American Legend: The Real-Life Adventures of David Crockett (35 page)

Another story held that while in Little Rock, Crockett had agreed to a friendly shooting competition against Arkansas’s finest marksmen. He upstaged the locals by sending a ball dead center of the target, a shot of such accuracy that it was hard to believe, and some even called it lucky. Crockett smirked, walked back to his place, leveled Old Betsy again, and fired. A quick inspection revealed no other hole in the target, and everyone assumed that the noted marksman had inexplicably missed. The clever Crockett simply smiled, then pointed out that he had not missed, but rather had shot with such precision that the second ball had followed exactly the trajectory of the first, passing through and exiting the very same hole! Mouths agape in awe and disbelief, everyone headed to the tavern to talk it over.
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Early the next morning Crockett arose, took some breakfast, then stopped by a local carpenter’s shop to sharpen his tomahawk’s blade, no doubt dulled in the butchering and cleaning of the deer.
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Crockett didn’t know when he would have the luxury of a grinder, workshop, and tools again, so it made sense to head out with tools whetted sharp.

At mid-morning he rounded up his party and nosed his horse south. He wanted to get out into the open country, the likely river bottoms flush with game. Little Rock had been a pleasant diversion, but it was a long ride to Texas. As they left town, they rode past curious and admiring onlookers, many of them cheering and shouting words of encouragement and good luck. Many assumed, as did the local papers, that Crockett was leading his men to the revolution. The
Gazette
described the scene of his leaving with a nod toward that purpose:

The Colonel and his party, all completely armed and well mounted, took their departure on Friday morning, for Texas, in which country, we understand, they intend establishing their future abode, and in defence of which, we hope they may cover themselves with glory.
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It is true that Crockett and his men were well armed, for they did not know when, or if, they would ever return to their native Tennessee. Crockett and other men on long hunts typically traveled with more than one rifle, providing for loss, something valuable with which to barter, as well as not uncommon mechanical failure. It was easy to assume that Crockett headed south with military intentions, but nothing so far in his language about the trip had indicated as much. Still, he certainly was not beyond letting people attribute noble thoughts to him if it suited his public relations purposes. The migration to the Southwest to aid the revolution was obviously on everyone’s minds and tongues around this area, close as the skirmish was to their border.

They continued south, pushing hard and riding long hours, scaring up game as they drove along. The country began to show great promise, with dense stands of pin oaks, good cover for game, shrouding the banks of the Red River. Somewhere along the river here, near the little town of Lost Prairie, David Crockett rode across the river and into Texas.
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That night, no doubt elated to be in Texas at last and encouraged by the terrain, Crockett accepted an offer to spend the night at the home of Isaac Jones. He could use the free food and billet, for once again, in what must have seemed to Crockett a perturbing and pesky perpetual state, he was completely broke. What little money he had started with had gone to lodgings, food, provisions, and a few horns, and now he rode with empty pockets and purse.

Though he no doubt hated to do it, Crockett needed to sell his engraved watch, the timepiece given to him by the Philadelphia Whigs during his book tour, which Isaac Jones purchased for thirty dollars and another, less ornate watch.
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Content that it was a fair deal, Crockett consented. Despite being humbled and embarrassed by his predicament, Crockett nevertheless impressed Jones, who later commented on his chance but memorable meeting with him, and on the deal they struck:

With his open frankness, his natural honesty of expression, his perfect want of concealment, I could not but be very much pleased. And with a hope that it might be an accommodation to him, I was gratified at the exchange, as it gave me a keepsake which would often remind me of an honest man, a good citizen and a pioneer in the cause of liberty, amongst his suffering brethren in Texas.
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Crockett would have been grinning like a wildcat to see the country underfoot, the great prairie rolling to the south, the dense stands of timber along the rivers where animals could hole up to cool themselves during the heat of the day, and sleep safely at night. They rode miles of level ground to a place called Big Prairie. They spent the night before continuing on to Clarksville, where they took refuge at the Becknell home and determined that this would be the very place to serve as a staging point for a big hunt. Crockett was referred to a man named Captain Henry Stout, a tough, knowledgeable woodsman who was known about the area as a phenomenal hunter and “one of the most remarkable guides on any frontier.”
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Stout took them west, toward a remarkable region which, to Crockett’s great delight, was entirely uncivilized. The towns had receded into memory, and there were no houses or settlements of any kind, just endless land unfurling in all directions, wild and free. To the west the ground was open, dry, sun-parched and cracked, but easing to the east the land soaked up moisture from the rivers, the canopy of trees cooling the ground, fueling the moist grasses and woodlands. The wildness of the place also brought the specter of potential danger, and it was rumored that aggressive Indians rode the very region into which they were heading. In fact, a band of Comanches were at that very moment “on the warpath.”
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Henry Stout knew where he was going and he kept them out of harm’s way as he led them through stirrup-high prairie grasses, riding some eighty idyllic miles west into pristine wilderness the likes of which Crockett had not seen in decades, since his scouting days in the Creek War. They finally arrived at the lush land separating Bois d’Arc Creek and what Stout called Choctaw Bayou, the two gorgeous waterways draining into the Red River. Crockett surveyed the flowing meadows and prairies sprawling every direction but north, where the land skirting the Red River grew dark, choked with thick timber and extending southward nearly 300 miles. This was it; this was the sort of place he had dreamed of all his life, an Eden of his own. Crockett could see himself living here; there would be no need to move back to Tennessee or revisit his troubles there; he would only have to go back to retrieve the family, those who still had faith in him, those willing to follow him and his western dream.
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Crockett’s elation poured forth in the letter he wrote the family some weeks later, after he had discovered not only some of the best hunting ground in the world, but that the land was practically being given away, with qualified settlers handed over 4,428 acres each. He could barely contain his enthusiasm as he reported his incredible discoveries to his family:

