Scpr. 30 , : 905 .J F 0 R E S T A N D S T R E A M . 267 
'Irs. Weaggley shot\ him between the eyes, “Jes’ a 
ttle above, if anything.” Should a man in that region 
icur her displeasure now, he would leave the region. 
)ne man, believed to have shot her son, has moved 
eyond the Mississippi. 
■‘What do you think of iiiy dogs?” Mrs. Weaggley 
/anted to know. “I had a bull pup a 'year ago that I 
hought the wrtrld of. The boy there sicked him on a 
ottonmouth and he got bit twice. I was so mad I 
carcely talked to that boy for -a week.” 
That night a young man. more than six feet tall, 
ame in. He was an Ohioan, but was succumbing to 
he charm of the swamp land. He was a timber man, 
nd made good wages, looking up good cypress 
rowths. He was going up Lake Chicot, but would 
o down Grand Lake two days later with me to 
lorgan City if I would wait for him. So I staid over 
day with the Weaggleys. 
This day in the swamp home was probably a typical 
ne. The Ohioan left at daylight, and soon after a 
oung man, his wife and a baby came in a pirogue. The 
'Oman: wished to leave the baby with Mrs. Weaggley, 
0 that she and her husband could go across Grand 
,ake, fourteen miles, to the storehouse and purchase 
-ipplies. Most cheerfully Mrs. Weaggley assented, and 
was easy to see why Mrs. Weaggley was called “Old 
I lother” Weaggley by all the people of the swamps, 
ter kindliness of heart and her sharp intellect give her 
unique position among “her” people. ' She was born 
nd bred a southern woman, and had an amount of 
nergy beyond any that I saw on the river. Mr. 
/eaggley, by the way, was out of the north — a Hoosier. 
be was called “old” merely by way of compliment, 
'robably she was 40 years of age, but she was spryer 
lan any one in the swamps, without question. 
She stirred her husband into fence repairing, went 
isiting, cooked, fixed her Government light, got meals, 
orked in the garden, tended the baby and cows and 
axed around in a manner that was almost irritatingly 
•at of place in such a beautiful locality for resting. Mr. 
v^eaggley, who was not feeling well, watched her with 
amorous helplessness, as though realizing the useless- 
ess of protest. 
! Toward night Mrs. Weaggley began to fidget about 
le mother of the baby. She feared perhaps the wind, 
hich had blown all day, had made trouble for the 
oung couple in their little boat. She sighed with 
dief when they appeared. The woman had samples of 
ress cloth, which she wanted Mrs. Weaggley to look 
t. The cloth was filmy stuff, no thicker than some 
ish window curtain — Swiss? or mull? or lawn? — Mrs. 
Veaggley eyed the samples. The light blues, faint 
inks, the cream and saffron colors excited her 
isdain. 
I “They might do for some folks,” she said later, “but 
liiey wouldn’t do for me. Sometimes my calves get 
p cutting up. Mebbe they break through the fence 
I ke they did this morning. I takes the dogs and I 
liiiart after them calves. Now I tell you, a calf don’t 
like the open places when you’re after him! He le’ps 
firough the bresh, and if you want that calf, you gotto 
pller him. I’d foller the' calf. Now if I had a dress 
[ke that woman’s samples there’d be pieces of it left 
: anging on the bresh points. By the time I had that 
alf winded, and cornered, I wouldn’t have any dress, 
ut I’d have the calf. Now what I want is a stuff that 
reaks off the stobs, and, by gracious, that’s what I 
et — good woosterdy stuff like this skirt. I chased the 
1 alves in that this morning, and I got a skirt left, which 
wouldn’t a had in that ball-room stuff you can see 
irough.” 
A youth came in toward night, riding his pirogue 
ke a bird. He was a blond Frenchman — “Cajun” — 
lineal descendant of the Acadians distributed along 
he coast by the English. He dropped in as he was 
assing and dr.ank a cup of coffee, and talked awhile. 
: t grew late, and he betrayed signs of uneasiness. 
“I feel lak I go now,” he said, “T don’ lak to pass 
ome places by the night.” 
Mrs Weaggley laughed at him. 
I “What you ’fraid of— ghosts?” She asked did I fear 
l^irits, and, for herself, denied the existence of ghosts 
nd such like. The young man shook his head. He 
ijnew men who had seen such things. 
[ “They say,” he said, significantly, “that a man on 
I orseback is seen, down here on Mill Island.” 
