HEROIC SCOUT OF THE PLAINS OF TEXAS
ONE day a young fellow was hunting deer near Pinto Creek, twelve miles from Fort Clark in Texas. His name was Henry Shane, and, although a German by birth, he had early emigrated to the Lone Star State, where he had joined the United States army and had fought in the more important battles of the Mexican War. Deer were plentiful, and it was not long before he had killed a fat buck. Laying his gun down upon the ground, the youthful hunter took out his long knife and prepared to skin the game.
Suddenly the sharp crack of a twig made him look up. He shrank back with a cry, for before him were six large and gaudily painted redskins. One had seized his rifle, another pointed a gun at his breast. It was useless to run.
“How! How! I surrender!” said the young Texan. “You no hurt me.”
“Ugh! Ugh!” grunted one of the foremost red men—evidently a chief. “We want you, paleface.”
The Indians now seized the unfortunate ranchman, tied his arms behind his back, and—after whipping him severely with a pair of rope-hobbles, which they used to confine their ponies—rode off with him.
“Oh, my,” thought poor Henry Shane, “they’ll fix me now, sure. I’m afraid that it’s all up with me!”
The redskins moved off quickly towards the northwest, and had not gone very far before they were joined by nine more Indians, making fifteen in all. They travelled all that day and part of the night. Then they stopped to rest and eat. Here they again rained blows upon the back of poor Henry, but for what reason he was at a loss to know, as he had done nothing to warrant such treatment. For dinner they presented him with a small piece of burned deer meat with the hair still on it. The prisoner made a pretty poor meal of such provender.
The braves took a good rest, and did not break camp until dawn. Then they bundled up their goods and were off. They travelled rapidly until about nine o’clock in the morning, when they again made a halt near a crystal spring. They had hurried along, for they feared pursuit, and in this they were quite right, for some Mexican herders had heard Shane’s gun when he killed the deer. As he did not return, later, they went in search of him, finding the slain deer and a fresh Indian trail. “He is either killed or captured,” they thought. “Probably the latter, as we cannot find his body.” News was at once carried to the fort, and a squad of soldiers was ordered to follow the Indians. They were guided by an excellent Mexican called “Old Roka,” who had lived with the savages for many years and knew their methods of fighting.
The Indians were camped near a cedar-brake, and the blue-coats rode up, just as they had finished breakfast. “Old Roka” led the soldiers into their very midst, before they knew it. Even young Henry Shane did not suspect the presence of the troops until they were right among the redskins. The latter picked up their own rifles and other arms. For a few moments they had a lively fight with the blue-coats. Bullets and arrows were flying thick and fast, when young Henry decided to skip into the neighboring cane-brake. He knew that it was a custom of the Indians to kill their captives, when they were attacked, so he decided to get away before they could harm him.