The Last of the Tonkawas

Alexandra Herald and Central Otago Gazette, Issue 455, 19 January 1905, Page 6

The Last of the Tonkawas

pSy JOHN H. RAFTZRT. I

BEGIN at the beginning, I must J[ . say that I had a very poor opinion of Sylvester Baffin until I met him. Inde'eflit heard of rdm quite accidentally at Chickasaw, where Tom Pepper, one of the old-time "drummers" he's desd these six years—t old me what he knew, or rather, what he didn't know, about Baffin. It waa in the old days before the government was half ready to open np the Kiowa and Comanehe country, and the few traveling men who into the traders had to drive in by wagon. The Rock Island was sur- > veying, I think, but there'wasn't a mile . of road west of the Chickasaw hns. The ease that Pepper made but agcinst Baffin came pretty near being th'e'"prfce ( hard luck story, with Baffin as the victim. Baffin was a trader in those days, and 7 might have prospered if he were not everlastingly -buVning out-*! jWbst struck ma, as singular was that, in spite of the numerous fires which followed his wanderings, Bafnn"never carried* aiiy~insurance, never whined oyer his losses, and never computed his' debts. But fire was not the only cause o T f hi» misfortunes. 'Whenever he"bought a few cattle they would get string-halt or maimed on. somebody's, barb wire fence. If he put" out a crop a herd of ponies 'was sure to invade aad destroy it. 11l lock, seeording to Pepper, seemed to follow Baffin, till every white man in the reservation except himself -believed that the young trader bad enemies among the Indiana. as I was looking for; Irade, and had a mind to prospecl a bft in the Wicjita hills, I put down Baffin's address, and set out on horseback f or Cloudchief, near which Baffin was then running a small post * was about four miles np the dry fork of the Washita river, and there I found him one fiarch evening about an hour before sundown. In spite of the descriptions I'd had of him, I was a little surprised to 'find him such a splendid looking fellow. He was sitting on a keg in front of his log house, smoking his pipe and gazing at me steadily as I came slowly out of the bare timber. When I got into the clearing he stood up, the shadow of a smile hovering across his swarthy face, and said: "How do, sir. Won't you come in?" He was very tall, more than six feet,, his hair and eyes were very black and brilliant; he wore a thick, dark mus.tache, and though the evening was cool, he was in his. shirt sleeves. A true frontiersman, he said very little, though he was hospitality itself and seemed glad to hear me talk. I'm Quite sure that I took a great fancy to him from the start, and I < think he liked me, because he finally lapsed!into an almost talkative mood and told me a few Indian legends of extinct tribes which I cannot remember having heard anywhere else. ' J was going to bed before be asked m«- Jhe rather "singular question, "Did you slop in any Comanche villages on your way up?" and when I said no, I thought he seemed rather relieved. We slept in the store that night, I on a brie of coarse due it that made a very good bed, and he on the counter with bis head on a bundle of brown wrapping paper. The only other occupant ( of the house was ao old Indian squaw, : / very withered and very silent, who seemed to carry on the simple house-. •~ keeping pretty much as it suited her. 1 went away in the early morning, after a coarse but wholesome breakfast, and a rather cordial handshake from Baffin. After three profitless days of prospecting I came back to find that the log house in which I had so lately been a guest had been burned in my absence. Nothing but a few mounds of yet smoldering j ashes marked the place. Baffin was gone, nor was there any trace of life ! at hand. In Cloud chief I asked about him. i>ut nobody knew more than thai he had bccn> burned owt during the ntgia. ami that he had bought a cart from slime Wichita Indians and started for the Cautidian river country. I met him twice after that at Talog* and oncu at Watronga, but though ■me g"t elorg famously together, he o!wa%> e-aded any qaestiona about his inisf«*rt«»w*-«. i He had given up any k".ea of trading for the future, and at that time showed extraordinary, interest in mining. I lold-hiin ali i knew, warning him of the prc T carlo it.-5 chance of finding any considerate mines in the Wichita,* vrhe re I ha<i -•" <.*tf*' failed, but advUlr.ghim to :urn his attention to coal or oil, or even to asp:..-"*, indications of which "* v -d found in many accessible lecaii-

