.

“Lookin’ back, Somervell may have been right, and your daddy wrong, but them damn Meskins never invaded again. You know the story about how we invaded Mier and surrendered. Frank had begun to miss you, your sisters, and your ma something fierce, and as Texans we all knew the fate of the Goliad prisoners, and were afraid ours would be the same – to be executed to a man. A bunch of us escaped our captors, but were no match for the Mexican desert, and were retaken. Santa Anna originally decreed that every man who escaped should be shot, but cooler heads prevailed, and were able to convince the bastard – the ‘cowardly son of a bitch’ I believe was your daddy’s favorite name for him (Tex smiled at the memory) – to convince Santa Anna to reduce the punishment to shooting only every tenth man, to be drawn by lots – one black bean for every ten white ones. Those who drew black were to be executed.

“Young feller, I’ve got to tell you that the men who drew beans that day did so with courage and coolness that ought to go down in the history books. I was standin’ right next to Frank Miles as the beans were being drawn. Not a single person wanted to die, but if they drew black, they took it like a man -- every mother’s son of ‘em. I got to noticin’ that the black beans were larger than the others, and mentioned as much to Frank. He only nodded. When my turn came to draw, I reached into that pot for the tiniest bean I could find. When I drew out my hand, I hated to open it up, but when I did, there was a gleaming white bean – somewhat stained by my sweat, but white as a newborn baby’s ass (well, your ass, anyway.) I knew Frank would likely draw one too, since he knew the secret, and you could have knocked me over with a feath3er when he drew out a big, black bean.

“He came up next to me again, and I asked him, ’What the hell is that all about, Miles? Why did you draw a black bean? You knew they were bigger!’. What he told me touched me then and even today will nearly bring a tear to this hard – ass old Indian fighter today. He said, ‘Big Foot, I’ve had a good life. I’ve known the love of a beautiful woman, and had the pleasure or siring six great young ‘uns – five of which lived past infancy. My oldest is mostly grown and the two older girls aren’t far behind. I have property and a little money put aside. Some of these boys are just kids. Some are just starting their families. Most are the sole support and if they have anything they’re small holdings that won’t pay the bills. My family will be taken care of. Hell, a good-lookin’ woman with property like Angela will have no trouble finding another man.’ Boy, he loved your ma – don’t ever think he didn’t. She’d had all them kids and was beginning to spread a little, but Frank always saw her just the way he did when they met at that fandango when he first came to Texas. He said, ‘If I get a black bean, maybe some kid will get another chance.”

Big Foot paused for a moment. With a husky voice, he finally renewed his talk, “I’ve never met a man like that.”

Tex was silent, and Big Foot continued. “He told me before we were separated to make sure that his family knew that his last thoughts were for them. And Big Foot, he said … Pray for me.”

“Pray for him?” Tex was incredulous. “I find that hard to believe. Papa was never a praying man! You sure you didn’t make that up?”

Wallace’s eyes narrowed as all the kindness drained out. Then he softened. “Wal, I’ll admit that Ol’ Big Foot has been known to stretch the truth a time or two, and I’ll take it that you’re aware of that … ’cause if I thought you were calling me a liar… No, son, it’s God’s truth. He said to pray for him. And I wouldn’t be shocked at that … we were all doing a little praying that night. You would have, too.

Devil in Texas -- Chaps 1, 2, 3

2009-11-02T16:08:00.000-08:00

Chapter 1
The Beginning…or is it the End?

“We crossed the wild Pecos, we forded the Nueces
We swum the Guadalupe and we followed the Brazos
Red River runs rusty, the Wichita clear
But down by the Brazos I courted my dear”

Tex quietly sang to himself as he made his way down the few streets of Clarendon, Texas, headed for the edge of town. He wanted a secluded spot to finish his “business”. “Funny”, he thought, “If I were in Tascosa or Hidetown — or whatever they’re calling it now -- the sound of a gunshot would hardly raise an eyebrow. Here in ‘Saint’s Roost’, the whole town will turn out.”

The locals would have been surprised to learn Tex’s thoughts — for that matter they would have been surprised to hear him called “Tex” as he had dropped that nickname years ago in favor of the initials he thought sounded a little more dignified: T. J. The townsfolk knew T. J. Miles as a fine man, a good man, a family man who, with his wife — a fine church-going woman — had raised two fine daughters. They wished he was a little more regular at church — he rarely went to any of the evening meetings, and sometimes missed Sunday mornings for no reason at all — but in general he was a fine (their favorite word) example of a Christian. At least to all appearances -- and appearances are what counts in a town like “Saint’s Roost”.

There weren’t many people out in Clarendon this time of night — not on a Thursday, anyway. Wednesday night was pretty busy, comparatively speaking, as most folks were making their way to prayer meeting or back. Sunday nights, too. But on Thursday night, all “decent” folks were home shortly after sundown — and Clarendon was full of decent folks.

Sort of. The town had been founded by Lewis Henry Carhart, a Methodist minister, if not as a Utopian society, at least as a God-fearing, respectable one — a “Christian colony”, or, in some publications, a “sobriety settlement”. No saloons, no brothels, none of the establishments that typically made their way into frontier towns in the Texas Panhandle. A man wearing a pistol in Clarendon had better have good reason — such as, he was a law enforcement officer. In Tascosa or Mobeetie (the official name of Hidetown), it was often considered foolhardy not to be wearing one — especially at night. That’s why Tex had his in his pocket.

“Yep”, he thought, “the good folks of Clarendon will have a surprise come morning.” He snorted at the thought of “good folks”. There were definitely some good people in the community, but there were some real scoundrels posing as “good folks” — people who would serve the Lord’s Supper (what he had been raised calling “communion”) on Sunday, then cheat you out of your own supper the rest of the week. Folks who were proud of the fact that they didn’t drink, swear, dance, or carouse, but who would destroy lives by gossip and mean-heartedness. Tex had been just like them, once. The thought made his thoughts turn to the job at hand.

The folks of Clarendon would be surprised in the morning… if Tex had the guts to go through with it. He smiled wanly at the irony. He wasn’t sure if it took guts, or brains, or heart — but if a coyote didn’t drag them off, it was definitely the brains of Texas Independence Jesus Miles they would find the next morning.

“Texas Independence Jesus Miles” he thought. “Yes, these good people will get a kick out of that — except the ‘Jesus’ part. That will make them mad. And they will pronounce it just the way they do every time they pray — in JEEsus’ name -- never knowing — or caring -- that it’s pronounced Hay-SOOS.”

And that made him think of his Mama….

CHAPTER 2
Mama

TJ’s mother was also a fine Christian woman — though he had ignored the fact for many years. Angela Maria Archibeque y Vasquez had been born into a somewhat aristocratic Spanish family in “Tejas”. She was descended from hidalgos and conquistadores — and a scoundrel or two — and her father was a government functionary in colonial Texas. Because he had the good fortune or good sense to know which side his tortilla was buttered on, he had stayed in good graces with both the Spanish authorities and the Mexican ones who followed. For a while he was able to do the same with the Texans, but he saw what happened to Juan Seguin, and retired from public life to concentrate on his “rancho”. But that was after Tex — or “Chuy” was born.

The boy came into this world on March 2, 1836. His father, Francis Marion Rutledge “Frank” Miles, was off helping fighting Santa Anna’s invasion of Texas. He had gone to the Alamo with others from Gonzales, but was sent to General Sam Houston with a letter from Travis and the General, realizing Frank’s value as one who knew the countryside and could pass for a Mexican in looks and speech, forbade him to return.

He was the sixth child born to Frank and Angela, number five dying in infancy. Whether it was because he was the one following the death, the youngest, or the one she carried in her arms through the Runaway Scrape, he never knew for sure. But he always thought it was because of his name.

A good Catholic, as soon as the boy was born, Angela wanted to give him a good religious name in case he did not survive long. Frank never cared much about whatever saint she chose when naming his offspring, but when it came to the name the kid would go by, he wanted something that would be pronounceable in English. Frank Miles had come to Texas in the early days of colonization, and was a loyal citizen of Mexican Texas, but he could see the writing on the wall.

As Angela thought about names and admired saints, of course St. Francis came to mind. He was her favorite saint -- a gentle soul, but she had already named her oldest boy Francisco, and called him Panchito — though almost everyone else called him Dusty. “No”, she thought,” this is likely my last child and it must be a special name.” She decided to pray to the Holy Family. “Jesus, Jose, y Maria,” she began, and then stopped. She had received her revelation. Not one of her children was named for one of the Holy Family (she crossed herself) and why should she not name this one after the holiest? “Su nombre es…Jesus!” she spoke softly to this precious child. These were unsettled and dangerous times, so a formal ceremony would have to wait, but she called for the padre to baptize the child and to christen him after the Son of God, and offspring of the Holy Mother. Frank could come up with another name when he got home.

The thought that he might not come back would almost overwhelm her, so she refused to accept it. When news came of the fall of the Alamo — with the loss of many men from Gonzales — she openly prayed for their souls, but privately gave thanks that her Franks was safe — comparatively speaking — with Sam Houston and the Regular Texas Army.

There was little time for anything but prayer, however, as everyone knew Santa Anna would march through Texas with his army raping, pillaging, and destroying. Angela, with the help of twelve – year - old Dusty and Joe — Frank’s personal manservant he had left behind—they packed what they could carry and scurried east out of Santa Anna’s way. Before they left, someone rode in with the news that the Texans meeting at Washington – on – the – Brazos had declared Texas independent on March 2nd – the very days of Jesus’ birth. Right then and there she declared that the boy would be named Texas Independence Jesus Miles. When the war was over, and independence achieved, there was a joyful and tearful reunion in the Miles family, and Frank first laid eyes on the new baby. “Y el nombre de el,” Mama said with pride,’ “es ‘Texas Independence Jesus Miles’.” She struggled with the Anglo pronunciation of ‘Texas’ and ‘Independence’, but she proudly said “Jesus” as she — and as she believed God — had always said it: “haySOOS”.

She said “We will call him 'Chuy’ ”. Frank said wryly, “I’ll call him ‘Tex’.”

* * *

One of Tex’s earliest memories was of an incident that happened in 1840 on his fourth birthday. The whole town was decorated to celebrate the birth of the Repuublic of Texas, and the family had gathered to watch a parade. Frank, a war hero and the capturer of Santa Anna had a prominent place in the parade. As the Miles family waited for the parade to start, Tex asked what all the flags and parade were for. His sister Amalia, who was eleven, knew everything, and liked to flaunt it, rolled her eyes and said, “It’s for Texas Independence, silly. Everyone knows that!”
Tex got all excited and proudly proclaimed, ”Texas Independence? That’s me!”
Those within earshot roared with laughter, including his mama, big brother, and sisters. If it had happened to Dusty, he would have laughed along with them, but Tex was mortified. He hated being laughed at and felt betrayed by those he loved most. Worst of all, Frank, when he heard the story, roared with laughter, too. He knew then that he hated his name, and he would change it if he ever got the opportunity.

* * *

Most of the family except his father called him “Chuy” anyway, but as more and more people from the United States moved to Texas, Spanish was understood less and less. When one recent immigrant – another little boy about his age – had made fun of the name by saying “Chewy? Who’s been chewing on ya?” he determined to go by “Tex” – a request that was generally accepted, since it was Frank’s choice, but roundly ignored by the rest of the family. It began to drive a wedge between the boy and his mother.

Tex was ashamed to admit it now, but for most of his growing up years, he was ashamed of his mother—or at least embarrassed by her. As more immigrants moved into the Republic, Spanish was less acceptable. Sad to say, but so were those who spoke it. Dusty could speak it like a Mexican, but it never “took” with Tex. Angela, seeing that Texas was going to be mostly English-speaking, tried really hard to be fluent, but could never quite get her tongue around certain words – “chicken” was always “shicken”, “stamp” would come out “estamp”, and Texas—the first name of her youngest and favorite son—was always Teh-hes. It didn’t bother the others, but it bothered Tex to the point that he hated to be seen in public with his mother, and he never asked other kids to come over.

Angela didn’t even try to pray in English. She wa certain that God spoke Spanish, and the Castilian Spanish she had been raised it. And Angela prayed a lot. She could move heaven and earth with her prayers, but Tex was too embarrassed to see it. She had tried to raise him a good Catholic, but the Mass made no sense to him—it wasn’t even in the Spanish that he could understand a little, but in Latin of which he knew none.

When he was thirteen, Tex had wandered down to a brush arbor where a man named Z. N. Morrell was preaching. His mother had warned him to stay away from the “Protestos” and “evanjelicos” (she spat the words out when she said them), but that only intrigued the boy more. Tex could hear the fiery Baptist a half mile away as he told about the eternal fires of hell. Some were clearly disgusted, saying that’s the sort of thing they had left the State to get away from, but Tex was mesmerized. (He had heard the tales of Morrell fighting Mexicans and Indians, and that likely had something to do with his appeal.) Here was a fellow talking about God in a way he could understand — not somebody in a robe that spoke Latin – but a man wearing regular clothes and speaking – shouting, actually – in English. He told about the fires of Hell that awaited the unrepentant sinner, and about the grace of “JEEsus”, and when the end of the preaching came, Tex found himself crying his eyes out and trying to make it to the front of the arbor to be saved. The Miles family was know to be devout Catholics (though Frank attended Mass strictly in deference to Angela, who he loved deeply), so to win one over from “Papacy” was a feather in the cap of the Protestants, be they Baptists, Methodists, or Presbyterians.

The Baptists didn’t generally spend a lot of time on new converts, but this young Catholic boy from a prominent family was a special case. He would need to be tended to prevent him from sliding back under the devil’s curse of “Romanism”. The attention was just what the boy – almost a young man – needed, and had sorely missed since his father had died. He got a good indoctrination into the evils to avoid—dancing, swearing, and above all, alcohol.

Tex took a perverse pleasure in telling his mother that he was now a Baptist. He worked hard to convert his sisters and even Dusty, even though he wasn’t around much. Angela was shocked, and deeply hurt. She had lost a baby. She had lost her beloved Frank. But this loss – the loss of one of her children to the “protestos” -- cut her deeply. Tex knew it and he flaunted it every time he could.

He got deeper and deeper into the Baptist form of Christianity, and they pointed to him with pride as a convert. He had tried his hand at preaching a time or two (he wasn’t very good) and even considered becoming a missionary. He raged about the evils of alcohol, dancing, swearing and other sins that shouldn’t be mentioned. If it was possible to get someone to Heaven by annoying the Hell out of them, Tex would have led the pack. And it broke his Mama’s heart.

New Novel

2009-11-01T04:55:00.000-08:00

I obviously wasn't thinking very far ahead when I named this blog after my first novel.

Today I start my second NaNo novel, "The Devil in Texas". The protagonist of this one will be a minor character in the first one, Dusty's brother "Texas Independence Jesus Miles". He is the "Texas" in the title and is haunted by personal demons. That is using the term metaphorically, as he has some inner struggles. Indeed, when the book opens he is depressed and considering suicide. Most--if not all--of the story is told in flashbacks.

I will post the novel here as I get time.

Catching up

2009-06-29T13:03:00.000-07:00

Wow--didn't realize it had been so long since I had blogged. I am now Director of the Pampa (TX) Chamber of Commerce, having begun that job on June 1.I am currently attending the Texas Chamber of Commerce Execs conference in Lubbock. Not much news otherwise.

Update on Mexico -- trip to Bernal

2009-02-26T06:25:00.000-08:00

Since Anne told me she was trying to follow the blog, I decided I better add to it. I had great visions of posting every day, but we have been extremely busy—and when we got back to the hotel, we just wanted to rest.

Usually, I find writing somewhat relaxing, but not here. I have never been a great typist by anyone’s standards in the best of circumstances. Here it is more difficult for three reasons:

1) The keyboard is multinational—if you have never dealt with a multinational keyboard then you may ask “What´s the big deal?” I can assure you it is a big deal. While most of the letters are in the same place, there are extras (ñ for example). The punctuation marks are in lots of different places.
2) Many of the letters have been rubbed off. This might not be an issue to many—especially for a “touch-typist”, but I need the comfort of knowing that when I press a key, what letter is going to come up.
3) Linda is either watching or hanging around in the background somewhere, waiting for me to get off the computer.

We are having a great time. The people are very warm and friendly, if shown courtesy. And while I am proud to be a Texan and an American, I don’t wave it around. When people find out I am a Texan, they don´t say much until I say “Not every Texan is George Bush.” That usually puts them at ease, and they make some joke about it. I don´t have much problem with W myself, but apparently the rest of the world hates him.

Yesterday we went to a small community called Bernal. Our friend Andrea took us. She is so funny. I think she wanted us to buy something in every store. I was sorely tempted and had to keep reminding myself we were flying. Andrea introduced us to the local gorditas. They were outstanding and Andrea ate several herself. I began to call her “La Gordita” and she thought that was funny. I was able to add to my growing collection of tequila shot glasses there. Andrea calls them “caballitos” (little horses) but the sign on them said “tequilleras”.

Saw a couple of museums when we got back—one we really enjoyed about the “Restoration”, or when the Mexican Republicans defeated Maximilian. (If you’ve ever seen “The Undefeated” with John Wayne, it is about this period. We saw a modern art museum, which I would not have seen if I had realized what crap was in it. (And it the only one that has cost us!)

Other than Andrea I fell in love at least twice yesterday. Once with Monica the girl at the tourism office, and once with Anna. Anna was in the courtyard of the hotel and I asked if she was guest. She affirmed she was, then I Asked if she spoke English, to which she replies “Un poco.” This surprised me, as most will say “un poquito”, ao I assumed she spoke a little more than most. She told me she was a paleontologist and was here with several others to attend a symposium on gastropods. We had a delightful visit.

Today we are going to an archaeological site a few miles from town. Tonight is the piece de resistance. The Peruyeros are taking us for “alta cocina Mexicana”, or high Mexican cooking. Andrea said she didn´t know how to say it in English. Being a burger and chicken-fried-steak man, I don’t either, but I think the French call it “haute cuisine”. This will be our last evening here. I am not particularly looking forward to getting back to work, but I am getting tired of thinking in Spanish, paying in pesos, and calculating in metric. I am also getting VERY tired of typing on this damn keyboard, so this will close my entry this morning.

In Mexico, Day 2

2009-02-24T05:20:00.000-08:00

What a day. We slept late—for us—until around 7:30. We went to explore the city, first trying to get a hardy and sustaining desayuno. It was difficult, because there were so many things to see. The architecture of the city is beautiful, the history is magnificent.

About every three blocks or so there is a plaza with a statue. Some of these date back centuries, some only a few years (comparatively speaking). Gone, of course, are the celebrants of the night before, replaced by people on their way to work. Since this is the state capital, and a prosperous city, there are lots.

We eat at a place that would be considered a hole in the wall in the US—not dirty, but very small. It is difficult for me to remember—especially at breakfast--that Mexicans like to linger over a meal, and don´t get in much of a hurry to prepare it. They also eat later than I am accustomed to. I was anxious to get going, but the breakfast was good—though not outstanding.

We began to look around and were overwhelmed at the beauty and the history of Queretaro. I had not realized that this was on the royal road--El Camino Real—from Mexico City to Santa Fe. It is also the place where Mexican first declared their independence from Spain in 1810 (and which they achieved in 1821).

I was in no hurry to call my friend David that I met last summer, as I didn´t want to interrupt his work. Also, I wasn´t sure how to use the phone (do I dial the area code regardless?, etc)

English speakers – bank, waitress, wheelchair, Chicago
Helpfulness
Jacket
Finding David

In Mexico

2009-02-23T05:51:00.000-08:00

I set up this blog to put my NaNoWriMo book on, but that has been long since finished, so I will use it for other things—such as our trip to Mexico.
…
Day one – getting there
We drove to San Marcos to spend the night with Anne, so that she could get us to the San Antonio airport, from whence the real journey would commence. (Hmmm…whence, commence….must be a limerick in there somewhere!) The airport was a mess to navigate, but no real problems were encountered. Linda asked the (cute) ticket agent when the work would be done and she replied that it was scheduled to be finished in two years. “When we´re all old and gray”, I countered. She nodded wanly in agreement, then I said, “I know what you´re thinking—you´re thinking “You´re already there, Buddy” She countered “I was not.” She was a charmer, though.

(I wrote a lot more, but the blogger didn´t save it, so I´ll finish this part later.)

Moving On

2009-02-17T10:35:00.000-08:00

I decided it was time to enter something else here, but now I don't know what. Pretty discouraged today. Been trying for two and a half years to promote this town and two outsiders have done more damage than one would think possible. To continue to bring up the drug sting and racial overtaones is like continually bringing up the Dred Scot decision, or the unrest in Little Rock or Watts. The victims have been released and paid large sums of money, which was not used to rebuild their lives. Most of them have gone back to prison on unrelated, but similar charges.
The people here (and I am not a native) are not mean, and are not, for the most part, racists. Sure some are, but where are there not? And most people who have never lived in one don't understand the dynamics of a small town. In a city, the drug dealers are something you hear about. In a town this size, they are a lot closer--you know their names, they are parked next to you at the Sonic, they live down the block, or maybe next door. It is not an abstract issue, but a real one. You see the effects. So when someone comes in with what looks like a solution, you take it. Sure, mistakes were made, and they are regrettable. But I fail to see the point of going over it all again at this point. It does no good that I can see, and a lot--a LOT--of harm.

Texas Forever -- the rest of it

2008-11-28T16:22:00.000-08:00

CHAPTER 41
I was on Goodnight’s nickel, so this time I stayed at the Menger. Actually, Charlie had insisted — said it was a good place to meet other cattlemen, swap stories, and maybe pick up an idea or two--just as long as I didn’t stay too long. I checked in, got settled in my room, and went for a stroll. I never ceased to be amazed at the changes in the old town since my childhood. “Bexar” was really a small town and this city had grown up around it. I passed by the Navarro house, the governor’s mansion, La Villita. I saw where the Council House had once stood, where the trouble with the Comanches had really gotten serious. As I walked I wondered if that council had ended peacefully, how would things be different today. Would Klara…but I pushed it out of my mind. There in front of me stood the Alamo.

It amazed that the structure still stood. It was a little surprising that Santa Anna had not destroyed it after the battle, but I guess he thought he would crush the revolution so completely that it would not matter. Of course, not a lot of the original mission still existed. The outside walls were all gone — taken for other building projects around the area. The only things that remained were part of the “long barracks” and the church, with that being what everyone thought of as “The Alamo”.

After annexation, the US Army took it over, rebuilding the church front to its present look, including the curved top and cutting two windows in the second story. I daresay most people never knew that the original design called for matching towers flanking the church, which were begun but never finished. I couldn’t help but think of the men who died there, and how close I came to becoming an orphan myself. It took a lot of imagination, however, as the long barracks had been converted into a giant general merchandise store, and the church was a warehouse.

What had really struck me though was that someone was building a fence in the middle of Military Plaza. I could see the post holes and the fence posts, but I didn’t see any planking. “Strange,” I thought, “to be building a fence in that spot.” Watching the whole operation was a young man all decked out in a suit who seemed to be unusually interested in the project.

By now my stroll was over and I went back into the hotel to see what was going on. As I was looking around the lobby I heard my name called. I turned to see Bill Blocker, a fellow rancher from the Blanco area, accompanied by a younger man.

“Dusty,” he said as he pumped my hand. “How the hell are you?”

“Fine, Bill,” I said. “Good to see. How are things on the Pedernales?”

“Same as always in the cattle business, Dusty — just one step away from bankruptcy.” I laughed. Blocker was one of the most financially secure ranchers I knew. But he learned the business from the ground up, like I did, and was as common as they come. “I’d like you to meet my little brother, Abner. Ab, this is Dusty Miles, one of the rangiest old mossbacks you’ll ever run across.”

The young fellow offered his hand and said, “Pleased to meet you Mr. Miles.”

“Same here, young fellow, but…”

Bill cut me off. “Hell, Ab, Dusty ain’t ‘Mister’ to nobody!”

“Very well,” Ab said as we continued to shake. “Dusty.”

“So is Bill here teaching you everything he knows about the cattle business?”

“Hell, Dusty, Ab here learned everything I knew a long time ago. I’m trying to pick up pointers from him. Say, are you still up in Palo Pinto County? Seems I heard you sold out.”

I told him how my “partner turned brother in law” was buying the place from me and I was a simple drov… er, COWBOY, again.

“Don’t tell me you’ve taken to calling yourself a ‘cowboy’ — and if you’re so damned simple, what are you doing staying at the Menger?”

“You caught me, Bill. You remember Goodnight, don’t you? He’s partnering with an Irish fellow in the Palo Duro Canyon, and I’m sort of his special agent, I guess you’d say. You know anything about this new wire?”

“Bob wire? Heard of it. Personally I can’t say I approve of it, but Ab here is all for it. I’m ready to let him try it — when he gets his own place!” We all laughed, but I believe I saw a gleam in Ab’s eye. We agreed to meet later for a drink and then parted. As the Blockers made their exit, they almost bumped into the young dandy who had been watching the fencing operation. Bill turned and hollered, “If I don’t see you again, tell Goodnight I said ‘howdy’!”

The dandy turned to look at Bill’s departing form, then turned to me. He turned to me and inquired, “Pardon me, sir. Did he say ‘Goodnight’?”

A bit unsettled by his brashness, I replied warily, “Well, yeah — that’s the fellow’s name I work for. A cattleman.”

“Good lord, sir everyone knows Charles Goodnight — or has heard of him. And you work for him? In what capacity, may I ask?”

I was through being polite. “You’re a nosy little bastard, ain’t you?”

He blushed. “Forgive me a thousand times, sir.” He put out his hand. “My name is John W. Gates and I represent the Washburn-Moen Company.”

“A salesman.”

“I guess you could say that Mr…”

“Miles. But whatever it is your selling, I really don’t have the….”

“Mr. Miles.” I didn’t mind this slick salesman using the term. “Washburn and Moen are the foremost manufacturers of barbed wire -- light as air, stronger than whiskey, and cheap as dirt”.” He had my interest. “We believe it to be the finest method available for holding stock.

“Mr. Gates, where are you from?”

“Why, Illinois, sir. Why?”

“I don’t know what kind of cattle you have up there in Illinois, but I’ll bet they ain’t Texas longhorns. I have been around longhorns all of my life and I seriously doubt that any product short of steel pipe can hold longhorns.”

“You are right to be skeptical, sir. But what if I could prove it to you? At this very instance I am having constructed a pen — or to use your term, a corral — of barb wire. Perhaps you saw it in Military Plaza. This corral will be ready within a week, at which time I will place several head of longhorns — right off the range — into said corral. I invite you to watch.”

“Well, I’d love to, Mr. Gates, I really would. But as good natured as Ol’ Charlie is, I don’t think he would approve me spending a week in the Menger at his expense.”

“Am I to understand, Mr. Miles, that you are an agent for Charles Goodnight? Presumably with purchasing power? I’ll tell you what — I will pay for whatever time extra you are here, in order that you may see the demonstration. I ask only this: if you are convinced of the strength, the durability, the overall superiority of Washburn and Moen barbed wire, then purchases of the same for the JA Ranch will be made from me.”

It sounded tempting.

“Tell you what” he continued, “I’ll throw in board as well as the room.”

“Mr. Gates you got yourself a deal.”

…

I don’t know if Gates made that deal with anybody else or not, but there were lots of folks to watch when he brought the animals longhorns in. I could tell by looking at them that the longhorns were the real article — not some critters he had tamed for the show. They were not accustomed to being penned, and they were not going to take it lying down. I reckon to them, it looked there wasn’t even anything there between the posts — not anything substantial anyway. At first the just kind of nosed up against the wire like it wasn’t there. When they realized it was, they looked puzzled. One yearling took a run at it and we all scattered, sure the flimsy-looking wire would not hold up against the huge animal’s onslaught. He hit it hard. It bloodied his nose, but held. They all tried it again and again until they finally gave up — beaten. I didn’t really realize it at the time, but that moment spelled doom for the open range.

The fancy salesman was almost beside himself with glee. “So … what do you say, Mr. Miles?”

“Just two things, Mr. Gates. The first is, I believe you can count on a large order from the JA.” I paused.

“And the second thing, Mr. Miles?”

“Hell, John, call me Dusty. All my friends do.”

CHAPTER 42

When I returned to the JA, Charlie was pleased with my report. He and Adair knew the only way the cattle business could remain profitable was to improve the grade of beef, and the only way to do that was to keep prime breeding stock in fenced pastures. In later years Charlie also bred cattle with buffalo to produce “cattalo”. The hybrid was not popular, so the project was allowed to die.

Speaking of buffalo, it’s sort of funny to think that Charlie and guys like him — and me — were somewhat responsible for the near extinction of the buffalo. To Goodnight’s credit, he saved them, by hunting down some of the last remnants of the great herds and putting them under his protection. The same can be said of the Indians, and Comanches in particular. In later years he was one of their fiercest supporters.

Adair was a “funny turned feller” as Papa used to say. He was some sort of nobility, and had no use for a hired man. That is, he certainly saw himself as better. The Adairs were busy people with lots of irons in the fire and didn’t care much for the rustic Texas Panhandle except for the money it made and the game he could hunt. (I’ve heard tell that on one of his first hunting trips in Colorado, he shot his own horse dead and nearly got himself killed.)

Once when the Adair were visiting the JA to check on their investment, they were just sitting down to supper (Adair called in dinner) when I stopped by to tell Charlie about something on the ranch. Molly Goodnight, who was as good as gold, invited me to join them, which any Texas rancher’s wife would have done. (Well, maybe not Henrietta King.) It would have been impolite to refuse, and Molly would have insisted, so I sat at the place she sat.

With a disgusted “Harrumph”, John Adair said he would not eat at a table with a “servant”. I could tell Charlie was irritated, to put it mildly. Personally, I wanted to punch the arrogant son of a bitch in the mouth, but didn’t out of deference to the fact that I was the guest, the ladies were present, and I was pushing 60. I started to leave, but Molly wouldn’t let me. Finally Adair picked up his plate and moved to a small table where he ate by himself. I felt vindicated when Mrs. Adair remained seated. During the conversation that followed (after an awkward silence), I started to tell the story about Falconer on the Santa Fe Expedition asking where my boss was. I have learned, however, that sometimes with age comes wisdom, and I kept my mouth shut!

Charlie was open-minded in other ways. Bose Ikard had been a top hand in Parker and Palo Pinto Counties, and had been up the trail several times with Goodnight and Loving. Goodnight said he trusted Bose “farther than any living man. He was my detective, banker, and everything else in Colorado, New Mexico, and the other wild country I was in." Bose had started life a slave in Mississippi.

Once I was in Tascosa buying supplies. (The town had grown up out of Casimero Romero’s plaza on the Atascosa Creek.) I had entered a store and placed my order which was being loaded on the wagon outside. When the wagon was about half-loaded, a one of the Mexican freighters came in.

The proprietor, Mike Hanrahan, became livid. “Get the hell out of here, you damn greaser!” he shouted. The man immediately backed out. “Damn lazy bean-eaters always hanging around. Don’t know why they don’t go back where they came from.”
I stepped to the door and told the man loading the wagon to stop. I turned back to the man at the counter.

