June 27, 1908.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
1009 
so much that was alluring concerning “the 
paradise of the Southwest,” and had heard 
nothing upon the other side of the question. I 
had been reared under the civilization of the 
great State of New York, and then to suddenly 
confront the fact that I had come to a wild 
frontier, was a real shock to me. I did not say 
a word, but I thought rapidly. 
As I saw the unconcerned manner of this 
family under the actual surroundings so sud¬ 
denly presented to my mind, I thought, “Well, 
if these girls and children and old people can 
make light of an Indian raid, then a New York 
Dutchman, like myself, should not be timid.” 
So I braced myself up to meet any contingency 
and embrace all of the romantic glamor of a 
rude frontier life. I had brought a revolver 
and gun, just what seemed to .be needed for 
the kind of life that seemed to have become my 
portion in the great Southwest. 
My host was an old resident who came from 
Pennsylvania while Texas was a part of Mexico. 
He was full of such information as any new¬ 
comer would be eager to gain; so from day to 
day I loaded up with information upon a va¬ 
riety of subjects relating to frontier conditions. 
For outdoor exercise I hunted, sometimes the 
ducks and geese along the shore of the lake, 
sometimes among the wild turkeys along the 
river and again among the wild boars of the 
canebrake, or among the deer, and frequently 
I joined a party of mustang hunters and ran 
wild horses. Then I would remain for whole 
days at a time at the residence. I had gradu¬ 
ally begun to take hold of Southwestern fron¬ 
tier life. It seemed to suit me, and I was build¬ 
ing up my physical condition—just what I came 
to Texas for. 
And here I hesitate as to which one of the 
many interesting phases of early Southwestern 
life I shall offer to my readers. Should it be 
of the crude social life of the early frontier; the 
wonderful loveliness of its scenery; of its vast 
throngs of wild horses; its other game so 
abundant that the hunter need not hunt in 
order to find it; of its beasts of prey, or of the 
savages that then hovered around the settle¬ 
ments? 
As we have already begun to say something 
about Indians, perhaps we had better talk about 
them for a while. The Green Lake settlement 
had a peninsular position that did not favor a 
hasty retirement of the Indians in case of dis¬ 
comfiture. The Comanches had made no in¬ 
vasion of the peninsula since the summer of 
1840. 
In the Green Lake settlement there was 
pointed out to me a blackened log as a rem¬ 
nant of the last Caranchua camp-fire on that 
side of the lake. They had got themselves into 
trouble with the settlers near the Nueces River, 
something more than a hundred miles south¬ 
west of Green Lake. It caused them to get a 
severe handling at the Oso Creek, a few miles 
from Corpus Christi. The Caranchuas were 
never a very numerous tribe. At the battle 
of the Oso nearly half of them were killed. 
Then they contracted their range very much, 
and established their headquarters at the con¬ 
fluence of the Guadalupe and San Antonio rivers, 
where they were at the period of their final 
history. 
These Indians had consented to the settle¬ 
ment of a white family on the south side of 
Green Lake. After a brief occupation, when a 
nice field had been put into cultivation, a deputa¬ 
tion of Caranchuas came to this settler and 
ordered him to vacate. As he had no near 
white neighbors and was really at the mercy of 
the Indians, who had received from him much 
kindness, he considered it prudent to forsake 
his fine farm rather than to risk the conse¬ 
quences of remaining. After that the Caran¬ 
chuas seemed to have somewhat repented of 
what they had done to this settler, as it had 
stirred up some hostile feeling among the few 
settlers along the Guadalupe River above them, 
as well as among all settlers of the entire region. 
They then ceased to frequent the east side of 
the river, where the Green Lake settlement of 
six families was soon after formed, and thus 
the peninsula became comparatively safe. Then 
their depredations were mostly confined to the 
west side of the Guadalupe River. Whenever 
any depredations were committed the Caran¬ 
chuas were loud in charging it to the Coman¬ 
ches or Lipans. But the Caranchuas were a 
lawless set, anyhow, and there was constant ap¬ 
prehension among most of the settlers within 
easy reach. 
Along the west bank of the Guadalupe River, 
only a few miles from the Caranchua camp, 
lived a family by the name of Kemper. There 
was no settlement between Kemper and the In¬ 
dian camp. The Indians frequently visited 
Kemper’s house, and the family treated them 
kindly. They had no fear of the Caranchuas, 
believing them to be only simple, harmless 
savages. Kemper’s stock pen was perhaps a 
hundred yards distant from his house, which 
stood between the pen and the river bank. 
