The Guerilla Chief, and Other Tales

Don Miguel stood for some time as if puzzled at what I had said.

“You say, then, the mare is yours?” I resumed, breaking the silence.

“Si señor, esta mia,” was the reply.

“Will you have the goodness to order one of your servants to remove the saddle and bridle?”

This was done as desired.

“May I request you to keep them in safety until I can have an opportunity to send for them?”

“Certainly, sir,” replied the don, brightening up.

“And now, sir, may I ask you to certify that you have recovered your mare, since that will be necessary to enable me to recover my money?”

By this time the don and his party were quite overcome by my rare generosity! The stern looks disappeared; the pelados were driven out of the patio; and in five minutes more I found myself stretching my limbs under the family table, and on the best of terms with the whole household, including the little goddess before mentioned, who proved to be the real owner of the Arab. It was lucky for me that I was not quartered in that vicinity, or she might have become the owner of something that I could less conveniently have parted with. As it was, I came out of the fire of her brilliant eyes almost unhurt, which I may attribute to the insensibility produced by a very choice article of old “Bordeos” that was exhumed from the vaults under Don Miguel’s mansion.

I came off – I can hardly tell how. I remember clambering into a yellow carriage, and rolling along a level road. I remember meeting a party of mounted men, who said they had been sent out to look for me, and then I remember —

Two days afterwards I went to seek the Ranger, and learned, to my chagrin, that he was gone. His company had been ordered down the road, as the escort of a train to Vera Cruz, where they were to be disbanded and sent home. Had I lost my two hundred and fifty dollars? Not so. On my return from Mexico, in June, 1848, I accidentally overhauled my man in the Ranger camp at Encerro. He was without a dollar. The fandangüeras of Jalapa had completely cleared him out; but, to do him justice, he did all in his power to make suitable reparation. Going behind the tents, he returned in a minute or two, leading a large and handsome sorrel, which he delivered over to me with due formality, and with the following wind-up: —

“Thar aint no such hoss doins in this hyar camp. I tell yer, cap, thet thet ar mar’ wa’n’t a suckumstance to this hyar anymal.”

Story 5

A Turkey Hunt in Texas

By far the finest game bird in the world, is the wild turkey of America. It exceeds all others in size, in the ratio of two or three to one; and in delicacy of flesh it is not excelled by either partridge, grouse, or pheasant. The domesticated variety is much inferior to the wild, either in bulk of body, or quality of flesh; and in the markets of the United States, a wild turkey of equal weight with a common one, will always command a much higher price – partly from the greater scarcity of the dish, but as much on account of its superior delicacy.

Before proceeding to hunt the wild turkey, some account of the habits of this beautiful bird may not be out of place. He stands – for we speak more particularly of the “gobbler,” or cock – full four feet on his robust red legs: while his wings, which are rather short in proportion to his bulk, have a spread of about five. When of largest size, he weighs forty pounds avoirdupois. His body is finely proportioned, with a small head and tapering neck. In shape, he is far superior to his loose, high shouldered representative of the farm-yard, and more resembles his proud congener, the peacock; while in colour, although not so gaudy as the latter, still is he an hundred times more brilliant than his tame congener, that now for more than three centuries has been reduced to companionship with civilised man, and naturalised in almost every country upon the globe.

The general tints of the wild turkey-gobbler are purple and rich brown; but his close-lying plumes exhibit many other colours, frequently a beautiful violet gleaming upon them, according to the light in which the sun is reflected from their surface. The plumage all over presents a fine metallic lustre, which in most other birds is chiefly conspicuous on the gorget, breast, and shoulders. The neck is not so destitute of downy feathers as in the tame variety – having the skin and wart-like protuberances of a purplish blue colour, while the wattle proceeding from the crown is also furnished with a slight sprinkling of down; and when the bird is excited, either by anger or by amorous propensity, this appendage becomes so elongated as to cover the beak, and hang several inches below it.

The tuft, resembling horse hair, which grows out from the junction of the neck and breast, in a wild turkey-cock of full size, is often nearly a foot in length! but for what purpose the bird has been furnished with this curious “tresa” is one of the mysteries of nature.