“Has it not occurred to you the Spanish — and the Mexicans -- were here first? That man’s ancestors were exploring this land while yours were living in grass huts in Ireland.”

“I don’t give a damn. I don’t want the brown bastards in my store.”

“Fair enough,” I said, then turned to the man loading the wagon. “Start taking that stuff off.”

“What are you getting riled up about Miles? You a Greaser lover?”

“You might say that, Hanrahan. My mother’s name was Angela Maria Archibeque-Vasquez.” I really poured on the accent. “Does that tell you anything? And I’ll let you in on something else. If a colored man shows up and you talk to HIM like that, you better hope it ain’t Bose Ikard, or you’ll have Charles Goodnight himself to deal with.”

I was climbing in the wagon to head for Tascosa’s other store when I heard somebody call me.

“Hey, Mister!” I turned to see a young man. “Hey I appreciate what you told that bastard back there. I was thinking about teaching him a lesson myself.”

“Well, thanks. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything, but there was no call for him to be that way. Hell, wasn’t too long ago in this country that Irishmen were run out of places.”

He persisted. “Maybe I ought to go back there yet.” There was something in his eye I didn’t like. And there was something that seemed familiar.

“Let it go. You can’t change him. And even if you did, there’d probably be another just like him come in. Come down to the saloon and I’ll buy you a drink, uhhh…?”

“Billy …Bill Bonney. Most folks just call me ‘the Kid’. I’ll take a rain check on the drink, but thanks. I’ve got to go check on my horses.”

I’m sure my face was white. Until now I had no idea that the kid I had met a few years ago in Fort Sumner swamping out the café had become “Billy the Kid”, noted gunman, rustler, and horse thief. He waved as mounted his horse and rode off. I wondered if I had just saved Hanrahan’s life. And I wondered if the horses the Kid was checking on were really his.

CHAPTER 43
Goodnight was not the only cattleman to realize the potential of the Panhandle. Looking back, it seems like it was almost a race, once the Indians were gone. George Littlefield moved in and founded the LIT. Leigh Dyer, Goodnight’s brother-in-law, started a ranch on the plains above the canyon that became the T-Anchor. A fast operator named Lee started the LE ranch and soon partnered with Lucien Scott in the LS. It was obvious the Panhandle was filling up — with cattle if not with people.

(The PASTORES, or sheep men, were getting crowded out. They were peaceful men, and untrained in the ways of the American legal system of land transactions. Well, that may not be fair. They were probably were aware that they did not stand a Chinaman’s chance of a fair trial, civil or criminal. Lee may have had some questionable business practices, but unlike some others, he paid for the land along the Canadian that was preempted by the PASTORES. Casimero Romero, seeing the writing on the wall that the future belonged to the cattlemen, sold out and urged the others to do the same.)

By now there were three towns — if you can call them that — in the Panhandle. The first, on the eastern side, was Sweetwater--on the creek by the same name. It was originally a hide camp for buffalo hunters, and grew up around Fort Elliott. When the citizens of that town applied for a Post Office, “Sweetwater” was already taken, so they changed it to “Mobeetie”. They claimed that “mobeetie” was the Indian word for “sweet water”, but since every Comanche or Kiowa I ever met sort of snickered when he heard the name, I tend to believe some local wag who knew a little “Indian” wasn’t pulling somebody’s leg. Once when Goodnight had invited some reservation Comanches onto the JA, I’m almost certain I heard one of them complain that he had stepped in the “mobeetie”.

The second town was Tascosa, though some might say it was really the first, as Romero had begun it as a plaza that developed into a town. (You know, Americans are liable to think that anything that existed before they got there doesn’t count — but I sure wouldn’t get into a “mobeetie”-slinging contest over it!) Tascosa was originally called “Atascosa” meaning boggy, again taking its name from the creek it was on. And again, there was already an Atascosa, Texas, so in order to get a post office the Anglos, never much for extra syllables, dropped the first one resulting in the official name.

Mobeetie was founded by buffalo hunters, and Tascosa by stockmen, so it follows that they were pretty rough towns. A lot of the ranchers, Goodnight included, would not allow alcohol on the ranch, so Mobeetie and Tascosa were the places where the cowboys let off steam. The damnedest thing, though, was the bunch of Methodists that founded a town as a “Christian Colony”. Promoted as a “sobriety settlement”, folks started calling it “Saints Roost”. Well, the “sinners” called it that, I guess. The locals called it Clarendon. The whole prospect seemed kind of strange to me to start with, but I reckon it’s not a lot different than what Stephen Austin was trying to do when he colonized Texas. And just as Austin’s attempts to keep out the riff-raff were not completely successful, neither were Clarendon’s. I understand that there are folks there now who take a nip now and again, and I also hear that a few Baptists have slipped in—may be the same bunch! I can’t fault the community, however. Of the three, it is the only one to survive into the 20th century — though it had to move to the railroad to do it.

I’ll have more to say about the railroad in a bit, but before that happened, there was one more ranch that bears telling about.
…

I mentioned how San Antonio was growing, but that was just an example of what was happening all over Texas. In Austin, the legislature had realized that the capitol building, built in 1846 right after annexation, was inadequate for the needs — and the image -- of the state Texas had become. They set aside three million acres of land in the Panhandle to finance the construction of a new one. It was obvious that the west was filling up, and it was only a matter of time until farmers and small ranchers began settling in the Texas Panhandle. As is typical amongst lawmakers, they had been dragging their feet on the issue until the old capitol building caught on fire and burned. (It’s a shame a few of them weren’t in it at the time.)

That put things on a fast track, so a pair of brothers in Chicago named Farwell, with Amos Babcock and Abner Taylor, formed the Capitol Syndicate. Plans were made to raise cattle on the property until the railroads came and the land could be sold in smaller parcels at higher prices. In return for the land, the Syndicate would finance the construction of the new capitol building. It came to about a dollar per acre — probably more than three times what Goodnight ever paid.

A ranch has to have a brand, of course, to prove ownership. The first brands, like so much of the cattle business, began with the Spanish. I understand that even ol’ Cabeza de Vaca had a brand that represented — you guessed it — a cow’s head. A brand had to be simple to produce, but hard to alter, in order to deter theft. I had left the JA and was working for the Syndicate when the first herd of longhorns was delivered. Ab Blocker, the young man I had met in San Antone a few years previous, had driven them from Fort Concho, and branded them with a big XIT on their sides.

“Who came up with that brand? I asked Ab. He admitted it was his idea, but that Barbecue Campbell, the ranch foreman had gone along with it.

“Does it mean anything? I mean, does it stand for anybody’s initials or anything like that?”

“Nope,” Ab told me, “but just try to change it into something else. Plus,” he added, “it can all be done with a straight bar.”

I looked at it again, and damned if he wasn’t right!
…

I left the JA, as I said, and went to work for what became the XIT. I can’t really say why — just time to change, I guess. You work for a fellow long enough and one of you starts feeling like he owns the other. Adair was irritating, but he wasn’t around much. I was getting older, too, and a lot of the JA is in rugged country. I have a lot of great memories of the JA. I guess I’m going to have to write them down sometime.

I remember one incident I want to mention, though. Goodnight and Adair always had their eyes open for more land. I don’t know how much the JA eventually controlled, but it was a bunch. I say ‘controlled’, for the ways of Goodnight, Dyer, and most of the early ranchers were different than the Capitol Syndicate. The XIT actually owned — by deed — all of their land. Goodnight and the others would buy claims for the best watering holes, but leave the land between as open range — though effective controlled by those who owned the water. That’s why the windmill became the other thing — coupled with barb wire — that really opened the Texas Panhandle and the rest of the American West to settlement by smallholders. When a farmer relied on springs for his water, he was at the mercy of the big rancher. But with a fenced pasture and a windmill, he could tell the big guy to go suck and egg. It’s amazing to think that the wind we so often cursed became the thing that made the land prosperous.

Anyway, to get back to my story … the JA was always looking for more land. I was with Charlie one day as we scouted along Tule creek. We came to a rocky ford and I had the strangest feeling I had been here before. Then it hit me: when I was with the Santa Fe Expedition, we crossed the Tule at this spot. Not the first time — oh hell, no. The first time we were being led by Sutton and Cooke and crossed Tule Canyon itself. Buy when we returned to pick up MacLeod and the others, we crossed at this ford. The New Mexican guides had told me that this was where the original Spanish explorers had crossed, naming the creek for the reeds — “tule” in Spanish — that grew nearby in the springs. A town grew up not far from there. I understand that they wanted to name it “Tule” after the creek —sort of like Mobeetie and Tascosa and even Amarillo, for that matter. They wanted to name it Tule, but guess what? If you guessed that there was already a Tule, Texas, you’re wrong. This time it was an error in Washington (surely not!) when a clerk for the United States Post Office misread the application, and approved the name “Tulia”. I guess the locals decided it was easier to keep than to change, and as far as I know, I’ve never heard of another Tulia.

While I’m on the subject, I’ll note that Tulia was one of the unique spots in the Texas Panhandle that did not have to move when the railroad came through. Most places, Amarillo included, either moved or died, but the tracks came right through Tulia — or close enough, anyway. Tulians (I guess that’s what you’d call them) saw the opportunity and built the town — which was well established as the county seat by that time--between the courthouse square and the railroad.

I know I’m rambling a lot, but at 84 I guess I’m entitled to it.

As I say I went to work for the XIT. At my age I was still good for a day’s work. My old war injury occasionally flared up, but I could still do most jobs — for a little while - -“not as good as I once was, but as good once as I ever was” as they say. The XIT not only owned all their land, but was determined to fence it and install windmills. It was truly a modern operation. I was all over it, but generally assigned to the Escarbada section, as it was where the graded cattle were kept. I guess that may be because the graded cattle were a little less wild than the longhorns and the steers — safer for an “old man” like me. The first few times I crossed the Tierra Blanca Creek, where the division headquarters stood, I got the same feeling I got when I crossed that ford at the Tule. The creek had been almost a highway for traders in the early part of the century. I don’t know why Sutton couldn’t see that. I guess it’s because, being from around Austin and such, we were not plainsmen — and the Comancheros were.

CHAPTER 44

The west was becoming less wild
Young County was really quite mild
And the Bosque Region
Had half-breed Norwegians
As Bettie had child after child

“Oh, Grandpa,” she said and blushed, when I told her I woke up thinking of that rhyme. “You’re incorrigible.”

“If that means hungry, you’re right!”

My little girl, now the mother of four, was fixing breakfast. Two girls had come after Jackie, then another boy. The first girl was named after her grandmother, except with a “C” — Clara. It would have been hard for me, except the kid had gotten my brown eyes—and they called her Sissy. (Her middle name was Anne, after her mother, and in honor of Gunder’s mother.)

The second girl was Lorena Jane. Lorena after the old song (which I had picked up from soldiers at Fort Griffin and used to sing when Bettie was a child) and Jane from nobody in particular — it just went well with Lorena. The second boy (and I wondered if it was the last, but didn’t have the guts to ask) was Henry Miles. “We wanted to honor Uncle Henry and Aunt Hilda, and we like the idea of using surnames for middle names, but neither Gunder nor I could bear the thought of naming a child ‘Weinheimer’.”

“Good idea,” I thought. At least I THINK I thought it, but Bettie glanced at me and I wondered if maybe I had said it out loud. A man who spends a lot of time alone gets used to speaking his thoughts, which can cause problems in polite company.

“How come you didn’t name him ‘Gunder’ or even ‘Gunderson’?”

“Ohhh, Papa Stedje would have LOVED that — and I would have gone along--but Gunder says it’s time to start using American names. We might name the next one ‘Gunther’ though. That wouldn’t be bad.” I guess that settled the question of whether there were more coming. I couldn’t help but wonder how many more I might have had if….

“Here you go Grandpa,” Bettie said as she placed before me a plate of eggs, sausage, and lefse — a sort of potato tortilla. I preferred biscuits, or even tortillas, but this was some sort of Norwegian dish that Gunder liked and Bettie had perfected. It could have been worse — she could have served lutefisk. “Maybe now you will be more ‘corrigible’!” she said with a twinkle in her eyes as she patted my shoulder. God, how she reminded me of her mother!
….

I suppose every father worries how his children will survive. With a son, it’s the career he chooses, or whether he will be honest, trustworthy, and a hard worker. With a daughter most fathers don’t worry about these things — they transfer them to the son – in – law. Fortunately, Gunder was a fine husband and father. He was a hard worker and desired the best for his family. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the best prospects in Bosque County. By the 1880s the lands available for homesteads had long since been claimed and made into prosperous farms. Some land was for sale of course — it always is — but at prices that were hard for a young man to pay. He was the third son of a successful Norwegian farmer, and not likely to inherit any land. So he continued to work for wages with a growing family to provide for.

One evening when the kids had been put to bed, I hesitantly broached a subject that had been on my mind. “Gunder,” I began cautiously, “Bettie.” They looked at me. “What are your plans? For the future, I mean.” I could see Gunder’s eyes darken. “How do you intend to continue providing for your family?”

I have touched a nerve. Bettie became agitated and Gunder got mad. “I work hard, Grandpa Miles. I’m doing the best I can.”

“I know that. I could not ask for a better husband for my daughter, or a better father for my grandchildren. But I’m going to say something I want you to think about.”

…

The next morning was tense as I packed to leave. As an old … well, cowboy, I didn’t have much and it didn’t take long. Bettie fixed me a good breakfast, but the joy was gone. Gunder was already at work in a neighbor’s field.

“So you’re headed back to the Panhandle today, Pa? The kids have enjoyed having you here.”

I looked at her. She touched my shoulder. “So have I, Pa. You know I have. You don’t have to go now.”

“I think we both know I’d better. There may be XIT cows that won’t eat for anybody but me.” She chuckled. I went on. “I didn’t mean to offend Gunder with my offer.”

“I know Pa. But he really wants to make his own way.”

“But damn it, Bettie, he WOULD be!” My voice rose in frustration. “I’m not…” I turned to face her and noticed she was on the verge of tears. Like her mother, she didn’t cry often, so this was serious. “I’m sorry, Sweetheart. I’ll say no more about it.” But I couldn’t help asking. “Are all Norskis this stubborn?”

With a wry smile she nodded, “Apparently. If I ever find one who isn’t, I’ll be sure to let you know. Are you headed back the way you came?”

“No, I saw Moni and Limerick on the way down. Katie Bach … uh, Thigpen said that John and Caroline had moved to Coleman County. Think I’ll head back that way and get preached at.”

“Coleman County?”

“Yep, Santa Anna. Used to be a Ranger camp there, and John always admired the area. Railroad’s coming through and John plans on getting in on the growth, I guess.”

“Okay, Pa, but you be careful and don’t get into trouble in Santa Anna.”

“Better not. The way I hear it, Ol’ Bachman’s the Justice of the Peace. I’d hate to get thrown in jail and give him a captive audience to preach to.” I mounted up. There was a little pain in my chest. That old war wound could sure act up at times. I’m sure that’s what it was.

And why did I always ride away feeling like I had failed that girl?

CHAPTER 45

I returned to the XIT, but not to the Capitol Syndicate, as such. Desperately needing an infusion of money, John Farwell had convinced English investors to back the project. They formed the Capitol Freehold Land and Investment Company of London. I couldn’t get away from the Brits — first Falconer, then Adair, now these guys. For the most part though, it was still the XIT. The exciting part was that the railroad was coming. Other changes were in the wind, too, but they were more personal.
…

At the start of the War, Texas had less than 500 miles of railroads. Afterward, however, the race was on to connect Houston, Austin, San Antonio, Fort Worth, and other cities. By the 1880s several companies were pushing into the Panhandle. This was exactly what the Capitol Syndicate had been hoping for. The other ranches weren’t disappointed, as it meant no more long drives to market — with the accompanying losses.

For a while, life in Tascosa went on as usual, but when it became apparent that the railroad would miss it, more and more people began to move. Most of them went to a new settlement on Amarillo creek. Can you guess what the name was?
…

The New Mexican traders and PASTORES had named the creek. Some say it was after the yellowish dirt along the creek, but Nick Martinez had a different opinion.

“Name a creek after dirt?” he snorted. “The Spanish language is too beautiful to waste on dirt!”

“Really?” I asked him. “What about the Tierra Blanca. My mama taught me that that means ‘white dirt’. And ‘canyon blanco’?” I queried.

“OK, OK” (I was always amazed at how quickly people unfamiliar with English began using ‘OK’.) “Sometimes even the Spanish have been so frustrated at the lack of features in this region that they resorted to naming things after the dirt. But, amigo” he went on, “have you ever been here in the spring when the FLORES AMARILLAS are blooming?”

“Indeed I have.” It didn’t happen every spring, but sometimes the yellow flowers bloomed in such profusion that even tough CIBOLEROS and hard-bitten Comanchers would be impressed by their beauty.

“And that is how the creek got its name, Pancho. Pssshhh,” he snorted again, “From the dirt! “

Of course, the name in Spanish would be pronounced “ahm-a-REE-oh” but it didn’t take the gringos long to change it to “am-a-RELL-uh”. They did the same thing with the Rio del Tule. The Spanish pronunciation was “TOO-lay”, and even the early settlers and cowboys called it “Tooley”. But write it on a map, and the gringos will destroy the beautiful pronunciation.
…

So when the Fort Worth and Denver City Railroad was built through the Panhandle, new towns were born, the chief one being Amarillo. It began in a site near Amarillo Lake — sometimes called Wild Horse Lake — but when it became apparent the town site was too low, Henry Sanborn of the Frying Pan ranch essentially moved it about a mile to the southeast.

CHAPTER 46

I said that when I returned from seeing my daughter, change was in the wind. Back in those days, there was no “paid vacation”. Even the cowboys who had gone on strike in ’83 had never dreamed of anything like that. Cowboy work was seasonal, and I had no trouble getting “time off” when I went to see Bettie. I always went around Christmastime when work was light and the ranch foreman would just as soon not have an extra hand to pay. I was a good hand, and they knew I would be back, so it worked out for everybody. Not getting paid for a month offered no hardship for me, as I was frugal with my money, the trip didn’t cost much, and I was still getting regular payments for my share of the ranch in Palo Pinto County. I could not afford to retire, as such, but I could certainly take a break now and then. (If only that Norski son – in – law would not be so stubborn!)

But this time, when I came back it was a little different. Calvin Newbury, the boss, did not seem eager to see me.

“MIles…” Calvin started, then paused. When he started back up he sounded angry. “Well, hell, Dusty, the fact is you’re just getting a little long in the tooth. I know you’re a good man and a hard worker, but you just can’t keep up with these young bucks. If you hadn’t left I could’ve kept you on, but I’ve got orders to cut back — and no new hires unless he’s a young fellow — and then only as a replacement for somebody that’s quit.” His tone got a little softer. “Hell, Dusty, I don’t know what to do. If it was up to me, you could stay here forever. But it ain’t up to me. It’s straight from headquarters. Hell, maybe straight from London for all I know.”

To say it didn’t bother me would be a lie. I was mad as hell. “You sorry son of a bitch” was all I could say. Calvin didn’t say a word and I knew I was taking it out on the wrong man. I also knew Calvin would do anything he could for me. A younger man than Newbury might have enjoyed it, but I knew this wasn’t the first time Calvin had had to do this. I also knew that he knew that some day it would be his turn to be put out to pasture.

“Maybe you could hunt wolves for the bounty, Dusty,” he offered.

“If I can get them to come close enough. There was a time when I could’ve challenged Billy Dixon to a shooting match, Calvin, but my eyes sure ain’t what they used to be. I guess nothing is — and I guess that’s what this is all about, ain’t it? Hell there ain’t hardly any wolves left, anyway.”

“You might try the LIT or the LX. Some of those bosses are still pissed over that strike several years ago. They might give preference to a fellow they know wasn’t involved. And there’s no question you know about stock.”

“Calvin, you’re a good man, and I may do that. I don’t reckon there’d be any problem leaving my boodle here until I light somewhere.”

“Hell, Dusty, I ain’t throwing you out. I just ain’t hiring you. Come in and get some grub. I’m sure Ol’ Boyce wouldn’t begrudge that.”

“That tight son of a bitch? Don’t count on it!”

…

This would be as good a time as any to talk about the counties of the Texas Panhandle. Unlike anywhere else in the state, they are perfectly square, most of them, and those that aren’t — along the western edge — are at least perfectly rectangular. Now I’m no expert, but what generally happened in the early days is this: people would begin to move into an area that had no legal representation in the legislature. When enough moved in, they could petition that the county be organized, with a county court and other officers. The county would generally follow some natural boundaries such as rivers or property lines. The residents would select a name for the new county, as well.

In 1876, the state legislature realized they had an unusual opportunity. Since the Panhandle had just been cleared of Indians, people would begin moving in, eventually petitioning for organization of the county. The boundaries of the Panhandle were straight lines on the north, west, and east. Sometimes the organization of a county could get heated as the residents could not agree on the boundaries, the names, or where the county seat should be. Looking at a map of the Panhandle, the legislature arrived at what seemed like an obvious solution: create the counties NOW, designating their boundaries as straight lines, and giving them names. Beginning at the top of the Panhandle, they drew off horizontal lines every thirty miles until they began to run into counties that were already organized. Turning the ruler vertically, and beginning at the eastern boundary, they drew four lines to create twenty counties. They continued this plan with a little variation for several tiers to the south. Exactly where the Panhandle starts and ends geographically is open for discussion (and argument) but I’m talking about the top 26 counties in Texas for this explanation. Most of those are exactly 30 miles square. A few — the four on the west — are larger. A couple -- on the southwestern and southeastern corners — are smaller. You’ll have to get the reason for that from somebody smarter than me — which shouldn’t be too hard. Oh — the reason for thirty miles is that it was assumed — or hoped — that the county seats would be in the center of the counties. Thirty miles could be easily traveled in a day horseback, making it easy — or at least accessible — for circuit courts. I guess that also explains why the counties on the west are larger by a few miles — the judges and courts would not be riding into New Mexico.

“OK,” I can almost hear the lawmakers say, “now that we’ve gotten them created, let’s name them. Where are the historical documents? We’ll get the names off those.”

That’s probably not EXACTLY how they did it, but pretty close, I betcha. It would make a lot of sense if you were sitting at a desk in Austin. But that’s why most West Texas counties have no relation whatsoever to the folks they are named for — as well as other peculiarities. For example, if you ever saw Moore County — one of the driest in the area — you would wonder why it had the name of the Commodore of the Texas Navy. And why does the Canadian River cut off the southeastern edge? Why are some county seats so far from the center? And why are there Sherman and Dimmitt Counties, but they are no where near the communities of the same name? Why is there a Smith and a Deaf Smith County? As with many other things, you can blame the state legislature — a bunch of good old boys trying to do their best (to give them credit they probably don’t deserve) but fouling things up in the process.
…

So much for the history and geography lesson

It was a tough time. I was over 60 now and showing it. An active outdoor life — with plenty of beef -- had kept me in good condition, but that will only go so far. I could not see as well nor ride as long as I had. My old war wound was hurting more all the time, and my joints told me when the weather was about to change. I had never been worth a damn at cooking, and I could never handle heights, so oiling windmills was out of the question. Being a swamper in a saloon was a possibility, but I hated to even consider it. I would give the ranches a shot. Maybe some of my old cronies were in a position to hire a reliable, if not too flexible, ranch hand. All the ranches were now in the hands of British investors, so I doubted it.

I decided to sort of headquarter in Dumas, a new town in Moore County, as it would be easy to ride from there to any of the other ranches looking for work.
I wrote Bettie to tell her that I was no longer at the XIT, and she could write me at General Delivery, Dumas. I didn’t tell her why.

When I left the post office I went looking for a bite to eat and found a small café. The young proprietor spoke with an oddly familiar accent, so I asked where he hailed from.

“South Carolina,” he said.

“I thought maybe so. Know any Rutledges?”

He laughed at that. “Why there weren’t any Rutledges would set foot in my part of the state.” He looked at me warily. “You ain’t one, are you?”

It was my turn to laugh. “Not so’s you’d notice. I guess my grandmother was one, or something. My daddy was from South Carolina—Francis Marion Rutledge Miles.”

“I recognize all of those names up to the ‘Miles’. Are you kin to Francis Marion?”

“’Fraid I have to plead ‘not guilty’ to that one. Apparently my granddaddy thought highly of him, to name my daddy after him.”

“You can’t find anybody from Carolina that doesn’t think highly of The Swamp Fox. If it wasn’t for him, hell, we’d all still be speaking English!” He laughed and I realized he meant it to be funny. “New to Dumas?”

“Hell, ain’t everybody?” the town was just a few years old. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.” I didn’t go into detail. “What brings a young man from the Palmetto State out here to this godforsaken country?” I was not in the best of spirits.

“Probably the same thing that brought your daddy to Texas. Opportunity! Progress. A chance to get a head! The War ended thirty years ago, but you’d never know it, the way folks back home — well, back there — talk about it. I may not make it big in the eatery business, but I make a good meal at a fair price. What’ll you have, sir?”

“You know, young man. I’ve been eating the same thing most of my life. You got anything new? But not strange — I mean nothing Norwegian or Greek or anything like that.”

“Well, I don’t know anything about Greek food, or Norwegian, but on the way out here I stopped in Athens, Texas where I found something new.”

“Strange?”

“Nope, nothing but beef. As far as I know, it doesn’t even have a name. Tell you what, sir, let me fix you one, and if you don’t like it, you won’t have to pay for it.”

“How do you know I’ll be honest with you?”

“Come on, sir. A Texas cowboy be dishonest?”

…

I heard the meat hit the skillet and seconds later I could smell it. In a short while he brought me this specialty of his — fried ground beef between two pieces of bread, with an onion on it. It smelled wonderful. It tasted wonderful! I was still unemployed with little prospect of finding a job. I was still old, and I still hurt. But that ground beef sandwich was like a tonic to me.

“Boy,” I said, “you better get a name for this thing — and patent it while you’re at it.”

“I thought you’d like it.”

“I’ll be back for one of these.” I offered my hand. “My name is Miles. But folks call me Dusty.”

He gave me a firm handshake. “And mine is Mills. You can call me Marcus. “

CHAPTER 47

Early next morning I packed my gear and went looking for job. I rode out to the LIT headquarters in Oldham County. Old Man Littlefield was long gone from the place, selling out to — you guessed it — British investors. Frank Mitchell was the boss, or “range manager” as they were now called. He likely was not really involved in the hiring, so I went to see Ed Paine, one of the “pasture bosses”. He was not a kid, but he was younger than me — hell, everybody was anymore. I had met him a time or two, but didn’t really know him. I did not relish the prospect of looking for a job.

It stuck in my craw to call these guys ‘mister’. Goodnight was always “Charlie” — even when everybody else called him ‘Colonel’. Loving was “Oliver”. It wasn’t that I didn’t have manners — mama had raised me right — it’s just I always felt like I was crawling to someone who knew less about the situation than I did, and it galled me. But I swallowed my pride.

“Mr. Paine, I’m looking for a job.”

He looked me over for a bit and finally said, “Don’t I know you?”

“Yessir, I’m Dusty Miles. Fresh off the XIT.”

“Oh sure, I remember you. What’s this ‘Mr. Paine’ business?”

I breathed a little easier. “Just wanted to be polite, Ed. My mama raised me right.”

“I’m sure she did. You say you’re looking for a job?”

I was pretty sure from the way he talked that he was not raised in Texas, but his voice wasn’t as irritating as Limerick’s. “Yessir. I can do most stuff. Ride, fix fence. I can rope a little, but I have an old war injury that acts up once in a while, and it makes me miss a loop now and again.” (I hated to play on a man’s sympathy, but sometimes being a veteran helps.”

“War injury … Indian Wars?”

“Uhhh, no sir. I was wounded at Gettysburg. Spent the rest of the war in a Yank … uh, Northern prison camp.” I had decided he was some sort of Yankee.

“Oh, a CONFEDERATE Veteran.” I couldn’t tell if he was surprised I was that old, or disgusted because I had fought for the Confederacy. This was not going well, but I stuck it out.

“That’s right.” I damned sure wasn’t ashamed of it. “But I fought Indians, too. With Charlie Goodnight.” Damn. The more I talked, the older I sounded. “Was with him when we rescued Cynthia Ann Parker.”

“Who?”

“Never mind.” Paine was obviously not a Texan.

His eyes narrowed. “You weren’t involved in that strike back in ’83 were you?”

That one caught me off guard. I had not been involved in the strike, but not because I wasn’t in sympathy with the cowboys who were. And some of these Yankee fellows looked at unions much more favorably than I did. Just answer the question, I told myself.

“No sir.”

“Can you oil windmills?” he asked hopefully.

This was not going well at all. “Ed, I’d like to say that I can do any damn thing you need on this ranch, but we’d both know that’s not true. I don’t think of myself as a coward. I have faced Mexican lances, Yankee cannon, outlaw rifles, and Comanche arrows. But I cannot climb a windmill tower without my head spinning. If that’s the only job you have, I’ll have to turn it down.”

Ed gave a wry smile. Can’t stand the damn things myself, Miles.” He went on. “I know you’re a good man, and at one time were a top hand. But I’m afraid I can’t offer you a full-time job.”

“Yessir, I understand.” Damn.

“However,” he continued, “a few days ago a man riding fence was killed when lightning struck the wire a mile away. It was a tragedy, but that fence still needs to be checked and repaired. My top hands are all busy. If you want that job, it’s yours — till it’s finished. That’s the best I can do.”

“Ed, I’ll take it. Fencing ain’t my favorite, but it’s on the ground and horseback — mostly. When do you want me to start?”

“Right now, if you can. The fence is southwest of here several miles. It’ll be afternoon when you get there, so you can make half a day’s wages today.”

“Thank you, Ed. I’ll make sure that fence is in tip top shape.” That’s what I said out loud. “Cheap bastard!” is what I was thinking. Damn, I’m getting cranky in my old age.
…

At the end of two weeks, I was closer to Dumas than the ranch, so about noon on Saturday, I rode into town. If Paine wanted to dock me half a day, so be it. I knew it was no use, but stopped by the post office.

“Any mail for Dusty Miles?” I asked at the window. “The clerk looked through the General Delivery.

“Nope. Got a couple for Jackson Miles. You know him?”

Two letters? Must be a different Miles, but I decided to look. “That’s me.” He looked at me skeptically, but figured it didn’t make a hell of a lot of difference either way, so he handed me the letters.

This was strange — and probably not good news. One was from Bettie. That didn’t bother me, but the other was from her husband, and that scared me. I decided to read the letters over a good meal and headed for Marcus’s café.

He had made a few improvements. A big sign out front said “MM Diner”. Underneath he had written a slogan: “Eat here and you’ll say ‘MM!’”. My uneducated guess is that the boy did NOT have a future in advertising.

“Hey, Dusty,” Marcus greeted me warmly. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Been riding fence for the LIT,” I told him, “but got tired of eating jerky. I kept dreaming about those sandwiches you make. How about one now? Did you ever come up with a name for it?”

