Tazewell Republican. [volume] (Tazewell, Va.) 1892-1919, 1903-02-12

I Taila, and seven miles to the north.
west by the trail. 1t was nearly six
weeks later, after a days mean rid
ing, that got well up into the rocky
hills into which the trail had led me,
l had pack mule, besides my saddle
pony, for l didn't know how Baflin
was situated, and 1 had stopped with
for my dinner when l heard a rife
shot sound across the valley, rever
berating against the high rocks with
roar that fingered like receding
thunder. 1 looked about and at last
saw Baffin standing on point of
rock far above me, his rife on his
arm and eyes searching across the
deep canyon. l called his name, and
was astonished to see him drop fiat
on his face like man pursued, and
peer over the edge of his hiding.
place.
scrambled into my saddle and was
He came out with glad smile, but
1 noticed that there was a hunted
look in his wide, black eyes, and some
gray hairs above his temples that l
had not noticed before. He asked
me if / had heard the shot. "Of
course" said l, what were you shoot
ing at?" But he said that he didn't
shoot at all, that it was somebody
else, and so led me up the narrow
passageway between the rocks till
we came into little clearing at the
top. l saw that he had built a good
shanty there, and also saw that the
old squaw was yet with him, for she
was sitting there by the front door
as if doing in the westering sum
light.
But 1 was not prepared for the
sudden change that came over Baffin
when he saw her. With an awful
cath he stopped me, and when
looked at him his face was ashen
and his fiery eyes were fixed upon the
cid bag. l was afraid he was i'll,
and asked him, but he said no, and
then, becoming quite calm, he sat
down on a shady rock and said:
did you ever hear that story, what
you might call a legend, about the
massacre of the Tonkawas?"
I thought it a queer, irrelevant
question, but l sat down and said
had not.
81 never believed it," he resumed.
land l never heard it before, but I'd
rather you heard it from me than
from someone else. 1t is said that
in the old days the Tonkawas ate
their prisoners. They were cannibals,
as you call them. 1t must be lie,
But the Apaches and the Iowas, as
well as the Comanches, wish to be-
lieve it. l don't know how long age,
but some time when the Tonkawas
were at war with the Comanches,
they stole baby from the Comanche
village that was in the West Cache,
near the foothills of the Washita,
and cooked it for the Tonkawa chief.
1t was two nights later that 600 Ki
owas and COmanches fell upon the
Tonkawa camp in the rock gorge of
Bloody mountain and massacred the
whole tribe. They slew and burned
till there was not a Tonkawa left,
and when they had counted the
scalps they knew that every fighting
man was dead. But when they came
back into the valley they found that
one woman and her baby had es-
capped"
There were tears in his eyes when
he looked across the sunlit clearing
toward his shanty, and, pointing his
big, brown hand at the old squaw,
said:
There she sits. She was the last
of the Tonkawas, unless l can be
called Tonkawa."
"You?" l said, not understanding;
but he went on: "She was my moth
er's mother. My father was Gerald
Baffin, an English trapper. He mar
ried the Tonkawa baby. But the c.
manche followed them as they have
followed me. They shot my mother
while she was nursing me. My father
disappeared, but old Shaiga hid me
and 1 have repaid her well till now"
"She must be very DID," said, not
knowing why he bowed his tousled
head so low.
"More than a century," he an
swered.
"And you think it was your enc
mics who burned your houses and
MANNED your cattle?"
ct doesn't matter. 1 didn't mind
that, but this" he had risen and l
followed him toward the shanty
where the old woman was sitting mo-
tionless-"t is hard to forget. 1t
was that shot you heard"
The old squaw was quite dead
Chicago Record-Herald.