The geographical range of this fine bird is longitudinally extensive. Its northern boundary may be regarded as the British possessions, while to the south it is found as far as the Isthmus of Panama. The wild turkey is often spoken of by, not very observant, travellers who have visited South America; but the supposition is, that the birds mentioned by these writers, were some of the larger species of the Cracidae or curraesows.

It is also probable that the beautiful ocellated turkey of Southern Mexico and Central America, may be an inhabitant of the countries south of Panama: as the same circumstances of soil, climate, and vegetation exist there, as in the habitat where it is found.

Latitudinally, the wild turkey was supposed not to extend beyond the line of the Rocky Mountains. This is an error. Although there is no account of its being met with near the Pacific coast of California, yet has it been shot upon the Gila River, which lies westward of the Cordillera.

Throughout all the original United States territory – the great forest-covered tract between the Mississippi and the Atlantic – it was one of the commonest birds in the times of the early settlements; and it is still far from rare, in those parts of the States where large patches of woodland extend between the sparse plantations.

Westward of the Mississippi, on the “timber” prairies – especially those interspersed with copses of pecan and hickory-trees, as also some of the acorn-bearing oaks – wild turkeys may be often encountered in flocks of from eighty to a hundred.

It has hitherto been taken for granted, that only two species of wild turkey (meleagris) existed: – that properly so called, and the ocellated, or “Honduras turkey,” already mentioned Of course, the tallegalla, or “wattled” turkey of Australia, is not taken into account in this enumeration: nor the common barn-yard breed, which has always been regarded as the mere domesticated variety of the meleagris gullipavo.

Discoveries, however, have lately been made by naturalists, which go far to prove that the wild turkey of North America is not only a distinct species from the domestic bird, but that the latter is of itself only distantly related to another species, equally distinct from the wild turkeys of the United States country east of the Mississippi.

That which has been found throughout Mexico – and northward upon the Gila, and the elevated table plains on both sides of the Rio del Norte – in short, throughout the Rocky Mountain district – differs in many respects from the bird of the Alleghanian forests. It is even plausibly proved that our tame turkey could not have descended from the wild species of the Atlantic States – one of the arguments being, that all attempts hitherto made to reduce the latter to the condition of a dunghill fowl – and they have been many – have ended in complete failure.

It is certain that the European breed was not brought from the United States. It was introduced as early as the year 1530, and must therefore have been transported across the Atlantic by the Spaniards – either from Mexico or the West India islands.

The Mexican wild species – if it be a different species – is in some respects more like the tame variety than that of the north-eastern portion of the Continent; and it is more probable, in every way, that the former is the progenitor of the domestic breed.

Another hypothesis is, that on their arrival in the West Indies, the Spaniards found tame turkeys stalking about the huts of the islanders; and that it was from these they obtained the breed, since propagated over the whole civilised world; and that the domesticated variety, as we term it, is not sprung from either of the wild breeds – Mexican or North-American – but is a distinct species in itself.

This hypothesis, or speculation, is not without probability: since the bird of the barn-yard, instead of being an improvement, even in bulk, upon the wild species, is in reality a retrograded and inferior creature.

If the theory be correct, there would be four distinct species of turkey – the American, the Mexican, the ocellated, and the tame – to say nothing of the queer tallegalla, or “wattled” turkey of Australia.

Space does not allow me to dwell long upon the habits of this bird. Suffice it to say that, like all the gallinaceae, the wild turkey is gregarious, and is seen in large flocks or “gangs,” often numbering as many as a hundred. These flocks are differently constituted at different periods of the year.

In October they congregate into large promiscuous assemblages: that is, males, females, and young ones, better than half-grown, grouping together. They seek their food, which consists chiefly of vegetable substances, as berries, seeds, and grasses; but they do not confine themselves to an exclusively vegetable diet, and will greedily devour beetles, grubs, and even tadpoles, young frogs, and lizards.

