Dac Crossley's Western Blog

The Borderland. A Novel of Texas

In 1839, the new Republic of Texas faced trouble from all sides. Mexico did not officially condone the surrender agreement of Antonio Santa Anna and continued to harass southern Texas. Comanche Indians raids threatened American settlers. Recognition by European powers was slow to come. And the treasury was empty. 

The Borderland is an impressive mixture of history, imagination and fantasy, set in that chaotic time period. The context – struggle between President Lamar and the Sam Houston faction, the founding of the town of Austin far to the west, the Council House fight, the Linville Raid, the Plum Creek Battle – all are there, overlain with some historical characters of Texas, some fictitious ones and some outright fantasy. And it's so well described that its hard to tell the difference. 

The author, Edwin Shrake, sent me to the Handbook of Texas to look for some of his characters. The Texas Ranger Matthew Caldwell really existed. He was new to me; his nickname “Old Paint” referred to his multicolored beard. Other principal characters include Romulus Swift and his sister Cullasaja, and a villan named Henry Longfellow. They are inserted so neatly into the context of Texas history that I wonder if they, too, are real, possibly under different names. You’ll recognized others in the story – Mary Maverick, Big Foot Wallace, Albert Sidney Johnson, Felix Huston – and some minor characters whose names aren’t familiar. And I wonder how historic some of them might actually be, too. 

The Cherokees described here are historic; I don’t think the Comanches names are real. I share the author’s praise for the Cherokees and his dislike for the Comanches (in your face, M.). President Lamar "dislodged" the Cherokees from their lands; he had no such success against the Comanches.  

I recommend The Borderlands to all those interested in the history of the Republic of Texas. It is crammed with agonizing detail that is so well presented that it doesn’t interfere with the fast-paced action. The description of events in the new town of Austin is historically accurate and fascinating; that alone is worth the read. 

For me, this well-written blend of history and fiction gives a much better feel for that troubled time, than does the recounting of the facts alone. 

And I think that’s what history is really about. 

dac  6/28/2008

The Stars At Night

They aren’t big and bright, here in the East anyway. Hazy skies, too much light turned loose, and all those trees in the way.

Tonight the long-ago calls to me, memories of growing up in south Texas. In Kingsville, a square town oriented N-S and E-W. Never a doubt about directions. And after dark, the stars above, a road map. 

When little, I slept on a back porch with the glory of the southern sky above me. The change in seasons, its slow pace, always revealed by the passage of constellations. It was my grandmother Crossley’s realm, too. From her house on E. Lott she would walk me and my brother to the corner, past Mrs. Carnahan’s house, and point out Scorpio. (And we watched the tower light play over it. In those primitive days, night flights depended on a sequence of beacons. There was one south of town, forever fascinating. Remember, KHS 1945?). 

The northern sky was the realm of my grandmother Baird. Do you know the constellation she called the ‘broken-backed chair?’ Cassiopeia? And the Big Dipper, of course, one of the most famous (‘Charles wain’ to Shakespeare). From the bowl of the Big Dipper we followed the ‘pointers’ to the North Star. And we traced along the curve of the Dipper’s handle – the arc – to bright Arcturus. “Arc to Arcturis,” grandmother said, “and then spike to Spica.” Impressive lessons. The favorite winter constellation, Orion the Hunter, covered us in the summer dawn as we bicycled on our paper routes. Remember, Larry? 

Do you remember, KHS 1945, how we lay in the gentle surf of Carolina Beach on a summer night, trying to avoid those mosquitoes? I’ve wondered – when Cabeza de Vaca wandered along our Texas coast, did the do the same? Lie in the warm waters, hoping for a breeze to dispel the mosquitoes? And did he look up at Scorpio, El Alacrán, and recall his own grandmother, showing him the stars? 

I feel that I’m as far from home as Cabeza de Vaca was – not so much in miles, but in years, away from the skies of our childhood.

 

Dac    6/25/2008

Sam Houston's Son, Temple Houston

He was Old Sam’s youngest, and was but three when the General passed away. Still, he revered his father’s memory. Temple is remembered in Texas lore as a gifted lawyer, but he was a gunman as well. Frank Tolbert says he was too gentle to make much of a reputation with his guns. But read on -- . 

A large, lanky kid, he cowboyed at fourteen, on a cattle drive to Montana. He got his education from Baylor and from Texas A&M, and became an outstanding defense attorney. So good, in fact, that Texas lawyers would rather he become a prosecutor. 