“Not really. Thought about the ‘Mm-wich’…gets my initials in there like on my place.”

“Yeah, well, I’d keep working on it, if I were you. Got a couple letters here from my family — think I’ll read them while you cook that sandwich.”

I didn’t know which one to open first, but since Bettie was blood, I decided to start there.

CHAPTER 48

Dearest Pa,

This letter is very difficult for me to write, as by birth and training I have learned to keep my emotions to myself.

Pa, I want to tell you how much I love you and how proud I am of you. I know you blame yourself because you were not there when the Comanches came, and because you were not able to see me much when I was growing up. If I am honest, I have to admit that there was a time when I held some of that against you, but now that I have a family, I can only imagine the strength of character it took for you to leave your family to do what you saw as your duty. I couldn’t do it, and I pray that neither Gunder nor any of my children ever has to make that decision. (All this talk about war with Spain has Jackie excited. What is a mother to do?)

Pa, I know you loved Ma. I think that’s probably the best gift that parents can give a child — that they love each other. You also loved Johnny, and taught him to be a hard working, honest young man. While you were fighting in the War, I know he often talked of you, and whenever he had a tough decision to make, he based it what he thought you would do. Ma tried to get him in the “hidey hole” with me that day, but he refused, saying it was his duty to protect the family. “It’s what Pa would do.” Those are the last words I remember him saying.

I know you blame yourself for his and Ma’s death, but you are the only one. I know you wanted Ma to move to a more secure area, but she refused. We — you grownups anyway —were all focused on the war in the east and nobody could see then that the Indians would take the opportunity to rampage the way they did. It wasn’t your fault. You were fighting for Texas and I’m proud of you.

I also feel like you blame yourself, because you could not raise me. Pa, what you did for me was the best anyone could do. Uncle Henry and Aunt Hilda were wonderful foster parents, and since they never had children, what you did made three people extremely happy. Uncle Henry idolizes you and used to tell me stories about when he first met you. Did he really swear like that? And though I know he would have loved to have a child of his own, he always made sure that I knew who my father was. When he introduced me, he would say, “This is Bettie, my niece who I love like a daughter.”

He also used to tell me how he begged Ma to come live with him while you were gone. He would get so mad when she refused. “Diese storrisch Deutsch hausfrau!” he would say, as he read her letters of refusal. (“That stubborn German housewife!” -- he can swear in English, but when he’s really angry he lapses into German!) Pa, Ma stayed because she loved you, and us kids, and wanted to have a home — OUR home — ready when you came back. And we prayed every night you would.

Your devotion to me was — is — unsurpassed. A lot of men took the opportunity of the War, or the West, to abandon their families. You could have done that. Even after you got me settled in with the Weinheimers, no one would have blamed you if you had dropped out of the picture, out of my life, and let them adopt me. I guess if I’m honest, I’d have to say there were times — during those difficult periods we all go through — that I wished you had. At times like that, Uncle Henry would take me in his arms and say, “Dear, dear Bettie. If I could have a daughter I would want her just like you. For some reason, God has seen fit not to give me that daughter, but in His Grace and Mercy, he has given me, not only a niece that I love like my own daughter, but in a small way, he has given me back my sister.” A tear would always come to his eye and he would say, “And you are so very, very much like her.”

And I know that made it harder for you — that I look so much like Ma, but I’m proud that I do--she was a beautiful woman — but I know it’s hard for you.

When I think of what God has given me, Pa, I often want to say “Too much, it’s too much! I had a loving mother. I have a loving Uncle and Aunt, who raised me as their own when my father couldn’t. I have a terrific husband whom I adore, and who has blessed me with six lovely children. I have a heavenly Father who loves me and watches over me, and I have an earthly father who loves me, and cares for me, and wants the best for me. I don’t deserve these blessings!” (I guess that’s the Lutheran in me — ha ha!)

I know you are getting older and are not able to do the things you once did. Come live with us, Pa. We can make it work somehow. Come get to know your grandchildren.

Your loving and grateful daughter,
Bettie

…

Marcus put the sandwich down just as I finished. “Are you okay, Dusty.”

Good question … and I knew I could never get that sandwich past the lump in my throat.

I nodded and opened the letter from Gunder, fearful of what it might say.

CHAPTER 49

Dear Grampa Miles

First, I assure you that Bettie, the children, and myself are all fine. Since you never get a letter from me, that might be of some concern. We are all OK.

Now, then … this letter is very difficult for me to write, as by birth and training I have learned to keep my emotions to myself.

I want to tell you I love your daughter very much. She is very proud of you, which has given me much to live up to. I want to provide for her, so that she and the children will be proud of me. And yes, you, too.

I have been working very hard and trying to save some money to buy a farm of my own. As I’m sure you know, it is very difficult, with six children. It seems like every time I get some money put by, something comes up. I’ll bet you faced the same circumstances trying to build your ranch.

I have thought a lot about your offer and have a counter offer to make. It looks like the only way I will ever have enough for a place of my own is when I am old and the kids are grown. I would rather do better than that, so here is the deal. I have saved enough, I think, to build a home, but can’t accumulate enough for a farm. When you were here, you made an offer to get us settled on a farm in the Panhandle, as land is cheaper there. Is the offer still good? I will take you up on it on one condition — that I build the house, and that you come and live with us in it. I know a lot about farming. Maybe you can teach me something about ranching. And my kids will get to know their cowboy grandfather — ha ha!

If you decide not to accept my counter-offer, there will be no hard feelings. I wouldn’t blame you. I apologize for being so stubborn for so long. I am Norwegian and can’t help it. Bettie is half-German, raised German, and is stubborn, too. God help the kids — ha ha!

I await your answer. I would say patiently, but I am as impatient as I am stubborn — ha ha! Please let me know as soon as possible.

Your son-in-law
Gunder Stedje

PS. When I said all is well, I was fibbing just a bit. Jackie has been talking about joining the army to fight Spain. All this talk by Mr. Roosevelt has him excited. I would rather he not, but he is old enough. What can a father do? (He has said nothing to his Mama yet--thank goodness!)

G. S.

….

“Well, ain’t that a hell of a note!” I muttered.

“You sure you’re okay, Dusty?”

“Huh?” I had forgotten where I was. The sandwich was still in front of me. Mills had gone all out to make a big one. “Yeah, boy, I’m better than OK. This town got a telegraph office?”

“I think there’s one at the mercantile store.” He glanced at the clock. “But they’ll be closing soon. GOOD news, I hope.”

“The best. Wrap up this sandwich and I’ll take it with me.” While he was doing that, I realized I had a job. What would they think if I just didn’t show up? I had never done that before.

“Marcus, you ever just walk out on a job?”

“Just once, Dusty. Right before I came to Texas. I was an office clerk and the manager was a real bastard, so one day I just tossed my keys on his desk and walked out. He was lucky though.”

“How’s that?” I asked as I paid out.

“What I really wanted to do was piss on him.”

I laughed as he handed me the sandwich. I hefted it.

“Boy you made a big one this time.”

“I threw in some fried potatoes. But the sandwich IS a big one.”

I hefted it again as I went out the door towards the mercantile. “Hell, boy, it must be a WHOPPER!”

CHAPTER 50

I raced down the street — well, as fast as I could go, anyway. I still had a lump in my throat. The proprietor was just closing up.

“I’d like to send a telegram.”

“Sorry, store’s closing.”

“This is an emergency.” He looked doubtful, but had pity on an old man. He pushed the door open, walked over to the telegraph office, and handed me a blank.

I wrote: “Offer accepted. Catching next train.”

The man seemed put out. “Can’t be MUCH of an emergency. I opened back up for five words?”

“Just send it and tell me what I owe you. You can have my sandwich for your trouble.”

…

Bettie was confused. She did not know that Gunder had written his letter, so when the Western Union boy appeared at the door, she thought I was accepting her offer to come live with them, and would be there any moment. But since it was addressed to Gunder, she took it to him, and was immediately shocked to hear him shout a very Texan (and very UN-Norwegian) “YAHOO!” When he told her about his offer, it was her turn to shout.

I didn’t want to wait for the stage to take me to Amarillo, so I immediately saddled my horse and rode all night to get to Channing where I could catch a train. As I headed southeast by rail, I marveled at the changes I had seen in my time. I was traveling through a lot of the same country I had traversed in ’41 going the other direction on my way to Santa Fe. At Fort Worth I sent a postcard to Ed Paine at the LIT: “Thanks for everything. Better opportunity arose. I won’t be back.” I was just a charity case there, anyway. They knew it and I knew it.

I arrived in Clifton in good order. Bettie, Gunder, and all the kids had come to take me home. It didn’t take us long to get down to business.

“So…where do you recommend?” Gunder asked.

“Opportunities abound in the Panhandle,” I told him, “and I’ve thought about it on the way here. “ I spread out a map I had brought along. “For my money, I would recommend Deaf Smith County. (We still pronounced it “Deef Smith” back then. Erastus Smith was a spy and guide for Houston, and was hard of hearing. He came by the house to see Papa a few times when I was a kid. As maps were printed and more educated “outlanders” came, the pronunciation became “def”.)

I explained. “It’s not much now, but the railroad will be through within a year or two. That will make shipping more accessible and products more available. There is available land there—land good for farming and ranching. I went through it when it all belonged to the Comanches, and I worked there on the XIT. They erected windmills all over the place, so I know there is available water. Several old XIT men have settled in the area.

“There are other options, of course. Swisher County is growing. Like Deaf Smith County, I was there when it was all prairie and again when I worked for Goodnight. There are good folks there, but no railroad as yet, or any plans for one.

“I’ve been staying in Dumas, but something will have to happen for it to ever be successful – like a gold strike, or something. Damn fine place to eat there, though,” wishing I had one of Marcus’s “whoppers” right then.

“What is the seat of Deaf Smith County?”

“La Plata right now, but that will probably change to Bluewater when the railroad comes through. It’s on the Tierra Blanca.”

We talked and made plans for several days. I got acquainted again with the grandkids and had a long talk with Jackie about the situation in Cuba. I didn’t try to talk him out of military service if it came to war, but I did suggest he join the navy as a chance to see parts of the world he would never see otherwise. (His mother was mad at me when he took me up on it, but when he came back in one piece I think she forgave me.)

I went back to make the arrangements. It was a good thing, too, as there were all kinds of slick real estate men trying to do newcomers out of a dollar. When they found I was looking for land, they swarmed me like flies. They had all kinds of schemes, too. Fast cars, phony hotels, “bootlegged” schools they would move from place to place. When they found out I had been an XIT hand, they left me alone — I knew what the land was, and what it was worth.

We settled on a piece of ground about eight miles west of Bluewater, which was changed (the post office wouldn’t allow it) to Hereford, in honor of the purebred whiteface cattle that had been brought in. As the town grew, they even named a street Miles. Gunder said it was because they were named after heroes of the Spanish-American War, like Dewey, Roosevelt, and Lawton. He said the street was named for General Nelson A. Miles, who took Puerto Rico.

“Ol’ Bear Coat? The one who wasn’t there to help Mackenzie at Palo Duro? Surely not!” I teased. “No, I’m pretty sure it’s after me. After all, I was here in ’41!”

“That’s right Pa,” Bettie chimed in, “but you didn’t know where ‘here’ was, did you?” I never COULD put anything past that child!

CHAPTER 51

I have had a hell of a life — and I mean that in the best possible way. I have had experiences that most people can only dream of. I have lived within the same geographical boundaries all of my life (so far) and yet been a citizen of four different nations: Mexico, the Republic of Texas, the Confederate States of America, and the United States. My heritage extends to at least three other nations — England, Spain and France. My wife was German, my partner Irish, my son-in-law Norwegian (which makes my grandchildren half-Norskis, God help them!). And I have even known one or two Okies that were good folks (though, as Charlie Goodnight once remarked to his wife “Damned few, Molly, damned few!”).

When I was born — and for most of my life — the fastest a man could go was as fast as a horse could carry him. And it had been that way since the beginning of creation. By the time I was middle-aged the locomotive was setting speed records, and we thought that was the limit. Now you can take the train from Austin to Santa Fe and be there in less time than it took us to get from Brushy Creek to the Brazos — and not get shot at by Mexicans or Indians, neither! (Though I’ll admit the food in the train stations is only slightly better than the lizards we ate!) Even Tulia got a railroad a couple of years ago. Dumas is still waiting for a gold strike — or maybe oil. Now THAT’S something I couldn’t have even imagined back when I was working on the LIT. (Of course, all the oil in the Texas Panhandle could be put in a thimble.)

Now, eight years into the 20th Century, an automobile is occasionally seen, and I understand a couple of bicycle mechanics in Ohio have figured out how to fly. To fly! How many times during the “Runaway Scrape” did we look at the birds and wish we could fly to safety away from Santa Anna’s army! (I still spend most of my time at the speed a horse or team can take me.)

I’m older now than my Daddy or my mother ever got to, but not yet as old as Bachman when he died. I don’t relish the thought of getting much older and the weakness and pains that go with it. (The old Gettysburg wound still acts up sometimes.) But I can’t say I’m ready to die, either. Maybe if I could figure out for sure where I was going TO, I’d be ready to go … but I’m still not sure.

Mama was a good Catholic. She tried to raise me that way, but it was hard in pre-independence Texas, and even harder in the Republic. Papa was born an Episcopalian who converted to Catholicism to become a “Texican”, but not much of either. My beloved Karla was a Lutheran, but it was hard to practice that on the frontier, too. (I don’t know much about Heaven, but I can’t imagine her being anywhere else. Then again, all the angels would be jealous of her beauty, and that might cause a problem.)

John Bachman started as a Lutheran, but converted to Methodism. I guess if anybody practiced what they preached it was John. I can’t question that whatever he “got” changed him. He used to talk to me about religion when he thought I’d listen. I didn’t much like it — it made me uncomfortable. Still does.

I have a lot of questions that remain unanswered. I’ve seen a baby survive typhoid, only to die when his beloved grandmother gave him a treat of cornbread. And the grandmother could never quite recover and pined away until she died. A beautiful woman and fine young boy just trying to scrabble by were mutilated at the hands of Indians, while the “man of the house” was a thousand miles away killing men who had been his countrymen, and yet could not die himself. I have faced starvation, and twice been imprisoned — not for doing bad things, but for doing what I thought was right.

I’ve seen a godly, humble man who never spoke a profane word die of gangrene in a godforsaken western outpost, while his partner, who rarely let a sentence leave his mouth without an oath, survived — and survives to this day. (Not that I would wish ill on Goodnight -- he is a fine and fair man. But why did a good man like Oliver Loving die such a horrible death?)

As a kid I remember seeing a man who had been scalped by Comanches and lived to tell about it. He had been left for dead, but his friend’s wife had a dream that the man still lived, and urged her husband and others to rescue him. Preachers will tell you that the soul goes to Heaven upon death, but if that’s so, why did the man’s sister — who had died weeks earlier and whose death was unknown to him at the time — appear to him and tell him help was on they way?

I have seen the prairies of Texas in all their glory, green and lush. And I have seen droughts when a cow couldn’t find a nourishing blade of grass anywhere, and die of starvation. I have seen flowing rivers, beautiful canyons, and the wide open Texas sky. I have seen the stars at night so close it was just unbelievable that you couldn’t grab a handful. I have known the love of my mother and father, the love of a woman, and the love of children and grandchildren. When I think of those, I have no trouble with the concept of God.

But I have also seen raging fires that destroyed thousands of acres and every creature in its path. I have seen floods that swept so clean that you could not tell that any human had ever lived there. I have seen the destruction of tornadoes and hurricanes — one that took the life of several Catholic sisters and the orphans they were trying to save. I have seen men — who many religious people claim is the highest creation of God — I have seen men cheat, steal, rape, lie, murder, and otherwise brutalize and take advantage of the weak and defenseless. On the other hand, I have seen men perform selfless acts and give all they had — including their lives — for others, some of them vile and undeserving of life.

I used to ask myself — especially in those horrible days after I got the news of Klara and little John — why am I still alive? Was it because I was “lucky”? Or maybe because I was unlucky? Was it because I was smarter — or maybe dumber—than others? Was it my active life, my diet, my outlook? Was there a special purpose I was intended for?

Why have I lived so long? I used to ask it a lot, until I finally got the answer, and here it is. I am still alive, because … I have not died yet! If you have a better answer, I’m open to hearing it — but I’ll bet you I’ve already heard it or thought it. I’m alive because I just haven’t died. I just hope when I go, I’m on horseback, looking up at that beautiful Texas sky.

People will ask me sometimes, “Have you lived in Texas all your life?” I know what they’re asking, but it’s sort of an irritating way to say it — sort of implies that my life is over, that I’m already dead. So I just respond “All my life? Hell, no — not yet, anyway! I’ve just lived in Texas damn near FOREVER!”

EPILOGUE

“Should I call Father Casey, Dr. Hanna?”

The doctor continued to examine the old man, brought in a few hours earlier. “Is he Catholic, Sister Winefred?” This was important at St. Anthony’s Sanitarium, Amarillo’s only hospital. Not for medical care, for the Sisters of Charity gave excellent care to anyone. But for the dying, it was a matter of grave importance.

“That I don’t know. But it surely wouldn’t hurt,” the sister said.

“He’s in pretty bad shape all right. How did this happen?”

“He stepped out in front of an automobile on Polk Street.”

“On PURPOSE?” the doctor queried. “A suicide?”

“Oh, I don’t think so. He may not have seen the vehicle coming. Or if he did, he thought he was going to stop.”

“Why would he assume that?”

“Well, doctor, the way I got it was that the driver had just taken delivery of one of those new Ford automobiles — the Model P, or D …s omething like that.”

“The Model T. Go on Sister.”

“He was unaccustomed to driving an automobile. He was seen pulling back on the steering mechanism as he yelled ‘Whoa! Whoa, damn you!’ Sister Winefred made the sign of the cross as quick penance for using the swear word. “After he hit the man, he remembered where the brake was.”

“The pedestrian made no effort to move?”

“No, but the witnesses seemed to think he was as puzzled as the driver when the automobile wouldn’t stop on command! And the poor driver. He’s shattered. He says he’ll never drive again. He was doing well in the restaurant business, so he bought an automobile. He knew the man, apparently. Says he used to come into his café for hamburgers.”

“Hmmm.” The doctor looked at the patient again. “It would take a miracle to save him. But I’ll leave it up to you about calling the priest.”

…

“Has the man said anything since the accident” Father Casey asked.

Just some mumblings. They don’t make much sense, but I’ve written them down in case his family shows up.

The patient stirred and opened one eye. “Father Muldoon! Here to baptize Jesus, I presume?”

The nun and the priest looked at each other. “What was that all about, do you think?” Sister Winefred asked. “Who is Father Muldoon? And who is Jesus? The man doesn’t look Mexican, and yet he used the Spanish pronunciation.”

“I don’t know, but I think it answers our questions about him being Catholic. I’ll prepare to administer last rites. What, by the way, has he said?”

The sister produced a piece of paper. His first words were: “It hurts.”

“That’s natural” said Father Casey.

The sister continued, “Then: ‘And what I suspects is’.

The Padre looked puzzled. “He said it like that—with bad grammar?”

“I’m sure of it. Later he said, ‘I’m leaving this life and the next is…’”

“Next is what?” asked the priest.

“He was out again for awhile,” replied the sister, “Then he said, ‘In crossing that river’. I suppose he means River Jordan.”

“I suppose,” replied the father. “Or the Canadian. Maybe he thinks he’s going for another hamburger.”

“And then: ‘To Heaven by flivver.’ Strange, Father. You don’t think he’s, er, POSSESSED, do you?”

The priest smiled, “I’m certain he’s not, Sister Winefred. ‘Flivver’ is another name for the Ford Model T. Apparently the man is more cognizant than we give him credit for. Watch over him, while I prepare.”

When the priest returned, Sister Winefred was weeping. I believe you’re too late, Father. I think he’s gone.”

“Did he say anything else?”

“Yes, another peculiar line. He said, ‘If not there, then leave me in Texas’.”

“Strange, indeed. Was that all, sister?”

“Not quite. Right before you came back in, he raised off the bed again, his eyes were wide open, and, as if he recognized someone, he said ‘Klara?’ Then he dropped and hasn’t moved.”

…

Out in Llano Cemetery, there’s a crumbling marble marker. If you have a lot of patience, you can make out the lettering:

Jackson Francisco “Dusty” Miles
1824 – 1909
Beloved Son, Brother,
Husband, Father, Grandfather
Citizen of the Colony, the Republic, and the State
of Texas
Pioneer, Ranger, Soldier, Stockman and
POET
“It hurts, and what I suspects is
I’m leaving this life and the next is
In crossing that river
To Heaven by flivver
If not there, then leave me in Texas”

His family thought it was hilarious, but fitting.

So did he.

Texas Forever -- Chaps 34, 35, 36, 37, 38,39,40

2008-11-25T19:16:00.000-08:00

CHAPTER 34

He impressed me, so I didn’t linger
As on him I put my finger
To be our top hand
Driving steers ‘cross the land
So I hired him, this boy Raney Springer

I had just returned the day before from my trip down south, and told Limerick that I had hired the man that would be our new trail boss. He would arrive in a few weeks in time for the roundup and a little training. This year he would accompany the Goodnight herd as our agent. If he proved out, next year he would be trail boss over our herd. Limerick and I had drunk a toast--or two--to our new acquisition. Apparently the cheap whiskey—Limerick’s Jack Daniel’s had run out long ago—had affected me more than I thought, for I woke up with that idiotic verse running through my head. (You would think that whatever “muse” I have could at least do better than to rhyme Springer with finger and linger!)

Our trust was not in vain. Raney was young, but already had a lot of experience. Goodnight told me he wished he had found him first. The fact is, he could’ve paid him more, but Charlie wouldn’t have done that—and Raney was the kind of fellow that once a commitment was made, he stuck with it.

And he had some good ideas, too. When he returned from that first drive with Goodnight, he suggested that we start using the new trail to the railhead at Abilene, Kansas. Sometimes us older fellows have to be convinced, but Springer was a thinker as well as a worker. He pointed out that the eastern markets were crying for beef, that the trail was much shorter, meaning the cattle would have more weight and be less stressed when they got to market. All that, of course meant more profit, since the steers would weight more, probably bring a better price, and we wouldn’t have to pay drovers for as many days on the trail. More profit was music to my ears and Limerick’s eyes practically got misty at the prospect.

Raney would help us get wintered in, then go back to Cuero to see his folks. That’s what he told us he was doing, but the fact is he was courting that Thigpen girl. It wasn’t really a secret, since I had know it from the beginning, and since I went to Cuero myself for a day or two to see Bachman on my annual Christmas trip to see Bettie.

So when he came up one spring and told us he had gotten married, it was no surprise—except that he wasn’t even old enough to vote yet. (Not that it mattered much--Texas was still in the grips of Reconstruction and the Radical Republicans!) He told us he had left Martha Ann with her folks while he was on the trail.

“How’s that young’un Will?” I asked him. “Guess he’s your new brother-in-law?”

“That ornery rascal has only two things on his mind, Boss. Being a cowboy and marrying Catherine Bachman! I’ve never seen a thirteen-year-old kid with that kind of ambition!”

“If you can call wanting to be a ‘cowboy’ an ambition,” I remarked.

“I’m afraid he holds me and my profession in high regard—too high. But what I’m really talking about is his attraction to Kate. I mean, she IS an attractive woman, but hell, she’s ten years older’n him. I might understand if it was the other way around—or even if he was twenty or so—but that just don’t seem natural for a thirteen-year-old kid! None of my business, though, I guess.”

Limerick chimed in. “Not that I have the slightest interest in this, but surely this ‘older woman’ has no interest in a BOY.”

“Well, now, that’s the damnedest thing about it, in a way,” Raney answered. “Kate is a nice looking woman, and there are fellows in Dewitt County who would be a good husband for her. But she seems not to have the least interest in any of them.”

“Is she attracted to this boy--‘Will’, was it?” Limerick asked

“Oh, she would probably say ‘He’s cute.’ but no, I don’t think in any serious sort of way. She is powerfully devoted to her Daddy, though. I really think she probably figures no man can measure up to him. To be honest, I wouldn’t be surprised if Parson Bachman sort of thinks that himself. I’m pretty sure he don’t encourage her to court.”

“That sounds like John,” I put in, “but whatever Katie does or doesn’t do ain’t getting theses cows seen after. Let’s get to it.”

….

Raney was right. The Abilene Trail—which became known as the Chisholm Trail—proved more profitable, and popular, than the Goodnight trail, though there were reasons to use the old one, and we occasionally did. As the rails took Texas beef east, it brought back settlers. More settlers meant more farms and towns, which made it harder to get cattle to market, so the railhead kept moving west.

We kept raising cattle in Texas. Goodnight had established his operation in Colorado. I never saw him, but we kept in touch with each other through what I guess you’d call cattlemen’s gossip. As in any business there were ups and downs, but Limerick was good manager, Springer was good trail boss and me, well I guess I was just lucky to be in association with those two.

But change was in the Texas wind.

CHAPTER 35

As I said, the Chisholm Trail became popular. The cattle business was profitable, which brought people into the business that never should have messed with it. More cattlemen meant more cattle, which meant falling prices. We were holding on, but just barely.

The year 1874 was a banner year for Texas. Sometimes it seems like things go on forever hardly changing at all, then everything happens in a rush. First of all, Reconstruction was over--in Texas, anyhow. Now, Texas had done better during Reconstruction than a lot of the South, probably because there was so much room to grow. A lot of the Old South had become worn out with cotton planting. Freeing the slaves, although a good thing and long overdue, meant a lot of mouths to feed, and no good way to do it. The Lone Star State, however, had lots of room, lots of potential. The cattle business was part of that, but manufacturing, farming, and other industry—including the railroads—grew after the war.

In 1874 the US Army got serious about the Indians of the Southern Plains—the Comanches, the Kiowas, and the Southern Cheyennes—who had been given reservations in the Oklahoma and Indian Territories. Just a few years earlier, General Sherman had narrowly escaped losing his hair to a Kiowa war party. Texans had been complaining that the reservation Indians were raiding into the state. After an inspection tour where all seemed quiet, Sherman found that a wagon train on the same trail he had just traversed had been attacked and most of the people killed. Colonel Ranald Mackenzie at Fort Richardson—just a days ride or so from the ranch—was sent to capture and punish the guilty parties.

In the spring of ’74, buffalo hunters in the Panhandle were attacked. Those in the trading settlement of Adobe Walls were able to fight them off, but if the Indians caught a hunter on the plains, the hunter was a goner. When the army at Ft. Dodge got word of this, they decided to put an end to the Indian depredations in Texas once and for all. Units from Ft. Richardson and Ft. Concho in Texas, as well as forts in New Mexico, Kansas, and Oklahoma converged on the plains. In September, Mackenzie caught the Comanches in Palo Duro Canyon. There were few casualties on either side, but the army destroyed the Indians’ lodges, food, clothing, and horses. The Comanches under Quanah held out for another year, but he could see the writing on the wall, and brought his followers into the reservation.

There are a few things worth mentioning here. First of all, some folks say that the hunters were on land that the government had promised the Indians in the Medicine Lodge Treaty. Now, I won’t say that the Indians didn’t have some grievances, but the fact is that the federal government never had any right to promise any land in Texas to anybody. When Texas joined the union, she retained the rights to all public land within her current boundaries. (We had to give up half of New Mexico to do it…but who needs eastern New Mexico?)

Secondly, some folks had criticized Mackenzie for killing those horses. Now, I hate to see the destruction of a good horse, but a few years earlier, Mackenzie had captured a herd of Indian horses, only to have the Indians recapture them a bit later—taking with them all of the command’s own mounts. I can only imagine how it galled all of those cavalrymen to walk hundreds of miles back to their post. Mackenzie was not going to let that happen again.

And lastly, I knew Quanah was a fierce warrior. Only after he surrendered did I learn he was the son of Cynthia Ann Parker and her Comanche husband Nocona. All those years ago, when we attacked the camp on the Pease, we knew Cynthia Ann’s son had escaped, but I had no idea he was the one causing us so much hell on the frontier. And it should be noted here also that Quanah was not only the greatest Comanche chief in war—but the greatest in peace as well, helping his people adjust to life on the reservation.

…

So by the end of 1875, the cattle market had crashed and the Plains were free of Indians. I got a letter from Charlie Goodnight.

Oh, I almost forgot to mention…while the Army was winning on the Plains, there was another victory of sorts hundreds of miles to the south. Just a day or two after Mackenzie’s victory in the Palo Duro, Mary Catherine Bachman said “I do” to William Henry Thigpen. She was twenty seven; he was seventeen.

CHAPTER 36

I was down for my regular Christmas trip and it almost seemed to be getting harder than easier. Bettie looked more and more like her mother every day. By now she was nineteen and I fully expected that every letter I got from her to mention some beau. Apparently she was waiting until I came to see her.

Gundar Stedje seemed like a nice enough fellow, even with that name. I had known Mexicans, Germans, Irishmen, Englishmen, Scots, Frenchmen, Indians, and maybe one or two Poles and Italians--even a Jew or two. But this was my first honest-to-God Norwegian. I didn’t know much about them, so I didn’t know what to expect. If Gundar is at all typical, I can say that they are honest, hard-working people, fiercely loyal, and stubborn as hell—sort of like Germans.

Bettie had met the boy at church, which I guess was a good sign. Turns out Norskis are even more Lutheran than Germans, if that’s possible. The Weinheimers vouched for the boy’s character, and Bettie was plum goofy over him, so what could I do but give my blessing? And at least (last name) is easier to say than some. The boy was strong and good-looking, with hair just a shade darker than Bettie’s so at least the grandkids would be good-looking.

When I went to see Bachman that trip, he assured me that Catherine and Will were happy.

“I can’t say I would have picked Will as a husband for my oldest daughter,” he told me, “for a number of reasons, but he’s a hard worker and mature beyond his years…and he seems to love her with a passion. More importantly, she loves him. Here…let me show you their wedding pictures.”

He passed me a couple of the new-fangled photographs on postal cards. I thought it odd that their wedding pictures were separate—he in one shot and she in another.

John explained, “The photographer said that it was the best way to do it, since they wanted the postal cards—a little cheaper. To be honest, I think he was pretty certain the marriage wouldn’t ‘take’, so this way he provided Catherine with pictures she wouldn’t have to hide or alter if it didn’t. Or it may have been because they were dressed so differently that he thought it would look odd if they were side by side.”

Sure enough, Will was dressed like he just got off his horse. His Stetson hat was tilted rakishly, and one booted foot was propped on a wicker chair. In an effort to look older, he had grown a wispy moustache.

“That boy’s damn sure a cowboy, ain’t he? Couldn’t even put on a suit for his wedding!”

“Don’t be so hard on him, Dusty. If you’ll notice he IS wearing a suit—AND a tie,” John said with t twinkle in his eye.

I looked again. “Why, he damn sure is, ain’t he? I almost missed it underneath that bandana!”

We laughed, then Bachman handed me the other. “Here’s Catherine.”

Katie was all in white as a bride should be. I’d bet that dress set John back a few dollars, but it was none of my business.