Like all birds, at this season of the year they are in greatest numbers – the young broods having become fully fledged, and each counting from ten to fifteen in a family. Up to the time that the young are able to take care of themselves, the females keep them apart from the old males, which would otherwise destroy them, by repeatedly pecking them on the skull.

It is only as the autumn advances well into October, that all ages and sexes unite to form the large gangs; and for this reason October is the “turkey month” of the Indians.

Throughout the fall and winter they associate together making long journeys across the country, rarely taking to wing, except when sprung by wolves, foxes, or hunting-dogs, or when it becomes necessary for them to make the passage of a river; for, like all migrating creatures, they do not permit any impediment to interrupt the course on which design or instinct impels them.

When about to effect the crossing of a river, they seek the highest eminence on the nether bank, and remain there sometimes for two or three days before making the attempt. The males at such times gobble most obstreperously, and strut over the ground with all the importance imaginable: as if to inspire the females and the young with courage for the undertaking. Even the females take part in these demonstrations, lowering their wings and spreading their tails, in imitation of their lordly mates.

After this sort of play has been carried on for a considerable time, the whole flock flies up to the highest branches of the adjacent trees; and then, at a signal given by one acting as leader, all fly out over the water – directing their flight toward the opposite bank.

The old and strong birds easily effect the crossing; but the younger and more feeble individuals of the gang frequently fall into the water. Not always, however, to be drowned; as they can swim tolerably well – which they do by spreading their tails, folding their wings close to their bodies, protruding their long necks far above the surface, and alternately plying their feet in strong, rapid strokes.

Sometimes all do not succeed in reaching the bank. A few of the very feeblest, unable to swim with sufficient speed, get carried down by the current, and ultimately perish.

This is the winter life of the wild turkeys, when they become fat, changing their bulk from fifteen or twenty pounds – which, is their average weight – to thirty, and sometimes forty.

On the return of spring – in March – the females coquettishly separate themselves from the males; though the latter continue in flocks, following the former from place to place. Then commences the season of their loves; and though the sexes roost apart, their roosting-places are near each other. At this time the woods become animated by their vociferous calling; and if a female bird utters her note within hearing, it is taken up by scores of males, not with the gobble used by them on other occasions, but with an imitative cry, such as may be heard among their tame congeners of the farm-yard.

This calling is usually heard before the break of day; and as soon as the sun has fairly risen, the males descend from the trees, and commence strutting over the ground, with spread tail and wings, uttering at intervals the “tsut” peculiar to the species.

On such occasions two males meet, and then ensues a fight, ending in the defeat – often even the death – of the weaker. The conqueror is then joined by the female – or, more generally, females – that have been the object of this deadly rivalry; and, during the next month or so, he holds these as his harem, roosting by or near them, and performing the duties of a protector. In time, however, they become shy of him – stealing off to deposit their eggs; which, should he chance to discover them, will be instantly broken by the blows of his paternal beak!

The nest consists of a few dried leaves, collected carelessly on the ground – sometimes among the tops of a fallen tree, sometimes on a dry hillock in a thicket of sumach or bramble, or by the side of a dead log.

As already stated, the wild turkey is still to be found within the limits of the old States of the American Union. It is more common in the Mississippi Valley, where it is still possible to obtain these birds in considerable numbers.

The usual mode of capturing them is by a trap – known as a turkey-trap – a contrivance of the simplest kind.

A square enclosure, of some six or eight feet wide, is constructed – the materials being split pieces of timber – usually the ordinary fence-rail, which is always eight feet in length.

These, resting at right angles on one another, form a rectangular enclosure, which, when carried up to the height of six or seven feet, is covered in by the same sort of rails, laid at regular intervals along the top. Care is taken that the spaces between them be not wide enough to permit the passage of a turkey; and the top rails are also secured by a heavy log, which hinders the bird – strong though he be – from forcing them out of their place. The trap is constructed on the declivity of a hill; and on the lower side, a cut or tunnel is excavated, leading under the bottom rail, inwards. The cut is then continued for a few yards down the slope, when it runs out to the common level of the ground.

This being completed, the trap is ready for work, and only requires baiting.