Josiah Washburn was the first white man killed by the Indians in northern Texas and his murder was the beginning of the hostilities between the settlers and Indians in that part of the State. This border warfare lasted about three years, the settlers protecting themselves and defending their homes the best they could alone and without aid from the government.   Little do we of the present day and generation know or  realize the constant anxiety, suspense and ceaseless vigilance of those harassed people during that time — ever on guard against a surprise from their restless foes. Plowing, sowing and reaping with their rifles at their sides— constantly on the alert— watching with suspicion every quivering branch. Taking notice of every sign and sound— the uneasiness of cattle and horses, whose keen scent and instinct often disclosed the hiding place of the lurking savage. At night the lone watcher— oftentimes a woman— would listen with eager intentness to every sound borne upon the night air, quick to detect a false note in the cry of the whip-poor-will, and knowing but too well that the answering hoots of the owls in the woods were but the signaling calls of the enemy.

1st January of 1838, the family of Daniel Dugan left Bois d'Arc and settled near Choctaw creek, in Grayson county, not far from a little settlement or town called Warren. Better land and better location for a land grant were the inducements to move there. They immediately took possession of a league and labor, Spanish measure. This amount of land was granted by the Republic of Texas, 1838 before the declaration of her independence from Mexico, to every man of family who came to Texas. Single men got a third of a league. Texas was then the ideal "happy hunting grounds" for all who loved to hunt, shoot or trap. Buffalo, bears, deer, wolves, panthers and wild turkeys roamed at will through the woods and over the broad and beautiful prairies. Grass grew from three to four feet high, the loveliest flowers variegated the landscape, and in variety and color would set a botanist wild. Wild fruit and nuts were to be had in abundance. The soil was rich, natural springs bubbled and flowed into clear running streams, and our weary travelers felt as if they had reached the "promised land" at last.   Their journey ended, father and sons went to work clearing the land and building their home. The stately walls of a palatial log house were soon reared, and as they gathered around the fireside in their new home all felt that notwithstanding the toil and privations of frontier life there was compensation in the thought that they were anchored at last, and come what may, that was their home and future abiding place. And home it has been for the Dugan family ever since. Many years have rolled by since the first smoke curled from the chimneys of that humble log house. Its  hospitable roof has sheltered many a weary traveler and afforded protection to the defenseless settler. Sons and  daughters have grown up and married or wandered away from the scene of many cherished recollections;
but no home has ever been to them like the old home. To the exile in California it is a satisfaction to know that its roof
still shelters one of the family and that no stranger can claim any right to it or disturb the resting place of the dead.

There are, probably, a great many changes in the general appearance of the old place since I last saw it when a child, but I could map it all out now as it has always appeared in my fond recollection. No house has ever seemed so grand and mysterious as that log house where I was born. Its gun racks, port holes, looms, spinning wheels and many relics of Indian warfare were ever a source of pleasure and curiosity. That large, low ceiled kitchen has echoed the shouts and laughter of many a romping play when all the grandchildren would meet at "gran' ma's." Then crossing the plains and sun blistered deserts, at times almost choking for want of water, my imagination would revel in the rippling of that "'spring branch," and in my fancy I would take the long handled gourd from where it hung above the spring, kneel down until I could see my face mirrored in its crystal depths, dip up the cold, refreshing waier and drink, and drink, and drink.

 

But I am wandering from the original subject, and I suppose a more interesting one to your readers. Soon after the Dugan family left Bois d'Arc, Micajah Davis also moved and settled near Iron Ore creek (we call them rivers here in California), not far from and west of what is now called Denison, Josiah Washburn remaining in Bois d'Arc.

