"Would you call that a good fight?"
The Deacon and I put the seal of our approval on the affair, and the
Colonel rambled ahead.
"In 1858 I was commanding the frontier battalion of State troops on the
whole frontier, and had my camp on the Deer Fork of the Brazos. The
Comanches kept raiding the settlements. They would come down quietly,
working well into the white lines, and then go back a-running--driving
stolen stock and killing and burning. I thought I would give them some
of their own medicine. I concluded to give them a fight. I took two
wagons, one hundred Rangers, and one hundred and thirteen Tahuahuacan
Indians, who were friend-lies. We struck a good Indian trail on a stream
which led up to the Canadian. We followed it till it got hot. I camped
my outfit in such a manner as to conceal my force, and sent out my
scouts, who saw the Indians hunt buffalo through spyglasses. That night
we moved. I sent Indians to locate the camp. They returned before day,
and reported that the Indians were just a few miles ahead, whereat we
moved forward. At daybreak, I remember, I was standing in the bull-wagon
road leading to Santa Fe and could see the Canadian River in our
front--with eighty lodges just beyond. Counting four men of fighting age
to a lodge, that made a possible three hundred and twenty Indians. Just
at sunup an Indian came across the river on a pony. Our Indians down
below raised a yell--they always get excited.
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