“Pshaw!” said Mrs. Weaggley, “I've been down there 
II times of night and day — I’d see him if anybody 
ould, and I never did!” 
The youth was insistant. “The ha’nts guards the 
old,” he remarked, “I know where there is a pot of 
old up Nimrod bayou, but it’s guarded.” 
“If I knew where there was gold. I’d go get it,” Mrs. 
f/eaggley said. “I found a silver cup and a silver 
poon in a caving bank one time, and I’d just like to 
icate a pot of some of that gold that was burjed in 
iiese swamps. I’d risk digging it.” 
I The swamps are land and water of traditions. How 
iiany murders and other crimes have been committed 
n.its depths no one could ever know. Stolen slaves 
Jere hidden there; pirates fled to the thickets both from 
le Mississippi and from the Gulf of Mexico. In war 
^mes and before, treasure was hidden on some of the 
Gands and some of it has never been dug up. 
On the following morning, early, Reed and I started 
:)/ Morgan City, forty miles away, more than thirty 
Jf it across the open waters of Grand Lake. The wind 
as due to rise and blow all day, but my skiff was 
vaunch, and Reed had more than ordinary skill with 
le oars. I was anxious to be headed homeward' now. 
;Irs. Weaggley had called my attention to the mos- 
quitoes which were just beginning to fly. 
I “They say them zebras are the yellow fever ones,” 
“le said, cheerfully. “The black ones carry malaria, or 
ever an’ ager, I forget which.” 
j We went down Steamboat Chute headed away down 
i wide, long body of water which showed, by its yellow 
tnes dragged out by the numerous fish lines and net 
Joles, that the whole sheet of water was flowing to- 
rard the Gulf. Mrs. Weaggley said that all the water 
:i the swamps is clear and blue as the Gulf in sum- 
^ler, or low water, but the Mississippi rise had yellowed 
1 . One could reach bottom with the 71^ foot oar without 
effort over much of this lake. Mrs. Weaggley told of 
twO' scared men who crossed the lake and were caught 
by a cyclone while nearly eighty rods from land. They 
saved themselves for a time, but at last the waves 
threw them, into the water. 
“And you know,” Mrs. Weaggley said, “the water 
wa’n’t two feet deep, and they waded ashore, dragging 
their pirogues behind them.” 
Nevertheless, the wind sweeps some big waves on 
water no deeper than six feet. Our trip was made 
against a breeze which threw the water in spray from 
the tops of waves so high that they were higher than 
my head as I sat in the stern of the boat — -short, choppy 
waves, which were hard to row against. At times we 
were on the point of going ashore and camping till 
night, and once, when the true course was across a bay 
from point to point, we were compelled to run ashore 
and wait the passage of a flaw of dry gale. “Shore” 
was a cypress brake, only a couple of inches above the 
level of the lake water, and reached only by wading 
through a thin layer of water, jumping from root to 
fallen branch to keep from being mired when we left 
the boat. Here in the dirt we found deer tracks, and 
the trees should have been alive with squirrels, but the 
wind kept them under cover. About the only life we 
saw were the white snake hawks — the most beautiful 
and most graceful bird I had ever seen. They floated 
in the air, their swallow tails undulating, and their wings 
bending, tossed up and down by flaws in the wind, or 
by their own maneuvers and crying in their doleful 
fashion. They are called “gulls” in the swamps. Their 
aerial dance above the cypress brake and over the 
dead wood at the edge of the lake was a spectacle that 
left one of the most vivid impressions of the. trip. 
All day long we worked our way down the lake. 
We entered Six Mile Lake (foot of Grand Lake), and as 
night came on, followed the lights into Flat Lake, and 
then, by night, ran into Berwick Sound. Here was 
Morgan City on our left, and a railroad bridge ahead 
of us. We landed at an oyster boat, where I left my 
duffle and boat in charge of an oysterman, a round- 
faced, good-natured Italian. 
Reed led the way to Mrs. Booth’s boarding house, 
and there I remained a few days, getting ready for the 
trip home. 
Morgan City has only a couple or three thousand 
inhabitants, but has more boats registered there than 
either Galveston or New Orleans. Its oyster fleet 
and fish markets supply much of Texas, Louisiana 
and up-the--valley places with their catches. The streets 
are laid with oyster shells, whose bright white under 
the sunlight is trying on the eyes, but in the evening, 
under the electric lights, Morgan City is a pretty place 
for walking. I ate oranges and oysters and other 
•things, comporting with the surroundings for a few 
days, and then sped away for New Orleans, behind oil- 
burning locomotives, on which a fireman’s life must be 
much pleasanter than in a coal-burner. The region, 
by the way, was greatly agitated by the oil question, a 
Standard Oil man plying me with questions about the 
oil derricks I had seen up in the swamps. The “wild 
catters,” as he called them, being likely to make in- 
teresting discoveries up there. The Louisiana oil, so 
far as found, is thick and “asphalty,” or gummy. 
