Overcome with heat, thirst, and fatigue, the entire party, with the exception of Father Margil, sat dejectedly on the ground. Taking his walking staff, Father Margil set out down the creek in search of water. About four hundred yards from where his companions lamented, he observed signs of moisture upon a high bluff overlooking the creek; here he knelt and prayed that like Moses he might be allowed to find water. Then with full faith he arose and smote with his staff the rock whereon he stood. Immediately there issued forth a living stream of cool, clear water. He tasted of it and hastily ran for his companions. Then they all drank and went on their way rejoicing at their miraculous deliverance.
[1] Wright, Mrs. S. J., San Antonio de Béxar, Austin, 1916, pp. 121–122. [↑]
[2] De Zavala, Adina, History and Legends of the Alamo and Other Missions, page 150. [↑]
INDIAN BLUFF ON CANADIAN RIVER[1]
By L. W. Payne, Jr.
This story, or legend, came to me in 1911 from a University of Texas student named W. Higgins, who got it from a guide called “Doctor” Barton on a camping trip up the Canadian River near the Oklahoma boundary line. Mr. Higgins admits that he has used his imagination somewhat in writing the legend, but says that its basis is real legend.
“Well,” began the “Doctor,” “see that tall rocky cliff over there? There’s kind of a legen’ ’bout that. Seems like durin’ early times [[206]]there was a man an’ his family a-livin’ out here on this side the river, not so fur away. He had a mighty beautiful little baby, ’bout two years old. Besides her, there was three or four older children; then their ma and pa. There was lots of Indians livin’ on th’ other side the river, near the bluff; and some lived in the cliff. Yes, they did. But I think they just kept their bows and arrers in there, for I don’t see how they could breathe good. An’ in this day an’ time everybody’s tryin’ to get all the fresh air they can. But maybe them kind of people didn’t need air. Well, anyhow, some of them Indians was on mighty good terms with these white folks. One old Indian in partikler. He used to climb down the cliff an’ come ’cross the river in his boat to see his neighbors. He used to take th’ little two-year-old in his canoe for a ride, sometimes. Mighty queer they would let him do it, but they did anyhow.
“One day the white settler an’ the Indian had a fuss. What ’bout, I don’t zactly recollect; but seems like the white man hit the Indian with a piece of wood. He had tried to make the Indian do some dirty work for him, an’ when the red-skin refused, the white man beat him nearly to death. The Indian swore revenge. He went home terr’ble mad. He didn’t go to see the settlers for a long time. They kind-a missed him too.