Democratic Sentinel, Volume 1, Number 33, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 28 September 1877 — A TALE OF BUENA VISTA. [ARTICLE]

A TALE OF BUENA VISTA.

The sun rose in a cloudless sky on that memorable 22d of February, lighting up the gloomy valley of Los Angosturas, or the Narrows, as it was more commonly called, with a reflecting brilliancy that made the hoary peaks of the Sierra Nevada glitter and sparkle till the lonesome ravines seemed alive with its refracting rays. Hardly lonely, however, was the usually quiet valley on this eventful day. For eleven miles above Agua Nueva, and near the hacienda of Buena Vista, from which the subsequent battle received its name, were encamped some 5,000 of Taylor’s veterans ; hardy men, every one of them, and of tried courage, the heroes of many battles, and willing to risk their lives anywhere their intrepid commander would lead them. They had taken up their present position in consequence of the approach of a vastly superior body of Mexicans. The position was a strong one, their flank being protected by mountains which rose abruptly on each side ; these, together with the ravines and gullies by which the space.between the armies was broken, formed one of the greatest natural fortresses spoken of in history. Below them was the glittering army of Santa Anna,consisting of not less than 23,000 well-armed men; their gayly-col-omt uniforms contrasting strongly with th»' plain and serviceable suits of Taylor’s men. The American forces were placed so as to secure every advantage; the road running .through the valley was swept by their artillery; while the troops, without exception, were in the best of spirits. It was Washington's birthday, and that, of itself, the men thought, would give success to their arms. Early on the 23d, Santa Anna endeavored to turn the American left. He was successful ; the comparatively small body of Americans could not withstand the powerful columns of Ampudin. But, as the Mexicans seemed on the eve of victory, Gen. Taylor arrived with reinforcements from Saltillo. By great exertions the Colonel in command rallied a part of his own regiment —the Mississippi Bides—and a part of the Second Indiana, and by a quick advance drove back a strong body of Mexican lancers. Quickly forming his men" in the shape of a letter V, he awaited their approach. On came the Mexicans at a sweeping gallop, their shouts and laughter, as well as their gaudy uniforms, seeming more fit for the ball-room than the stern realities of the battle ground. Their careless riding, and the gay jokes they passed among themselves, showed that they expected an easy victory. Tlieir intended prey, however, manifested little alarm; like so many statues they stood in their places, each occupying a certain portion of the V, their arms ready for instant use, to be sure, but otherwise they seemed utterly unconscious of the approach of an overwhelmingly superior force of the enemy. “ Poor devils!” said a tall Mississippi rideman, in a low tone, to a still talk r companion; “ I reckon they don’t understand the Colonel's tactics, or they wouldn’t be quite so anxious to examine the ridemen’s V.”

The person addressed was a tall—or rather an extra tall—soldier. He was clad in a cheap, coarse suit like his companions, and appeared to be about 40 years of ago. His limbs were massive, but well-l'oi med and shapely, made up rather of large bones and muscles than of superfluous flesh; iu short, he was a man who could endure a long tramp without tiring, and be ready for action when his companions were completely worn out and exhausted. His face might onco have been handsome, but now it was scarred and seamed by constant exposure to deadly warfare and no lees deadly elements. But his eyes—his eyes were what would have called for the second look; black as midnight, and as quick and sharp as lightning; eyes which if once seen would never be forgotten. Such was Glen Atwood; a man who would fight till he fell, never forgive an enemy nor desert a friend. He had had numberless chances of pi’omotion, but had always refused them, saying that he preferred" the ranks to the shoulderstraps, and had rather do the fighting than order sojnebody else to do it. During the two or three years he had been with the Mississippi Rifles he had made but one friend—one in whom he ventured to repose any confidence. Bert Williams, with his happy-go-lucky, devil-may-care face, seemed the last person whom such a man as Glen Atwood would have selected as a chum ; nevertheless, there had sprung up a friendship between the two that bade fair to prove lasting. Many were the times they had saved each ot! ter from certain death on the battle-field, at the risk of their own lives, till, at the time our story opens, there was nothing possible that one would not do for the other. At his companion’s exclamation Glen had smiled faintly, at the same time saying, in an equally low tone : “Look at them, Bert; they seem uncertain whether to come on, stop, or go back.” It was true. The Mexicans hod expected to be fired upon as soon as they came within range; then, before the Americans could reload, they intended to dash upon them. What, then, was