tews* 1m eaphalt aad «■ poembilitiei. Urteafag with xnVk sgiH deHght to my description of its sans and values itt the big cities. Tbsmgh he never told me till later, I ws* already core tbarte had never beeaitn the states, was bo keen §m information, ao ambitious for wora\ so apt iii that I never could make np my mind to believe that he had any Indian blood in him. i When I left him thßt tifcg- tils' mind was folly made np to go prospecting for asphalt, and sorry as 1 felt for 1 couldn't help but admire the splendid optimism which seemed to* surmount all his strange ill luck and' lead him always on to new enterprises. I gave him two or three ad-' dresses, wtfere letters might reach* me during; the next year, and promised in ease he should find a considerable deposit of asphalt,' to rejoin' him, and if possible unite with him' "in, the business of acquiring leases • and developing the property. i I was in Pittsburg late that summer, when I got a letter from Baffin.'* dated at Ardmore, in the Chickasaw country, telling trie that he had f ourid - a great and hitherto unknown deposit of asphalt in the black hills above' Tails, aad seven miles to .the north-' west by the trail. It was nearly six l weeks later, after a day's mean rid-; ing, that I got well up into the rocky] hills into which the trail had led me.] I had a pack mule, besides my saddle f pony, for I didn't know how Baffin-' ■waß~sTfua"tM,"ahd~lhad" stopped with* the intention of frying some bacon? "foV my'"dinner fwhlri I -heard a riflesnot sound valley, rever-J berating against the high rocks with' a'roar that lingered like receding? thunder. I looked about and at last' saw Baffin standing on a point or rock far above me, his rifle on hisarm and ayes searching across the 1 j deep canyon.. I called his name, and! ' was astonished to'see him drop flat' on his face like a man pursued; and! peer over the edge of his hidings place. I scrambled into my saddle and wa* ; soon within* speaking distance of him j He came out with a glad smile, butI noticed that there was a hunted! look-in his wide,-black eyes, and sonic; gray hairs above his temples that 1] had not noticed before. He me if I had heard the shot. "Of! course," said I, "What were you shoot-1 ing at?" But he said that he didn't] shoot at all, that it was somebody; \ else, and' so led me up' the' narrow j passageway between the' rocks" till s we came into a little clearing at the, top; I saw that he had built a good j shanty there, and I also saw that the old squaw was yet with him, forjhe' "was sitting there by the front door, as if dozing in the westering sun-! flight.

But I- jwas not prepared for f [th*e j sudden change that came over Baffin when he saw her. With an? awful oattr he stopped me, and when I s 'fiSbkea at him his face was ashen ; and his fiery eyes were fixed upon the' old hag. I was afraid 1 he was ill, j and asked him, but he said no, and then, becoming quite calm, he sat down on a" shady rbek*and Said: "Bid you ever, hear that story, what you might call a legend, about the 1 massacre of the Tbnkawas?"

I thought it a queer, irrelevant question, but I sat" down and said I had hot. "I never believed it," he resumed, "and I never heard it before, but I'd rather you heard it from me than from someone else;' It is said that in the old days the Tonkawas ate their prisoners.They *#eM cannibals, as you call them. It must be a lie. But the Apacheß and the lowas, as well as the Cdmancbes, wish to believe ri. I don't know how long age, but some time when the Tonkawas were at war with the Comanche*, they stole a baby from the Comanche village that was in the West Cache, near the foothills of the Washita, aad cooked it for the Tonkawa chief. It was two nights later that 600 Kiowa* _ahd Comanehes fell upon the Tonkawa camp in We roekgorge 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 bask into the valley they found that one woman and her habjr'"" v ha4 escaped.'* There were tuors in hi eyes when he looked across the sunlit clearing toward his shanty, and, pointing his big, brown hand sjfc the old squaw, said:

"There she sits, 65e vutke last of the Tonkawaa, aalata I eta be called Tinkm." Toar I said, aot understanding; bat he wast on: **aae wm my mother's mother. My father wai Gerald Baffin, an Bnglish trapper. He married the Tonkawa baby. Bat the Comanche followed them as they have followed me. They shot my mother while she- was nursing me. My father disappeared, bat old Bhaiga hid me and I haTe repaid her Well till now." "6he most be very old,** I said, not knowing why he bowed his toasted head so low. -More sham • wata*** he a*swered. "And yoa think It' was jun« emmiea who barned f ous fepvtes and maimed yoor catMeP* "It doesn't matter. I Sidn't aalcd that, but this— » he had risen and I followed him toward the shanty where the old woman was sitting motionless—"this is hard to foifcet. H was that shot you heard." * ' The old squaw was quite ilnaa\ tticego Becord-HaraW. Ostead is to hold an inf***mml exaipltion of fashions ia I»$A.

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