Recollections of Early Texas (27 page)

But I will go back to our hunt here. After all buffalo were out of these parts, as we thought, Bill Barton, John and Tom Bright, and I concluded to make a deer and bee hunt over on Peach Creek, about twenty-five miles away. We camped at what is known as Steward's Prairie, on the old Gonzales road—a very wild and rough country. This section of the country is still unsettled—constituting the largest uncultivated portion of Bastrop County.

Striking out we easily secured nice fat venison and plenty of honey. In the evening, after feasting on nature's good things, seasoned by camp yarns, while taking another round for game, we were greatly surprised and pleased to find signs of where a herd of about thirty buffalo had been feeding. We took their trail at once and followed them into the sand hills around Iron Mountain. After a run of six miles we came upon them as they traveled slowly but steadily along. We tried to get around them near enough for a shot but they suddenly “got whiff” of us and broke into a run.

Bill Barton and I were riding good horses and concluded to run them. The cloud of dust was terrible and so dense we could hardly see the herd of frightened animals, which seemed like a great rolling body as they plunged along. Our horses soon were left behind and gave out in the unequal race. They were so hot and tired that we were compelled to stop, unsaddle, and stake them a while to rest and cool. Sitting there, talking over the excitement of our race, we suddenly saw two bear cubs running toward us from the herd of buffalo. Seeing us, they whirled. Springing on our horses bareback, with stake ropes for bridles, we took after them and a merry little race we had. Both cubs took a tree, and we shot them, bringing back to camp fine bear meat in
addition to our store of venison and wild honey. Now we had enjoyed a good time—a surprising time and had plenty of game, but I could not be satisfied as I thought of that herd of buffalo leaving us behind. So I challenged my friends to stay with me—to declare that we would never under any consideration give up until we brought in buffalo meat. All agreed. Early the next morning we went out and soon struck the trail of our herd. Another run of six miles brought us to their beds, where they had evidently rested and fed a little. Then the trail led us on into even rougher regions between Peach and Tinney Creeks on Iron Mountain.

Soon we came in sight of the herd which was still moving steadily onward. Being close to them we dismounted, tied our horses, and followed them about a half-mile. As we entered a sandy glade, about eighty yards off from the herd, we fired upon them as they walked along. After that we found blood on the trail, and soon a fine buffalo fell dead on the march. We took a supply of the meat, taking pains to secure the marrowbones—always considered a rare delicacy. With these additions to our feast of good things, another night ended our surprising hunt.

Ah, I was young and full of fun then, and that was indeed one of the gala weeks of my hunting days.

Sometimes in the midst of my reminiscences I am troubled with a restless feeling of uneasiness as to the construction which may be placed upon this record of my younger days. Some may accuse me of egotism and bragging, or of ignoring others and placing myself to the front. It would probably seem more fitting that other tongues than mine should tell of my battles and triumphs, but there are only a very few survivors of those scenes now—besides, my children want
my
life and
my
experiences in early Texas times, and hence the personal nature of my reminiscences. Of course, I know many men whose services were given to Texas, and whose
lives would form a volume more interesting and exciting than these chapters of mine, but history will do its duty by them. For my children I have consented and striven to give the truths of
my own personal experiences,
while at the same time I have introduced other incidents of which I was thoroughly cognizant.

Those old times were practical as well as dangerous, and there was little room for poetry, sentiment, and all that among the early settlers. We were generally poor and honest, and necessarily compelled to stand by each other, but life was not too serious for us to have a good deal of fun sometimes; young people are almost the same in heart and practice the world over, and today it is not unusual to catch gleams of life and merriment among our boys and girls which enlivened the social gatherings a half-century ago, when Mary Jane
³
and I first began to look at each other—and it does not seem so long ago now although our hairs are so white, our eyes dim, and our frames growing feeble and full of pains.