their astonishment at the silence in which they were reoeived! From a gallop, they let their horses come to a walk; but not a mdtion was made along the American lines. They seemed utterly oblivious of the close proximity of the foe. The Mexicans were dumbfounded. Slowly they approached, until at last they halted within eighty yards of the opening of the terrible V. In an instant the Colonel gave the command, and his men took deliberate aim. The first volley swept away the Mexican’s front. The next moment Sherman’s guns opened upon them with grape and canister. For a moment the Mexicans were bewildered, then, with cries of horror and despair, wheeled their horses, and fled in the utmost confusion. “ Whoop ! hooray !” yelled Bert Williams, dashing forward in the mad excitement of the moment in parsuit of the enemy. “ Back, you fool!’’ shouted one of the officers. - ~ But he might as well have talked to the whirlwind. Over the dead bodies of the Mexicans rushed Bert, intent only on the foe before him. . On reaching a safe distance, the Mexicans turned, and for the first time beheld Bert; several instantly dashed forward in pursuit. Bert stopped, stared at them for a second, and seemed to realize the situation ; for, shaking his fist at them as a parting Balute, he turned and started toward his friends at a run, which, if possible, exceeded the speed with which he had left them. It was apparent to all that unless speedy aid was given he would be captured; this, however could not be done without endangering the safety of the whole regiment, which the Colonel did not feel authorized to do.

The chase was watched in breathless interest by friend and foe; the Americans not only wished to see the Mexicans fail, but all—or nearly all—had a personal feeling for the fugitive, who had endeared himself to them by that reckless gayety and abandonment of manner too often seen in tho “ soldier of fortune. ”

On the other hand, the Mexicans, who felt sore over their recent defeat, saw a chance of retrieving their fortunes; for they had concluded, on seeing the interest with which the fugitive was regarded by bis friends, that he was a person of some consequence. Suddenly all were astonished to see a figure rush from the American lines toward the nearly-exhausted was Glen Atwood. He had watched the race until he saw it was utterly impossible for his chum to escape; then, as he afterward expressed it, he concluded to “put a finger in the pie.” “Putin your best speed, Bert,” he yelled, as he bounded forward. “ Hang—their—impudence !” was the only answer he received. By this time the Mexicans had arrived within a few feet of the flying Bert,while Glen was yet some distance off. A moment later Bert was surrounded, and in less time than it takes to write bound firmly to the back of a vicious mustang. Leaving him in the charge of one of their number, the rest spurred on toward Glen, hoping to catch two birds where they had expected but one. The latter personage, however, had no thoughts of escape; lie had but one object in view; which was to liberate Bert. Hardly had the Mexicans left their prisoner when lie dashed into their midst; at a single bound he was in the saddle of one of their number—the former occupant, a moment later, feeling himself flying through the air with an indistinct idea of earthquakes and battering-rams. Before the Mexicans had recovered from their surprise at this unexpected movement, another of their number had “bit the dust,” or, in plain English, been taken by the shoulder and sent to repose in a bed of thistles by the roadside.