By all accounts he was respected by lawyers and judges alike. He wore a long black frock coat, rattlesnake skin neckties, a white floppy hat and a white vest. And a pair of pistols. 

Temple Houston made his first reputation  as a defense attorney. His speeches and successful defenses attracted broad admiration. His use of the “soiled dove” plea in the case of a prostitute was later cited as an example of a perfect closing argument. 

Once, Houston was the court appointed attorney for a penniless horse thief. The judge instructed Houston to “give him the best defense he could.” Temple asked for an empty room where he could confer with his client. When the two failed to appear, the judge walked into the room. Houston was sitting alone by an empty window. 

“Judge," said Houston, "I gave him the best defense I could." 

When defending a client for murder, Houston entered a plea of self defense. Standing in front of the jury, he picked up the pair of six-shooters his client supposedly used. Staring hard at the jurors, he emptied both revolvers into the ceiling. The courtroom cleared; the jury scrambling out with them. Houston got a mistrial on the grounds that the jury had mingled with the spectators. 

Later, as a prosecuting attorney, he was assigned to the Panhandle. He asked an old Rancher for the way to Tascosa on the Canadian River. “Can’t miss it,” said the old timer. “Just follow the trail of empty whiskey bottles.” 

In the Panhandle, his gunplay asserted itself. On one occasion, Billy the Kid and other outlaws had drifted over to Tascosa. Bat Masterson could see trouble coming. He arranged a shooting contest between Houston and the outlaws.

Temple shot the tin star off of a plug of tobacco that Bat Masterson had tossed into the air. “Who could do better?” asked Billy. Temple’s reputation in Tascosa was made. No trouble with Billy the Kid. 

Frank Tolbert wrote that lawyers couldn’t name the men that Temple Houston had faced down in gun battles, but they studied his courtroom speeches. And laughed at some of his antics. Such as: 

“Your honor, the prosecutor is the first man I’ve ever seen who could strut while sitting down.”

 

 From Tolbert’s Texas, with notes from a Wikipedia article. 

Dac  6/22/08 

A Trek through the West Virginia Mountains

A long weekend trip to Ohio, to visit an old friend. The new Honda Accord carefully herded along the West Virginia Interstates by the Lady D.  My chance  to kick back, relax and ponder my existence. 

We avoided the big West Virginia cities, Wheeling and Charleston, and drove up the backbone of the state, leaving the State at Morgantown. 

The West Virginia mountains are some of the prettiest ones in the US, especially in June, green slopes marching past as we cruised along. Intermittent rain showers, broken sunshine on the woods, through mountain passes and tunnels, the Interstate ribbon taking us up and up. Brides high above streams. I could see an occasional floodplain farm. An inspirational experience for an old Texan, accustomed to the plains.

And I wonder -- could this be the vista that pioneers met, when first they penetrated the mountains from Virginia (or Pennsylvania or Kentucky)? Tall peaks covered with trees. We saw an occasional clear-cut, but not enough to break up the continual forest. From our viewpoint on the Interstate, West Virginal looked beautiful and pristine.

 It isn’t pristine, of course. West Virginia is Appalachia, and coal survives as the major industry. The disruption of the mountains is first felt, and then persists, in the streams. The pristine illusion disguises a legacy in the flowing waters. Today’s streams are a far cry from the waters of primitive West Virginia. You wouldn’t know this, whizzing along on the Interstate highway. 

Is coal destined to become the new petroleum? Must we pay for it with our most basic fluid, clean water? 

Another Staked Plains Story

 Ride the Wind is a novel by Lucia St. Clair Robson, who wrote the Sam Houston novel, Walk in my Soul. She’s a good writer who tells a compelling story. (See my Shelfari page for info about her books). 

All us Texans know the story of Cynthia Ann Parker, the little child who was captured by Comanches at Parker’s Fort on the Navasota River. She grew up with Comanches, married Peta Nocona and gave birth to several children, including the last important chief of the Comanches, Quanah Parker. 

And was finally captured and taken back to Parker’s Fort, carrying an infant, where she died heartbroken after several years with her American family. 

Ride The Wind tells this story with lots of details about Comanche lifestyles. Robson did lots of research for this one, and it rings as authentic, if (in my view) overly romanticized. The Texas scouts, the Rangers and their weapons, the pursuit of the Indians, Ranald MaKenzie and the Red River Wars, all are explored in this novel. Even the Battle of Adobe Walls, and Billy Dixon's famous shot, a story I was told (repeatedly) in Amarillo in the old days. 

