The bullets began to rain in from both sides of the creek, as Shane took shelter behind a huge cypress log and commenced the unequal battle. He was now in the tightest place that he had ever been in in his life, but he kept cool, and only fired at long intervals, and with careful aim. The redskins were uncertain as to the force they were attacking and were afraid to come down into the bed of the river and to fight at close quarters. The second Mexican crawled into a tree-top, so that only his feet were visible. He was of no assistance to the gallant frontiersman.
After shooting away for some time, the Indians decided to send a warrior on horseback below (where Shane was crouching), in order to see if all were killed, or if there were any still left. The frontiersman was on the alert, and, as the redskin approached, he caught the first motion of the reeds as he slipped through. The rest of the red men had ceased firing and were all under cover.
There was a moment of breathless anxiety. Shane held a large revolver in his hand, as he lay close to the ground, watching around the end of the log, as the fellow came in view. At once he aimed at the redskin’s breast and pulled the trigger. The Comanche reeled and fell to one side of his horse, clutching the mane of the animal as it ran up a bluff. The other redskins now rose from the grass and endeavored to stop the startled beast; but he kept running around in a circle, for some time, with the Indian still hanging to his mane. At last he was captured, and a loud wailing cry told the frontiersman that the shot which he had fired had done its deadly work.
The Indians now held a council of war. They could be easily seen by Shane, where he lay. Apparently they had had sufficient fighting, for they mounted and rode off. As they disappeared from view, the happy frontiersman mounted a stump and counted forty warriors. How many he had killed besides this last one he could not tell. He took no time to investigate the matter and prepared to leave at once.
The sides of the log, behind which he had lain, were perforated with bullets. One bullet hole was in his boot leg, one was in his hat, two were in his shirt, three were in the wagon bed, and one of the mules was badly wounded. In spite of this, the animal was able to draw the wagon home with him, in which was placed the wounded Antonio. The other Mexican had crawled from his hiding-place after the fight was over. He was certainly not made of the same stern stuff as was Henry Shane.
The bold rancher and frontiersman had had a narrow escape, but he had a still narrower escape, some time later. It was upon a winter’s day, and he had gone out to a place called “Griner’s Bottom” in order to listen to turkeys as they flew up to roost, for he wished to kill some of them for dinner on Christmas Eve. He found the place, and had not been there long before he heard the sound of horses’ feet. Looking around, he saw five Indians riding towards him. They seemed to be unaware of his presence.
There was no time for anything but quick action. Henry hugged the live-oak tree, against which he had been leaning. As he did so, the Indians came jogging along on both sides of him: two on one side—three on the other. It was rapidly getting dark, so they did not see the lone frontiersman. Luckily they did not look back after they had gone past. Had they done so, they would have seen Henry pressing himself flat against the tree trunk, grasping his muzzle-loading shotgun very tightly and trying to keep his teeth from chattering. Sometimes this antiquated gun missed fire. Oh, fortunate Ranger! The redskins were soon trotting onward in the darkness.
This was not the last adventure which the daring Henry had with the savages by any means, but it was the most exciting. He lived for many years upon his ranch in Uvalde County; prospered, and became one of the solid citizens of the state. Truly his was an adventurous soul. It was to such men as these, who dared to take any chance and assume any risk, that the West owes its settlement, its civilization, and upbuilding.
All honor, then, to Henry Shane,—the Texan pioneer for whom the Indian had no terrors. He passed through so many hairbreadth escapes that one would think him often thankful that he was alive. Hail to this stout German who helped to make history upon the Mexican frontier!