 

Roving bands of Indians had up to this time frequently camped near the settlements, and appearing to be friendly and anxious to trade with white people. There seemed to be no occasion for anticipating trouble with them, although some of the men would at times paint their faces a hideous red, act angry, scowl and talk about "the white man killing their cows (buffalo) and turkey." Sometimes the squaws and children would sullenly refuse to talk and finally seldom appear when the Indians visited the settlements. To people better posted on Indian tactics, all these signs would have been sufficient to warn them that the wily red man meant mischief of some kind. But they did not notice it, and took no extra precautions for safety until like a thunder bolt from a clear sky came the startling news that their old friend and neighbor, Josiah Washburn, had been killed by the Indians. And this is how it happened: Some time after Davis left Bois d'Arc, Washburn told his wife one day that he was going over to the old shop to get a chain of his that had been left there by Davis, also saying he would be back by sun down. He got on his horse, and taking his gun for any game he might chance to see, started upon his errand.  The afternoon wore away, and at sun set the expected husband and father was not at home or in sight. At dark he was still absent. With increasing anxiety the waiting wife and children watched and listened through the long hours of that night for some sound of his coming, and still no sign of him. At daylight the neighbors were sent for; men armed themselves and started out to hunt for the missing man, who was never more to gladden his home with his presence. They found him not far from the shop, dead.  He had been there, had secured his chain, and was on his way back to his home when the Indians attacked him. They had shot and scalped him, and taking his horse and gun had made good their escape. The whole country around was alarmed, and the settlers in every direction were notified to be on their guard.

 

From that time on the people were harassed in every conceivable manner that Indian ingenuity and cunning could devise. The Indians would remain quiet for weeks, sometimes months at a time, then suddenly appear, kill a man or two, maybe a whole family, then as suddenly disappear, driving before them all the horses they could find.

The time came when men went armed at all times, even at their work in the fields; and a loaded gun was always left at home, to be fired by the women, either as a signal of distress or in defense should they be attacked.

 

One of the many methods or tricks resorted to by the cunning red man to take the advantage of the unwary settler was to waylay his cows during the day, tie them out in the woods and take off their bells. The cows would not come home at the usual time, but during the night the tinkling of the cow bells would be heard in the distance. They would approach close to the house, wander around in an aimless sort of way, as cattle generally do, walk around by the cow pen at last, and with a final rattle appear to settle down for the night. The unsuspecting settler would hear the bells, and thinking his cows had come home, would rise early in the morning to attend to them, open his door only to find himself and family confronted by gleaming tomahawks and an implacable foe. A desperate struggle and fight for life and loved ones would ensue, but it would be the vain endeavor of the weak and defenseless against the strong and mighty; and soon the blackened walls and mutilated victims would mutely tell the story of a home destroyed and a few more names added to the bloody list of martyred pioneers.

 

In the emergencies of no organized help from the government and an unprotected border, there arose the necessity of some kind of reliable help against the repeated attacks of the Indians. A sort of a State militia was formed, composed of laboring men, hunters and trappers, and were known as " Texas Rangers." They were ever ready to answer a call for help or go to the rescue of those settlers who had ventured too far out upon the exposed frontier.  Sure shots every one of them, and skilled in all-kinds of woodcraft, thoroughly ported and "up to the tricks" of the cunning red man, they were a host in themselves, and the timid felt assured of safety whenever a "ranger" was on hand.

 

In fighting Indians they did effective work by fighting Indian style. If they had been hampered by red tape and only allowed to "fire and fall back" by military rule, the chances are they would have been several months capturing a few old squaws, while the bucks would be skipping around here and there taking in the scalps.

 

Take a half dozen of the old original stock of "rangers" and turn them loose on these treacherous Apaches and there would soon be a settlement of the Apache question. The murders of Daugherty on Bois d'Arc and the flight of the settlers to Fort Warren will be the subject of my next letter.

Here is now living in Grayson county — or was two years ago — an old man whose record for bravery tells that he had once fought the Indians single handed and alone, saving his own life and that of a boy who was with him.