“She’s a beauty,” I told him. He nodded. “John, are you OK with this? And how does Caroline feel?”

“Dusty you’re about to find out that no matter how old or how mature your daughter is, she will always be your little girl. Catherine is special to me, and I loved having her around, but I didn’t want her to be an old maid. If she and Will are happy—and remain so—then so am I. As for Caroline…it’s hard to say—but then I never could figure women.”

“Amen to that, Brother! Where are the newlyweds, anyway?”

“Will has taken a job with the King Ranch. Looks promising. They have some sort of plan there where employees can accumulate their own herd, depending on how long they stay. Will’s idea is to work until he has about a hundred head, then go off on his own. I tell you, the boy plans ahead.”

“I hope it works out for him. Personally I don’t think Richard King is all he wants folks to believe he is. But—I wish them the best.”

“What about you, Miles? I understand you’ve fallen on bad times.”

“Well, yeah, but things are looking up. We took a real beating this year on our cattle—all the ranchers did. Even Ol’ Goodnight up in Colorado. He’s like your new son-in-law, though—always working some deal. He got some Irishman or Englishman or something to back him on a project in Palo Duro Canyon in the Panhandle. Offered me a job. Think I’ll sell out to Limerick and take him up on it.”

“So your partner’s capable of doing that—buying you out?”

“You bet. Say, I’ll bet I forgot to tell you. ‘Course you knew Addy died.”

“Well, certainly, he’s Caroline’s brother. Got bit by a rattlesnake early last spring. Terrible thing. How’s Monica?”

“Yeah, it had warmed up and this big rattler come out of hibernating in the wood pile, full of venom and mad as hell. Addy wasn’t even thinking about it. He was a fine fellow and Monica loved him something fierce. But after he died she came out to see me and—here’s what I forgot to tell you--that damnyankee carpetbagging Irish son of a bitch paartner of mine is going to be my damnyankee carpetbagging Irish son of a bitch BROTHER-IN-LAW! Ain’t that a hell of a note? I had a Mexican mother, Spanish and French ancestors, a Southern father, married a German fraulein, gonna have a Norwegian son-in-law and a Yankee Irish brother in law! Hell, I’m going to write Ulysses S. Grant and tell him I want to be an ambassador!”

CHAPTER 37

I stopped back in New Braunfels to see Bettie once more. I knew it would likely be a long time before I saw her again—the Panhandle is a long way from the Hill Country. I wished her the best, and told her I’d send her something when I got the ranch sold. She said that just having my blessing to marry Gundar was enough of a wedding present. She was a wonderful daughter—I think she would be disappointed to know that I always left feeling like I had failed her.

I was in no hurry to get to Pueblo, so I swung down to San Antone to look it over. I couldn’t believe the change in the old town. The downtown streets were paved with mesquite blocks, the railroad was coming, and the Alamo was a beer warehouse. I was tempted to stay one night in the Menger Hotel—just to say I had—but frugality restrained me.

I left San Antone on the road to Fort Concho. I wanted to travel the Goodnight trail one more time. Besides, while the Plains Indians had been subdued, the Apaches—and bandits--were still active in the southwest, and I figured the well-traveled routes were the safest for a fellow traveling alone. I was hardly alone, however, as there wasn’t a day pass I didn’t meet somebody or pass a ranch. Sheepmen were moving into the country, and I passed quite a few…what do they call them? Flocks? Herds? Anyway, a lot of sheep were being raised in the area. I never had much use for them myself, but they tell me that country’s ideal for them.

Fort Sumner had changed, too, as everything does. The Navajos had been allowed to return to their own part of the country and the government buildings had been purchased by Lucien Maxwell, a huge landowner that I ranked with the likes of Richard King. I decided to have a real meal while in Ft. Sumner and went to a café. Waiting tables and swamping out the place was a young fellow I wouldn’t have taken much notice of, except he made me think of my own boy, dead these many years. Johnny would have been about this kid’s age when he was killed by the Comanches.

Business was a little slow so I engaged the young man in conversation. He told me he had been born in New York, but had come west with his mother and step-father just a couple of years before. She had since passed away and her husband had abandoned the boy, so he was making his own way. He seemed destined to make a name for himself, so I asked him what it was—his name, that is.

“That depends, sir,” he answered politely. “I was born Bonney, but after my pa died, Ma married a McCarty, then Antrim. My first name is William and my middle name is Henry, and I’ve been called just about all combinations of those. Personally, I’m a little partial to ‘Billy’.”

Just then the proprietor of the joint stuck his head through the kitchen door and hollered, “Kid, I don’t pay you to chat, and these dishes ain’t washing themselves.”

Billy grinned as he headed toward the kitchen. “Or,” he said, “like everybody else, you can just call me ‘Kid’.”

CHAPTER 38

I found Goodnight on the upper Canadian, mostly waiting to see if the Comanches were sure enough going to stay on the reservation. He became convinced they were, so we started moving cattle towards the Texas Panhandle. Charlie had hired a guide—a local fellow named Nicolas Martinez—a former Comanchero who knew all the old Indian trails. When I met him I kept thinking I had seen him before, finally deciding that he just reminded me of somebody I once knew. After all, I had grown up around Mexicans, and was related to a bunch of them.

One night around the campfire we got to telling tales and I told the old family story about L’Archeveque, my French ancestor who had lured LaSalle into a trap.

Nick’s eyes lit up. “You are related to Archibeque?”

“Well, my mother was, way back there. I guess that means I am. Why?”

“Senor Doosty, there are many Archibeques in New Mexico. Most of them are fine people. But there is one…he is hombre muy mal.”

“A bad fellow, eh? Why do you say that?”

“He would as soon kill you as look at you—and that is for his paisanos…his countrymen. For gringos, he would rather kill you as look at you. And if he thinks that his Spanish blood has been mingled with gringo blood…Senor, I would just keep that bit of information to myself.”

“Doesn’t mind being part French, but not part gringo, eh? Hell, I’ve always been proud of my Spanish heritage, but that French part I could do without, if I could. I’ll take heed, though, Nick. I don’t want to cause any trouble.”

There was a period of quiet and Nick pulled something out of his vest pocket. He rubbed it against the leg of his pants to shine it and looked at it in the firelight. I asked if I could see it.

“Si, but cuidado, senor. I have had it a long time. I carry it para buena suerte.”

“A good luck charm, eh?” I said as he dropped it in my hand.

It was originally a silver coin, minted in Mexico. Pieces had been cut out of the inside to form a star within a circle. At the points of the star were the letters T-E-X-A-S. The work was crude as if done by an unpracticed hand. I had seen a few of these. In my youth I had even made one or two myself. I flipped it over.

“Dios mio!” I said, reverting to the language of my childhood. “Where did you get this?”

“Many years ago, Senor. A bunch of loco Texans had gotten lost on the Llano. (Even today you need a New Mexican guide, no?)” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “I was sent to rescue them. The young Texan who went with us gave me this silver coin in gratitude, but first, he carved his initials—J.F.M. I have kept it these many years as a token—and a good luck charm, as you call it. He was a fine young man—very polite, even if he was a Tejano Loco! Ha ha!”

“Did the Tejano Loco tell you his name was Pancho.”

“Si, senor. Pancho is short for Francisco, his middle name.”

“Do you recall the other Tejanos Locos calling him something else?”

“Si, but I do not recall what it was. It did not translate to Espanol, so he went by ‘Pancho’. (In those days I could not speak Engles well, as I do now.) It’s strange, but for some reason I think it had to do with dirt. Would they have called him ‘Dirty’?”

It was all I could do to keep from laughing and crying and screaming, all at the same time.

“No, they probably called him ‘Dusty’”

“Oh, si, senor, like you.” I wish that Austin photographer could have been there to get a picture of the way Nick’s mouth fell open and his eyes popped out.

“Era usted! Era usted!” he exclaimed over and over. “No puedo creerlo!”

“Believe it, mi amigo, it was me—Jackson Francisco Miles. J. F. M. -- Dusty.”

While we were cooling our heels at Camp Resolution I had carved out the coin using some of the blacksmith’s tools. It was a pretty rough piece of work—the kind of thing a kid does when he’s got time on his hands.

“Senor”, he said, “Senor Pancho,” as he embraced me. When he released me his face was wet with tears and I admit mine were a little misty. “I heard terrible things happened to you Tejanos after we parted—that many died. Perdóneme, senor, what could we do?”

“There’s nothing to forgive. You Comancheros saved our lives—from starvation, anyway. You can’t help what Armijo did.”

“Cierto” he said, wiping his eyes. “Governor Armijo was a cruel man. But I feel I must make amends, senor. You were my guest.”

“OK, Nick, here’s what you can do.”

“Si, senor, anything. Tell me anything, and I will do it for your pardon.”

“Quit calling me ‘senor’. Mi abuelo was ‘senor’. I’m just Dusty—or Pancho, if you wish.”

CHAPTER 39

I was in for quite a surprise in the Texas Panhandle—or a whole hatful of them. To begin with, as we made our way down the Canadian, I noted that many New Mexican PASTORES had beat Goodnight into the area with their flocks of sheep. Some of them were no doubt sons of the men who had rescued the Santa Fe Expedition over a quarter century earlier. Casimero Romero, “El Pastor Primero”, was just a few years older than me and remembered those times well. Nick had a good time telling Romero about his “lucky coin”.

I had been in the Canadian Valley before, but not this part of it. I was amazed at how worn the trail was. Not only had it been used by Indians for centuries, but even in the 19th century it had been traveled by Comancheros, Explorers, Traders, California gold seekers, military expeditions—you name it. Nick and Charlie explained how Vial, a Frenchman in the service of Spain, had come this way, seeking a path from Santa Fe to San Antonio nearly a hundred years ago. The Bents had established a trading post here in ‘43, but the Comanches proved more warlike than the Cheyenne, and Bent had to be satisfied with his post on the Arkansas. Abert came surveying for the Topographical Engineers in ’45, Marcy in ’49 and ‘52, and Whipple in ’53, who was looking for a route for the transcontinental railroad. (The War nixed that deal.) They told me that Santa Fe trader Josiah Gregg was out here about the same time I was—except HE knew where he was and where he was going. (The smartasses got a real kick out of that!)

Kit Carson had come this way in ’64 trying to teach the Comanche and Kiowa a lesson, but nearly lost his…hair. Major “Beans” Evans traveled this way in ’68 chasing Indians toward Custer, and just a year or so previous, Major Price and soldiers from Fort Union in New Mexico had ridden here in what became known as The Red River War. That war culminated in the defeat of the Plains Indians, and that defeat is why we were here. While I was off shooting at Yankees, Charlie had stayed in the Frontier Battalion of the Texas Rangers, and often tracked Indians onto the Llano Estacado. That was when he first became aware of Palo Duro Canyon, and saw its potential as a cattle ranch. And before we left the Canadian, Charlie had made an agreement with the pastores that if they would remain on the river, he would stay in the canyon.

The second surprise was the canyon itself--much larger than I had expected and beautiful. It wasn’t easy getting the cattle down into the canyon, and even harder to get the supply wagons down—they had to be disassembled and the pieces carried on mules. But once we got to the bottom—man what a sight! The Prairie Dog Town Fork of the Red River ambled through the canyon floor (though it could become a killer torrent at times), and the rock formations were striking. The canyon was covered with cottonwood and cedar. I don’t mean that little “scrub cedar” either. There were lots of big cedar trees. They have since all been harvested for fence posts.

Charlie was back in business. His partner, John Adair provided the capital, and Goodnight provided the know-how, and me—I just worked. To be honest, it was nice not to be managing—to just get up in the morning and know you were going to do your best, but also that whether the ranch succeeded or not was not hanging on your shoulders.

The open range was doomed. What a lot of people don’t understand is what doomed it. First of all, the folks back east were tired of stringy longhorn beef—they craved a fatter, more tender meat, impossible from an animal that ranged far and wide and reproduced at will. Better breeds of cattle were called for, and generally the Hereford fit the bill.

A better breed of stock called for more security in the way of fenced pastures. Fenced pastures needed a ready source of water, hence the windmill. Folks think that it was the smallholder or the farmer that closed the open range, but in the Texas Panhandle it was the big ranches—the JA (named for Goodnight’s partner), the Frying Pan, the T-Anchor…and probably the most notable of all, the XIT, which had 6,000 miles of fence. I’ll tell you more about it later.

In the beginning, the walls of the canyon proved enough of a fence, with a few riders at the open end of the canyon to keep the stock from drifting—and to keep the buffalo, which we had driven out, from drifting back in. Charlie had heard of this new kind of wire, however, and was curious. (One thing about Goodnight, he was always an innovator.) He sent me to San Antonio to see what I could find out. I think he was just trying to get an old man out of the way for a while. But to his credit, it provided a paid trip to see my daughter. And my grandson.

CHAPTER 40

Yep, Bettie and Gundar had wasted no time in starting a family. Jack Canute Stedje was born a year after the wedding, named after his grandfathers. Bettie had faithfully continued sending me postal cards with pictures of the family and I was eager to see them all in person.

On the way down, I had to stop and see how the Limericks were doing. John seemed to have a sixth sense about the markets, and the ranch was thriving. He had brought in some good breeder stock and was improving the herd. Marriage to my little sis had been good for him, and was evident by his waistline. I had brought a bottle of bourbon as a gift, which he graciously accepted, then brought out his own bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

Startled, I asked him, “Been to Tennessee?”

“Fort Worth” he said. “You can get it there, now.”

“I’ll be damned. Well, open ‘er up and we’ll drink a toast to progress!”

He told me about some more improvements he had in mind for the place. “This spring we’re fixin’ to take the biggest herd yet down the trail…”

I almost choked on my whiskey. “What did you say?”

Stunned, he repeated, “We’re fixin’ to take…”

“Ha!” I interrupted, “I can’t believe it! My little sister has been able to accomplish what me, Palo Pinto County, and all the cowboys in Texas have been unable to do!”

“Dusty, what in hell are you talking about?”

“You really don’t know, do you, you damnyankee carperbagging son of a bitch! You just said ‘fixin’ to’! Monica has made a real Texan out of you!”

Monica had come in to see what the noise was all about. Limerick looked nonplussed. “No I didn’t,” he insisted. ”What I said was we’re fixin’ to…good God, you’re right!” He downed his shot of Jack Daniel’s.

“Here, now, no need to go wasting good sipping whiskey. As a matter of fact, fill your glass again and I’ll propose a toast.” He did, though experience had taught him to watch me closely. “Here’s to John Q. Limerick, a Boston Paddy, a Yankee soldier, a carpetbagging son of a bitch, a hell of a partner and brother-in-law, and finally…A TEXAN!!!”

Monica grabbed the bottle and said, “I’ll drink to that!” She downed a slug as Limerick and I stared. It brought tears to her eyes.There were tears in John’s eyes, too—and not all of them from the whiskey.

In a bit, he resumed the conversation. “As I was saying, we’re fixin' to take the biggest herd yet down the trail this spring. Of course Raney is still trail boss, but guess who will be his ramrod?”

“Hell, I don’t know. Not you, I hope.”

“Hardly—those days are over. His brother-in-law, Will Thigpen.”

“The hell you say! I thought he had a gravy train on the King Ranch—building up a herd or something like that.”

“To hear Will tell it,” Limerick explained, “all was not as it had been presented. He noticed that other cowboys would get close to acquiring a hundred head, and disappear without a trace.”

“What? Run off?” John shook his head. “Murdered?"

“Will says there no proof, of course, but the King Ranch is a large place with lots of remote areas—and lots of loyal KINENOS, who have been on the ranch for generations. It wouldn’t be hard to dispose of a body.”

“I’ll be damned. So did will try to collect his share?”

“Said he didn’t dare. He didn’t want to wind up at the bottom of an arroyo.”

“Well, King’s loss is our—uh, your—gain. What about Catherine?”

“Oh, she’ll come up here with him. We’ve built a place for Raney and Martha Ann--we’ll build another for Will and his wife. Not much—but enough to set up housekeeping in”

“I’ll bet that’s going to be tough on John Bachman.”

“Maybe, but he’s been talking about a move himself.”

“Where to?”

“Mason County. According to Raney, the feud between the Suttons and the Taylors got so bad that the whole county pretty much had to choose sides. The principals are at peace now, but that sort of thing does a lot of damage to a community.”

“True.” I reached for the bottle. “Well, I’m a-FIXIN’ to have one more drink, and then I’m a-FIXIN’ to turn in. Reckon in the morning I’m a-FIXIN’ to head south.” Limerick grinned and hoisted his glass.

…

I would not go to Dewitt County this trip. It was a bit out of the way, and this WAS a business trip, after all. Bettie and Gundar had settled in Bosque County where he worked for a local farmer. The county was a hotbed of Norwegians, and if that sounds like a contradiction in terms, it is.

I got directions to the farm and rode up, marveling how much the country had changed since I first rode through in 1841 on my way to Santa Fe. My thoughts were deep in the past as I rode up to the house. A ghost appeared at the door and it shook me to my bones. Bettie ran to meet me and gave me a big hug.

“Why, Pa, you’re trembling like a leaf. Are you all right?”

I gave her another hug. “Baby girl,” I said, almost weeping. “You look so much like your mother. For a minute I thought you were.”

“That’s the best compliment you could give me, Pa.”

“Now where’s that young’un I’ve ridden so far to see?”

“So you didn’t come to see me, huh?” she teased. She had her mother’s looks but her pa’s sense of humor.

A tow-headed boy was peeping out of the door. Bettie called to him, “Jackie-boy, come meet your Grandpa.”

His blue eyes brightened and he ran to me. He stopped a few feet away, looked me up and down, and asked, “Are you a cowboy?”

I glanced at Bettie and she shrugged. “Do you want me to be?” I asked him. He nodded. “Then I’m a cowboy. Come give your Grandpa a hug!” And then I learned a man will do just about anything for a grandchild.

Texas Forever--Chap 31, 32, 33--Day 22

2008-11-22T15:00:00.000-08:00

CHAPTER 31

I worked with Goodnight and Loving for a couple of years. On the second trip, Oliver was attacked by Comanches and died of his wounds. He was a great man and it was a terrible loss. It’s amazing to think that a man who had trailed cattle to New Orleans, Chicago, and Denver would die of gangrene in an outpost like Fort Sumner. I guess it’s another one of those vagaries of human existence I have yet to figure out.

In no way would I have ever wished harm to Oliver, but the fact is that I was getting older and trail driving is for young men. I hated to say anything, as Loving was older than me by several years, but it was time to find a more settled job. I approached Charlie after he had sold the cattle to the fort and told him I was quitting. He offered me a job on one of the ranches he and Loving had established in New Mexico or Colorado, but I refused.

“I’m a Texan, Charlie, born and bred. I could never be happy living anywhere else. If you ever decide you want to ranch again in Texas, give me a holler.”

“I may do that,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about setting up in the Panhandle--when they finally get the Comanches to stay on a reservation.”

“Yeah, well, that’s more like if they get the Comanches on a reservation, and not very damn likely, at that. By then I’ll be too old for anything, much less punching cattle. But I’ll be watching you from a cloud somewhere.”

He roared at that. “Hell, you’ll never die,” he said, “and when you do, if you can see me at all, it’ll be through a cloud, all right—a cloud of smoke!” He wrote me a draft on his bank account in Weatherford and wished me the best. “You just remember what I said. You’re a damn good stockman and you’ll never be happy away from cattle.”

He was right, though I had never questioned it. The fact is, unlike the younger “cow-boys” who spent their earnings as soon as they got paid, I had saved mine. I had an idea to get in the cattle market myself. I wasn’t really looking for a partner, but fate provided me one.

….

It was getting late in the year when I got back to Palo Pinto. I had worked on my place a little when I wasn’t on the trail—just enough to make it livable…and sellable. It had too many painful memories for me to want to try to make another life there. I was working on getting it fixed up to sell, so I would have a grubstake somewhere else. My plans had not fully congealed yet when I rode into town to deposit Goodnight’s check.

“Good day, Mr. Miles,” the bank teller greeted me. “Good to have you back in town for a while.” I never felt comfortable being called “mister”, but this fellow was young enough to be my son, so I guess it was okay. I expect his bosses pretty much required it of him.

“Maybe for longer than a while. Anything going on here?”

“Well, that depends of if you mean here at the bank, here in Palo Pinto, or here in Texas…but mostly the answer is no. The Republicans are still in control, the Union—uh, Federal—Army is more of a nuisance than any real help against Indians, and the damnyankee carpetbaggers are taking over.”

“Your bosses let you use the word ‘damn’ in public?”

He grinned. “Only when talking about Yankees…or damnyankees.” He handed me my receipt, then added as an afterthought, “Speaking of that, there was one in town looking for you.”

“One what?”

“A damnyankee. Now, you wouldn’t be turning scalawag on us, would you Mr. Miles?”

That would be an insult coming from some, but I just grinned back and said “Not bloody likely! Who was this fellow? What did he want?”

“I don’t really know much about it. He came in here and asked if I knew you. I told him I knew who you were, but that you were out of town on business and didn’t know when you’d return. It was just a day or two ago. He’s probably still in town.”

“What did he look like?”

“I’m sorry but I really can’t say—just average, I guess. The way he talked, though was funny as hell.” Then nervously as he glanced toward the president’s office, “I mean, he had a peculiar way of speaking. To be honest, Mr. Miles, when he spoke I just wanted to slap him!”

CHAPTER 32

I walked into the saloon and found the man I was looking for, wearing a derby hat, surrounded by a group of men who were clenching and unclenching their fists as they listened to him. Any minute now he was going down.

“Here now, fellows,” I broke in, “You wouldn’t want to rough up one of Robert E. Lee’s veterans would you?”

One of the local toughs glanced at me. “What the hell do you mean, Miles? This damnyankee is obviously a carpetbagging son of a bitch.”

“’Fraid you’ve made a mistake, young fellow. I met this man in the army. By the way, where was it you served your country?” I asked the young smart aleck.

He and the others backed down. Confederate veterans were not rare in Palo Pinto County, but I did have the added celebrity of being a prisoner of war, a son of a Texas Army veteran, and a survivor of the Santa Fe expedition—not to mention being a former Ranger and “rescuer” of Cynthia Ann Parker.

“Now why don’t you fine young men go find something productive to do.” They sulked off. When the last one had left, I turned to their intended victim.

“Limerick, you damnyankee carpetbagging son of a bitch! What in the hell are you doing in Texas? I guess you know that I just saved your sorry Irish ass!”

“Nonsense, Miles” (God, there was that Boston accent again—I wanted to slap him myself!) “I could have taken them. Besides,” he added, “I thought it was the US Cavalry that always arrived in the nick of time—not the Confederate Army!”

“Limerick, I can’t say that I’m sorry to see you, but talk like that in Reconstruction Texas will get you killed! And there’s not one damn thing the Confederate Army, the US Cavalry, or the Texas Rangers could do about it.

“And let me tell you this right now. I know what kind of fellow you are. I owe my life to you—maybe we’re even now. You’re as common a man as I have ever seen. But there’s something about that Boston accent that sets a Texan’s teeth on edge. It comes across as arrogant—like you think you’re better than everybody else. I know you can’t help it, but for God’s sake don’t advertise it! Come on, I’ll buy you a drink.”

“You’re on, Dusty.” and then more subdued, “And don’t think I don’t appreciate what you just did. I realized I was in trouble and was mighty glad to see you. I was surprised you lied to save me, though.”

“Like hell I did. Just think about what I said. You served under Robert E. Lee, right? I never said General Lee, as Colonel was as high a rank as he ever held in the US Army. I also said I knew you in the army, didn’t I? Those boys knew I served the Confederacy Army. If they wanted to assume that you did too, that was their mistake. Of course, I may tell a lie now and then, but not to save your sorry ass. Now, what’ll you have?”

Limerick turned to the bartender “A shot of Irish whiskey, my good man.”

“Damn it, Limerick, are all you Yanks so hard headed?” I turned to the bartender. “Give us a bottle of good Kentucky bourbon! I’ll show this carpertbagger what cultured people drink!!”

We found a table and opened the bottle. Limerick admitted that the bourbon was pretty good, but the next time was on him and we would open the special stock he had purchased in Tennessee on his way to Texas.

“There’s a young man in Lynchburg that makes a damned fine whiskey. I bought it special and saved it for when I could drink it with you—or over your grave.”

“Yeah, I can see you drinking it at my grave—then returning to make sure I got some of it too—after it had passed through!”

“Not a bad idea,” he commented dryly. “So, Dusty, what in hell have you been up to?”

We caught each other up the best we could. There may have been a time when the two of us could have finished the bottle at one sitting, but that time had passed a long time ago. He told me that after the War he had bounced around New England, doing first one thing and then another. He had determined that the future of the country was in the West, and Texas was a good place to start, since he had connections—meaning me, mostly.

“Damned poor connections,” I told him, “and all the camels have been turned loose.”

He laughed, poured himself another, and sipped while I told him where I had been since our parting.

“By the way”, I told him, “you Yanks like to harp about Andersonville, but I don’t know that your prisons were any better!”

“Probably not,” he allowed, “but since we won, we got to write the history. But what about your daughter?” he asked tentatively.

I told him how I had left Bettie with her uncle and aunt, but tried to see her once a year. How I was trying to be something she could be proud of, and how I was hoping to make some money I could leave her. I told him I had just left Goodnight—which prompted him to remind me of that damn limerick I had made up in the hospital. I said I was thinking about starting a small herd again on my own.

“I don’t suppose you’d consider a partner—someone who knows how to keep books?”

“As a matter of fact, not being worth a damn at keeping them myself, I was wondering how I could possible succeed. Do you know anybody who’s any good at it?”

“I just happen to know of a damnyankee carpetbagging son of a bitch who once served Robert E. Lee as a quartermaster. Will that do?”

“As long as he’s not a damyankee carpetbagging IRISH son of a bitch, we can probably work it out.”

“Sorry, then. I guess you’ll have to look elsewhere.”

“Well, hell” I said, “I had hoped to do a little better than that, but I guess it’ll have to do.”

When we went to his hotel room to get his things, he came out with a carpetbag.

“My God, man, do you have death wish? Traveling around Texas toting that thing?”

“They’re all the rage for traveling,” he said, “and so help me I had no idea!”

If he survived a year, I would be surprised.

CHAPTER 33

So I was in business with John Quincy Francis Limerick. I knew cattle and he knew bookkeeping. He was a damn shrewd trader, too, so we got the highest price for our cattle and paid the lowest price for our supplies.

The first year we didn’t have much stock, so we contracted with Goodnight to drive them for us. Limerick insisted that he would go on the drive. His stated purpose was to look out for our interests, but I knew he really wanted to see what a trail drive was like.

He found out. They had hell at Horsehead Crossing on the Pecos. That was always the case, but that year it was worse. There was also a brush with Comanches and one with Apaches. When he finally got back, he vowed that he had had his fill of trail driving.

“And I’ve got to thank you, Dusty, for teaching me to ride. We weren’t far along the trail when a couple of young bucks, assuming that my Boston accent and derby hat spelled ‘greenhorn’, decided to test my mettle by providing me with a not-quite-broken horse. Thanks to your training, I was able to ride him to a standstill. I think I had their respect after that.”

He also told me about the army chasing the Indians. “Sheridan has determined that the way to subdue the southern tribes is to attack them in winter quarters. Custer attacked a camp of peaceful Cheyennes under Black Kettle on the Washita in Oklahoma. “Beans” Evans raided a Comanche camp and only lost one man! Custer, that arrogant bastard, was not so fortunate!”

“I thought he was your famed ‘boy general’ hero of the Union Army! Funny thing is, he was stationed around Austin right after the War. He determined to keep his men civil and disallowed any foraging or looting. Bachman indicated they kind of liked the guy—for a damnyankee. Ain’t that a hell of a note John? Here you are criticizing one of the North’s heroes, while I’m defending him!”

“Well Dusty, I can’t say as how I know the man personally, but they say he abandoned some of his men to the Cheyennes on the Washita. And during the War a lot of good men were killed following the likes of him.”

“Limerick, there’s one thing we agree on. War is hell.”

…

Sometime around Christmas I made my way down to New Braunfels to see Bettie, and to visit with Henry and Hilda Weinheimer. I hate to admit it, but these visits hurt me something fierce. Bettie was looking more like her mother every trip. It hurt me to see her, and it hurt me to leave her. But I was glad I could stay in touch. Henry and Hilda were good to her, and provided her things I couldn’t. Each year she presented me with a tintype of herself. This year I could afford to give her one of me, made special for the occasion by a photographer in Austin.

While I was in the general area, I liked to drift down to Cuero and visit Bachman. I was always warmly greeted, and I could take his preaching for a while—if he didn’t lean on me too hard. When I called, there was another man there—a preacher, by the way he dressed. I hated to interrupt, but apparently their visit was over. As he walked down the steps, John called after him “I will continue to pray for you, Brother Hardin.” The man waved in thanks and walked away.

“Hardin, Hardin…where have I heard that name recently?”

“That man” Bachman told me, “is Brother James Hardin, a fellow Methodist minister.”

“Well, I haven’t been keeping track of preachers lately.”

With a sigh Bachman added. “You have probably heard of his son, whom he in high hopes named after the founder of the Methodist Church.”

“The founder of…who was…oh yeah, John Wesley. That’s where I’ve heard the name. John Wesley Hardin. Killed some soldiers, I recall. Ain’t he just a kid?”

“Wes is fifteen. And he’s breaking his father’s heart. That’s why he was here—to ask me to pray for him.” Then Bachman cheered up a bit and asked me how things were. He probably meant it from a religious angle, but I told him about quitting Goodnight and partnering with Limerick. I figured he knew more about Bettie than I did, but I showed him the picture.

“A fine likeness,” he said, just before there was knock on the door. A boy about ten or so stood on the porch.

“Howdy, Reverend Bachman” he said, removing his hat, and craning to see around John. “How are you today?”

“I’m fine, Will, and Catherine is busy. But I’d like you to meet an old friend of mine from the early days. Will Thigpen, meet Dusty Miles. Dusty, Will.”

I put out my hand to shake. The little guy was obviously on a mission, and I was an unexpected—and unwanted—part of it. The name seemed to sink in as he shook, however and, forgetting himself, asked, “What the hell kinda name is Dusty Miles?” Recovering, he glanced at the parson and said “Pleased to meet you Mr. Miles. What an interesting name.”

Something about the kid was amusingly honest. “Well,” I told him, “the Dusty part is just a nickname—and fairly appropriate, since I raise cattle and have traveled many ‘dusty miles’. But what kind of name is…what was it again?”

“THigpen,” he said, with emphasis on the “th”. “It’s an old English name, so Pa tells me.” His eyes widened. “Did you say you’re a cowboy?”

I winced. It looked like that term was going to stick. “Actually I’m a rancher. I have trailed cattle for Charles Goodnight, so I guess you could call me a ‘cowboy’…though I prefer the term ‘drover’.”

“My sister’s boyfriend is a cowboy—though he says ‘stock-driver’. A good one, too. They’re going to get married! I’m going to be a cowboy some day!” He looked around one more time as if seeking someone, frowned, then said, “Nice to meet you, Mr. Miles. And good to see you, Reverend Bachman. Tell Catherine I came by.” Before either of us could respond, he was gone.

