Part 53 (2/2)

As if the fates were ordained perverse, the moment the two left San Antonio a steady drenching rain again began to fall, and as the stage was crowded, the discomfort of those within could not very well be increased. About twelve miles from San Antonio the driver succeeded in tipping over the stage, and giving the occupants ”an elegant mud varnish all over,” as operative Keating aptly expressed it. The driver remarked that he was ”going up the new road,” but some of the more profane pa.s.sengers swore that, if so, he was hunting it three feet under the old one. On arriving at Lavernia station the dismal announcement was made by the lean, long stage agent, who seemed to have never done anything from time immemorial save sit in the door of his tumbledown hovel to make dismal announcement that ”the Cibolo (p.r.o.nounced there 'C'uillou') is just a scootin' and a rippin' up its banks like a mad buffler bull!

ye'll all be back to stay at my tavern all night.”

It was the contemplation of this man's pure cussedness, as he sat there doting on the big bills he would charge when the Cibolo should drive back a stage load of hungry travelers, that nerved them to push on at all hazards and attempt a crossing at some point where the Cibolo ”scooted and ripped up its banks” with less ardor than across the regular route to Victoria; but on reaching Southerland Springs, seven miles distant, it was found that it would be necessary to wait until Thursday morning, when they might possibly make a pa.s.sage, as the stream was running down to within something like ordinary bounds very fast.

Thursday afternoon came before an attempt to ford the stream was made, when the driver agreed to land the pa.s.sengers in the middle of the stream on an immense fallen tree, from which point they could reach the other side, when they might be able to get the empty stage across also.

The trial was made, and was successful so far as landing the pa.s.sengers was concerned, but while this was being done the wheels of the coach sank deeper and deeper into the mucky bed of the stream, and though but a few minutes had elapsed, the strange action of the water had caused deposits to form about the coach so rapidly that it became firmly imbedded, and could not be moved by the four horses attached. At this juncture an old farmer came along, who carried the evidences of some of his propensities strongly marked in his face, which was a thin one, like his conscience, but with bright tips on his cheek bones and as red a nose as ever the devil-artist in alcohol tipped with crimson. No importunities or amount of money could prevail on him to a.s.sist the discouraged travelers with his fine mule train; but a pint of good whiskey, to be delivered the moment the stage had been drawn from its peril, with a small drink by way of retainer, accomplished what would not have been done in any other manner, and set the travelers joyfully on their way again. They journeyed on at a snail's pace until one o'clock Friday morning, when they arrived at Kelly's ranche, kept by Bill Kelly, uncle of the ”Taylor boys,” notorious for their connection with the Ku Klux and various other gangs of villainous desperadoes.

The family were unceremoniously awakened, and at once good-humoredly proceeded to provide the ravenous pa.s.sengers with something to eat; after which they made a ”shake-down” on the floor, into which subst.i.tute for a bed everybody turned, and slept late into the morning, awakening stiff in every joint and scarcely able for that day's journey, which, with its complement of accidents and delays, took them safely over Esteto creek and into Yorktown early in the evening, where the detectives secured certain information that Taylor had been in Corpus Christi the week previous, and was undoubtedly there at that time, as Texas by this time had become a net-work of resistless streams, almost impa.s.sible quagmires and far-reaching lagoons.

VI.

Late the next morning they left Yorktown, having taken on a pa.s.senger of no less importance than ex-Confederate Governor Owens, of Arizona. He was a pleasant, voluble old fellow, and my son at once fell in with his ways, and treated him so courteously that it perhaps averted a greater disaster than had at any previous time occurred.

Governor Owens was largely engaged in the Rio Grande trade of supplying frontier points with provisions and merchandise, and was just on his way to Indianola, on the coast, where he was to meet his Mexican freighters, comprising thirty wagons and carts, of all characters and descriptions, driven by the inevitable lazy Greaser. Even as late as the same period, 1867-8, a vast amount of freighting was done between St. Paul, Minnesota, and Fort Garry, Manitoba, in the famed Red River carts, driven by the inevitable, lazy half-breed.

William, knowing the position held by Governor Owens during a portion of the war, and realizing that an ex-office-holder will never lose his tenderness for the political regime which made him t.i.tled, a.s.sumed to be a Mississippian, from Vicksburg, with an Irish acquaintance, on a trip of inspection through Texas, and, so far, terribly disappointed with the State.

During those periods when, owing to the depth of the mud, the pa.s.sengers were obliged to walk, they would fall behind or walk ahead of the stage, when they would chat pleasantly upon general subjects. On one of these occasions Governor Owens eyed his companion sharply a moment, and then asked:

”Can I trust you, sir?”

”Certainly.”

”On the word and honor of a gentleman?”

”Yes, and an honest man, too,” William answered.

”I believe you; thank you. You know stages are robbed out this way?”

”I do.”

”Did you ever see it done?”

”No; nor have I any desire to be around on such an occasion,” he replied, laughing.

”I reckon you hadn't better, either,” said the Governor earnestly. ”It wouldn't make so much difference if they would do the work a trifle genteelly, in a gentlemanly way; but the fact is, we have low fellows along our Texas stage-lines. They have no regard for a man's family.

Why,” he continued, warmly, ”they'll just pop out from behind the trees, or up through some clumps of bushes, ram a double barreled shot-gun, loaded to the muzzle with slugs and things, into the coach from both sides at once, and just blaze away--all that are not killed outright are scared to death. There's nothing fair about it!”

William expressed his curiosity to know if the drivers were ever killed.

”Drivers? Never, sir, never. Why, those ruffians are too smart for that.

Let it be known that they have begun killing drivers, and there isn't a stage company in Texas that could send a coach past the first timber.

They couldn't afford to kill stage-drivers, for the moment they began it, that would be the end of staging.”

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