Even in my very young boyhood, before Mary Jane came to Texas, I remember a little group of young people who threw a little love-making and teasing and marrying into the wild prose of the early days here. The star of the circle was Miss Parthenia Barton,
⁴
a fine girl—nice and quite pretty, with a winning way for old and young. Her two uncles were young men, and the wooing of Miss Barton was a matter of considerable interest and amusement to them. One young gentleman, Levi K——, was among her suitors and my recollection paints him quite a “character” in his way. He
was very conceited and very green, a combination of elements which nearly always produces something rich and rare if not ridiculous and absurd. He loved the girl and thought he could get her, but was ignorant as to how he should proceed; she meanwhile was rather shy, very dignified, and disliked him as thoroughly as she could dislike anybody. So he walked around and looked at the fair maid and studied the vexing question, until he determined to settle it at once, and consulted one or two of the boys on the subject. They advised him “to ask the old lady first,” assuring him that was the only way here in Texas. And they watched the poor fellow throughout the whole ordeal. Mrs. Barton said Parthenia could use her own mind in the matter, but Parthenia gave his asking no hearing and his dreams vanished like a bubble into thin air. This heart was, wonderful to say, elastic, however, and in a short time he was corresponding with another girl in San Felipe and more infatuated than ever, showing the same confidence in his comrades as before.

How interested they made themselves in every letter that came and how they listened to all his plans, founded, as usual, on his self-confidence and conceit! Finally, I remember seeing them forge a love letter to Levi, and then I remember Levi bringing the letter to the wicked young forger, who read it aloud, pausing and studying portions of it just as if he had not been its author. It was a letter full of the brightest fruition to all of Levi's hopes crowning his marriage with an immense fortune inherited from a rich uncle of his ladylove. And I recall him as he reveled in his air castles, walking the floor and talking of how suspense and poverty and hard work were all at an end for him. It was all cruel, but such things still happen. And I remember when the real truth came to poor Levi, and the girl refused him. He left the country a victim of disappointed love. I wonder whatever did become of him.

And so life went on! Soft eyes looked love to eyes that answered love again. There was a marriage occasionally, by bond before a justice of the peace, and then ratified at the coming of the priest, this under Mexican law. After Texas Independence, in case one of a couple had died, the bond marriages were declared valid under the constitution. I think right often of our boys and girls who made society here in West Texas then. The girls were so strong and fine and healthy-looking and they seemed so wide-awake and earnest. Their waists were not so waspish nor their bustles so large as they are today. Their cheeks were as fresh and rosy, but they were painted by Nature's touch in God's own sunshine. They were raised on bear and buffalo meat and venison and wild honey with plenty of good pure fresh air and work to do.

Women and men are like the plants and trees—they require air and sunshine for strength and growth. And our girls knew how to weave and spin and churn and do anything that came along there. They did not stop and primp up to entertain company in those days; our boys “who would a-wooing go” did not send a note beforehand and await an answer, as is today's custom. No, arrayed in coonskin cap and moccasins with a hunting suit in harmony, carrying a gun for game or savages, the young Texas beau would have to march up to loom or cowpen or garden and there make known his fondest hopes, while the work went on. But “all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,” and we had a party now and then—not often, but when the occasion came we made it count sure enough, generally running the thing all night long. Ah, then we had fun! There were no cotillions, no round dancing, nothing quiet or modern. We danced the regular old reels to the most stirring old tunes ever played by fiddle or banjo, harder work than plowing or hoeing
cotton. It was like our lives—all full of earnestness and energy—vim was an element in everything here then.

Fashion meant common sense and economy and comfort. A lady made a splendid-looking and fitting costume out of seven yards of cloth. To my mind, she looked just nice enough for anything in the world, but I suppose in an average ballroom now she would be regarded as a relic of ante-flood times. I believe the women here now are as pretty and fair as can be found, but they do not look so healthy and comfortable and happy, and I do not see many who look like they could pass through what Mary Jane and others of our veteran ladies of Bastrop County have endured.