As John shut the door, our eyes met and we both laughed. “What was that all about?” I asked.

“The Thigpens” John explained, “moved to Texas shortly before the war. They’re fine people, but a little coarse.”

“Sort of like the Miles bunch,” I countered. John blushed. “But what’s this about Catherine?”

“Young Will has become enamored of my oldest daughter. She thinks it’s cute and, against my wishes, encourages him. He says he’s going to marry her someday!” His brow furrowed.

“Good God, man…uh, I mean good grief, man, you can’t be taking the boy seriously! She must have ten years on him. And she’s growing into a good-looking woman, if you don’t mind me saying so. Somebody will steal her out from under you long before that kid gets a chance.”

“You may be right, Dusty. In some ways I hope you are, but Catherine is a joy to have around. I hope no one ‘steals’ her anytime soon.” He changed the subject. “Say, Dusty, do you need a good hand?”

“Well, I damn sure…I mean darn sure don’t need no ten-year old kid—just to get him away from your daughter.”

John laughed. “First of all Dusty, I appreciate you trying to keep from swearing in front of me, but we’ve know each other a long time. If the Lord can’t convict you of it, there’s no way I can. (And don’t tell my wife, but I occasionally lapse, myself.) And secondly, no, I wasn’t trying to get you to take Will. I was thinking about the young man he mentioned. I hear Raney Springer is—to use your terms—a damn fine drover. He has had enough experience to be a good trail boss, especially under your tutelage.”

“As a matter of fact, Limerick and I were talking about the need for an experienced hand. I’ll check this Springer fellow out.”

Texas Forever -- Day 21 -- Chaps 28, 29, 30

2008-11-21T18:53:00.000-08:00

CHAPTER 28

The nine-year old girl in front of me was mostly knees and elbows, and showed signs of eventually being a tall woman. Also of being a beautiful woman, for she had her mother’s full-moon colored hair. I thought that Bettie would be shy, not having seen me since she was five, but she apparently had her mother’s boldness as well. I was also afraid she would have nothing to do with me, thinking I had abandoned her, but I was wrong there, too.

After recuperating to the point where I was ambulatory, I had spent the rest of the year in a Northern prison camp. It was no church picnic, I can tell you that, but beat the hell out of Perote. When the War was finally over, I made my way back to Texas the best way I could. Before I left the hospital I had wished Limerick the best and told him if he ever needed a job and could find his way to Texas, I’d see what I could do. He just snorted in that irritating Boston-damnyankee way and said “I’ll remember that. Palo Pinto, right?” I knew I’d never hear from him again. And for a damnyankee—he wasn’t a bad fellow.

From the hospital I was transferred to the Old Capitol Prison in Washington DC. After Appamattox—well, really after the Battle of Palomito Ranch when Texas finally surrendered, I was released and made my way back home. Thanks to some old friends of Papa’s I was able to borrow enough to book steamboat passage all the way to Jefferson. Henry Weinheimer and his wife Hilda had taken her in to their home in New Braunfels. They had loved her as if she was their own, but always careful to remind her that someday her father was coming home.

She was the only one left of my little family. And she looked so much like her mother I wanted to cry every time I looked at her. Part of me desperately wanted to take her with me, back to the ranch in Palo Pinto County, but part of me knew that I could not provide her with a decent home. I didn’t even know what kind of home I could provide for myself. The land was still there, but what would be left of the house, the corrals? The stock had all been taken by the Comanches, and I had no money to start again. Mama had died while I was being held prisoner. Addison had lost a leg and he and Monica had sold the homestead and moved to DeWitt County.

I took Bettie for a ride and told her how much I loved her. I also told her that I had no plan for making a living and didn’t know where I would end up. With a heavy heart I told her that I felt it was best to leave her with Henry and Hilda for now—until times were better. And then I waited for her reaction.

She breathed a big sigh of relief. “Oh, Pa!” she said. “You don’t know how much I was hoping for that! I love you, but Uncle Henry and Auntie Hilda have been so kind—and really need me around.” She hugged me tight and I could tell she was crying—we both were.

I stayed a few more days with Henry and Hilda and Bettie, but it was pretty awkward and I needed to be making a living. Henry had done well for himself during the War, making saddles, harness, and other leather goods for the Confederate Army. Always the shrewd Dutchman, he had insisted on being paid in gold rather than Confederate scrip, so he was not suffering as bad as most Texans.

I had been thinking about making my way up to Palo Pinto—maybe hooking up with Goodnight and seeing if I could hire on as a drover until I could make a grubstake. I was planning on walking. Can’t say as how I relished the idea, but I knew I could do it. Henry, however, in an uncommon show of generosity, fitted me out with a saddle, bridle, and a fine horse. When I told him I would pay him back as soon as possible, he insisted that I take it as a gift.

“I can’t do that,” I told him.

“I don’t know why everyone thinks only Germans are stubborn,” he responded. “I’m giving it to you as thanks for your service in the Army.”

“Oh, hell, Henry,” I shot back. “ Can see through that. You didn’t even believe in the Confederate cause.”

“Neither did you,” as I recall. He had a point. “Besides, you served proudly and you deserve more than what you got.”

“But…”

He held up his hand. “I’m not finished. You did your duty as a Texan. You suffered a wound that could have killed you. And…” he paused and spoke softly, “you lost your family in the process. Please, take the horse and rig. If not for yourself, then take it for…my sister.”

My own pain had been so deep in losing my wife and son, it had not occurred to me that Henry had also lost a very close relative.

“But…I deserted her.”

“Nonsense, you hard-headed, dumbass, Texan son-of-a-seahorse!” Henry had worked hard on cleaning up his sailor language, but in moments of high excitement, he suffered lapses. “You fought for your country—or at least what you thought your country was. That’s what soldiers do. And she could have moved her if she had wanted. We begged her to do that when we heard how the Comanche raids had increased. She refused. She wanted to keep the ranch going—for you. Mein Gott, Dusty. do you think she would want me to do less?”

I hadn’t realized that Henry had offered sanctuary to Klara and John. And I began to see that if I accepted his gift, it would in some way—at least in his eyes—be making all her hard work and sacrifice mean something.

“Henry,” I said as I took the reins, “You’re a fine man. I couldn’t wish for a better brother-in-law…or a better caretaker for my daughter.”

“So…are you headed north?”

“Not right away. I thought I might drop down to Cuero to see Bachman. How’s he doing/”

“Well, fine, Dusty. You know he’s ‘got religion’ now?”

“That may not be so bad, Henry. Hell, I did some thinking on it myself when I realized how close I came to dying. Had a lot of honest questions. Don’t know that I got any satisfactory answers, though. Maybe Bachman can answer them for me.”

“Maybe so, Dusty. It’s just that he’s a Methodist, now. A preacher—and so, well passionate!”

CHAPTER 29

As soon as I tracked Bachman down, I could see Henry was right about one thing—John was definitely passionate. He and Caroline now had eight young'uns—the youngest a babe in arms. I didn’t stay with them long. John was busy teaching school, and obviously Caroline didn’t have time to talk, with all those kids running around. When John and I did get a chance to visit, all he wanted to talk about was religion. He had come to peace with God about Klara’s death, but I just couldn’t.

Texas, like the rest of the South, was in a bad way. Nobody had any money and we were treated like a conquered territory, with blue-coated soldiers everywhere. I thought about getting back into the Rangers, but there were a couple of problems with that. One is that I was getting to old to spend my life that way—riding miles and miles in a day, sleeping on the ground at night, often at a cold and dry camp. Or so I thought.

The other was that the Rangers didn’t exist anymore. The new Republican governor, installed as part of Reconstruction, had done away with them and appointed a state police force.

“Mark my words, Miles,” John told me one night in a break from his usual religious talk. “There will be trouble over this. Most of these men on the State Police are thieves and thugs just waiting for an opportunity. Even here in Dewitt County there have been rumblings of a feud that will likely lead to bloodshed.”

“You watch yourself then,” I told him, “but it shouldn’t affect me none. I’m headed north. Got an old buddy up in Palo Pinto County might have a place for me.”
….

A few days later I was riding up top Goodnight’s place. I had finally gotten used to riding again. Four years without mounting a horse makes a fellow forget that his legs don’t naturally grow that way.

I wasn’t sure if Charlie would be glad to see me or not. He had stayed in the Rangers while I was off chasing Yankees. As a matter of fact, it was his company that had ridden up and scared off the Comanches before they could burn my place. He was the one that had found Bettie in the hidey-hole.

I needn’t have worried.

“Dusty Miles, you ol’ horse-faced, hog-wallerin’ son of a bitch!” he hollered when he recognized me. It appeared that Charles Goodnight, unlike Bachman, had remained untouched by religion. Charlie was one of the profanest men I ever knew—except for maybe Henry when he first arrived in Texas. And it was always funny, because Oliver Loving was one of the gentlest, most soft-spoken men I ever knew. But they knew each other, and they knew cattle, and they would have built a great cattle empire, I’m sure, if Loving had not gotten killed by Indians. As it was, Charlie did pretty well—but at this time that was a long way in the future.

“What are your plans, Dusty?” Charlie asked me after the, uh, pleasantries were over. “You going back to raising stock? Your place’ll need to be rebuilt first.”

I told him I really didn’t have any plans. I tried to thank him fro saving my daughter’s life, but he wouldn’t hear of it.

“Hell, just doing my job—you know that. Say, I could use a good cowhand around here. I mean a good cowhand. I can get all the cowboys I need—which is fine once they get trail broke—but it takes somebody that knows stock to get these rangy longhorns lined out to trail.”

“Trail? Where are you trailing them to? There’s no soldiers in Belknap any more. And beef is so common in Texas that you couldn’t make your money back in Austin or San Antonio.”

“Tell him, Ollie,” Goodnight remarked to Loving, who had been mostly silent.

“You are quite perceptive, Dusty,” Oliver began. “There is no market for beef in Texas. But Uncle Sam is trying his best to keep the Indians penned up on reservations. Tells them he’ll feed them beef if they stay put and learn to farm.”

“Ha! I can’t see a Comanche with a hoe in his hand—unless he was trying to kill somebody with it.”

“I agree,” Loving went on, “but over in New Mexico, the army is watching over the Navajos they rounded up and put near Ft. Sumner.”

“New Mexico? You aren’t talking about trailing a bunch of rangy longhorns across the Llano, are you?”

“Now, damn it, Dusty, let Oliver finish. And don’t go running down the Llano. There’s some fine cattle country there, if we could ever get the Comanches and Kiowas off of it.”

“Number one, don’t count on the Comanches just waltzing on to a reservation saying ‘I’m through ravaging and pillaging now. Where do I get my seed and rake?’. Number two, that land is as flat as a pancake. You couldn’t hire enough cowboys to watch over them. And number three, there’s damn little water there.”

“Blast your stubborn hide, Miles, nobody ever said you could make a farmer out of a Comanche. (Well, maybe some of them Quakers back east, but nobody that’s had any dealings with them.) But as for making a ranch, there’s a big canyon up there that would keep the cattle in fine—it would just take a few men to watch one end of it. There’s a stream running through the canyon—and besides, there’s more water on the Llano than you might believe.”

“Well there was damn little when I crossed it in ’41. But anyway, Oliver, you were saying…?"

“Right, Dusty. I was saying that we would trail the cattle to the army posts in New Mexico and maybe points further north. We won’t go across the Llano—that’s Comanche country and, as you have observed, the availability of potable water situation can be, uh, sporadic. We propose to trail them southwest to the Pecos, then up that river to Fort Sumner and the Navajo reservation. We figure the government will pay upwards of a nickel a pound for fresh beef.”

I thought about it for a minute. “Well, I’ll be damned. You boys are bound to make your fortune—if you don’t die of thirst, or get scalped, or tromped in a stampede, or starve to death. But hell, if you’ll have me, I’m in with you.”

“Damn straight, we’ll have you!” Goodnight exclaimed. “And you’re right about Indians, stampedes, and thirst—but by God, we damn sure won’t starve to death, will we Ollie?”

Loving looked skeptically at Goodnight, then at me. “Charlie here has had a brainstorm…and like most of his ideas, it looks like it actually may work. We’ll tell you about it later.”

CHAPTER 30

And so, here I was, 46 years old…rounding up longhorns, preparing to ride miles and miles, sleeping on the ground, probably in a cold or dry camp. I would be facing stampedes, floods, thirst and Indians. Sometimes I amaze myself. But Loving was right about one thing—I wouldn’t starve to death.

Goodnight had rigged up an army surplus Studebaker wagon to take on the trail. It would carry bedrolls, medicine, and, most importantly—our food. Up until then a drover would have to carry his own food, which usually consisted of jerked meat and other dried foods. But up until that time cattle drives—and there had been some long ones—had been through somewhat settled areas where food could be obtained. The Goodnight-Loving Trail was over vast distances of emptiness.

I’m not indicating in any way that we ate like kings. We ate a lot of beef and a lot of beans. Once in a while we might get a little fresh game, but it was mostly beef and beans, beef and beans—but to tell the truth it was probably better than a lot of folks in Texas were eating in those days.

After the cattle were rounded up, we had to get them used to trailing. Longhorns are rangy animals. They can run fast when “boogered”, and they don’t like to be driven—at least not for the first several days. That’s where an experienced hand was needed most. Once they got “lined out” and used to the trail, it wasn’t particularly hard work—dusty, tiring, and boring, yes—but generally hard. A lot of young fellows thought a cattle drive would be fun. Many as young as sixteen and even younger would try it. That’s how the name “cowboy” came about—they were just boys. Those of us with a little age and experience preferred to be called drovers.

The idea was not to get them to market as fast as possible, but as fat as possible—“fat” being a relative term when you’re talking about longhorns. Let’s just say, with as much beef as possible. So once the herd got lined out, it was the drover’s job to keep it gradually moving in the right direction, but at a pace where the cattle could graze. There were circumstances, or course, that would govern that—the availability of grass, the next watering hole, danger of Indian attacks, put generally the herd moved at a pretty slow pace. On a good day a herd would travel ten miles.

There were times, however, when all hell broke loose. Something—or nothing—would get one of the steers “boogered” and they would jump up and bolt away. And if you think a steer is clumsy and lumbering, you have never seen a yearling longhorn get moving. He can be on four feet in an instant and running so fast even the fastest horse has a hard time catching him. This was hell at any time, but double hell at night, when you rode as fast as you could to reach the lead steers, with you only light the moon or flashes of lightning. Many a good man rode off the edge of a draw to his death during a stampede. The idea in reaching the leaders was to get the herd “milling”—running in a tighter and tighter circle until it was so tight they had nowhere to go and had to stop. It would get a young heart going and damn near stop an old one!

The chuck wagon was indeed a dandy invention—and a truly Texas one. But most of the cowboy’s trade—and lingo—came from the first herders in the New World—the Spanish, and later, the Mexicans. I think I told you where the word Lariat” came from. “Stampede”, for example, came from the Spanish “estampida”. Corral, chaps, and bronco are all derived from Spanish. Even “buckaroo” comes from the Spanish “vaquero”, and ”rodeo” is Spanish for “roundup” (and pronounced ro-DAY-o in that language.) There are lots of other examples, but I’m not here to give you a language lesson.

Texas Forever--Chap 27--Day 16

2008-11-16T19:11:00.000-08:00

CHAPTER 27

We lost? Had I understood right?
The Yanks said we put up a good fight.
“There’s room” said Loving
“In Texas—no shoving.
So come home and help me and Goodnight.”

Not again! Where in the hell did these things come from? I guess it was because Limerick and I had been talking about the old days in Texas.

The old days. Had it really been less than five years?

Limerick saw me stirring and came over to check my bandage and see if I was ready for more swill. I told him my new…uh, Limerick.

“Miles, where in the hell do you get these things?”

I told him I had just been asking myself the same question. “But speaking of where things come from, I’ve got a couple of questions for you. First, I’ve known lots of Irishmen, but never one with the name Limerick. And second, how come you don’t sound Irish? You sound like a damn Yankee!”

“I’m third generation Irish in Boston—that’s why I sound like a ‘damnyankee’, as you put it—and not like some ‘Paddy’ fleeing the Famine. My grandfather knocked some Englishman to the ground with an axe handle. Not waiting around to see if he had killed the man or not—it wouldn’t have made much difference either way—he jumped on a ship headed for Amerikay, as they say. He dared not give his real name, in case he was being hunted, so he took the name of his home county—Limerick. He married an American girl and produced my father. My mother, a good Bostonian, named me John Quincy. My father, being a good Catholic added ‘Francis’ in honor of the saint. I suppose I ought to be glad he didn’t call me ‘Assisi’. God knows ‘Francis’ is bad enough.”

“I know what you mean.”

“And, Francisco,” he added, threatening me with the spoon, “if you ever call me Quincy, you will DEFINITELY be buried in Pennsylvania soil and never see Texas again!

“Yes”, he went on, “we checked out your papers when you were brought in. That’s when I found out your real name. So we have an agreement, do we not?” He paused and spoke quietly. “By the way, Dusty, as I was going through your belongings, I ran across the letter in your pocket. I’m truly sorry about your family.”

“Thanks,…John, “I muttered, then motioned for him to stop trying to feed me. The lump in my throat would not allow it. “I should have been there. I never should have gotten involved in this war.”

“I know what you mean. I enlisted back in the ‘50s because finances were tough and the army provided three squares a day and lodging. The West—particularly Texas—was something I wanted to see and the Army would pay me to see it. I never dreamed I would someday face fellow Americans—if I can call you Rebs that—across a battlefield. Were you at Fredericksburg?”

Puzzled at the change in conversation I told him that I had never been, but my wife had relatives there.

It was his turn to be puzzled. Then the light came on. “Not Fredericksburg, Texas, you knucklehead. (Do you Texans ever think of anything besides Texas?) Fredericksburg, Virginia—God, you Rebs gave it to us there.” It was his turn to grow silent with a lump in his throat. After a bit he spoke again. “That bastard Burnside kept giving the order to take the hill, and soldiers kept getting killed. God help me, I don’t know how I survived that, but it’s why I’m here today—working in the hospital. I’d rather work at saving lives than at trying to take them.”

“Is that a fact? I swear you’re trying to kill me with that slop you keep feeding me. But I hear you boys gave it back to us at Gettysburg.”

“It’s amazing. After seeing the devastation at Fredericksburg, Lee made the same mistake—ordered his men to take a well-fortified hill under insurmountable odds. They made a hell of a try, but couldn’t accomplish it. After the battle, the defenders of the hill yelled ‘Fredericksburg! Fredericksburg!’ so show the Rebels they had given them a dose of their own medicine.”

“So what’s going to happen now? Was General Lee beaten bad enough to quit?”

“If we had pursued the Rebels, possibly. But you boys had given us a pretty good drubbing, and General Meade decided to lay up a while. Too bad. If we could have stopped the Confederate retreat, the South wouldn’t have had much more to fight with.”

“You know, in Texas the firebreathers were telling us we could whip you Yanks with cornstalks.”

“They said the same thing here.” He raised up and sighed as he looked around at the wounded and dying men from both sides all around. “Pity you wouldn’t fight that way.”

“So when, providing you don’t kill me in this hospital, will I be well enough to be exchanged?”

“No exchanges—straight from Washington. As I said—for you the war is over.”

Texas Forever -- Day 15 -- Chapters 24, 25, 26

2008-11-15T12:50:00.000-08:00

CHAPTER 24

We didn’t realize it, but those were the best years of our lives. There were hard times, sure, but we had each other. It may sound corny, but that’s the way it was. I’ve never been as happy as I was then.

A fellow named Charles Goodnight saw what I did—that it was good cattle country—and moved a herd in. Before long another cattleman named Loving did the same and they eventually became partners. It used to be code between me and Klara. “Want to go into a cattle partnership?” I’d ask. The first time she was puzzled, but she soon learned that what I meant was “How about a little Goodnight-Loving?” I would wink and she would blush, but it worked because soon we had a daughter, Elizabeth Anne. Let’s see…that was after the Indian reservation had been closed, so it must have been 1857 or 58.

Charlie Goodnight, it turned out, was exactly three days younger than my brother Chuy. Only his family was allowed to call him that—and even we had “Texanized” it to “Chewy”. Everybody else called him Tex or TJ (though he never told ANYBODY what the J stood for). So Charlie and I got to be good friends. I still served with the Rangers some, and so did he. The Comanches continued to give trouble—as they would for the next twenty-five years. The federal government had established forts to protect the settlers, but in typical Washington fashion they never figured out that infantry and dragoons were pretty much useless in dealing with the highly mobile Indians of the West—especially when they went around blowing horns all the time. (The Comanches have been called the finest light cavalry the world has seen—and they WERE damn good!) Houston had figured that out a long time ago when he expanded the Rangers to fight the Indians.

Being a rancher, I dealt with the army some, and got to know some of those soldier boys. Most of were pretty good kids—though in all honesty, they weren’t all kids. Some of them were as old as me, and some older. I remember thinking at the time that I would sure hate to be pushing forty and in the army. I would live to eat those words. I also never dreamed that within a very short time I would be trying to kill boys in blue just like these. Later I often wondered if I knew any of the men I had shot.

In 1860 the Comanches had raided the settlements, and the Rangers were called to pursue and punish. In general, the Comanches knew if they rode long enough they could outlast their pursuers, but they had not before dealt with Sullivan Ross—the new captain of our outfit. There were about 60 Rangers—including me and Goodnight--we continued following the trail until we were sure they were confident they had left us behind.

The country was familiar to me. I had traveled this area with the Santa Fe Pioneers back in ’41. We found the Indians in camp on the Pease River—a tributary of the Wichita (which we had mistaken for the Red so many years before.) The Comanches had obviously though they were safe, for this was not just a camp of warriors—it included their families as well. Their canvass teepees were scattered along the river.

A lot of folks think the Indians used only buffalo hides, but by this time they were not only cooking in iron pots and using steel knives, they had adopted canvas as the building material of choice for their homes. It was much less cumbersome to cut and move, and it didn’t have to be cured like a hide. Some Indians had rifles, but they were still much more effective with traditional weapons, being able to fire several arrows from behind the far side of a horse while riding at full speed. The arrowheads, however, WERE iron. One thing a Comanche always tried to find when he raided a settlement was barrel hoops—perfect for making arrowheads and knives.

Captain Ross gave the command and we charged the camp, killing and destroying as we went. Some have criticized us for indiscriminately killing women and children, and I can only say this. To begin with, they have never seen a house or settlement after it has been raided by Comanches. Sul Ross believed the only way to beat them was by meeting on their own ground, using their own tactics. Also, in the heat of battle it is difficult to sort out the men from the women, especially in winter. And in response to that criticism I will say that when one Indian lifted a baby, the group in pursuit (of which I was a part) realized it was a woman and did not shoot. We surrounded her, hoping to capture her, with the hopes that she might be traded for a white captive.

When the battle was over, and the Indians left alive had run off, we looked closer at the woman. I noticed she had blue eyes, and I could not help but think of Cynthia Ann Parker. When I suggested as much to Goodnight, the woman slapped her chest and said “Me Cyncee Ann. Me Cyncee Ann!” As we returned to the settlements, she wept all way, clutching her baby to her breast. When she was taken captive years before, I thought it sad—and it was. I can’t imagine the terror that child must have lived through immediately following her capture. We thought we were doing her a favor by taking her back to “civilization”. In a very short while, I was to discover exactly how “civil” the white world was.

CHAPTER 25

By this time it was obvious that the United States was heading for trouble. Actually, it had been obvious for a long time. Now you can argue over whether the issue was slavery or states’ right. You can argue over whether to call it the Civil War, the War Between the States, the War of Northern Aggression or the War of the Rebellion. You can argue, but not with me.

What I did seems crazy to me now. As a matter of fact, it seemed crazy to me shortly after I did it, but there was way out—no honorable way, at any rate. I was in Golconda—or Palo Pinto, as it had been renamed upon the organization of Palo Pinto county—and everyone was talking about secession. Personally I agreed with Ol’ Sam Houston, who was now governor—or had been until he refused to back secession. Sam, though definitely a slaveholder, was staunchly for the Union, like his protégé Andy Jackson. If we must secede, he felt, then we should go back to being a Republic and stay out of the Confederacy. But the “Hero of San Jacinto”, who had faithfully served Texas as General, President, Senator, and Governor, was called a traitor and thrown out of office.

Anyway, I was in the county seat and some spellbinder was on the courthouse steps recruiting. “Any true Texan”, he invoked, “would join the army and defend her against the invader!” I got caught up in the oratory, and signed up. Bad enough that I signed up to fight when I wasn’t even real sure where I stood on the issue. Bad enough that I would leave a wife and family for the army. Bad enough that I was pushing forty. But why in the hell would a man who could “ride like a Mexican, trail like an Indian, shoot like a Tennessean, and fight like the devil"…a man who had practically lived a-horseback…a man who had fought with the finest mounted organized force in the world…why would I join the INFANTRY?”

When I told Mama, she cried—but she cried at almost anything since Jesses’ death. Monica was astounded that I had joined the Infantry. “At least Addy had the sense to join the Cavalry,” she said.

“Don’t rub it in.” I told her. I liked Addison, but irked me that this farmer would be riding while I would be walking.

“What does Klara say?” Moni asked me.

“She doesn’t know, yet.” I picked up Josephine, who was a baby when Jesse died. She was missing her two front teeth. Moni and Addy also had a boy—Uriel (who thankfully was called “Bud”)—who was barely walking. And she had another on the way. I was grateful, at least, that Klara was not in a family way—as far as I knew. “I’m headed home now—thought I’d stop by here on the way and let you know.”

Monica and Mama were crying when I kissed them goodbye. Josie wouldn’t give me akiss, but I gave her a quick one on the cheek, and a big squeeze. I told Bud to take care of “Little Sis”, but he just grinned and waved, not having a clue what I was talking about.

I rode home slowly, trying to figure out how to tell Klara. I needn’t have worried. Some excited bastard had gone through the countryside yelling about how the Palo Pinto boys would “whip them Yanks with cornstalks” when the real fighting broke out. He had come by our place and told Klara before I could.

She was standing in the doorway when I got home. John stood on one side of her with p-ride in his eyes. “Where’s your uniform Pa?” he asked me, before anything else could be said. Bettie just hung onto her Ma’s apron. Klara was not a—most German’s weren’t—but this apparently had proven too much for her. Here eyes were red and her cheeks were flushed. But her crying had been replaced by anger.

She lapse into her native “Deutsch”. I heard an occasional “dumkopf”, and “Gott im Himmel”, but most I didn’t know and didn’t want to. Occasionally she lapsed back into English—when she really wanted me to hear. “If you HAD to set yourself up to be killed, why didn’t you stay here and fight Comanches like Charlie Goodnight? You don’t see him traipsing off to the east for ‘the honor of Texas’.” And then it was back to German.

I have always performed as bravely as I could. I have been true to my word. I have faced Comanche arrows and Mexican muskets. I have nearly starved on the plains and in prison. But I have never—NEVER had my heart fail me as it did at that moment. So help me I wanted to grab Klara, John and Bettie and run west as fast and as far as I could. Away from Palo Pinto County, away from the South…hell, I would even have run away from Texas. But I had given my word. How could I face my family after going back on my word?

If I had known what it would cost, I would have found a way.

.. .. ..

I never saw Klara cry—not out loud. I had two weeks before we mustered and marched away. I held her close every night. I made arrangements for them to go live with John and Caroline, but she refused.

“We are a family”, she said, “and we have a home. It is right here, and here we will stay. The army will need beef and we will raise beef for the army, and when you come home from playing soldier, we will be rich and be a family again.” How could I help but love that beautiful fraulein. (Yes, I know that technically, she was a ‘frau’ but she always my ‘fraulein’.)

On the day I left she did have her hair up. She had taken it down the night before so that I could again touch in all its fullness. It had not lost one bit of its “full-moon” brilliance, and as it waved in the Texas wind, I swore that image would get me through.

John rode with me to town, so he could bring back my horse. A thousand times I cursed myself for joining the infantry—but that was nothing to the number of times I cursed myself afterwards. In town, I gathered with the men. I tried to give John a final hug, but he felt it was “unsoldierly”. He was so proud of his Pa. I shook his hand and before he mounted up, I rubbed his head—flaxen-haired, just like his mother. I vowed to keep that in my memory as well.

A departing soldier always knows that it might be the last time he sees his loved ones. I was no different, but I never dreamed it would turn out the way it did.

CHAPTER 26

I could tell you about the War, but you can read that in other places. Unlike that eager young “Paul Revere” in Palo Pinto County I knew it would take more than cornstalks to whip the Yankees, but I had no idea it would take four long years and so much death. None of us did.

So I woke up in a field hospital in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, with some smart-ass Yankee patching up my wound and telling me the War was over—for me. But there was something in the way he talked that, while irritating as hell, sounded familiar.

I guessed he was not much younger than me (but way younger than I felt) so later, when he was feeding me, I asked him, “Say, son, where’re you from?”

He replied that he had been raised in Boston. When I pressed him further, he told me he was regular army, and had served about five years before hostilities had broken out.

“As a matter of fact, Johnny Reb,” he told me” you and I have something in common. We have both served under Robert E. Lee--you in Pennsylvania, and I in Texas.” And as an afterthought, “Now isn’t that strange?”

“Hell, man,” I said, and tried to sit up before I fell again in excruciating pain.

“Take it easy, Johnny,” he warned. “You’ve had a nasty wound. If you really want to die, you may yet get your wish.”

I recovered enough from the searing pain to ask through gritted teeth, “You ever been at Fort Belknap?”

“Stationed there—the 2nd US Dragoons--right before we got orders to move out and leave it with you fellows. You know the place?”

“What’s your name, Yank?”

“Don’t laugh, Reb. Your fate is in my hands—more or less.

I looked eyed him narrowly, “It ain’t Limerick, is it?”

He dropped the spoon on me and looked at me closely. “Who the hell are YOU?” he demanded.

“Hell, Limerick, I’m Dusty Miles. The U.S. Army used to feed my beef to you boys in blue.”

“Good God, Miles. I remember you--the drover. er, the stockman, I guess. Yes, good God, you and…who were those other two fellows—the ones with the odd names?”

“Goodnight and Loving, you mean, and we call ourselves ‘ranchers’. But I wouldn’t be talking about odd names if I were you!”

“What in hell are you doing so far from your beloved Texas?”

He said “Texas” like it tasted nasty or something, and it probably was something like that. Most of those soldiers didn’t care much for the West.

“Limerick, you don’t know how many times I have asked that myself. Say, have you had the chance to ride any camels in Mr. Lincoln’s army?”

“Ha! You remember me telling you about that? How I was in on the early experiments with camels in Texas?

“Hell, who could forget it, Limerick? You with that fancy-ass Boston accent telling us how you rode one of Jeff Davis’s camels from Camp Verde to Fort Bliss, scaring every horse and rider within twenty-five miles.”

