A Texas mother's frontier memories, Part 2

 Lightly edited by Jim Fish

The following is part two of an article as told by and penned by Murier Neora (Derick) Keel, in The Progressive Farmer in 1928 and subsequently published under the title “Ox Wagons, Indians, and Winchesters” in the January 1928 issue of Frontier Times.

“My grandfather came back from California by boat by way of the Isthmus of Panama, made other wagon trips across the plains again, and finally settled down in Tarrant, Texas. I need not now recount. 

“My mother married Fleming Van B Derick, at Tarrant. July 13, 1859. Two years later, the Civil War began. My mother had to part with my father and never saw him for four long years. How my young mother met and faced the trying experiences of those times will make up the rest of this story.

“She raised her own corn, kept the wolf from the door, raised most of her cotton, pulled the lint from the seed with her fingers, spun the thread, wove the cloth, and made the clothes for the family. She did the same with the wool, which she sheared from her own goats.

“She had to go three miles to water to do the family washing. This she did with her own hands. The clothes were boiled in a small oven or snider--so small that the larger pieces had to be boiled one at the time.

“At length there came a day when the community in which my mother lived got entirely out of breadstuff. They had meat in abundance but no bread and no salt. They killed and dressed their own beef and pork. One day when she and a neighbor had dressed a hog, the question came up of what they were going to do for bread, for they had not had any for three or four days. There had been some talk of plenty of wheat being owned and held by some planter over on or near the Louisiana line. Mother said to the neighbor woman:

"If you go with me, we'll go and get us a load of wheat."

"All right," joined in the other woman, "I had Just as soon be killed by Indians as to starve to death."

“My mother owned a fine span of large black mares. These were put to the wagon and off went the two women for a 10 or 15-day-journey in search of bread. When they found their wheat man sure enough, they offered him $25 a bushel for just five bushels.

“He spurned the offer—had no wheat to sell or give away either. Then my mother said to him:

"Sir, I am neither beggar nor thief: but I have come after wheat and expect to get it."

“By this time, the old man had become very angry.

"You need not get so full of wrath," Mother told him, "God will certainly reward' you for your wrath."

“For a second time the man got worse.

“My mother picked up her Winchester and turned toward two of the slaves that were in the yard.

"Show me the wheat granary," Mother commanded.

“They hesitated.

"I mean just what I say," were the words of Mother that broke the great stillness.

“So, the old man turned to the slaves and told them to go on.

“One of them got a cedar tub to measure the wheat in. Mother drove up to the granary, filled her wagon bed, with the double side-boards, full to the brim.

“As she drove back past the house, Mother was hailed by the planter's wife. Mother again offered pay, but the man refused it.

"Where do you live and what is your name?" the planter inquired.

“Mother told him.

“The man then motioned to his wife, who went back into the house. Presently here came two slaves with a sack of coffee. Then they brought a barrel of sugar, a 100-pound barrel of salt, a 50-pound can of honey and one of syrup.

“The planter told Mother to go by the mill, 10 miles out of her way, and have the wheat ground into flour, saying that he would pay for the grinding. She agreed. He gave her a slip of paper for the mill man, and then as they parted, he said to Mother and her neighbor woman:

"If you honest women are also brave enough to risk your lives for five other families, surely I can afford to give something."

“They went away and arrived home safely. Not a soul did they encounter, although the Indians were raiding just five miles west of their route.

“In a short while the Indians were out raiding again A messenger came telling about it. The nearest neighbor was five miles away. Mother left her baby with her two younger sisters, saddled her horse, buckled her pistol around her waist, took her Winchester on her saddle (side-saddle), and off she rode up into Wise County, after her horses and cattle. She was gone eight days—did not see a house, or a soul, or a fire. Had no one to face the danger with her.

“The night of the eighth day, she came upon a fine thicket to bed her cattle in just a mile from home. She bedded them down and struck out. Half a mile from home, she saw on a high hill, lighted by the sky, the figure of a single horseman. Mother gave' him time to come close, then put spurs to her horse so as to go by him out in the bushes. As mother dashed past, she heard a familiar voice call out…

"Miss Sidney! Oh. Miss Sidney! Is dat you?

“It was the voice of a feeble old negro the neighbors had sent out to meet her. Mother got her cattle and horses safely corralled before the Indians came on. She put these two mares in the smokehouse. The Indians tried every way to get her to open the door, but she refused. They shot the mares full of arrows; my mother cut out 50 the next morning.

“Mother and those little girls sat up all night. Just before day, everything became quiet. The Indians had gone. They carried off five head of cattle, but not a horse. My mother happened to have one of 'the oxen her father had driven across the plains. Strange to say, he was left in the lot. He was the only ox that had survived the last trip and was given to my mother. Ten miles further westward the Indians killed a family of seven and burnt the house down. And there were many other terrible Indian depredations in those pioneer days.”