“By Jingo 1” yelled Glen, “Why don’t ye wake up ? Take that!” at the same time, by a quick, sharp pull of the bit, making his horse rear and throw out his fore-legs in such a manner as to send a too-forward Mexican spinning from hiß saddle. At this moment a Mexican, who had been edging behind Glen for some time, threw his lasso; for a momeut it circled through the air, then settling gracefully about his shoulders. With a shout of exultation, the Mexicans rushed forward; but their triumph was short-lived; without any apparent effort, Glen slowly stretched his shoulders—there was no other name for it—and snap went the cord; at the same time, by a dexterous turn of the wrist, he cakght the flying strands in one hand and gave a quick pull, causing the unlucky owner of the lasso, who had one end of it tied to his arm, to make an involuntary and not very graceful tumble. Things were getting warm for the Mexicans. So thought their leader—a thin, wiry man, who seemed to have more life in him than the whole of his companions put together, for, with a low command, he dashed forward, followed by the whole party. Glen saw that the decisive moment had arrived. With a low word of encouragement to his horse, he spurred forward to meet the danger half way. On came the Mexicans, and on went Glen, all at full speed ; but they were destined to meet with a surprise before meeting one another. “ Whoop !” yelled a voice which made Glen lift his eyebrows in surprise. “Quarreling again, hey, old man? Wonder if you ever learned the golden rule ?” The n<?xt moment Bert Williams came da ailing up. It needed but one look at the horse he bestrode to assure Glen that his guard had met with some accident. “ Been up to your tricks again, have you ?” inquired Glen, significantly. “ Kinder,” was the laconic answer.

Gien smiled. He remembered a trick that had been played on them while at the fort. Several of the men had determined to play a joke on Bert, and to that eud had called him into the guard-house one day. While he was looking in another direction they had retired, locking the door after them, and, on looking around preparatory to leaving, they discovered him sitting on the fence outside. The story soon leaked out, causing considerable astonishment to those who remembered that the guard-house was built of stone, having but a single opening, which was the door through which the jokers had passed; how, then, the prisoner had escaped was a mystery to them. To Glen, however, the matter was rather plainer. In a burst of confidence Bert had told him how his early life had been passed in a traveling circus, where he had not only learned the wonderful tricks by which showmen mystify the public, but had become one of the best bare-backed riders in the profession. By this time the Mexicans were upon them; but they were going at such headlong speed that they found it impossible to stop. As they passed several passes were made on each side. Glen parried a lance thrust, at the same time shaking his fist so near a burly Mexican’s face as to knock him from the saddle. It took but a few seconds for them to srop their horses, turn, and once more head l'or each other. As they again drew near, a Mexicaif rose in his saddle and threw his lasso with unerring aim. Bert saw that it was intended for him, but at the same time saw that it would be impossible to dodge it, the horses were at such speed. So he drew hiß feet up until they rested on the saddle, and crouched for a spring. As the lasso quivered for an instant above his head, preparatory to descending, the noose widened so as to form a large opening. Bert took instant advantage of it. Like an india-rnkjper ball he bounded from

the saddle, shot up through the opening in the lasso, then, as the Mexican’s horse dashed up, he descended plump upon its unfortunate owner's shoulders. “ Carambo !” spluttered the Mexican as he went head first into the dirt. “ Satan J” yelled his companions, putting spurs to their horses, and dashing off as though all the imps of pandemonium were after them. “ Oh, no, indeed ! ” shouted Bert. “ Net the old man—only one of the beys!” “ Bert,” said Glen, gravely ; “hadn’t we better go back ? I’m afraid you’re getting excited; you’re sure you wouldn’t pick up a chap’s horse and throw it at him if you got out of temper, are you ?” “ (Jet out!” was the pleasant answer. It took the two but a few minutes to return to the regiment. They had no time for congratulations, however, for the moment they regained their places a staff officer rode up and ordered the regiment to another part of the field. They had plenty of fightjng for the rest of the day; but we doubt if any of it came up to the “ lasso practice.” Not until they were gathered about the camp-fire that night did Glen get a chance to speak to Bert. “ Say, old fellow ?” was his first observation. “ How did you escape from the Mexican this morning ?” “ What Mexican ?” inquired Bert, lazily. “Do you mean when I got tied up ? Well, you see it was easy enough; I just shftink up till the ropes fell down; then I told the Mexican to get off his horse; but he wouldn’t, so I helped him —that’s all. Oh, I learned all about it in the circus, you know.” And, as Bert concluded, he rolled himself up in his blanket, which put a stop to all further questioning that night.