Kemper had penned his oxen, intending to haul 
a load of wood for the use of the family. He 
saw quite a party of Caranchuas coming toward 
his pen, but he thought nothing of it, as he re¬ 
garded them as friendly, although most other 
settlers did not. Suddenly they surrounded the 
pen and demanded that Kemper should go at 
once and kill a beef for them. He told them 
that his wife needed a load of wood; that he 
must first bring his family the wood and then 
he would go and shoot them a beef. They said 
that they would not wait till he had done his 
own work—that they wanted the beef at once. 
Each side insisted upon having its own way in 
the matter. 
The Indians had no guns, but were all armed 
with bows and arrows, and some of them had 
spears. Then they all climbed up to the top of 
the fence enclosing the plot and seated them¬ 
selves. They told him that if he did not go at 
once and shoot them a beef they would kill 
one of his oxen in the pen. He told them that 
the cattle that they could see nearby in the 
prairie were his own; that they might go and 
kill any one of them that they pleased but must 
not touch his oxen. They replied that the cattle 
in the prairie were so wild that they could not 
get near enough to them to kill one, and must 
have one of his oxen unless he would go at 
once and shoot them a beef. 
Now Kemper was one of the bravest of men, 
but not always prudent. He told them that if 
one of them drew a bow on one of his oxen he 
would shoot him dead at once. 
' Pretty soon one of the Indians drew his bow 
and sent an arrow into one of Kemper’s oxen. 
Kemper fired and the Indian fell headlong. 
Then several bows were bent upon Kemper 
himself and an arrow dealt him a fatal wound. 
Kemper’s wife and her sister had been watch¬ 
ing the proceedings for some time. They picked 
up the body of the wounded man and carried 
him to the house. The Indians did no hostile 
act against the two women. They wanted beef, 
and they had it, and Kemper was soon a corpse 
in his own house. 
I should call it about eight miles from 
Kemper’s home to the nearest house. As soon 
as possible word was sent out of what had 
happened. The scattered settlers agreed that 
something had to be done to secure safety 
against the Caranchuas. There had been other 
occurrences that had been overlooked, but it 
was agreed that the time had come for positive 
action A meeting was appointed for discussing 
conditions and organizing for results. But be¬ 
fore the time arrived for the proposed purpose, 
an unexpected development caused a sudden 
hastening of the gathering of the clans. Tom 
O’Connor was then living on his ranch on the 
west bank of the San Antonio River, where 
O’Connorsville now stands. There was no 
settlement between the O’Connor ranch and the 
Caranchua camp, which was on the opposite 
side of the same river, and some ten or twelve 
miles further down. It was a treeless prairie, 
except the narrow belt of timber along the river 
bank. 
Tom O’Connor had a faithful Mexican, whose 
name I have forgotten, but whom we may 
designate as Juan. One day he told Juan to 
saddle his horse and ride down the prairie 
three or four miles and see if there was any¬ 
thing worth reporting. It was only a com¬ 
mon precaution often observed in those days of 
prowling savage life. Juan rode along, keeping 
himself within about a half mile of the timber 
belt that skirted the San Antonio River. About 
two miles from O’Connor’s ranch Juan saw a 
man at a distance, walking slowly in the direc¬ 
tion of the ranch. Juan halted and was taking 
a careful look at the distant human form, when 
the stranger suddenly dropped down among the 
tall grass. 
Juan knew well that none but savages were 
living below the O’Connor ranch. He knew 
that if the stranger belonged to the O'Connor 
settlement or to any of the neighboring settle¬ 
ments above, he would not be likely to be on 
foot. He knew that a man on foot in that 
neighborhood was almost certain to have some 
relation to the savages whose camp was in the 
direction from which he saw this lone footman 
coming. So Juan carefully took his range and 
rode rapidly toward the spot where he had 
seen the footman disappear in the grass. The 
stranger kept himself as well out of sight as 
possible, but the keen eyes of Juan had him so 
well located that he rode accurately to the spot. 
Most Mexicans look like Indians, and, in fact, 
are Indians. Juan’s prisoner was wearing the 
Indian garb, and appeared to be a Caranchua. 
When Juan threw his gun into a firing attitude, 
the prisoner broke out in good Spanish and 
begged Juan to spare his life, insisting that he 
was not an Indian, but a Mexican, which would 
all be explained. 
So Juan directed him to head for the ranch 
and he would not hurt him; that when he 
reached the ranch he could explain for himself 
to Seiior O'Connor how he came to be found 