“I don’t have much use for Mr. Davis,” Limerick said, “But he was right about the camels. They traveled farther, carried more, and on less water than horses. And they would eat any damned thing that grew, including that ubiquitous Texas prickly pear. If you Rebs hadn’t started this war, we would have had the Indians whipped by now, using camels.”

“Don’t blame me for this damned war,” I told him. “And don’t expect me to give up my horse for no damned hump, neither.”

“Yes,” he said. “I’m sure you were quite dashing charging up Little Round Top on your steed.”

“You smart aleck Yankee son-of-a bitch. You don’t have to rub it in.”

He grinned and I could tell he took it in the spirit I meant it. By this time, I had eaten about all I could stand of whatever swill he was shoving in my mouth, and I was worn out.

He checked my wound and clucked his tongue. “Just think,” he said. “If you had been on horseback, this ball would have hit you in the knee. Rest, now. I’m sure we’ll have lots of time to talk later.”

Neither he nor I could imagine how right he was.

Texas Forever -- Day 14 -- Chapters 22, 23

2008-11-14T19:30:00.000-08:00

CHAPTER 22

If anything good could come out of such disasters as the Black Bean Incident and the Texan Santa Fe Expedition, it is that it turned world opinion in favor of Texas against Mexico. In Texas, we weren’t as concerned with what the world thought of us as what the United States did.. Houston had always looked toward annexation, and it became apparent that Texas would have a rough time making it on her own. We had loads of natural resources, we just couldn’t cash in on them. Personally, I didn’t give a damn about the United States. I had never been an American. Papa would talk sometimes about his childhood, and I might have warm feelings for South Carolina, but I was a Texan, through and through, and was loyal to the Republic.

I don’t think Mexico really wanted Texas either—they just didn’t like the idea of having a large piece of property jerked away. The expeditions against us were more of a punitive nature than any real attempt to get the property back. Santa Anna had been disgraced, and he couldn’t stand it—but his high-handed ways were to work against him. Texas’s friends in the U.S. began to work toward annexation, and we were ready.

One of the biggest drawbacks to admitting Texas to the Union was the fact that she was a slave state, and the abolitionists were against it. Having grown up around slaves I guess I just couldn’t see the harm in it, though my period of captivity in Mexico sure made me see that chains and cramped quarters weren’t much fun. I hate to admit it now, but I guess I—like a lot of other folks—just had a hard time admitting that colored folks were as good as others.

Mama was dead-set against slavery, but it didn’t come up much at home. I guess she loved Papa and knew she couldn’t change him, so they had agreed to disagree on the subject and by the time I came along it was never discussed. But now, Mama had to face it. With Papa gone, she had inherited all of his property which included his slaves. If she could have had her way, she would have freed them all, but there were a couple of problems with that. One was that for the most part, they had no marketable skills off the plantation. The other—and bigger—problem was that it was illegal to manumit slaves in the Republic.

Her solution was to sell the whole shebang—plantation, slaves, buildings—even our home. As the widow of a veteran, she could claim a headright of property on the frontier. Of course, she couldn’t work it herself, but she felt like between her and her children and their spouses, it could be managed. By now, one of the girls was married, and the second was a-fixing to be. I had even thought about it myself.

I had begun calling on Klara. To begin with, I used the excuse of wanting to see Bachman, but I didn’t fool anybody long. If he wasn’t there, Klara would invite me in fro coffee and..well, it would have been unneighborly of me to refuse! And I must say, I didn’t mind looking at that gal one bit. She was fun to talk with, too. She wasn’t simpering like a lot of the “belles”, she wasn’t rough like the frontier gals, and she wasn’t as full of vinegar as the senoritas. She was different. (Stubborn as hell, I admit, but that could be an advantage in Texas.) I had found lots of girls pretty, but this was one I knew I wanted to build a life with.

But it was no time to be building a life. Texas was in turmoil. I never knew when I might be called on to defend her. The Comanches were on the warpath—hell, they had BEEN on the warpath ever since the Council House fight--and the Rangers were almost constantly needed. Once, a few years earlier, they had raided all the way to the coast! (I could never quite get Cynthia Ann Parker out of my mind. I wondered if she was even still alive, though once in a while you’d hear a report that she was—but she had become as savage as her captors.)

Speaking of fighting Comanches, I really ought to tell you about when I got my first Colt revolver. Now that was something. About a dozen or so of us Rangers were called to accompany Captain Jack Hays on a search for Indians. The trail led us to the Pedernales. We had recently come into possession of some Colt “Patersons” and were anxious to try them out. We spotted the Indians and formed in battle formation. The Indians—and there were about eighty of them—charged us. We quickly dismounted and fired our muzzle-loading rifles. We then remounted. This was how it had always been, and the Indians fully expected us to remount and ride to a safer place where we could reload.

This time was different. We remounted and drew our new five-shot Colt revolvers and headed into the body of Indians. “Powder burn ‘em, boys,” Captain Jack yelled, meaning to charge and fire at close range. (The Comanches loved close battle—it allowed them to “count coup” with their war clubs—but this time they were surprised!). Looking back, it was almost funny to think of how their eyes got big when we charged and were still able to shoot. We proved that day the devastating firepower of the Colt revolver. It was—and is—a fine weapon.

…

I kept seeing Klara, and she wanted to get married, but I kept putting it off. For one thing, I wasn’t sure that Bachman, being her guardian, would approve. (Later he told me that there were lots of times he came in to find my horse tied outside, so he just stayed away a bit longer. Sometimes he would take Henry so Klara and I could have some time alone.) But mainly it was just that the times were so unsettled. I guess maybe I was afraid that being married would make me more cautious and less of a good soldier if the time came.

So Mama sold out. She said she wanted to get away from slavery and from the threat of Mexican invasions—but I really think the old place was too painful for her. Her parents, a child, and now her husband were buried here. She wanted a new life.

She filed a claim in Navarrro County. (I thought it appropriate that they would name the county after Jose Navarro. He had been on the Santa Fe Expedition, and had suffered more than most of us, as Santa Anna had resented that a man he considered a “paisano”, or countryman, be supportive of Texas. (As far as I was concerned, most people didn’t even know I had Spanish blood--Mama was very light complected and had blue eyes—which I inherited. Besides, I was a lowly private—not a leader like Senor Navarro.)

As a Ranger and veteran, I too had a right to file a claim, but since I was not ready to settle down, I decided to wait—there might be better land further out there, somewhere—something more suited to ranching. I really was not interested in farming. I was not really into politics either, but wherever you went, folks were talking about annexation. The Mexicans made a last-ditch effort and recognized the Republic, the Brits were against it, and that made the U.S. interested, so finally they agreed to it. Lacking just a few days being ten years, Texas President Anson Jones declared “The Republic of Texas is no more.”

So it was now the STATE of Texas, not the Republic. We could settle down to business. The federal government in Washington would send its soldiers to protect us from Indians and Mexicans and we would all live in peace and harmony.

Well, not quite

CHAPTER 23

The federal government was all too ready to accept the boundaries that Texas had established for herself—probably because the land included Santa Fe—but Mexico insisted that the boundary should be the Neches. Zachary Taylor advanced toward the Rio Grande, so to save face, the Mexican Army crossed that river and engaged the American army. President Polk insisted that was American soil, and the fight was on. Captain Jack and other Rangers had been taken in as a special force of scouts and guerillas and I knew I had to go. I hated to leave Mama and Klara, but I was needed on the march to Mexico City. I had been there.

There has been a lot written about the Mexican War, so I’ll only mention a couple of things. First, the Rangers did their job well—maybe too well. Many of us had been in Mexico as prisoners and we had no use for the Mexican guerillas. It was said that Jack Hays took no prisoners. After Goliad, I can’t say as I blame him.

Sam Walker was killed in Mexico. He had been with us at the battle on the Pedernales when we proved the Colts, and later went to show Sam Colt how the weapon could be improved. (Colt named the his new improved model the “Walker”.) He had also been with Papa on the Mier Expedition and fought like a tiger. He was a good man.

A new song had become popular in the United States—or really new words put to an old song. All the Americans were singing it. It started like this: “Green grow the lilacs.” The Mexicans heard us sing it so much they began to call us the “Green Grows”—which was shortened to “Gringos”.

When the Mexicans were defeated, I returned home. In the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, which ended the war, Mexico ceded all of its claims on Texas clear to the Pacific Ocean. More importantly, the Rio Grande was recognized as the southern boundary of Texas. Two other significant details that came about—though I can’t remember whether it was with annexation, the war, or something else—was that a huge chunk of Texas, including Santa Fe was carved off, in order to settle her debts. The Lone Star State, however, retained the ownership of all public lands. It didn’t seem like much at the time, but it would prove to be pivotal.

…

Mama was doing fine--Chuy was about twelve and making a good hand. Monica had married her beau, Addison “Addy” Ritchie, and they were helping farm Mama’s place. Bachman had stayed in DeWitt County and married Addy’s sister Caroline and they were starting a brood. He had taken a job as school teacher, and doing a good job of it. So Klara and I tied the knot.

I claimed land along the Brazos for my homestead—land that was owed to me as a citizen of the Republic, as a Ranger, and as a veteran. I built a cabin and corrals and set up ranching.

To begin with, we were in constant danger of Comanche raids. We lost some cattle, lost some horses, but the raids were at night and we were never molested personally. It seems like the Indians could tell when we were beginning to get a little bit ahead, for that’s when they would strike, and we were back at square one financially. Mama helped us some—she still had some money left from the sale of the plantation—but mostly it was just us.

I was in heaven, though. I was my own boss, living free on some of the most beautiful land in Texas. And Klara was my wife. I truly felt that no man could ask for more. She worked as hard as I did—harder really—but she never lost her beauty. She always wore that moon-colored hair wrapped around her head in the German fashion, but when she would take it down and let it fall in all it’s glory….

We were just a couple of hard-working energetic kids and before long Klara had one “in the oven”, which put a blush on her cheeks that made her even more beautiful. When the boy came, I would have liked to name him after Papa, but none of his names seemed to fit. We tossed around the idea of naming him Sam Houston, or John Hays, and then the answer became obvious—John Bachman Miles—after her cousin-guardian, and my best friend.

“Hell of a thing to do to a helpless kid,” Bachman told us when he came by to see the new addition, but he couldn’t hide his pride. Caroline had given birth to a son in the second year of their marriage, but the boy did not live long. I think it gave them pleasure—and the courage to try again—to see Klara and I with a baby. At any rate it wasn’t much more than a year later that she gave birth again—this time to a girl they named Catherine.

Life was good, but tragedy always seemed to be lurking around the corner. Monica and Addy had a boy about a year before we did, named Jesse. When the boy was about four years old he contracted typhoid. Just a year or two earlier, a doctor had moved to Golconda, the nearest town, and through his hard work and something else—God’s grace maybe, I don’t know—the boy pulled through. He was very weak and could eat only soft foods. The doctor strictly warned the family about letting him eat anything coarse.

Now Mama was an excellent cook. She had learned the ways of her people, and of the Southerners that made up most of the white population of Texas. (Ol’ Joe had even taught her how to cook carp, but thankfully, she never did!) Growing up the oldest, I personally preferred her tortillas, but the younger ones of the family preferred her cornbread, and I must say it was larrupin’. Little Jess, in his young years had developed a taste for it as well. After his illness, he tired of the mush he was forced to eat, and began to beg Mama for some cornbread. (Monica was a hard worker like Klara, and she and Addy worked the fields while Mama cooked.)

Mama was a most tender-hearted woman. She hated to see any of her brood suffer. She knew what the doctor’s orders were, but Jesse was getting stronger every day, and he had been so good to always eat his mush. As the tears rolled down his cheeks, her heart broke and her good nature overruled her good judgment. She gave Little Jess a small piece of the golden cornbread. The smile on his face was like hearing the angels sing, and Mama was happy that such a simple gesture could bring such pleasure to them both.

By that evening, the boy was gravely ill. By the next morning he was passing blood and the doctor was called for. “This boy must have had some improper food,” he declared. “He was on the mend. The diet I prescribed must have been deviated from.” It was then that Mama broke down and confessed that she had fed the child a tiny bit of cornbread. “Then you have succeeded in killing your grandchild,” was the doctor’s retort. “There’s nothing I can do here.” He snapped his bag shut and left. I could easily have killed the arrogant son of a bitch.

Mama was devastated. Monica and Addy were heartbroken, but they, more charitable than I, saw it as God’s will—that many children died of typhoid, and they had been given a few extra days with their beloved son. I couldn’t understand it myself. Why would God save a child from a disease that normally killed—only to have that child die from the well-meaning act of a beloved grandmother? It didn’t make any sense to me then. It doesn’t make any sense to me now. But neither can I understand why a beautiful woman and her son would be savagely killed trying to live a peaceful life, while a thousand miles away her husband was killing other people, yet could not die himself.

Texas Forever -- Day 12 -- Chapters 20, 21

2008-11-12T19:51:00.000-08:00

CHAPTER 20

“Dusty! Wie gehts?”

“Now, don’t start with your damned Dutch, Johann. I didn’t come for no German lesson.”

“Vas…uh, I mean, what? Oh--sorry, Dusty. I’ve been around my countrymen too long, and I tend to speak Deutsch…er, German, without realizing it.” Bachman had gotten pretty good at English—way better than I was with German. Generally, you couldn’t even pick up much of an accent unless he had been around some other Dutchmen and then he tended to sound like he just got off the boat.

“What do you mean ‘countrymen’?” I asked him. He told me that more and more Germans had begun to move to Texas. They had been coming to one degree or another since before independence, but afterwards they really ramped it up. Bachman told me that Germany was way overcrowded, and Texas offered new opportunities. He had written different members of his family still in “der Vaterland” and some of them had taken him up on his offer to help them get adjusted in Texas.

“So there’s gonna be a whole mess of Bachman’s in Texas, huh? I mean, as if the ones we got ain’t enough,” I kidded him. John was good that way—he could take a joke. Some of them Dutchmen would get mad as hell.

“Not to worry, Francis.” He knew I hated to be called that. “This ‘mess’ is not a Bachman mess. These are Weinheimers!”

“What the hell is a Wine Hammer?” I asked him. Before he could respond, the door behind him opened. A head peeped out then mumbled something that sounded like “bitter” and ducked back in.

“No, Klara, please, er, bitte,” he said to the door. Then to me, “I want you to meet my vetter…I mean cousin.”

The door opened and in walked the prettiest thing I had ever seen. Growing up around Spanish gals, I always figured I’d be trapped some day by a brown eyed, raven haired senorita. But when that Dutch cousin of Bachman’s walked in…well, I was just speechless. She wasn’t a small gal like the senoritas tended to be. She was tall and well, big-boned I guess you’d say, because she wasn’t fat, no sir. She had the prettiest smile and dimples that never quite went away. Her eyes were blue as…well, the closest thing I could compare them to in my own experience was the waters off Mexico, but they made me think of mountain lakes—even though I had never seen any. And she wasn’t bashful. She looked right at me—like she was every bit as good as I was, and like she had every intention of staying in Texas and making a life here. But her hair—her hair was long and wound into thick braids, and wrapped around up on her head. And it was the color of the full moon. As a matter of fact, that’s exactly what I thought of—that round smiling face with those bright blue eyes and those braids winding around her head—it made me think of the full moon. I can’t honestly say she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, but she was striking. And it struck me that here was one Dutch gal I would like to known better.

“Klara, this is my friend Dusty Miles,” Bachman said slowly and deliberately, and I figured then that the young lady, like her cousin, was probably better at English than I was at German. “Dusty, this is my cousin Klara Weinheimer.”

Now, frontier women will just stick out their hand like a man, so I stuck mine out. She lowered her gaze a bit and bowed a little, and stared at my hand, then at her cousin, then at me, then back at the hand. I realized I had embarrassed her somewhat, and myself a whole bunch. “Dust-tee,” she said thoughtfully. “Why would someone name you after dirt?”

She certainly had a direct manner. John was somewhat embarrassed by her question, so now we were all thoroughly blushing. He explained that her mother—his aunt--had died in Germany and her father had brought Klara, who was seventeen, and her younger brother Heinrich to Texas to start a new life. Unfortunately, her father had taken sick on the ocean voyage and died shortly before the ship reached port. Klara and Heinrich were devastated, naturally, and terrified to be in this wild new country. John had learned all of this when he met them at the dock, so what could he do but take them in? They had been studying English before they left, and being young, had picked it up pretty quickly.

“But Heinrich,” he explained, “had practiced onboard ship, and his vocabulary is, uh, unusually broad for a thirteen-year-old boy.”

“For a Dutchman, maybe,” I said. “Probably not for a Texan.”

As if on cue, the door opened again, and in walked a tow-headed boy with a dimpled, cherubic smile.

“What in the ever-loving hell is going on here,” he said. “And who is this moony-eyed son of a bitch?”

Bachman was stunned. Klara was still trying to figure out what he said, so I just remarked, “Well, one thing about it John. I understood every word he said!” Then turning to the boy, I stuck out my hand. “Jackson Miles is the name. You can call me Dusty.”
He grasped my hand in a firm handshake. “Heinrich Weinheimer. But you can call me Inky.”

“Inky?”

“Ja..I mean yes. On ship I was always curious about the way the sailors did things, so I asked questions. They started calling me ‘inquisitive little bastard’…but eventually we became friends and it was shortened to Inky’.”

Now Bachman was no prude, and could cuss with the best—in two languages. (I never knew what those German words were, but they seemed to capture the spirit of the thing better than the English and Spanish I could cuss in.) But hearing his young cousin talk this way was a bit much. “I think we’ll just call you ‘Henry’—it sounds much more, uh, TEXAN!” That pleased the boy and he assented.

I stayed for a while and told my tale of the Santa Fe expedition. Klara and Henry were spellbound. Even Bachman was impressed to hear about the Llano and the Jornada del Muerte and Perote. He caught me up a little bit more on the situation in Texas. It looked like there was going to be more trouble with Mexico. This whole thing about Santa Fe had really stirred the pot. Santa Anna claimed we had invaded Mexico. Texas and her allies were pretty hot over the treatment of the prisoners. Vasquez had already invaded, and there were likely to be others. Houston was trying to figure out he should respond with an empty treasury. Some wanted the United States to annex Texas and some didn’t. It was the same in the U. S.. Texas was a slave state and the abolitionists were against annexation. On the other hand, it would add a huge chunk of land to the growing nation.

It was serious talk, but every time I glanced at Klara and saw those captivating dimples, and that beautiful hair, and those intense eyes as she concentrated on the conversation, I knew the only claim I cared about was for her affection.

If there’s one thing you can say about the times, they sure as hell weren’t boring!

CHAPTER 21

Even as we were speaking, Mexican General Woll was moving on San Antonio, which he captured briefly, then retreated. (These small excursions only proved that Mexico had no business with Texas. They couldn’t hold on to it if they got it.) It made all of us mad, but Papa seemed to take it personally. I think two things combined to forge his animosity. One was the way we were treated in New Mexico. There’s something about a first-born son, and Papa took it as a personal affront that his boy had been treated so badly. (The fact that I volunteered, that the Texas leadership—so grossly uninformed--was largely to blame, didn’t matter to him.)

But I really think he brooded on the fact that he had been the one to capture Santa Anna, that it had been in his power to kill him, but that he had been released to create more mischief. (Again, the fact that Santa Anna alive was more valuable than Santa Anna dead—at least in the days after San Jacinto—was never comprehended by him. All he could focus on is what grief that “cowardly son of a bitch” had caused.)

President Houston had had enough, and Texans were demanding retaliation. Texas could no longer sit idly by while Mexico continued to send armies to invade. Ol’ Sam sent out a call for volunteers to join with the militia under Alexander Somervell to make a punitive expedition against Mexico. Papa answered the call—he knew Somervell a bit, having served in the army with him. He was over forty by this time and still had the plantation and a growing family, but he felt compelled to go. I was still recuperating—and had had my fill of adventure for a while. Chuy wasn’t old enough and Papa felt that a Miles had to be there if Texas was being defended. You would hope a guy that age would have better sense, I thought. (Many times that line came back to haunt me as I marched with the 4th Texas in the Confederate Army.)

The army was undersupplied, and didn’t make a very impressive showing against the foe. Eventually, Somervell commanded that the army disperse and the men go home. For many, those words fell on deaf ears.

William Fisher was one who was not ready to give up. He was an old friend from Gonzales, and I guess Papa would have followed him anywhere. Fisher was elected leader of those firebreathers who stayed and attacked the Mexican city of Mier. There the Texans, after fierce house to house fighting, were tricked into surrendering. Originally, Santa Anna ordered the entire force executed. Cooler heads prevailed, reasoning that the outcry of world opinion would be intense. The dictator “relented”—after a fashion—and ordered that only ten percent of the men be executed. The decision would be by lottery. Every man would be forced to reach into a jar full of beans and draw one. Those who drew white beans lived. Those who drew black ones faced the firing squad. The rest were imprisoned.

William “Bigfoot” Wallace had accompanied Fisher on that ill-fated trip. He reported that he survived because he noticed that the white beans seemed to be larger, so when he reached into the jar he felt for the biggest bean he could find and drew out life. Prison was hell, he reported, but he was alive. I heard his tale when he returned from prison. He was a close friend of Bachman’s, and came by to tell of his ordeal. When we were introduced his eyes got misty. He put his huge hand on my shoulder. “Frank Miles was as fine a man as I have ever been around. He fought for Texas at San Jacinto, and he fought for Texas at Mier. He produced a fine Texas family. And when the time came, he died like a man…for Texas!”

Papa had drawn a black bean.

Texas Forever -- Day 11 -- Chapters 18, 19

2008-11-11T19:31:00.000-08:00

CHAPTER 18

The aim of the Texan-Santa Fe expedition was twofold. To being with, Texas had claimed all of the area to the Rio Grande—which included Santa Fe—after San Jacinto. While Texas was in no way able to govern the area, Lamar hoped to try. Ol’ Sam himself wasn’t against the idea—just the timing. If the New Mexicans wanted to be governed by Texas—and there was evidence they did—we were ready.

Secondly—and this was probably the more realistic goal—Texas wanted in on the Santa Fe trade. If the New Mexicans wanted to stay under the thumb of Mexico City, that would be fine, as long as Texas got her share of the Texas trade. It wasn’t a bad idea—it was still a good bit less distance to Santa Fe from Indianola, Texas’s most important port, than from Independence, Missouri.

I don’t think I’m cutting it too fine to say that many of us—if not all—had visions of entering Santa Fe with flags flying, a band playing, people cheering, and senoritas flirting. After things had gotten so tough, we may have modified our visions to entering the city quietly, getting a good meal, maybe a taste of “Taos Lightning”, and there would still be the senoritas. I can assure you that none of us had visions of not entering the city at all. Of being arrested and marched under guard to Mexico where we—those who survived the march—would rot in prison. But that is exactly what happened.

We were tricked into surrendering our arms, though in all honesty we could not have fought our way out. What could we have done? Gone back across the Llano, fighting Indians and starvation the whole way? Some blame Captain Lewis for the whole disaster, and there’s no question that he did betray us, but I place the blame on Lamar and the other organizers who understudied and oversold the whole project.

Anyway, after getting General MacLeod and the rest across the plains, we were all arrested and taken prisoner by the Mexican army under Governor Armijo. San Miguel—a little village several miles from Santa Fe was as close as we got to our intended destination. Our weapons and prized possessions were taken from us—sometimes even our boots and our hats! We were still suffering from hunger and the rigors of our journey as we were rounded up and marched toward Mexico.

At each town, the resident would come out to see us go by. Sometimes they threw things or jeered. Some took pity on us. I’ll never forget the first time one of the women broke from the ranks, rushed towards me, and placed tortillas in my hand. With that kind gesture, and the word “Pobrecito”, I admit I broke down and bawled. Here I considered myself a man, was over 700 miles from home, but when that senora did that, all I could think of was my mother, and how many times I had heard her use that word—though often in a gentle mocking way that Anglo mothers may say “poor little thing” to child that feels put upon. A Mexican soldier ran up and pushed her away, knocking the tortillas out of my hand. Though I was starving, I don’t think I could have eaten them anyway with that lump in my throat.

We suffered many indignities on our way to Mexico City. Armijo had given orders that if any man died on the trail, his ears would be cut off to prove that he had not escaped. But I would be unfair if I did not recount that we were also treated well at times—for prisoners of war. I know many of my fellow Texans have nothing good to say about Mexicans or people of Spanish descent, but I can assure you they are like people everywhere. When “men” like Santa Anna and Armijo get into power it leaves a bad taste for sure, but there were many gentlemen among the Mexican officers and men who had authority over us. (Even during the War for Texan Independence many of Santa Anna’s generals attempted to persuade the despot that captured Texans should be treated humanely as prisoners of war, but he would not listen.)

Almost 2000 miles we were marched, from near Santa Fe to Vera Cruz, where we were placed in Perote Prison—the same place Austin had been incarcerated aver two dozen years before. It was a horrible place—whatever horrors the word “dungeon” conjures up, with the exception of out-and-out torture, was at Perote. I tried to keep my mind active, even as my body was wasting away, but I won’t bore you with any more doggerel. I’ve forgotten most of it, anyhow.

Some guys didn’t make it—they died in New Mexico along the “Jornada del Muerte”, or in the Mexican deserts, or in prison. Falconer, being British, obtained an early release through the demand of Her Majesty Queen Vicky’s influence. Kendall also had important friends and became an advocate for the rest of us. Both of those fellow wrote accounts of the whole ordeal, and if you want to know more, I recommend you read them, because I’ve said about all I’m going to about it.

Thanks to pressure from the American and British governments, most of the rest of us got out of prison in April of 1842. We were shipped to New Orleans, then to Texas. I vowed I would never leave the Republic of Texas again—a promise I couldn’t keep.

CHAPTER 19

I made my way back home. I had written and said I was coming, but I didn’t know when. When I walked into the house, Mama was fixing tortillas. She had gotten a little plumper while I had been gone. I said “Mama, estoy en casa.” She whirled to face me, rushed to kiss me, and kept saying “Pobrecito! Pobrecito!” and damned if I didn’t start bawling again. Moni and Mali and Lupe came from somewhere and everyone started talking and crying at once. Moni was now 16 and a beautiful young woman—engaged to a local farmer but putting off the wedding until I could get home. Mali and Lupe would be after the boys pretty soon themselves. From outside came a little six-year old terror, who was already showing signs of taking more after the “Independence” part of his name than the “Jesus” part. I think he had grown a foot in the time I had been gone.

How long had I been gone? Let’s see we left in June ’41 and it was now May…what? Surely not 1842? Hadn’t I been gone about ten years? It sure seemed like it. When Papa came in, he looked like he had aged that long for sure. If possible, I think my ordeal had been harder on him than on me. There was something there that had not been before—a seething, a brooding. He had developed a hatred for Santa Anna and the Mexican government that allowed him to stay in power.

“We should have killed that black-hearted cowardly son-of-a bitch when we had the chance after San Jacinto,” he said many times. “If I had known that’s who that sniveling prisoner was, I would have killed him myself.” I can’t say I cared much for the so-called “Napoleon of the West” myself, but there was something unhealthy about Papa’s anger and I figured no good could come of it. I was right.

…..

“How’s that old Dutchman Bachman?” I asked as soon as the family had had a good look at me—and I had had my fill of Mama’s cooking.

“El es bueno,” Mama said. “He has asked about you often. Did you hear that San Antonio was captured in the spring by General Vasquez? Dios mio, I pray he is no relation! Anyway, he and some Mexican soldiers invaded and attacked San Antonio. Some of the Rangers—Bachman among them—resisted, but there was not enough of them and they had to give it up. Vasquez could not hold onto it, though—he was only making a show.”

Papa chimed in, “Scared the hell out of people though. Sam Houston—you know he’s back in office now—got worried about the government being in Austin out on the frontier and ordered the archives be taken back to Houston. This didn’t set will with the “Austinites”--or whatever the hell you call them—and refused. Damn near started a war over it. Don’t know as how it’s over yet.”

“Well, I think I’ll go over and see Bachman. Looks like we can compare notes on what it’s like to be humiliated by Mexican soldiers.” It wasn’t far to walk, but damn it, I had been walking for what seemed like years, so I took Papa’s horse—saddled out front—and rode him over.

It was a short trip--I did not expect it to change my life.

Texas Forever--Chaps 15, 16, 17--Day 9

2008-11-09T16:27:00.000-08:00

CHAPTER 15

We started in late June—too late to be crossing the plains, as some of the waterholes would be dried up, and in the northern reaches the grass would be dead when we got there. But it couldn’t be helped. There was delay after delay. Most of us were under twenty-five and I was by no means the youngest one on the trip. Bachman had weaseled out. Well, not really. He had taken sick and just wasn’t well enough to go. I visited him before I left and really rubbed it in. When I returned, it was his turn.

It started out as a lark, even though there was lots of work. We soldiers were expected to work by smoothing out the trail, cutting the river banks, removing rocks and stumps, etc. As there was no real soldiering to do this early in the trip, I didn’t mind. As we traveled north, we came across the site of Bird’s Creek Battle and I thought again of Bachman and how rough he said that fight was. I had never really fought Indians, but I was pretty sure I could handle myself when the time came—if it came.

I guess I should have seen the signs of disaster early on, when we started throwing away supplies and eating up the beef. And then there was the disparaging of General MacLeod. I can’t say I liked him much myself, but a commander had better have the respect of his men—especially if they’re volunteers—and MacLeod didn’t. I think he got the job because he was Lamar’s brother-in-law or some kind of kin. Of course, that doesn’t make him a bad leader—but it doesn’t increase his standing in the eyes of his men, either. I had signed on for the duration, though, and I was young, tough, and ready for anything. How bad could it get?

Pretty bad, as it turned out. We were heading straight north on somebody’s recommendation—I don’t remember whose. The idea was to strike the Red River, then follow it west to it’s headwaters in the mountains of New Mexico. There were a couple of problems with this. First, no one had been from Austin to the Red. Oh, I think somebody had claimed he had, but he was pretty fuzzy on the details. The other problem is that the Red does not rise in the mountains of New Mexico. This was one of those suppositions for which the Anglo world is so famous. The Mexican-Spanish-Indian world knew it didn’t rise in the mountains, but who was listening to them? It really wasn’t an issue, though, for by the time we stumbled onto the Red River, we were too petered out to do much about it.

As we headed north, we hit what is now called the Cross Timbers. It is a patch of woods and hills separated from similar areas to the east. It fell to the soldiers to make a road for the wagons through it, and I can tell you it was rough country! This delayed us even more and the wagons suffered. The Brit Falconer took lunar observations and figured us a couple hundred miles east of where we should be. He wasn’t confident in his findings, though, so they were disregarded. The thing is, we could have avoided this whole mess of woods, hills, and rocks, if we had stuck to the high ground between the Brazos and the Colorado.

While I’m talking about Falconer, I’ve got to tell you this. He wasn’t all that old—40 or so—when he came to Texas, which was just in time for this trip, but to my young eyes he seemed ancient. He was a good fellow, I suppose. Curious about everything, and funny as hell—though usually not intentionally. It was generally in the way he said things.

