In 1872 Mr. Shane decided to make a sheep camp about two and a half miles from where he lived, so drove down there in a wagon one morning, in order to pitch a tent and fix things for the comfort of his Mexican herder, who was off with a band of sheep. The camp was beneath the fork of a live-oak tree. The frontiersman left his wagon about a dozen yards from where he was at work, and started to put a small board between the forks of the live-oak, to serve as a shelf. Two guns were in his wagon.
While thus occupied, he suddenly heard a wild war-whoop, and found that he had been attacked by the Indians. A redskin came up behind the wagon, on horseback, and shot at the ranchman with a six-shooter, the ball striking the right-hand fork of the tree and knocking the bark into his face and eyes. The pioneer turned, in order to get his guns out of his wagon, and faced the levelled revolver of the savage. He kept cool—in spite of this danger—and, as he walked to the wagon, received two more shots from the Indian. As the redskin was behind the conveyance, his shots went high, passing over the head of the frontiersman, who soon reached his wagon and looked for his guns. The Comanche saw what the white man was after, and, when he perceived that his shots had failed to take effect, he wheeled his horse and ran away. Shane seized a rifle and fired at him, killing his horse when he did so. As the pinto rolled upon the ground eight more Indians showed themselves and began to charge the lone white man. The gun which he had just discharged was a Mississippi yager, and he had no more balls for it.
But the frontiersman had another weapon: a new, single-shot Ballard rifle, and he only had two cartridges for it; one in the gun and one in his pocket. In leaving home that morning he had left his belt behind, which was full of cartridges for the Ballard. He was in a close place, but he had—as you know—been in close places before, and he was determined to make the best fight that he could. He resolved not to waste a shot. Using his wagon as a breastwork he awaited the onset of the Indians, and when they came nearer he raised his gun and aimed at them. The redskins dodged behind the prickly pear and mesquite bushes, from which they opened fire, hitting the wagon and the ground around it repeatedly.
Now occurred a lively battle. The frontiersman had tied a fat mule about one hundred feet from the wagon, where he could eat grass. A daring redskin concluded to risk his chances and get the animal, so, leaving the cover of the mesquite bushes, he advanced across open ground in order to steal the unsuspecting beast. When Shane saw the Indian coming with his knife ready to sever the rope which held the mule, he determined to risk a crack at him. He was an excellent shot, and he knew that he could kill the Indian if he did not dodge too quickly. Taking a quick but accurate aim, he fired. The Comanche brave jumped high in the air, and then fell in a sheep trail and lay there. The other Indians set up a terrible howling when they saw that their companion had been killed, and several of them ran quickly, seized him by the hair and dragged him out of sight behind the prickly pear bushes. The pioneer still crouched low and waited for the Comanches to come on, but, dreading to expose themselves to such marksmanship, the Indians did not again show themselves.
Certainly things looked bad for Henry Shane, but help was at hand. The Mexican attendant heard the fight, and from the number of shots that were fired supposed that his employer had been killed. He ran to the ranch in order to inform Mrs. Shane of this fact. The lady sent four Mexicans out to see if they could not assist her husband. When they neared the scene of action the Indians decamped, leaving their dead comrade behind. The ranchers buried the Comanche brave where he had fallen in the sheep trail.
When the lucky sheepman returned to his ranch from the scene of this thrilling little battle he found that a strange happening had come to pass. The Mexican sheep-herder who had rushed home to warn his wife that the Indians had surrounded him, was found to be in a serious condition, through overexertion in carrying the news of Henry’s supposed death. The poor fellow was in great pain, and, although he was placed in a wagon and was carried to San Antonio, where he could see the best physicians, he died soon afterwards.
As for the gallant Shane, he continued to have exciting adventures with the redskins, and, not long after the lucky escape which I have just narrated, had another brush with the roving Comanches. He had made a sheep camp three miles from his house, at a place called Long Hollow, and had his Mexican herder with him. This was the faithful Felipe Flores.
Early one morning Shane heard rocks rattling in the hollow below the camp, so he and Flores went out a short distance in front in order to investigate the matter. Felipe went slightly in advance, and to Shane’s questioning as to what he saw, replied:
“It is Mr. Dilliard, whom we have been expecting to help us hunt for some lost sheep.”
Shane kept on, but suddenly started back in dismay. Ten Comanches were coming for him upon the dead run.