It will not be out of place now to narrate the circumstances, for they occurred next in the list of tragedies in that section after the murder of Josiah Washburn. After that happened, almost in their midst, there was a general scattering and removal of the settlers from Bois d'Arc, and among the first to move away was one by the name of Thomas. He and his father-in-law with their families selected the site for their future home below Bonham, and about twelve miles from Bois d'Arc, taking with them their household goods and cattle, leaving their crops to mature and taking chances of remaining undisturbed until crop time. In the following fall Thomas and his father-in-law, Daugherty, decided to take a trip over to the old place and gather their corn, if there was any, and kill their hogs if they could find them, taking with them a boy about eight years of age. On arriving there they were agreeably disappointed in finding everything in good order and immediately went to work. They had finished the job without molestation from the savages and were about ready to start for home when the little boy came running from the cotton patch, where he had been gathering some stray bolls of cotton, crying that the Indians were coming. Before they could make their escape or defend themselves the Indians fired upon them, wounding the old man, Daugherty. They all ran into the house, where Thomas returned the fire of the Indians with good effect until his ammunition was reduced to one charge. Seeing no way of escape only by taking the most desperate chances he told Daugherty to hide, as he was too badly wounded to travel, and taking an ax handle in one hand and his gun in the other he placed the boy in front of him and started out,.  With a yell of astonishment and satisfaction the Indians rushed upon him only to be met with blows as they fell thick and fast from hands nerved to desperation. He fought his way right and left through the blood thirsty demons and succeeded in getting as far as the road, some distance from the house, when he told the boy to run for his life! This the little fellow did, although badly wounded by a stray bullet intended for his brave defender. Thomas succeeded in beating back and eluding the Indians and overtaking the boy; they made fast time for home, where they arrived exhausted but with their scalps in good order.

 

But the poor old man was not so fortunate. While Thomas was fighting his way out, he saw Daugherty on his hands and knees creeping under the house and thought he was hiding and would be all right, as the Indians were paying all their attention to him, and were not noticing the movements of the wounded man. But after the Indians had left him — probably thinking he bore a charmed life— he heard the sound of the old man's gun. Knowing that something was wrong, and realizing how powerless he was to aid him, he hastened on for help. Arriving at home he immediately gathered together as many of the settlers as he could and as soon as possible returned to rescue the wounded man. But too late! They found him tomahawked and scalped, the gun and horses gone and no sign of Indians, dead or wounded. They had cleared out, and emboldened by the success of this attack were probably planning where to strike next.

The spring of 1839 found the settlements in an agitated and uncertain state. The Indians— the Cachattas, the Shawnees and Comanches — continued stealing cattle and horses and committing other depredations which kept the settlers in a continual state of alarm. Men in companies would go on expeditions against them, and Rangers would scout around, but they could not succeed in drawing the Indians into a general battle.

As spring opened they could travel around with greater ease, and began bolder operations by directing their attention to the more thickly settled districts, and where they could find the greater number of horses and cattle. The Dugan family had not been troubled very much by the Indians up to this time, but they were constantly on the lookout. Some one, coming or going, would bring news of murder and stealing, and they had no assurance that the next attack would not be upon them. One evening as they were all variously employed, the men securing the horses and cattle for the night and the women preparing the supper, their attention was drawn to the unusual amount of noise made by the owls in the woods surrounding the house.  They also remarked that the hooting did not sound quite "owlish" enough, and there was too much regularity in the sounds and directions from whence they came. They would hear a prolonged and mournful "hoo-hoo-ah" out in the woods on the north side of the house, and very soon an answer would come from the south side, followed by another on the west. This was kept up with so much regularity they were certain the Indians were surrounding the house.