The train was run on a barge and towed across the 
Mississippi, after passing through miles of rice planta- 
tions, and then we ran into New Orleans, the city 
without a hill, and in whose principal public park were 
signs prohibiting the shooting of birds or other things. 
The river was full of drift, and I looked up stream and 
realized for the first time how distant St. Louis was, and 
yet how big and unalterable was the connecting link. 
I got my ticket to New York, via the steamer 
Proteus, first of all, and then I wandered around the 
city for a few hours. It was a curious place, very like 
book descriptions of it, except that the French quarter 
is always given an exaggerated place in the accounts. 
I found it very like other American cities I had seen, 
the buildings in the business part being of similar 
homely^^ construction. Here and there were the 
“quaint” French dwellings, built of old, and among the 
faces seen were some very charming ones — but it was 
typically American, and not “southern.” 
I found my Uncle Anson, whom I had visited at St. 
Louis, in New Orleans, and passed on hour with him. 
Twenty-four hours after reaching the city, I boarded 
the Proteus, and soon the steamer cast off, and the boat 
went plowing down stream. It was a hundred miles 
and more to the passes. At first, there were planta- 
tions with great buildings on them— sugar houses— but 
in a few hours we were looking across wide marshes, 
above which loomed sails contrasting remarkably with 
the grasses so tall that men are lost in the wilderness 
of their stalks and suffer the torments of thirst and 
slow-dying. 
I had a glimpse of the blue Gulf waters as I came 
on the cars from Morgan City. As we neared the 
passes, I had a view of the water, but it was less inter- 
esting than the marsh. We shot down the Eads chan- 
nel, and then plunged boldly out into the Gulf itself 
There we dropped the pilot— and away we went. 
Days of beautiful experience ensued— the same old 
story of deep blues, of flying fish looking like blown 
glass, of sharks and water birds, might be told here 
I saw the lights along the Elorida Keys, and up the 
coast. When we were at a distance of only a few 
miles from land, the inshore shallow water-green was in 
delightful contrast with the deep over which we were 
passing. There were swirls of water far from land, and 
the pounding of contrary waves showed the fluid banks 
of the Gulf stream. There were a couple of squalls 
that flooded the decks with rain, and for a few hours 
the boat swaggered through some waves. 
Einally, early in the morning, Sandy Hook was 
sighted, and m a very few hours I was back in my home 
country, so to speak. What I had seen in the seven 
months that elapsed between the time I left New York 
and returned to it has been partly described. I was 
well pleased to_ have seen so much. No one following 
the Mississippi, would have exactly the same experi- 
ences, or meet the same people. The only time - that I 
found anything which I expected to find was when I 
went into cities along the river. Even then, viewed 
from the cabin-boater’s standpoint, what I saw was at a 
different angle from that of a steamboat traveler. Had 
I started in a cabin-boat, instead of a skiff, the ex- 
perience would have been different; so, too, would a 
gasolene boat have given a new view. Doubtless, the 
man with a couple of months of time and the inclitlatiori 
to take it, would find a cabin-boat vacation on the 
Mi,ssissippi River below Cairo an attractive and interr 
esting experience. In a touring gasolene, the lower 
river and its tributaries offer as interesting hnd little 
known country as can be found anywhere. 
The Mississippi has a charm all its own. When I 
told cabin-boaters that I probably wouldn’t go down 
the river again, they laughed knowingly. 
rhat’s what they mostly say, the first trip,” they 
said. ‘ But, shucks! Firs’ a man knows, he’s right 
back yeah again, he shore is. Lan’, but this ole Yellow 
Gut has a power of sentiment into it, yasseh, yasseh! 
But tain t hard driftin’, nosseh, hit shore ain’t. A 
man s peaceable on the river, he ain’t beholden to, 
nobody.” Raymond S. Spears. 
