They were anxious for a fight.
The ranchers were soon galloping forward, and it was not long before they had overtaken the Indians, who quickly started off, waving their blankets at the captured horses in order to stampede them. Firing commenced, and Shane had a piece shot from the horn of his saddle. Two of the Indians were killed, but their horses carried them into the brush. Finally the redskins made a stand upon the top of a round mountain, but as soon as the whites charged them they ran. They left three saddled pintos behind them.
The plainsmen made a rapid pursuit, and soon captured thirty horses and seven mules. The red men seemed to give up all hope of ever defeating the whites, and scurried off like so many rabbits. They dodged behind boulders and sage-brush. So quickly did their ponies get away that they were soon out of sight. Henry Shane and his companions were well satisfied with the day’s work and gave up the pursuit, for their own mounts were badly winded.
Life upon the frontier of Texas in those days was certainly exciting for any one engaged in the sheep or cattle business. In spite of the continued danger from redskins, Henry Shane did not give up his interest in sheep. One of his brothers—named Constance—lived with him and helped to herd the flock, although he kept continually upon his guard and was never without his rifle. He, himself, was soon to have a narrow escape from death.
One morning Constance was about two hundred yards from the house carefully watching a number of sheep. He was sitting near the bank of a creek, when he heard horses’ hoofs knocking the rocks under the bluff. He stepped up to the edge of the bank and looked over, expecting to see some cattlemen from a neighboring ranch. To his surprise and dismay he saw nine Indians, with the chief in the lead. They were riding up the bank in an old cow trail.
Young Constance was too startled to move. He stood there trembling, and allowed the redskins to come right up to him. The chief had a heavy quirt in his hand, with which he struck Shane a stinging blow over the head and knocked him down. He then dismounted and stripped him. The red men now gathered around their captive, making a great screeching and howling.
Henry Shane saw the Indians collected in a group, and, seizing his rifle, went to a corner of a fence to watch them. He could not see his brother, and was all prepared to fire, should the redskins make a move in his own direction. The Indians saw him standing there, and, shooting Constance with an arrow, they rode away, yelping derisively.
Henry followed the redskins in order to see which course they took, and then came back to camp, still unaware that anything had happened to his brother. The Indians had apparently determined to withdraw entirely, which was fortunate for the lone sheep herder. Constance finally crawled to his feet and came back to the camp, declaring that there were eight bucks and one squaw in the party and that the squaw had shot him. He was grievously wounded,—so grievously that every one who saw him said that he would die. But he fooled them all and became perfectly well again,—much to the joy of Henry, who loved him dearly.
Exciting adventures were still in store for the daring Henry Shane, who continued to herd his sheep in this border country, in spite of the fact that the cruel redskins were all around him. Not long after the wounding of Constance, Henry went up the river, which ran near his ranch, and entered the ranch-yard of a sheepman called Joe Brown, who owned a sheep vat and a furnace. The ranch was then vacant, as Mr. Brown had moved to Uvalde and had told Shane that he could use his vat and furnace for dipping sheep. It was Henry’s intention to start a fire in the furnace for the purpose of boiling tobacco, which was used in dipping the sheep, to cure them of a disease called “the scab,” or to prevent them from catching this dread complaint.
A Mexican named Bernaldo was with the sheepman, and rode forward in order to get some horses which were in a small pasture not far distant. He soon came back upon the dead run, whipping his horse furiously with his hat.