CHAPTER XIII

From the Sublime to the Ridiculous

There is but a step from the sublime to the ridiculous, and we are often forced to take that step all along through life. I am driven into this extremity at the present writing by the importunity of certain friends who beset me on sight with gentle reminders of some of the “jokes” at my own expense, which they hold treasured up against me, and as my reminiscences proceed, they grow more and more uneasy lest I should fail to recollect and record these important (?) facts.

Hence, from the toils, sufferings, fatigue, and dangers of army and prison life, I would bring my friends to the quiet and comfort of my boyhood home, and proceed to relieve my mind by satisfying theirs, assuring them that I have no intention of shrinking from the facts in my life, even though they may expose laughable blunders. After all, what is better than a good hearty laugh?

First, there is that everlasting old story of “The Buttons.” It is not only queer, but exceedingly vexatious, how these downright good jokes, no matter how we try to crush them to the earth, will rise again and continually confront us, demanding recognition and acknowledgment at all times and seasons. We can neither outgrow nor kill the recollection of these absurd mistakes and blunders of other days, and
whether we choose or not, will have to “face the music” throughout.

Now, there are practical jokes—capital jokes, so called—whose perpetrators almost deserve capital punishment, and whose victims often suffer untold horrors of agony and pain. Of all such “crimes” I would wash my hands, but where a man originates and perpetrates the fun, and is the butt of his own joke, whether intentionally or unconsciously, why all men everywhere can afford the luxury of a good laugh.

This “button” incident occurred back in our young days, when the only store in Bastrop was a little old elm log house, kept by Dr. [Thomas Jefferson] Gazley, and the entire stock of goods might have been carried on one horse. Though little, it nevertheless did quite a thriving business. Butter, chickens, eggs, indeed all home produce, was taken in trade; and while our men were on duty abroad, our good women could carry on this exchange in their own peculiar province. My experience in the field and forest had been rather more extensive than in trade and commerce, and even now I am somewhat more comfortable on a camp hunt than in shopping, a fact of which I think my friends are right well aware.

I was a mere boy, and Bastrop was comparatively an infant. Mother sent me one morning with butter to Dr. Gazley's, at the same time telling me that I must bring her back some buttons. Catching my horse, I asked just as I rode off, “How many buttons?”

Misunderstanding my question, she answered, “Four pounds.”

It never entered my head once to be surprised or puzzled at the immense quantity of buttons she demanded, but going on to Bastrop and delivering my butter, I informed Dr. Gazley that my mother wanted four pounds of buttons.

I will never forget his look of amusement and surprise as
he protested, “Surely, you are mistaken! Your mother cannot want four pounds of buttons!”

I stood my ground firmly and vehemently; indeed, I grew downright mad when I found myself unable to convince him that she really wanted the specified quantity of buttons.

And finally he became more serious and somewhat puzzled as he remarked, “Probably your mother is trying to make fun of my small store and still smaller stock of goods!”

At length he prevailed on me to carry home two dozen buttons, and I left feeling almost furious as he said, “Why, John, there's not a store in New York containing four pounds of buttons!” How my mother laughed when I went in with my little card of buttons and very indignantly informed her that, “I tried to get the four pounds of buttons, but Dr. Gazley would not let me have them!”

This is the true story, now, friends, and the obvious reason was that I simply thought she said four pounds of buttons when its was four pounds of butter. From boyhood until now in my old age, the memory of those buttons has abided with us, and at this late day one may occasionally hear in our household the caution, “Now, don't go and get four pounds of buttons!”

Secondly and lastly, long after my marriage, when Billy [William Edward Jenkins*], my son, was quite a good-sized boy, I committed the absurd blunder from which arose the standing joke of “The Auger Handle,” which has been and is still repeated with endless preludes, interludes, and variations. Nearly every time I ride into town some one of my interested (?) friends asks a question, or makes a remark, which seems to insinuate that I will take care not to record that incident among my reminiscences of the past.