Hunting Indians — and Cows, 
Soon after the close of tlie War of the Rebellion a 
number of troops of the Fourth Cavalry were sent out 
to the different posts on the Rio Grande. Their prin- 
cipal business was to watch Indians, who would cross 
over from Mexico to steal horses. The Indians seldom 
destroyed ranches, that would not be good business. The 
men Imng on the ranches, if not driven off or killed, 
would in the course of time gather up another bunch of 
horses for the Indians to steal. Our troop and one other 
were sent to Camp Verde, Tex., which was one of the 
frontier posts then ; about all the country west of it was 
still out of doors. We began hunting Indians as soon as 
we had got here. There were a good many settlefs east 
of us and several small towns. Kerrville and Bandera 
were the nearest ones. They are probably large towns 
now. 
The citizens were continually losing horses, and we 
were kept busy hunting them. The greatest drawback to 
our finding them was due to the fact that these men did 
not report their losses soon enough, and about the time 
we would be told of it the Indians would be safe in 
Mexico. There was an arrangement now under which 
we could follow Indians to Mexico, and the Mexican 
troops could follow them across to our side of the line 
if they wanted to do so. They generally did not, though. 
They ran them over to us, then quit, while we have often 
followed them 150 miles into Mexico. I have been as 
far down as that after them myself while in the Fourth 
Cavalry. We had no such arrangement when we first 
went across, and had there been any civil government in 
Mexico then our presence over there would have been 
the cause of an extended diplomatic correspondence be- 
tween Mexico and Washington to explain what we were 
doing over there; but at this time there was no civil 
government in Mexico, or rather there were two so-called 
governments. General Juarez was at the head of one, the 
Emperor Maximilian had the other, and they were too 
busy just now trying to keep out of each other’s way to 
pay any attention to us. 
An old gentleman who had a ranch near Kerrville lost 
a bunch of horse and told us about it. We followed up 
the Indians, and cross ng the Rio Grande a few hours 
after them, ran into tlieir camp at night when they 
thought they were safe at home. We got back all the 
horses, the Indians making their escape on foot, all ex- 
cept a few that came in contact with our pistol balls; 
they staid where they were. 
These Indians were Lipans and Kickapoos. They had 
origmally belonged in Texas, but had emigrated to 
Mexico and would now come over on foot, then ride back 
on stolen horses, sell them to the Mexicans, and come 
and get more. We returned the horses to where they be- 
loriged and a short time after Mr. Crawford, their owner, 
paid us another visit. He had found us more Itidians, 
but they had not taken his horses this time. He had been 
west of this hunting up his cattle and had seen a bunch 
of Indians, how many he did not know; he had not 
stopped long enough to count theni. 
Abont a dozen of us under command of our first lieu- 
tenant, a brevet-major, were sent out with Crawford to 
help him count those Indians. He led us up through 
Bandera Pass, a few miles south of the post, then turned 
west. Had he kept on west far enough we would not 
have needed him for a guide. Edwards county was out 
here, and we had been all over it lately. After going 
west a while he turned north again, and late in the after- 
noon we rode past a chain of hills. They were off to our 
right, and I noticed when passing one of them what 
looked like a small cave up in the side of the hill, twenty 
feet above its base. Crawford saw it, and riding over 
got off his horse and examined the ground. There cer- 
tainly could not be Indians in that cave, I thought; not 
more than a dozen, anyhow. It was about two feet wide 
and hardly that high at the entrance. After looking at 
the ground, or rocks that lay on the ground rather, Craw- 
ford climbed up to the cave. The major had stopped the 
column, and now called out : 
“'What have you got there, Mr. Crawford?” 
“I think there is a b’ar in that cave, sir.” 
“Let him stay in there then, and come on. I want to 
make camp as soon as I can now.” 
Crawford mounted and came over to us, and the major 
asked him if he had meant to crawl into that cave after 
a bear? 
“No, sir; not all the way in. I only wanted to find out 
if he was thar or not.” 
■'•Well, if he had been there, you would have found it 
out pretty quick.” 
I nearly choked myself trying to keep from laughing. 
I rode just behind the major, and it would not do to 
laugh. This Mr. Crawford was a curiosity. He was 
about sixty years old and rode with his stirrups so short' 
that his knees were shoved half-way up to this chin and 
in riding he leaned forward in the saddle something as 
English hunters are represented in newspaper' cuts as 
doing, but no fox hunter or anyone else could follow the 
hounds riding as he did. I could not, at least. 
We were taught to ride with stirrup straps long enough 
to allow our legs to extend their full length, and to sit 
erect in the saddle. Had we leaned forward’, as he did, 
an officer’s sabre across our backs would have straight 