 

After a family consultation, they concluded it would be as they were all alone, to get away from there as soon as possible and go to Warren. The evening meal was hastily eaten, and as soon as night and darkness set in the horses were brought out, the mother and daughter placed on them, and with a few bundles of clothes gathered in the hurry of departure, they turned their backs on their home never expecting to see it again. It was the first "scare" they had experienced, and that journey through the woods in the dark night must have been one of thrilling interest.  The miles were certainly long, and every bush and tree must have seemed peopled with the hidden enemy. The father and sons walked beside the horses, and silently and swiftly as possible they traversed that lonely road to Warren and safety. When they reached the grove of trees on the Montague prairie, it was decided that the family remain there until one of the boys, Daniel V., could go to Warren and see what the prospects were for shelter and safety there.  He took the swiftest horse, and leaving father and mother, sisters and brothers, to anxiously count the moments until his return, rode away in the darkness alone; his brave young spirit upholding him in the midst of unusual dangers as he sped along in the interest of that lonely group of loved ones, horseless and homeless on the prairie. Arriving safely in Warren, he found the place almost deserted. An Indian panic had struck them also, and the women and children, with a number of fugitives from other settlements near Warren, had been sent across Red river and were camping together in the woods, a few of the men remaining in Warren. Daniel returned immediately and reported the state of affairs, when they hurried on and were also sent across the river that night. Preparations for flight having been so hastily made, there was little comfort for any one that night, and no accommodations at all save the broad bosom of mother earth, under the canopy of the heavens and shelter of the leafy trees. The men stood guard on both sides of the river, expecting an attack by the Indians, but none came, and the next morning the families were brought back into Warren, and a party of men went out to search for the Indians, but failed to find any. It was the opinion of the settlers that the Indians had abandoned the attack on seeing

preparations being made by the settlers to resist them, and had retreated to await the time when they could steal upon them in a more unguarded moment; but this time they withdrew from the settlements without destroying property or following their usual course of driving off cattle and horses.  A party sent out to the Dugan farm to inspect its condition found everything as the family had left it, so they returned home not much the worse for their trip, but far more than ever inclined to appreciate its humble comforts and shelter.

The principal settlements at this time were on Iron Ore creek, Preston Bend on Choctaw, at Warren, and below Warren on the river. Warren was given the precedence as possessing greater commercial advantages, and being the principal trading post for the Indians on both sides of the river. It boasted several stores, and the merchants were Daniel Montague, William Henderson and William and Slater Baker.

 

There was not much demand for fancy dry goods, high heeled shoes, millinery and "novelties" in those pioneer days. Homemade cloth, " linsey woolsey" and jeans were the prevailing fabrics which clo'hed men and women, young and old, rich (?) and poor alike. When they wished to put on style — not caring for expenses — the men would indulge in the wildest extravagance of fringed buckskin trousers and hunting shirts, while the ladies would appear at " social gatherings " in the most bewildering toilets of calico. The bright eyes of many a pioneer belle have twinkled merrily beneath the protecting shade of a calico sun bonnet, and as she listened with blushing cheek to the old, old story, her lover forfeited nothing in her estimation because he appeared before her and told his love in homely jeans, and adorned with coonskin cap and moccasins.

 

There were no schools or school houses in those days, and churches were unknown. Among those who professed a religion the Methodist and Baptist faith predominated, but only in nature's grand cathedral could they praise and worship, and in their daily life and surroundings look from nature up to nature's God.

 

Their style and manner of living were in strict conformity to the times and circumstances. Until their lands were cleared and their crops were planted, grown and matured, until stock increased and there were returns from their produce and looms, there was of a necessity a scarcity of all luxuries, and their living was of the plainest kind. There were no mills. The corn they grew and grated, or ground by hand mills, furnished their bread. Their larder and store house for meats, fruits and honey was the wild woods.

 

Sometimes the pioneers had other enemies besides the Indians to contend with. Wild animals were too numerous for comfort, and were too fond of prowling around the premises of their new neighbors. Coons were too fond of chickens, and bears had uncommon appetites for young calves and pigs. It was no uncommon sight to see herds of buffalo near the settlements, and I can't help but think the settlers lived well and dined sumptuously when it could be "turkey" with them every day if they only took the trouble to pop one over. 

Source: Indian Depredations in Texas, by J. W. Wilbarger, c1890, pg.385

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