I’ve never felt much sympathy for the Comanches, perhaps as a consequence of my grandfather Baird’s “Indian stories,” told to my brother Walter and me when we were little. Comanches seem to have originated when they broke off from the Shoshones to become horse Indians. They displaced the Lipan Apaches (no sweethearts themselves) and took over West Texas, where they ruled for decades. Cruelly.

Once when I was traveling with my father, he stopped at a ranch near the town of Paint Rock (between Ballinger and Menard). A lady took us to some bluffs on the Concho River and showed us Indian pictographs. One of them was the image of a small child’s hand, outlined in black but filled in with white paint. The image of Cyntha Ann Parker’s hand? Perhaps. Almost certainly the icon of a captured white child. There were many of them. 

There on that river, among the rocks pictographs and trickles of water, I realized I stood where a band of Comanche raiders had rested. A chilling experience, but one that connected me with life on the Texas plains, in ways I hadn’t experienced before.  

I wonder if the pictographs are still there, on the bluffs beside the waters of the Concho?

dac  (6/12/2008)

Ima Hogg and Eura not!

James S. “Big Jim” Hogg, a popular governor of Texas, ran for re-election in 1892. His opponent started a funny rumor – Jim had twin daughters whom he named “Ima Hogg” and “Eura Hogg."

Not true. Ima Hogg was Jim’s only daughter. There was no Eura Hogg. (Big Jim was popular and sailed to re-election. His opponent quit the Democratic party and struck out on his own. Unsuccessfully. 

Governor Hogg was rightfully proud of his name. He was one of Texas’ best Attorney Generals. He proposed a constitutional amendment to rein in the railroads. He regulated “wildcat” insurance companies. 

As Governor, Hogg continued his populist policies by proposing three constitutional amendments. Hogg was the first "native born" Governor of Texas. An early investor in the Texas Company (Texaco) he became rich when his family farm began to produce oil. He was fond of animals and kept them in the Governor’s Mansion. His favorite was parrot – Jane – who shrilled “Papa! Papa!” and flew to him when the governor came home in the evening.

Ima Hogg was actually named for the heroine in a poem written by her uncle. She bore the name "Ima Hogg" with dignity. Ima was nine when she came to live in the Mansion. A philanthropist like her brothers, she gave away a large portion of her fortune. Ima was educated in New York and schooled in Paris, but she retained the sharp edges of a Texas country girl. According to Frank X. Tolbert, she referred to an extremely wealthy Dallas man when she said, “Why doesn’t that old son-of-a-bitch do something for Dallas? He’s tight enough to skin a flea for its hide and tallow.” 

Ima Hogg could look you right in the eye. An object lesson for those of us who bear unusual names.

 

Dac  6/6/2008

Into the Treetops with Meg Lowman

Meg Lowman has led more lives than most of us have a chance at. A single mom, she carried two sons along on her adventures in tropical forests. Since their infancy, they’ve accompanied her on adventures in exotic locales in Central and South America, Australia, and even Florida! Now, her sons are co-authors with her in her latest book, It’s a Jungle Up There. More Tales from the Treetops. (see my Shelfari bookshelf)

Her specialty is the study of life in the treetops. That astounding array of insects, spiders, strange birds and mammals and epiphytes that can be found only high up in forest canopies. This is one of the last frontiers for measurements of biological diversity (the other one, my personal favorite, is life in the soil). 

When I first went East, to Tennessee, I called it “nervous country.” Because I couldn’t see very far in any direction. Back in Texas I could see the horizon. Not in Tennessee. Too many trees in the way. Couldn’t see the stars in the skies. Too many trees. I felt fenced-in. Uncomfortable. (Eventually I came to appreciate trees). 

Then, research led me to insects in tree canopies. The problem – how to get up there? It’s not like climbing mesquite trees in Texas. Maybe you can shinny up the trunk of an oak or a pine, but you’re still a long way from the foliage. 

Meg Lowman has used power equipment, balloons, canopy walkways, all kinds of things. I sampled insects from a tower (couldn’t reach far), a bucket truck (must stay on the road) and finally a suspended walkway (Boy!  This is high up!). Meg has taken all of this further. Now, giant construction cranes will haul you up and above in some places. 

Her latest book, coauthored  with her sons Edward Burgess and James Burgess, describes how she has led expeditions up on a tropical canopy walkway, with her own sons and other youngsters, at night, experiencing the variety of living creatures. It'll give you a good feel for that mysterious frontier. 

As you know, this unique system is endangered. Tropical forest clearing accelerates at an amazing rate. We are likely to lose it. Before we realize what we’ve lost.

 6/02/08.  Dac