It’s not required here to pay down for your League of land. Every man is entitled to his head right of 400-428 [4,428] acres. They may make the money to pay for it on the land. I expect in all probability to settle on the Border or the Chactaw Bro of Red River that I have no doubt is the richest country in the world. Good land and plenty of timber and the best springs and will [wild] mill streams, good range, clear water, and every appearance of good health and game aplenty. It is the pass where the buffalo passes from north to south and back twice a year, and bees and honey plenty. I have a great hope of getting the agency to settle that county and I would be glad to see every friend I have settled thare. It would be a fortune to them all.
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Crockett was so impressed, so utterly enamored of the place, that he is said to have carved the words “Honey Grove” into a tree in celebration of a quaint little tree-lined grove where his hunting party had camped and dined on wild honey. He essentially named the place, for it is known as Honey Grove to this day.
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By now, Crockett must have been nearly frothing, for he had heard that men like Stephen Austin and his friend Sam Houston were setting up land agencies, through which, if they played things right, and Texas became a part of the United States, as was surely inevitable, the land agents or
empresarios
(akin to modern realtors or developers) stood to become immensely wealthy men. Crockett was feeling superb physically, and the stings from his recent emotional wounds were now a distant memory as the land and his current situation showed nothing but opportunity and promise. If he kept his head about him, looked for and seized the chances as they came to him, David Crockett was on the cusp of finally making his fortune, in a magnificent wilderness where he could hunt practically year-round, catching the buffalo on two migrations per year and bears in the autumn as they foraged in preparation for hibernation, in their dens in winter, and once again when they awoke and reemerged in the spring.

He continued hunting, in a state of euphoria, right through Christmas, missing a rendezvous he had planned with other members of his party, which had split up, at the “falls of the Brazos.”
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The hunting was simply too good, the outriding, sleeping under the explosion of stars in the immense Texian sky, too enjoyable for Crockett to leave just yet. He traveled a leisurely pace, hooking up with the Trammel’s Trace, the main link connecting Red River country and Texas, by New Year’s and heading south, in the direction of Nacogdoches.
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Crockett had heard that his old friend Sam Houston was in Nacogdoches, once again practicing law and now setting up land agencies, and in fact Houston was at the time the “newly named commander in chief of the forces of the provisional government of Texas”
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and he would likely be able to set Crockett up with an agency of his own in the Red River country that had so mesmerized him.

Even out on the open prairie and sparse plain, news traveled with fair speed by word of mouth via horseback, so when Crockett rode into Nacogdoches on January 5, word of his coming had beaten him there, and he was heartily welcomed by scores of people, including his old friend and protégé Ben McCulloch.
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It was good to see some familiar faces in the bustling little town that now served as the gateway to the South. Prominent townsfolk hosted the national celebrity at a large dinner, where Crockett had no choice but to trot out his requisite “go to hell speech” to thunderous applause.

During his few days in Nacogdoches he learned of some crucial developments that may have shifted his attentions and refocused his goals for the future. Word was afoot that a Constitutional Convention was to be held, designed to make a formal declaration of independence for Texas and compose a constitution, essentially creating a new republic.
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Though before leaving Tennessee Crockett had soured on politics, this was different. Here no one seemed to know of his recent failures, or if they did, they didn’t care—he was treated like a celebrity and frontier hero, titles he had earned. As he knew from jealously regarding the meteoric rise of his nemesis Andrew Jackson, military fame equaled political success, and now there was news that the Mexican armies had been driven south of the Rio Grande, and that their leader Santa Anna, the feared “Napoleon of the West,” rode hard from the south with a large force of men. With a military skirmish looming, and nearly free land for any man willing to fight for Texas statehood, the stars seemed to be intentionally aligning in Crockett’s favor once again.

The ladies of Nacogdoches invited Crockett and company to a grand dinner a few days hence, which he graciously accepted; then he gathered a few of his men and rode east, to the town of San Augustine, where he was exuberantly greeted by booming cannon fire, then invited to a dinner in his honor. Crockett stopped to deliver one of his “corner speeches,” which impressed resident James Gaines deeply, prompting him to conclude the next day: “David Crockett gave one of his Corner Speeches yesterday in San Augustine and is To Represent them in the Convention on the first of March.”
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Later that evening Crockett attended the opulent dinner in his honor, then spent the night at the home of Judge Shelby Corzine, whose daughter wrote that she would never forget that day when David Crockett visited and stayed in their home.
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Though he had been practically invisible and anonymous while out hunting in the Choctaw Bayou, news of the great Crockett once again spread in all directions, even as far back east as New York, where it was reported that Crockett was “urged to become a candidate for the Convention; but the Colonel told the Texians that he came to fight for them and not seek office; but as he took care at the same time to tell them that he had rather be a member of the Convention than the Senate of the United States, we dare say he will be elected.”
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Of course, his claim that he came to fight is suspect and illustrates his shrewd political savvy and ability to respond to a situation as well as the desire of an audience. He had come to hunt and scout turf, but this potential windfall was simply too good to pass up. Brimming with hope and enthusiasm, Crockett found the time in San Augustine to begin a letter to his oldest daughter, Margaret, and her husband, Wiley Flowers, his final surviving correspondence: