“Across the Sabine.”
At the time when Texas was an independent Republic, and not, as now, a State of the Federal Union, the phrase, “Across the Sabine” was one of noted signification.
Its significance lay in the fact, that fugitives from States’ justice, once over the Sabine, felt themselves safe; extradition laws being somewhat loose in the letter, and more so in the spirit, at any attempt made to carry them into execution.
As a consequence, the fleeing malefactor could breathe freely—even the murderer imagine the weight of guilt lifted from off his soul—the moment his foot touched Texan soil.
On a morning of early spring—the season when settlers most affect migration to the Lone Star State—a party of horsemen is seen crossing the boundary river, with faces turned toward Texas. The place where they are making passage is not the usual emigrants’ crossing—on the old Spanish military road between Natchitoches and Nacogdoches,—but several miles above, at a point where the stream is, at certain seasons, fordable. From the Louisiana side this ford is approached through a tract of heavy timber, mostly pine forest, along a trail little used by travellers, still less by those who enter Texas with honest intent, or leave Louisiana with unblemished reputations.
That these horsemen belong not to either category can be told at a glance. They have no waggons, nor other wheeled vehicles, to give them the semblance of emigrants; no baggage to embarrass them on their march. Without it, they might be explorers, land speculators, surveyors, or hunters. But no. They have not the look of persons who pursue any of these callings; no semblance of aught honest or honourable. In all there are twelve of them; among them not a face but speaks of the Penitentiary—not one which does not brighten up, and show more cheerful, as the hooves of their horses strike the Texan bank of the Sabine.
While on the terrain of Louisiana, they have been riding fast and hard—silent, and with pent-up thoughts, as though pursuers were after. Once on the Texan side all seem relieved, as if conscious of having at length reached a haven of safety.
Then he who appears leader of the party, reining up his horse, breaks silence, saying—
“Boys! I reckon we may take a spell o’ rest here. We’re now in Texas, whar freemen needn’t feel afeard. If thar’s been any fools followin’ us, I guess they’ll take care to keep on t’other side o’ the river. Tharfor, let’s dismount and have a bit o’ breakfast under the shadder o’ these trees. After we’ve done that, we can talk about what shed be our next move. For my part, I feel sleepy as a ’possum. That ar licker o’ Naketosh allers knocks me up for a day or two. This time, our young friend Quantrell here, has given us a double dose, the which I for one won’t get over in a week.”
It is scarcely necessary to say the speaker is Jim Borlasse, and those spoken to his drinking companions in the Choctaw Chief.