Like the time he walked up to the freighter and wanted to know where the man’s master was. Now, thanks to Bachman, I had learned that the word we Americans use for the guy we work for—“boss”—was Dutch, ands essentially meant the same as the English word “master”. After we whipped the Brits we just didn’t like using that word (though we certainly encouraged the slaves to use it) so we took the Dutch term. It didn’t make us sound so subservient. Of course, the English still used their word, and Falconer walked up to this burly freighter and said, “I say, good fellow, can you tell me where your master is?”

The freighter turned to face this Englishman and for a minute I really thought he was going to kill him right there. He looked him up and down for what seemed like five minutes while his fists clenched and unclenched. He finally determined the fancy fellow didn’t mean any harm, so he just growled, “The son of a bitch ain’t been borned yet!” and went back to working on his wagon. Those of us that were standing around nearly died laughing—even Falconer’s buddy Kendall. Maybe Kendall explained the finer points of American and Texan idioms, or maybe Falconer was just a quick study, but he never tried that again.

Anyway we finally emerged from the Cross Timbers, regrouped (we had gotten pretty spread out) and headed northwest to the Red, which we found within a few days. Or so we thought. There was a young Tejano with us named Juan Carlos Lopez, only he didn’t usually tell anyone the Lopez part, since that was part of Santa Anna’s name, and usually just went by Juan Carlos or Carlos. I had gotten to know him pretty well and liked him. He was a little younger than me and liked to talk a lot. I guess he took up with me since I was close to his age and could speak Spanish. As I say he talked a lot, but I always suspected he played a little fast and loose with the truth. Generally, those kinds of folks don’t hurt anything, but this time it did—well, sort of.

When we struck that river northwest of the timbers, Carlos—who had told anyone who would listen that he had spent time with Comancheros in New Mexico—identified it as the Red River so we began to follow it. Before long, it swung to the southwest, and we knew the Red did not do that. One of the men crossed a ridge to the south, headed for a river. He returned the next day, reporting that the waters of that stream were clear and sweet—not muddy and brackish as we knew the river south of the Red would be. It must be the Brazos, and we were on the wrong river.

When Carlos had identified the river as the Red, he was made guide of the expedition, which is another indication of what a sorry lot of explorers we were. When he was proven wrong, he was forgiven, seeing as how he was the only one who could even pretend to have an inkling of where we were. He identified some outcroppings as some he recognized, and some narrow places in the river as the “Angosturas”—a famous landmark in eastern New Mexico. We—and I use that term loosely—believed we had to be only about 75 miles from Santa Fe, so were ready to believe him. (In reality we were nearly 400 miles from the New Mexican settlements.)

To this day, I don’t know if Carlos really thought he knew what he was talking about or not, or just wanted to be important for a while. I guess he really thought so, because it would have been pretty stupid for a Spanish boy to intentionally mislead a bunch of Gringos. (Whoops, there I go again, using that word out of place.) When it became apparent that he was as clueless as the rest of us, he was afraid of recriminations, and slipped away one night. I can’t say as how I blame him, given the circumstances. And chances are that he met up with some Kiowas or Comanches—who all knew Spanish in some form—and made it into New Mexico. I hope so, for I liked him, even if he was a blowhard. (Come to think of it, he may have gotten into politics in New Mexico. He was certainly equipped for it.)

By now we were in one of those situations where you keep going because you think surely things can’t get worse—and then they do. As a matter of fact, if we had known what was coming, we would have enjoyed the night the ammunition wagon caught on fire as high good times and a great show of fireworks. Here we were, lost as hell, further from home than we had ever been in a trackless “desert”. We were running out of supplies and patience. We were being harassed by Indians. What could we do? We kept going. And then…there it was.
CHAPTER 16

We had all heard of the Llano Estacado—the Staked Plains. Some folks said that it was called that because the early conquistadores had to drive stakes in the ground to see where they had been. That is incorrect. The Llano is a great plain considerably higher than the land around it. On certain approaches, it appears to be up on palisades—or stakes. This is certainly true south of the Canadian in New Mexico where Coronado and others first encountered it. It is also true on some of the eastern approaches—like where we found it.

Here we were with freight wagons loaded with goods we knew would sell in Santa Fe—everything from calomel, to violin strings, to combs and a clarinet—and here before us is a great wall of rock. I volunteered with a few others to scout the escarpment, which came to be known as the Caprock. There was no way in hell we were going to get wagons up it.

So what do we do now? We are in a mess and there is no way around it—no way to put a good face on it. We are on the eastern side of the Llano Estacado. We know the western side is in New Mexico, but we don’t know how far it is across it. We are dangerously low on supplies, including food and ammunition. We have been harassed by Indians, who are picking off stragglers. We have no way of getting the wagons up the escarpment, and even if we did, where the hell would we be? We were in a fix. But surely, this is the bottom isn’t it? If only it had been.

General MacLeod was truly at a loss, but to his credit, what could he do? He had little control left of his men, and didn’t know what to do anyway. We could turn back and go back to Austin with our tails between our legs. That wasn’t very appealing—and we knew how rough that road was. We camped at the confluence of a couple of streams. Even good water was hard to come by, most of it in this country being alkalai.

While we were camped here, I went out to scout and to hunt. I hadn’t gone far—still within sight of the camp, when I heard something whiz past my head. I turned to see an Indian nocking another arrow in his bow, so I spurred my horse and headed for camp, barely missing getting hit by another arrow or two. When I was safe in camp, one man came up to me and questioned me—totally serious—“Why didn’t you try to talk to him—maybe find out where we are?” I never cease to be amazed at the stupidity of the human race. I had barely made it back into camp with my hair on my head and this dumb jackass asks why I didn’t engage a Comanche in polite conversation.

Some of this was the result of Lamar’s harsh policies towards Indians and some of it was due to the natural tendency of any Texan to kill any Indian. Years earlier, the Comanches had come to a council in San Antonio. The idea was to exchange captives and try to work out some peace treaty. Somebody started shooting, and a number of the Comanche chiefs were killed. They retaliated by killing all their captives, and the war was on. From that time on Comanches, Kiowas and most other Indians--though they could be friendly to Americans--hated Texans. We were paying for that now.

You never could tell. A couple of guys, seeing some Indians a ways off, indicated they would like to parley. The Indians were obviously scornful of the expedition, and remarked to the men, “Su jefe es tonto” and refused to help. (As I said, Spanish was spoken and understood by most of the Plains Indians.) When the men returned to the camp, they repeated what the Indian said. I couldn’t help myself and said “Damned clever for a savage.” When those who didn’t speak Spanish understood that the Indian had said “Your leader is a fool” they laughed, too.

(We could laugh, but it was serious business. One group of a half-dozen or so went out to scout and hunt, got cut off by Indians, and were slaughtered to a man.)

General MacLeod finally called a council to determine what to do. All military logic goes against dividing your force while on the defensive, but we really had no choice. It was decided that one party of about a hundred men on horses would ascend to the Llano and try to reach the settlements in New Mexico. The others, numbering about 200, would stay with the wagons and wait for rescue.

As the general and the men resolved that this was the only course, the camp was named Camp Resolution. And future events would test our resolve to the fullest.

CHAPTER 17

Captain Sutton was put in charge of the “Horse Party” as it came to be called. He was a friend of Bachman’s and I guess had heard and seen enough of me that he knew I was good on a horse and good with a gun, so I was one of the ones chosen. It didn’t hurt any that I could speak Spanish like a native, and could maybe even pull my Spanish pedigree if need be. It also didn’t hurt that I was young, wiry, tough, and small enough so as not to eat much or be a burden on a horse. (I don’t know why people think small guys don’t eat much—though God knows this trip sure provided practice in eating light..)

I was sure glad. I had gotten really tired of sitting around that camp waiting to be picked off by some eagle eyed Indian. We dried some meat, molded some bullets, packed some provisions, and headed out. Surely…surely we thought, it can’t possibly be far now to Santa Fe. Little did we know we would never see that city.

We ascended the Caprock and began to make our way across the plains. Now here, Sutton did some things that just didn’t seem right. Almost right away we began to cross some trails. There was one little creek in particular where the trail was worn enough to look like a damn turnpike. It seemed obvious to me that the trail would go somewhere. And since the creek ran toward the east, it seemed logical that following it to the west would be the thing to do. But I was just a dumb kid and kept my thought to myself.

Thinking back now at what that country looked like then…I count myself mightily blessed to have seen it. I wish I could have appreciated it more at the time, but the fact is we were close to starving and trying to get across the Llano as fast as possible. I could sure see why that old fable about driving stakes has lasted so long. Our hundred horses didn’t make a dent in the prairie.

We finally found the other side and descended below the Cap once more. This was rough country, and our rations had run out. We were reduced to eating snakes and lizards, wondering if we were going to starve to death right there. We finally stumbled upon some Comancheros on their way to the plains to trade with the Indians. At first they were terrified of us and we couldn’t figure out why. They finally realized we were peaceful—we were in no shape to be otherwise, even if we had wanted to be—and told us that they had no extra food, but just a few miles further on we would be in the eastern settlements. The people there would provide us with food.

We came to a little adobe and rock placed they called Trementina, which means Turpentine. There was a lot of scrub cedar in the area that they would boil to make turpentine, then take it to the trail where it would be shipped to the States. They also had hundreds—maybe thousands—of sheep. They may have sold wool to Santa Fe traders, too, I don’t know. When I saw those sheep all I could think of was mutton.

These people seemed terrified of us too, for a while. We told them we had just crossed the Llano and were nearly starving. They asked how long it had taken us, and when they found out it was two weeks they were astonished. “Tres o quarto dias, como máximo!” they said—“Three or four days, at the most!”—and they told of the trail that went down the creek of white dirt, or the Tierra Blanca. The way they described it, I knew where they were talking about, and I wanted to tell Captain Sutton “I told you so” but I was still a private, he was still a captain, and I had a mouth full of mutton.

Let’s see, how did I say that later?

“Our leader we called Captain Sutton
Of the Llano he didn’t know nuttin’
I would have called him a fool
But survival’s my rule
And my mouth was plum full of mutton

(You think some strange things sitting in a Mexican prison. I wonder if Ol’ Austin ever thought up limericks?)

While we were being fed, Sutton made arrangements to have a couple of the locals go back to rescue MacLeod and the others. Once again, I was called on for this duty. In some ways I wanted to stay with the others, but in some ways I sort of wanted to get off with these New Mexicans and talk to them on my own. I also had a keen desire to see the quick way across the Llano.

We ascended the Caprock southeast of a little mountain. My companions told me that this was where Coronado himself had approached the Llano. I told them I was a descendant of the old conquistador, but that didn’t impress them much. It seems almost everybody in New Mexico was descended from some conquistador, and in that part of the country you didn’t always brag about it. Just because a fellow had a Spanish name didn’t mean he wasn’t mostly Indian. When I told them I was also an Archibeque, that seemed to make a little impact on them. As a matter of fact, one of them knew some of the Santa Fe Archibeques—distant cousins, I suppose.

We reached the men left behind in three days, just like they had said. It was a good thing, too. They had decided we had been killed or starved to death or were within just a few days of heading back to Austin. I reckon later they wished they had.

Our guides said that the freight wagons would have to be destroyed. Kendall had gotten hurt and couldn’t ride or walk, so we figured out a way to get the light wagon he was riding in up the escarpment and then we were on our way. While we were traveling, I asked the New Mexicans why everyone seemed so scared of us. They told us that the governor, Manuel Armijo, had heard we were coming. He told the New Mexicans that we were an attacking force, and that we would kill their men, rape their women, and eat their babies. I laughed out loud at this. They stared back with stone faces. I stopped laughing and asked “Cierto, usted no cree esto!” (Surely you don’t believe this!)

They just shrugged and said “Quien sabe?”

Texas Forever -- Day 8 -- Chapters 13, 14

2008-11-08T19:05:00.000-08:00

CHAPTER 13
Looking back now, it seems like all we did was scrabble for a living. The Republic of Texas was broke, and President Houston was trying hard to get us out of debt. He curtailed expenses as much as possible, but defense for the nation was essential, so Texas maintained both a navy—to protect the Gulf coast, and an army—to protect against incursions from Mexico and the Indians. It was about this time, I guess, that Ol’ Sam realized the Rangers were cheaper and more effective than a standing army.

You can get a fight going about when exactly the “rangers” came into existence. Some say that Austin started them back in the early colonial days. Some say that they were officially started during the unrest before the War for Texas Independence. I know that there was a bunch of fellows during the Runaway Scrape that were assigned to protect the fleeing settlers as much as possible. That was probably the first time I had much contact with them. A lot of people held them in disregard, since they weren’t fighting in the army, but I’m here to tell you, we needed them in the Scrape, too.

We were running for our lives, scared to death of the Mexican Army, but that wasn’t the only danger. We never knew when the Indians might spring on us, but the worst was the renegades. There are always folks ready to take advantage of other people’s misfortunes, and the Runaway Scrape was no different. It was bad enough that we had to leave our farms and homes. It was bad enough to think that some Mexican soldier might make off with the things you couldn’t take with you. But there were men—white men, Texans (so-called)—who not only pilfered the stuff left behind, but would actually follow the runaways picking up stuff they left. Some were even rotten enough to rob the runaways face-to-face, and I heard of a case or two where they…well, I hate to say, but let’s just say that the rangers were needed and appreciated—especially by the women.

That may be where I began to admire the Rangers, but I really think it came earlier. Men would come back from a fight with the Indians, talking about how many they had killed, and how they were making the country safe. That, to a young boy’s ears, was heady stuff. Of course, I never thought much about the ones who came back laying across their saddles, or bleeding form a wound, or the ones who didn’t come back at all. Or if I did think about them, it was with a measure of pride, and a thought of the glory they befell them.

I used to think about that a lot when I lay rotting in that Yankee prisoner of war camp. Why is it we make war so glorious? I daresay that most of that comes from folks who were never in the heat of the battle—from folks who never saw the flash of a rifle or cannon and realize that the shot was headed your way. I believe there are times when fighting must be done—but not anywhere near as often as we do it.

But anyway, I admired the Rangers, and Bachman didn’t help any. As a matter of fact, he’s probably the main fellow responsible for me wanting to be one so bad. Between admiring the Rangers and hating the plantation, it wasn’t hard to see where the direction of my life was headed. By the time I was sixteen, I could ride like a Mexican, trail like an Indian, shoot like a Tennessean, and fight like the devil, as the saying goes, so there was no doubt what I would do. Mama cried and cried. Papa didn’t really like it much, but he understood. As a matter of fact, he had rode with them a time or two himself.

I’m getting ahead of myself, though. I forgot to mention that Houston—who could only serve one term as President (that’s what the law was) was succeed by Mirabeau Buonaparte Lamar. So help me God, that was his real name, and how he ever told it to anybody with a straight face, I’ll never know. At least my brother had a couple of nicknames he could fall back on, but I guess Lamar had to live with his.

Lamar was a fighter—he had proved it in the war—and was smart as a whip. He could sell a buffalo robe to an Indian, and he wrote poetry too. And he was one of those fellows that you didn’t have to stay around long to find out what they were thinking. Papa had been in the army with him at San Jacinto. He admitted he was a good soldier, but wouldn’t say much beyond that. That may be because Papa was, without question, a Houston man and Lamar fought Houston as hard as he fought the Mexicans. Houston believed we could live peacefully with the Indians, while Lamar was ready to kill them all. There were other differences, as well.

Houston had tried to be fiscally responsible with the Republic’s money—or lack of it—but Lamar spent like a sailor in port. And speaking of sailors, that was another difference. Houston grudgingly supported the navy as a necessity for defense. Lamar saw it—and used it—as a means to attack Mexico. Lamar sent the navy, under Commodore Edwin Moore, to support Mexican revolutionaries in the Yucatan peninsula and elsewhere.

As a matter of fact, there was one time when Moore sailed the navy up a river in Mexico to some town, aimed his cannons, and sent a message to the city leaders to empty their coffers of gold and bring them to the ship. Not wanting to see their town leveled, they complied. Moore took the gold in the name of Texas and high-tailed it back to Texas. In a way, that’s kind of funny, but it’s not really the way to build better relations between nations. It should be remembered that Mexico had never recognized Texas independence (the concept, I mean, not my brother—though Mexico had never recognized him, either), so a state of war still existed. But taking gold at gunpoint sounds like piracy to me. Houston thought so, too, and decommissioned the navy. But that was in his second term, and I’m getting ahead of myself again.

One of the biggest differences in Sam Houston and Mirabeau Lamar was that Ol’ Sam had wanted to annex Texas to the U.s. from the beginning. As a matter of fact, there’s some evidence to indicate that’s what Houston was doing in Texas to begin with—to tey and acquirre Texas for the United States. I don’t know if Mexico would ever have sold it or not, but when it became apparent that there were unresolvable differences between Texas and Mexico, Andy Jackson stepped up his efforts. When the Texans declared independence, however, Jackson was stymied. He didn’t mind putting a little pressure on Mexico to sell, but the couldn’t aid a government in rebellion against a sovereign state—and that’s what Texas was.

Lamar, though, he wanted the Republic of Texas to remain so, and become an empire stretching to the Pacific Ocean. That’s why he ran the Cherokees out of Texas and made all the other Indians mad. That’s why he encouraged Commodore Moore’s questionable acts with the Texas Navy. And that’s why he endorsed a couple of acts that turned out to be real blunders.

Nov 5 10062)

CHAPTER 14

The first was what was called “The Texian-Santa Fe Expedition”. Now before I go any further, let me clarify something here, as far as what residents of Texans are called. Generally, before the days of the Republic they were called “Texicnas”. I don’t know if that’s a combination of Texan and Mexican or not—it’s just what we were called. During the Republic, the term became “Texian”, but after annexation, that just sort of faded into “Texan”, which is fine with me and a hell of a lot easier to say. I might also mention that the Spanish and native-born Mexicans who lived in and fought for Texas were generally called “Tejanos”. I guess you could say that I was born a Texican, became a Texian, but will die a Texan.

You remember that I told you that when Texas conquered Santa Anna at San Jacinto, one of the terms of the treaty was that the southern and western boundary would be the Rio Grande. At the time it didn’t make much sense, seeing as how the land between the Nueces and the Rio Grande was all desert, but now it became clear.

You see, about the time Austin was working out a deal with Mexico to settle Texas, a fellow named William Becknell showed up in Missouri with saddlebags full of Spanish silver. He had made his way from Franklin to Santa Fe on the banks of the Rio Grande—the east banks of the Rio Grande. The Spanish had not wanted trade with the U. S., forcing all residents of the Spanish provinces—especially those in New Mexico—to accept only goods that had come through the proper channels through Mexico. The proper channels always made sure a tax was imposed, so finer things were pretty pricey in Santa Fe.

The Mexican government was much more lenient, so Becknell loaded up some mules with trade goods, sold them in Santa Fe, and returned to Missouri with the silver, and the Santa Fe Trail was opened. Lots of money was being made—by freighters, by merchants, by eastern manufacturers. The folks in New Mexico, and even down into northern Mexico were getting things they couldn’t before. It was a lucrative operation and it seemed almost everybody was coming out ahead. This was not overlooked by the founders of Texas.

By the time the Republic of Texas was established in 1836, the trade had been going on for 15 years, with no signs of stopping. The route had been shortened to avoid the mountains, and made it possible to move the goods in huge freight wagons. When Lamar came into office, he began to agitate for an expedition to Santa Fe. After all, the city was on the east bank of the Rio Grande, making it in the portion that Texas claimed. Of course, Texas had never been able to “prove up” the claim—it was having a tough enough time with what was settled—but Lamar thought big.

Houston, since he couldn’t be president, was in the Texas House of Representatives, and opposed the plan as being fiscally irresponsible—the nation just couldn’t afford it. A lot of his colleagues agreed, and Lamar couldn’t get the congressional support he needed. After the session ended, however, Lamar—I told you he was smart--put out a call for volunteers. The expedition was to be made up of freighters, with a complement of volunteer soldiers. If it was successful, it would solve a lot of Texas’ financial woes, bringing badly needed money into the national coffers.

It wasn’t a bad idea. Texas didn’t manufacture much, but goods could be shipped to Galveston or Linnville, then transported overland to Santa Fe. It was a much shorter route than the one that left from Missouri. Part of the problem was that no one knew exactly how to get from Austin to Santa Fe. (I forgot to mention that Lamar had moved the capital of Texas to Austin—which was still pretty much on the frontier—during his administration.)

I’m not sure why Austin was chosen as the jumping off place. (Really, it was a place north of Austin on Brushy Creek that later got the name of Roundrock.) It’s probably because Lamar wanted his new capital to be the one to benefit, but the fact is that we had known about a passage between Santa Fe and San Antonio for a long time. A Frenchman named Vial had blazed a trail between the two cities in the late 1700s. (He had also traveled what became the Santa Fe Trail long before Becknell.) So did a man named Mares a little later. Heck, if I remember right, Abuelo Archibeque once told me about the time he served in the army under a man named Amangual and they traveled from San Antonio up onto the Llano Estacado and into Santa Fe—and Amangual was an old man at the time.

What I think is this: Lamar, and a lot of his compatriots, did not like Mexicans or the Spanish Texans and did not like San Antonio. They probably knew that there was a route, or at least somebody who knew of the route, but they would be of Spanish descent, and therefore suspect. They wanted to find a new way—a way from Austin. “Surely” I can almost hear them say, “If those Meskins can find a way from San Antonio to Santa Fe, we can find a way from Austin.” They thought all that had to be done was to go north until they hit the Red River, then turn west.

That might’ve worked—if they had known the country between Brushy Creek and the Red. It might’ve worked if they had realized that Santa Fe was several hundred miles to the west of where they thought. And it might’ve worked if anybody on the trip had been over even some of the route before. But nobody did.

But, man, did they promote it! They made it sound like a cakewalk—like we were all going to get rich. And yes, I said “we”. I was young then, and aching for adventure, and it sounded like a good time. Me and Bachman made plans to go together. We could see ourselves marching into Santa Fe to cheering crowds and smiling senoritas.

You see, Lamar had gotten word that the folks in Santa Fe did not being under Mexican rule any more than we Texans had, and part of the idea behind the expedition was to claim the east bank of the Rio Grande in reality as we had in theory. Since we would be crossing the plains, which were dominated by Kiowas and Comanches, a military force was recruited to protect the freighters and merchants. There was one Brit who had just come to Texas and gotten wind of the expedition. He buddied up with that New Orleans newspaperman Kendall. They were to be the group’s journalists, I guess. Altogether—merchants, freighters, soldiers, politicos, and adventurers, the number came to over 300.

Hugh MacLeod was in charge over the army—a brave man, but maybe not the best choice for this trip. For an incursion into what might be considered Mexican territory, we were woefully lacking people of Spanish descent. Navarro was along as a commissioner, along with three others were to be the civil commissioners, just in case the tales we heard about the Santa Feans ready to be governed by Texas were true. There were on or two others that could truly be called “Tejanos” or Texans of Spanish descent. I guess I would have qualified—and I certainly knew how to speak Spanish—but, hell I was just a kid, a few months beyond my seventeenth birthday. Altogether, there were over 300 of us. And to think that not a one had a clue as to how to get from Austin to Santa Fe. But man, what an adventure it would be!

Texas Forever --Day 5--Chaps 9, 10, 11, 12, 13

2008-11-05T19:30:00.001-08:00

CHAPTER 9

As it turned out, Papa was home permanently—more or less. At any rate he didn’t have to go back to the army. Enough men were pouring into Texas, so he could try to rebuild his life—it’s amazing what things can change in a small amount of time.

And did he have some stories to tell. He told us all about Houston retreating across Texas. How the men were beginning to think he was a coward. Even Papa was beginning to wonder. What he was doing, though, was making Santa Anna stretch his supply line, spread out his army, and waiting for the Mexican General to make a mistake—which he did. The men were primed and ready for a fight and charged the Mexican camp yelling “Remember the Alamo!”-- “Remember Goliad!” Papa laughed when he told how the soldiers in Santa Anna’s army would fall to the ground begging for mercy, crying, “Me no Alamo!”-- “Me no Goliad!”

The battle was over in 18 minutes. The Mexicans were totally routed. At first, the Texans were disappointed, because Santa Anna himself—proving to be the coward he was—escaped in all the excitement. Some of the Texan soldiers—Papa among them—were sent out to round up those that fled the battle. They were finding them everywhere. The day after the battle, Papa rode down one soldier who was trying to escape. He was dressed in a common soldier’s clothes, so Papa didn’t think anything about it, but brought him back into the camp. He noticed that the Mexicans were pointing and whispering, and then they got a little louder. Papa realized they were saying “El Presidente! El Presidente!”. Sure enough it was General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna himself—the “Napoleon of the West” as he liked to call himself—wearing the clothes of a common soldier to escape detection. Almost, that is. He still had on his silk underwear! (I’ll bet he wanted to knock the heads together of those who had identified him.

Papa said that the only thing that kept the men from killing Santa Anna right then and there was that they couldn’t decide whether he should be shot, hung, beheaded, or tortured to death. Houston, however, prevailed upon the men that a live president was more useful to the future of Texas than a dead rascal, so the men begrudgingly let him live—for the moment.

Santa Anna had established himself as dictator of Mexico, so Houston wanted to keep him alive so he could get a treaty. Houston’s leg had been badly injured, so he was planning on going to New Orleans for treatment. He insisted that the general not be harmed, and that he be returned to Mexico when the terms of a treaty were met. I can’t help but think that the old rapscallion must have been sweating bullets after Houston left.

The terms of the treaty are in the history books and you can read them there, but there was one item I’d like to talk about. From the time when Texas had been declared a different part of New Spain from Mexico, the Nueces River had been the boundary. There were no colonies granted south of the Nueces and there were certainly no Anglo settlements on the Rio Grande. So why did those fellows declare the Rio Grande to be the southern and western boundary of Texas? Some folks have said that it was just their right as conquerors, but it was not like the land between the Nueces and the Rio Grande is good for anything—hell, the damn stuff is mostly desert.

The answer to that became clear within just a few years. But for now we were a family again, and that was enough.

CHAPTER 10

Now, with all the fighting between Texas and Mexico going on, sometimes it’s hard to remember that there was fighting elsewhere, too. The settlers on the frontier were always in danger of being raided by Comanches.

Just about a month after San Jacinto, a band of Comanches, Kiowas, and maybe some others raided Parker’s Fort on the Navasota River. They killed several of the inhabitants, and carried of five—one of them a girl named Cynthia Ann Parker. Indian raids were not rare, and neither was the taking of captives, but something about this girl, who was just about my age, sort of got to me. I heard that the other four captives were eventually released, but for some reason Cynthia Ann wasn’t.

It wasn’t always bad to be taken captive by the Indians, but it could be horrible. Sometimes they adopted their captives, sometimes they enslaved them, and sometimes they tortured them to death. If there was any rhyme or reason to it, I never saw.

Of course, we saw the Indians as something to be eliminated. Sure, Houston had lived with them—even been adopted by them—but those were Cherokees, one of the “civilized” tribes. Our problem was Comanches. It may be a little unfair to say we wanted them eliminated. We just wanted them to quit bothering us. I guess it never occurred to us that were invading their home, and we would have fought as hard had the situation been reversed. But even at that, I didn’t understand—I don’t understand now—why they had to be so mean about it, torturing and scalping and all. I heard that the Mexicans in New Mexico, east of Santa Fe had learned to get along with the Comanches. I don’t know how they did it. But I can’t say we whites were blameless.

We were far enough from the frontier to be insulated, we felt, but you never could be sure—just a few years later, the Comanches raided all the way to the coast—driving the folks at Linnville into the gulf.

Sam Houston, to no one’s surprise, was elected the first President of the Republic of Texas, and right before the new year started Stephen Austin, “The Father of Texas”, died of pneumonia, having never really recovered from the time he spent in the Mexican jail. It may have been a blessing that he did, rather than see the growth pangs the new nation endured.

CHAPTER 11

Houston was a conservative, when it came to the state treasury, which I suppose was fine, because the Republic damn sure had no money. That was part of the reason we had trouble getting recognized by the United States. Houston cut the army, the navy—even the Texas Rangers, though later he would be convinced that the Rangers were not only the most effective fighting force, but since they furnished their own clothing, horses and weapons, they were the most fiscally efficient as well.

I was growing up. Papa was trying to teach me how to run a plantation, but I just didn’t have it in me. He was also running some cattle, and I liked that a lot better. I was honing the skills that Tio Mano had taught me, and learning some on my own. Texas was great for cattle, but there was never much market for them. We raised them for the beef—to feed ourselves and the slaves—and for the tallow.

Once in a while, somebody would get a bunch together and drive them to the coast for shipping, or to New Orleans. I always wanted to go on one of these drives, but I was still Mama’s “hijito”, or little boy, and she would let me. And what Mama wanted, Mama usually got.

I said earlier that I could ride like a Mexican and track like an Indian. By now I was getting pretty good with a rifle, too. Papa knew it was important to be able to shoot, so he taught me. He said we might need it against the Comanches someday, but what was left unsaid was that we always lived in fear of a Mexican invasion. We didn’t use pistols, much--their range was too short for hunting, and papa said they weren’t much good in battle. You had to get too close, and then you just got one shot. You were better off with a good club, he said, or better yet, a Bowie knife.

I had heard, though, that the Texas Navy had been issued some repeating pistols. The concept had been tried before, but a fellow named Colt was able to figure out how to make it work. His invention had a cylinder that held five pre-loaded balls. The cylinder rotated around a pin, “revolving” into place when the hammer was pulled back—thus the name revolver. Man, I wanted to get my hands on one of those!

So I just bided my time—like every growing boy must, I guess. I was learning things about farming I didn’t care whether I knew or not, while out there somewhere was adventure.

CHAPTER 12

New people were moving to Texas all the time. There were Southern planters with their slaves, and Yankee traders. A lot of folks think that all Southerners had lots of slaves. Some, like Papa, did—it took a lot for a cotton plantation. But a lot of slaveholders just had one or two. Some of them—the masters and the slaves—were almost like friends, sort of like Papa and Joe were.

Not everybody coming to Texas was an American, though. There were some French, and some Brits, Scots, and Irish. even some Italians. But the biggest bunch of foreigners were the Germans. When I first saw them, I thought they were funny as hell. (Though not as funny as the French, who were hilarious in a country as rough as Texas!) They always sounded like they were hocking up something when they talked, and you didn’t want to stand too close or you were bound to get spit on.

Of course, they didn’t say “German”. They said “Deutsch”, which to me sounded like “Doitch”. That’s why we ended up calling them “Dutch”, I guess. That’s probably where the term “Dutch Treat” came from too for they were stingy bastards. Maybe I shouldn’t say that, seeing as how I ended up being related to them, but it’s true for the most part. I’ll say this in their favor, though: they were smart. If they didn’t have something they needed, they’d figure out how to make one, how to make something better, or how to get along without it. They also figured out how to get along with the Comanches.

When I was about 14, a family named Bachman came to Texas and settled in Dewitt County. One of them—Peter, I think--had come first, and then told the others what a great place Texas was, so they all came. If there was a Backman left in Germany, I’d be surprised. They pitched right in, though, to become “Texians”, as we were called in the days of the Republic.

Johann, or John, Bachman was just a few years older than me. I guess he was about 18 when he came to Texas, and could speak English passably well. He already knew how to shoot—and they’ve never made a German that wasn’t ready to fight—so he joined the Texas Rangers under Captain John Bird. He hadn’t been with them too long, when the company had a run-in with some Indians—Comanches, Kickapoo, and Caddo. The Rangers put up a hell of a fight, but took a beating. Several, including Captain Bird, were killed. The creek was given his name, and the engagement became known as Bird’s Creek fight.

Bachman and I became pretty good friends, despite the four years difference in our ages. He was pretty educated, and if sometimes I show any sign of being somewhat literate, it’s because of him. While I was thinking about a wild life on the frontier, his goal was to be a teacher. We both succeeded.

……

When John was in town, he would come over to our place—he had a penchant for Mama’s fresh tortillas—and tell us of his adventures. One day he came in with his right hand bandaged up, and missing a couple of fingers. He said that he had been out fighting Indians. He had shot at one, and the Indian fell, apparently dead. John crept up and was just reaching down to take the Indian’s amulet off, when the brave raised his head, caught John’s fingers in his mouth and bit them off. Before John could draw his knife with his left hand and dispatch the Indian, the fingers were gone. We were all fascinated and horrified—Mama especially. Later John told me that actually he had been out hunting. He had fired his rifle and was loading it to be ready to fire again. Those old muzzleloaders would sometimes retain a spark in the barrel and that’s what happened. As he poured fresh powder down the barrel, it ignited, sparking into the powder horn, which blew up in John’s hand, removing the two fingers. I laughed and laughed, and don’t know if Mama ever did find out the truth!

Texas Forever--Day 4--Chaps 7, 8

2008-11-04T19:18:00.000-08:00

CHAPTER 7

Sam Houston was appointed General of the Texas Army, but it was an army in name only. Oh, there were plenty of men ready to fight, they just weren’t ready to follow orders. The tradition in those days was to have militia units who would elect their leaders from among their ranks, which led to disaster in more cases than one. Houston, on the other hand, had been appointed general of the Texas Army—the “Regulars”.

Houston was in fear of getting “forted up”, so he sent Jim Bowie to San Antonio to destroy the old mission there, then rejoin the main body of troops with Houston. When Bowie and his men reached the Alamo, he decided it was worth defending; that the Mexican Army—if they came back at all—should be stopped as far west as possible. It was a decision that cost the lives of many good men.

I remember one day that January when Papa and me were in town. A crowd had gathered around this feller that seemed pretty old to me at the time. (Now, I would think him a young man.) He must’ve been about 50. He talked a lot about free land (he was for it) and Andy Jackson (he was against him) and I don’t know what all. It was some time later I learned this fellow was the famous David Crockett.

Now you can brag about how Crockett died fighting for Texas independence. I suppose he did, but I am pretty well convinced that he did not come to Texas to fight. He came to acquire land and get involved in politics. Hell, that’s what everybody came to Texas for—at least the land part. I do not intend this as a way of disgracing the man’s memory. I just don’t believe he came with the intention of fighting—he was nearly fifty years old. Be that as it may, when the time came he fought and died like a man. I am proud I got to see him once.

I was only 11, but I recall as if it were yesterday when Papa came to me, his usually jolly face all serious, and told me that he was going to join Sam Houston and fight for the freedom of Texans--I would have to be the man of the house for a while.

That was a bigger job than I may have led you to believe. I haven’t mentioned it, but Mama had given birth several more times. I didn’t think it was worth mentioning it, seeing as how they were all girls. Let’s see, I was born in ’24, Monica in ’26, Amalia (“Molly”) in ’29, and Guadalupe (“Lupe”) in ’34. Mama had lost one in ’31. And to top it all, she had one “in the oven” when Papa left. She wasn’t overjoyed that he was going to join the army, but she understood why. Papa still had Joe, of course. He could’ve taken Joe with him—a lot of men took their personal servants—but he decided it would be better to leave him with us.
That meant I was also in charge of the plantation, but since it was winter, there were no crops to worry about, and chores were managed by the overseer, anyway.

We had heard that the Mexican Army had invaded Texas. Santa Anna was marching on Bexar..that is, San Antonio, and other groups were coming from elsewhere along the Rio Grande. We didn’t know what to do, but since Mama was going to “domino” at any time, we stayed put. On March 1 she told me to run to Tio Mano’s house and bring back his wife, Mercedes, who had helped with the other births. The next day about mid-morning, a new little Miles came into the world. And this one would stay a Miles. I finally had a brother.

Papa hadn’t cared much what names the girls got, but Mama was pretty sure he would want some say in naming this boy, so she put off naming him, hoping Papa would come back. A few days later, a messenger rode up and told us what had happened at the Alamo—how all the men with Bowie, plus the ones that came with Travis, plus the ones that rode in with Crockett, had been killed. There was much distress around Gonzales with the news—at least a dozen women had been left widowed, and their children orphaned. Silently Mama prayed her thanks that her man was with Houston.

The same rider that told us about the Alamo told us that Texans had declared their Independence from Mexico on March 2, and that men were flocking to join General Houston. Mama realized that it might be a long time before Papa came home—she wouldn’t allow herself to consider that he might not—and named the baby. She proclaimed his name would be Texas Independence—and just to honor her Catholicism, she gave him one more name—Jesus. Texas Independence Jesus Miles. I started calling the baby “Chuy” and never griped about my name again.

When another messenger came with the word that Santa Ann was on the move toward the settlements, we began to pack. When we heard the news about Goliad and other massacres, we quit packing and started moving. A man that would order prisoners to be shot in cold blood would no doubt be similarly ruthless regarding women and children.

We were not alone. It seemed all of Texas was moving east. This became known as the “Runaway Scrape”. To me, a “scrape” sounds like a trivial thing, but I can assure you this was serious. “Unbridled panic” is not too strong a term. We were on the run and it seemed Houston and the army were too. The further east the Mexican troops moved, the further east the Texan army moved. It was one of the wettest springs ever, and the creeks were all rushing bank to bank. We had determined to make it to the Sabine River and cross into the United States, but the swollen rivers were hampering our efforts. Every night people wondered aloud why Houston didn’t stand and fight. Some ridiculed the army and that hurt. I knew Papa was no coward. I also believed Houston must have a plan. I just hoped the plan didn’t involve beating the civilians into Louisiana!

(Unbeknownst to us, President Jackson had stationed troops near the Texas border, with orders to follow any marauding Indians as far as necessary. Unfortunately, the Indians stubbornly refused to “maraud”, denying the U. S. troops any pretense to enter what was still the sovereign nation of Mexico!)

As we waited to cross one more river we heard a shout to our rear. This was initially cause for alarm, but it was good news. A messenger was shouting that Santa Anna had been defeated on a creek called the San Jacinto near Harrisburg—and not only defeated but captured! We shouted for joy. The “Scrape” was over! One week later I turned 12.

CHAPTER 8

So now we began our return—but what was there to return to? Houston’s retreating army had burned nearly everything that could be used by an invading army. What was left had been used up, burned, or otherwise destroyed by the Mexican army.

When we reached the plantation it was in ruins. Here we were, a woman with a half-grown boy, three young girls, and a baby boy. Of course, we did have Joe and that helped a lot. He was able to locate some of the other slaves and they began to rebuild the place. Why they didn’t take the opportunity to “light a shuck” I’ll never understand—just didn’t really have anywhere else to go, I reckon.

When it became obvious that the Mexican Army was going to leave Texas sure enough, Papa got a furlough and came home for a while. A generous parcel of land went to all veterans, so a lot of men were still flocking into Texas and joining the Army. That gave Papa and the other veterans a little time to look after their affairs.

I still remember Papa’s face when he looked in Mama’s eyes again. I wasn’t there the first time they saw each other, but I think I can guess what it looked like. I also remember Papa’s face when he looked upon his second son for the first time. Now, Papa loved his girls, but a boy is special—especially after such a long drought. But what I remember most of all is when mama told him what the boy’s name was. Papa looked like he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He just gurgled a bit and said, “I reckon we’ll just call him “Tex”. To the end of his days, Mama, me and his sisters called him “Chuy”. Papa and everybody else called him “Tex”. But nobody ever called him Texas Independence Jesus!

Texas Forever--Day 3--Chaps 5,6

2008-11-03T17:56:00.000-08:00

CHAPTER 5

As a young man, Papa had been pretty wild—or at least spirited. As the second son, he knew his chances for getting ahead in South Carolina were limited, and he wasn’t all that interested in plantation life, anyway. After coming to Texas though, I guess he grew up a little. Maybe it was the huge amounts of land he qualified for. Maybe it was the fact that he now had a growing family. Or maybe growing cotton was in his blood and he just hadn’t realized it. Whatever the reason, he applied for his headright as a colonist, imported some slaves from the states, and got into cotton in a big way.

He wasn’t alone. Colonists from all over began pouring into Texas. Some came from France, England, the Germanic States or elsewhere in Europe, but most came from the U.S.—and most of those from the cotton-producing areas. Land was cheap, and it was fertile. Of course, there were merchants and millers and blacksmiths and ferrymen and just about everything it would take to make a new land. But most were farmers.

Not all came to raise cotton. Some came to raise livestock. Some came to raise corn or wheat. And some came to raise hell.

Stephen F. Austin was a fine man. I’ve never heard tell of anyone who worked harder—not with his hands, but with his mind and with his words. He spent months in prison in Mexico just to get the right to bring settlers to Texas, and then again fighting for the rights of Texans. He promised the Mexican government that, as an empresario—the title given to those endowed with the right to colonize—he would seek only the best people. And he did.

Sure, some of them may have been in debt when they came here, but that was probably due more to unscrupulous lenders than their ability to manage their finances. But generally, Austin’s colonists were fine folks—good, hard-working, people who just wanted a chance to do well.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t always successful in weeding out the riff-raff, and some of the other empresarios almost seemed to court them. They didn’t care what kind of people settled on their land. As a result, some undesirables also came to Texas. You know the type—thieves, thugs, opportunists, politicians, lawyers, and preachers.

As I mentioned, the law said you had to be or become Catholic, and you had to swear allegiance to the Mexican government. I don’t know as how the religion was ever much of a problem one way or the other. Some folks got baptized into the Roman Catholic Church, some said they already had been, and some just ignored it. There was one Irish priest—Michael Muldoon—who was known to be tolerant of Protestants who were only nominally declaring themselves converts to Catholicism.

As far as swearing allegiance to Mexico…I really believe that the early colonists were sincere in that. I know Papa was. In their eyes the United States had sort of failed them, in a financial sense—which is what most of us really operate in anyway. Unfortunately, the Mexican government began to fail them as well.

To begin with, Mexico had not been stable for a long time. Spain had been waning as a world power for centuries, and the situation in Europe didn’t help much, what with Napoleon running roughshod over the continent. I never dabbled much in world affairs, so let’s just say that an unsteady situation in the home country of Spain, set up the situation for Mexico to gain independence. Mexicans, however, had never had anything like self-government under Spain (unlike the Americans under England), so were unprepared to establish a true republic. The Mexican government was in constant turmoil.

Now you need to realize that Mexico had tried—really tried—to get her own citizens to settle in Texas. They just weren’t interested. The Americans, however, came in droves. Well, it doesn’t take a genius to see that before long, the two cultures were bound for a clash. If you want to really get into it, read the history books. I’m telling about me, and I was just a little kid during most of this time, and blissfully unaware of the political situation.

Speaking of bliss, though…that was what growing up in those days was like. The woods were still full of game, the rivers full of fish. Most of the people I knew were either Americans or Spanish, but there were some from almost everywhere. There were even a few “tame” Indians—Caddo or Karankawas (Kronks, we called ‘em) or Cherokees who had been forced out of Georgia and South Carolina.

I learned to ride and hunt and fish and track. Tio Mano taught me how to use a reata, or rope. (Did you know that the cowboy term “lariat” comes from “la reata”? A lot of cowboy words are derived from Spanish.) He and Abuelo were rancheros, and good vaqueros as well. Ol’ Joe was great at telling stories he had heard on the plantation back east—stories about a trickster rabbit, or a dumb fox. By the time I was ten, I could ride like a Mexican, track like an Indian, and lie like a lawyer. I was getting to be a pretty good shot, too.

Once in a while a band of Comanches might drift into town to trade. We knew they raided some of the outermost settlements. Usually they just wanted horses, but they had been known to take captives. They usually just raided into Mexico, but we always watched them with a wary eye. At this point, though, they were pretty peaceful towards us. As I say, it was a blissful time—for a boy.

CHAPTER 6

What I was unaware of, was how the political situation was shaping up. A ten-year-old boy just doesn’t concern himself with such. I heard Papa and Mama and others talking in low voices that showed concern. I had heard talk of a fellow named Edwards that had tried to declare his colony independent, but no one supported him. Even Austin joined the forces against him. Nothing really came of it, except to build distrust of Americans in the eyes of the Mexican government.

There was other unrest, but I didn’t really know much about it. As a matter of fact, it was pretty hard for an educated adult to keep up with it. Soldiers were stationed in Texas, revolutionaries were active in Mexico, hotheads were stirring up the colonists. Poor Stephen Austin was doing all he could to maintain peace, but it was no use. He traveled to Mexico on a peace mission and they threw him in solitary confinement—not a smart move. Santa Anna had taken control of the government and established himself as dictator. From his prison cell, Austin realized that reconciliation with Mexico was impossible.

At ten you’re not aware of things—unless they happen in your backyard. When I was 11, the war came to Gonzales. Years earlier the Mexican government had given a cannon to the town of Gonzales for protection against Indians. Fearing that it would be used against Mexican forces, a detail was sent to retrieve it, but the citizens refused. When a larger force was sent, the Texans—including papa and Tio Mano--used the cannon against them, flying a flag that said “Come And Take It”. The Mexicans fled back to San Antonio, which probably gave the Gonzales men more confidence than it should have.

An army of sorts was formed and more battles were fought. Santa Anna’s brother-in-law General Cos was run out of San Antonio in late 1835, and the Texans thought they had won—but they had reckoned without Santa Anna himself, who took the defeat of Cos and the loss of San Antonio personally.

Everybody likes to focus on the battles, but politics plays a big part in these things. I’ve never been too keen on politics, so suffice it to say that the politicians were indeed active, organizing a provisional government, appointing commissioners and what-not, and generally jockeying for position. If there was one thing they did right during this time, it was in appointing Sam Houston Commander-in-Chief of the Army—even if there wasn’t an army!

Papa had known of Houston before either of them ever came to Texas. He had run into him a time or two since Houston had arrived a couple of years before and was impressed with what he saw. He was an obvious leader of men. Papa always said he would throw in his lot with “Ol’ Sam” anytime. He got his chance and it scared us all to death.

Texas Forever -- Day 2 -- Chapter 3, 4 A little history

2008-11-02T13:38:00.000-08:00

CHAPTER 3

I admit that I am proud of being a Texan. It’s a great state with a great history—the only state that functioned as a Republic for nearly ten years. The first Europeans of record to see what we now call Texas were the Spanish—only logical since it was an Italian sailing for Spain that found out there were two entire continents here that no one knew existed.

Well, sure the folks living here—the Indians and those who came before them—knew it was here, but that never mattered much to the Europeans. Cortez conquered Mexico shortly after the place was “discovered”, and then the Spaniards got serious about settlement—or at least getting what they could from this new land.

Now, as far as I know, the first white man to actually set foot in Texas and leave a written record of it was a fellow named Cabeza de Vaca. His name means “head of a cow” which is not a name I would want to be saddled with, but maybe it didn’t bother him. What did bother him was that he was shipwrecked and abandoned on the Texas coast amongst the Karankawa Indians who were known to be cannibals. Can’t say I blame him about being a little miffed at that. Anyway, he survived and traveled over a good bit of the southwest, which strengthened Spain’s claim on the area. (There again, the fact that people were already living here didn’t cut much ice with those explorers.)

After he got back to New Spain—or Mexico—he told stories about cities made of gold. Now, they way I understand it is that Ol’ Cow-head didn’t actually say he had seen these villages, but he had heard tell of them, and that was good enough for the next round of fellows who were called “Conquistadores”, or conquerors. Well, one of these Conquistadores was a character that we know as Coronado, though his real name was Francisco Vasquez, and believe it or not, he is one of my ancestors on my mother’s side. I don’t know as how I’m proud of that, in particular, considering that he seemed to be sort of mean and not to smart (cities of gold?), but he—wherever he is—may not be too proud of me either, so we’ll let it go at that.

Now, while Spain claimed Texas, they weren’t doing too much about holding on to it. The French had been working in Canada and thereabouts and discovered the upper reaches of the Mississippi River. A fellow named La Salle traveled all the way down it and came out in the Gulf of Mexico. He determined that the French ought to settle the area, so he went to France to round up some folks who didn’t have anything better to do than risk their lives trying to wrest a wild country away from the folks who had lived in it for centuries. But then again, that’s what the Europeans were good at.

So Ol’ La Salle gets some ships and some settlers and supplies and sets out from France for the Mississippi River. (This is about 150 years after Cabeza de Vaca, so you can see things weren’t happening too fast.) That rascal sails right past the Mississippi and lands on the Gulf Coast of Texas. Now, there is some doubt as to whether he did this on purpose or not, but I don’t think so. The mouth of the Mississippi is not like the mouth of the Brazos, for example, and trying to measure distance on water in those days was pretty tough. At any rate, I’ll give him a little credit, since he was at least trying to make use of the country, not just ravage it like Ol’ Coronado.

I’ll bet you’re expecting me to claim that La Salle was my ancestor, too. Well, not quite. Apparently, though, La Salle was not really a great leader. Think about it. He didn’t know where he was. He missed where he was going. The people he was trying to serve ended up hating him. Sounds like a politician to me.

As I say, his people wound up hating him. Can’t say as I blame them as he has terribly misled them, gotten them lost, and couldn’t get them out. He was lured into an ambush by a fellow named L'Archeveque. Yep, you guessed—that is another of my ancestors on my mother’s side. He swore allegiance to Spain once he got to Mexico, and moved to Santa Fe, where the name became Archibeque. Needless to say, France’s grip on Texas was not a strong one, and nothing came of it—except me, of course!

To say nothing came of it is not exactly right, as it made the Spanish authorities sit up and take notice. They began to get serious about colonizing Texas, and made several attempts—San Saba, Nacogdoches and San Antonio to name a few. Some were successful, some were not. There were also a few attempts by Americans to make incursions into Spanish territory, but they were definitely failures.

By the early 1800s, Texas was looking pretty good to lots of Americans who liked the idea of free or cheap land. The U. S. had gone through some financial troubles and a lot of folks were in a bind. Also, repeated cotton farming was wearing out the land in the southern states. Texas looked mighty appealing.

A fellow from Missouri named Moses Austin decided to do something about it. He wasn’t going to invade like others had tried. He just wanted to colonize the area. He went to the Spanish authorities in Mexico City and eventually got permission to bring settlers into what is now Texas. Unfortunately, two things happened to throw a wrench in the works: Ol’ Moses died, and Mexico won her independence from Spain, making all agreements null and void. (The Mexicans had been trying since 1810, and in 1821 Spain said “You can have it!”)

You might wonder why either Spain or Mexico would encourage settlement by a group of people who obviously had hungry eyes when it came to land. Well, the fact was that the folks in Mexico knew the American colonists would be fighters, and they saw “Tejas” as a buffer zone between them and the Indians—particularly the Comanches and Apaches who were quite skilled at raiding. The Comanches is particular did not amount to much until they were able to get their hands on Spanish horses, and then they become the terror of the Plains.

Moses’ son Stephen took up his papa’s torch and succeeded—though it wasn’t easy—to get a similar agreement with Mexico that Moses had with Spain. The Mexican government remained unstable however, and the colonization laws were continually being rewritten. Things sort of settled down in 1824 when the Mexicans wrote a new constitution and new colonization laws to go with it.

One of the quirks of one of the laws was that a rancher would receive more land than a farmer—a lot more. The idea was that stock needed much more grazing land than crops needed to grow. It may have been a good idea on paper, but new settlers could see the flaw in that pretty easily, and Papa always laughed at how many “cotton ranchers” there were—he being one himself.

There was one other incident in 1824 that eclipsed all of the others that you won’t find in any history book.

CHAPTER 4

On April 29, 1824 an event happened that changed the history of Texas—well, let’s go on and say the world—forever…at least from my perspective. On that bright spring morning, in Austin’s colony, Angela Maria Archibeque-Vasquez Miles gave birth to a strapping baby boy--ME! Now Papa wanted to name me after Andrew Jackson or maybe Stephen Austin. Mama wanted a name she could pronounce, and her being a good Catholic I had to have the name of a saint. The way I heard it, they argued over it a good bit but finally compromised on Jackson Francisco Miles. Papa got his hero, Mama got her saint, her ancestor, and her beloved husband included. (Papa would never have stood for another “Francis” but he gave in on “Francisco”.) And I got a hell of a name.

Actually several names. Papa called me Jack or Jackie…or “Turd Head” when he was teasing or irritated. Mama called me “Pancho” or “Panchito”—Spanish for Frank or Frankie. Mama’s brother, Tio Mano, who never got over his sister marrying a “Texican” (the word “gringo” was way in the future”), sometimes called me “Playa del sol”—or roughly translated, “sunny beach”, one of the few English terms he used with any regularity. Somewhere along the way, almost everybody—except mama and Tio Mano—started calling me “Dusty”. I guess because it went so well with “Miles.” And after all the years I spent on various trails, it fit, too.

Speaking of mama’s family…they had mixed opinions about her marrying someone from the United States. I think what bothered her father was not the fact that Papa was an American, as much as it was that he appeared to have no pedigree. Papa felt like a man ought to be measured on his own merits, but when it looked like he might lose his raven-haired beauty—or at least have a fight on his hands—he admitted that he was kin to the Rutledges, and they were a big deal in South Carolina. One of them had even signed the Declaration of Independence.

That was good enough for Abuelo—I mean Grandfather. At any rate, he realized the determination of the young man, and didn’t want to see his daughter hurt, so he backed off. As I said, Tio Mano was never really comfortable with it, though he got to where he didn’t make a big deal of it, for his sister’s sake.

You’re going to have to excuse me for using Spanish terms now and again. First of all, I was born in a Spanish-speaking country, as Texas was then a Mexican state (and only half of one, at that!) Also, my mother spoke very little English, and it was from her that I learned my early speech. (She never did learn how to say “Jackson”, and “Dusty” always came out “Doosty”, so to her I was always Pancho or Mijo.) Sometimes I have to think what the English words are for something I have always said in Spanish. And sometimes it’s better not to translate.
…

As I said, Papa came to Texas for the land. All he really knew was raising cotton and Texas was prime for that, so he started a “cotton ranch”—that is, a plantation. Having grown up in the Deep South he had no quarrel with slavery. There was no way to grow cotton without it. The Mexican government did not allow slavery, but servants were permitted. Papa was able to acquire a lot of servants.

Texas Forever--Day 1--Chapter 2

2008-11-01T14:20:00.000-07:00

CHAPTER 2

Papa came to Texas early on. He wasn’t in the “Old Three Hundred”—the very first settlers brought by Stephen Austin, but he wasn’t far behind. I’m not sure what prompted him. Moving to Texas was all the rage then—especially if you were being hounded by creditors, had gotten into trouble, or had gotten somebody else in trouble—if you know what I mean. I don’t think it was any of that. He was young and adventurous, and Texas promised a lot of opportunity to young, adventurous young men, though it was hell on horses and women. It was indeed a rough country, but Papa was up to the challenge—in more ways than one.

He had grown up in the Deep South, the second son on a South Carolina cotton plantation. He knew his older brother would get the place—if there was anything left of it after the boll weevils, Grandpa’s gambling, and the harshness of growing cotton. Besides, as I said, he was young and adventurous, so he and “Joe” his “personal manservant”—that is, a slave that had been given him as a child—caught a ship to New Orleans, then traveled to Texas on horseback.

Now, the fact is that the new settlers in Texas—or “Tejas”—could not own slaves and had to be Catholic. The second part was no problem, as religion hadn’t meant much to Papa, and what little he had gotten in South Carolina had been of the Episcopalian variety, so converting was no big deal. As far as the slavery issue was concerned, well, it was pretty much just ignored. Joe had been given to Papa when they were both children and they were more like friends anyway—friends where one is obviously dominant and gives all the orders, and the other says “Yassuh” all the time, and does it.

Oh, one other thing. When you settled in Texas, you swore allegiance to Mexico, leaving behind, supposedly, your fealty to the United States.

Anyway, Papa and Joe decided to get a good look at the land before settling down. Late one afternoon on the way to Bexar—or San Antonio as it came to be called—they stopped in Gonzales. There was some sort of celebration going on. One thing about the Mexicans—they love to party, and will find almost any reason to do so. The “fiesta” was going to include a “baile” or dance, so Papa decided he would go. Joe, of course, had to find his own amusements.

Now, Papa was not a big man, but he was strong and he was handsome. Up until this time he always said that he was afraid of nothing, and nothing could make him weak…but something happened that night.

I forgot to tell you that Papa’s name was Francis Marion Rutledge Miles. Not that that means anything, except that he was named for “The Swamp Fox” of American Revolution fame, and his mama was one of the South Carolina Rutledges—whoever they were. And he went by Frank. (Frank and Joe were always getting into scrapes and getting themselves out. They were a couple of hardy boys!)

So back at the “baile”…the music was new to Papa and he was having a little trouble with his confidence when a beautiful senorita came to his aid. His always swore that he didn’t act like a bad dancer on purpose—that he was really unfamiliar with the style and the customs—but nobody before or since had ever seen him miss a step. The senorita guided the handsome new “Texican” through a few of the more intricate moves, before he suggested they sit one out.

He had picked up a bit of Spanish by this time, and she knew a very little bit—poquito—of English, but apparently there was no language barrier. Her flashing blue eyes shone out from her olive skin and took in this bold Americano. He used to tell us later “I didn’t know what she said, but I sure liked the way she said it!”

Not to belabor the point, Papa decided he didn’t need to go to Bexar. All he ever wanted was right there in Gonzales. He and the senorita fell in love—in spite of all the differences. By the way, the young lady’s name was Angela Maria Archibeque-Vasquez. She was descended from Spanish conquistadors and French explorers, and her father held some sort of office with the Mexican government. Papa used to call her “Mi Angelita”, my little angel. I just called her Mamá.

Texas Forever--Day 1--Chapter 1

2008-11-01T12:59:00.000-07:00

CHAPTER 1

“They told us to come to Texas
It don’t matter what your sex is
It’s certain that men
Will all say ‘Amen!’
But women and horses, it vexes.”

I was awaking from a deep sleep. This happens to me once in a while. As I awake, a limerick will form in my groggy brain. But where was I? Why did I feel drugged? And why did I hurt like hell?

It became clear. The last thing I remember was seeing the flash of a Yankee rifle, immediately before the searing pain. I remember going down, and I remember being glad…because…because…why was I glad I had been hit? And then I remembered….

I had been facing what we learned later was Little Round Top. The place was Gettysburg Pennsylvania, July 1863. It had been a long way for a Texas boy, but there I was. Standing with the 4th Texas Infantry—and how in the hell a horseman like me ended up I the infantry I don’t even want to think about—but I was standing with the 4th Texas Infantry, part of Hood’s Texas Brigade. We knew we would be given the order to charge. Hell, we had already charged what seemed like countless times, but had always been beaten back.

The Yanks held the high ground, because they got there first. We should have had it, but we didn’t act in time, and I’ll leave that to the historians to debate whose foul-up that was—as I’m sure they will, especially the ones that weren’t there.

But I was there, having joined up in some of the first rushes of excitement back in Texas. Now, you’d expect a kid would get excited when those spellbinders started talking, but you’d hope us fellers with a little maturity would have known better. But I thought I had to go, to serve Texas. I should have listened to old Sam Houston.

I should’ve listened to my wife. She begged me not to go, said I could serve the home guard, stay in the Rangers and defend the frontier against the Indians. She was right. I should have.

But here I was…wherever I was…hurting like hell and composing idiotic verses in my head. But…wasn’t I supposed to be dead? That’s what I had planned.

I was standing at the base of that little hill, waiting for the order. My rifle was loaded, bayonet fixed. I would fight as a soldier. I would kill as need, as I had already done. But I prayed to God that it would be me who would be carried off that field of battle. For life had become too painful to endure.

As I waited, my hand fell into my pocket, where lay a piece of paper—crumpled and tear-stained. It was a letter only recently received. Mail was necessarily slow and irregular, even for the fellows who came from populated places, but from the Texas frontier was almost impossible.

The text was brief, and in broken English with some German spellings. It had been written by my wife’s brother Henry. (Well, we called him Henry because we couldn’t say Heinrich without spitting.) Henry had written to say that the Comanches had taken the opportunity of the War, and the poorly defended frontier, to increase their attacks on the frontier settlements. There was no way the men who were left could defend the settlers, though they valiantly tried. Many had given up and moved back to the more settled places.

My homestead had been attacked. My wife and family had been caught by surprise, and while Klara and the boy had put up a good fight, they were overwhelmed by the numbers. Both were killed. The Indians had not burned the house—probably sacred off by approaching riders—and my young daughter was found in the “hidey-hole” where her mother had placed her. Terrified, but otherwise unhurt. Henry and his wife had taken her in. My brother-in-law had been discreet, but I had been around the frontier a long time. I knew what the Comanches did to the people they killed, and when I thought of Klara’s beautiful golden hair adorning some redskin’s belt, I….

Well, there was absolutely no reason for me to go on living. My life was wrapped up in the beautiful stubborn fraulein.

And so, I fought. I inflicted death, but wanted to die. And as I stared up at that high ground, and waited for another order to charge, I prayed that a Yankee mine ball would find my heart.

The order came. I charged. I looked a Yankee soldier right in the eye, but I didn’t see a Yankee. I saw a Comanche. I raised my weapon, but he was faster. I saw the flash from his muzzle and I felt the bullet rip into my flesh. I spun with the force and felt myself going down. And while the pain was fierce, as I lost consciousness, I remember being happy that I would soon be reunited with my dear and beautiful Klara. I couldn’t wait to see her face.

And so here I was, slowly gaining consciousness, hurting like hell, and composing limericks about Texas. Obviously I was not in heaven…which was a great disappointment. But surely if I was in hell, I wouldn’t be able to think up dumb poetry either. (Unless I was given the privilege of making hell worse for the other inhabitants—which seemed unlikely.) So where was I.

It sure sounded like hell—and smelled like it, too. I finally became aware that I must have been in some sort of field hospital. Before long a young fellow came over and noticed that I was awake. He said something to me and I was aware of two things: by the way he was dressed and the way he talked, I knew I was amongst Yankees. He called somebody over--I don’t know commanding officer, doctor, or somebody, who seemed to smirk at me and said:

“Fah yew, the waah is ovah!”
What is it about the way that Yankees talk that just makes you want to slap ‘em?