Heroines of the Southwest
The American Southwest, a region painted with broad strokes of romance and peril, holds a unique place in the tapestry of our nation’s history. This vast expanse, encompassing Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona, is more than just a geographical location; it’s a landscape of extremes, a convergence of cultures, and a proving ground for the human spirit. It is this land that bore the Heroines of the Southwest.
Imagine a land of stark contrasts: fertile farms nestled beside expansive cattle ranches, lonely prairies bisected by majestic rivers giving way to barren deserts. Towering plateaus rise to meet secluded mining settlements, while vast mountain ranges, carved by raging torrents into deep, shadowed canyons, hold inaccessible riches of gold. The very geography of the Southwest is a study in contrasts, mirroring the diverse and often conflicting forces at play within its borders.
The human element further complicates this intricate portrait. Side by side, exist strange and mysterious tribes, each bearing its own distinct character and customs. Mongrel breeds of men, products of cultural collisions and often morally ambiguous circumstances, populate the landscape, presenting a challenge to both ethnologists and moralists alike. The Comanche and Apache, fierce and unforgiving, roam the plains, embodying the most remorseless and bloodthirsty aspects of the North American aboriginal tribes. Mexican bandits, opportunistic and cunning, traverse the plains and lie in wait within the mountain passes. Adding to the volatile mix, American outlaws and desperadoes seek refuge in this remote region, hoping to escape the long arm of justice.
As the Anglo-Saxon pioneers pushed westward, forging their way across the Sabine, Brazos, and Colorado Rivers of Texas, they encountered this melting pot of races, often bearing the indelible mark of the old Castilian conquerors. Each group, deeply distinct and inherently resistant to the North European newcomers, created a society rife with tension and conflict. The Heroines of the Southwest faced this antagonism head on.
Considering the sheer distances involved, the formidable natural obstacles presented by the rugged terrain, the isolation of the region from established civilization, and the unpredictable, often hostile nature of its inhabitants, one might assume that peaceful settlement, particularly the establishment of family life centered around women, would be an impossibility. Yet, the indomitable spirit that characterizes both the men and women of the pioneer stock propelled them forward, enabling them to plant the seeds of domesticity and community in the most inhospitable corners of the Southwest. This spirit is evident in stories of the Heroines of the Southwest. Against all odds, they persevered, demonstrating a resilience that would eventually reshape the very fabric of the region.
The northeastern portion of this immense territory is dominated by the Llano Estacado, or "Staked Plain." Stretching for hundreds of miles in every direction, this unforgiving expanse of sandy plain, virtually devoid of trees and vegetation, is a testament to the harshness of the environment. Scattered across its surface are the bleached bones of horses, mules, and the skeletal remains of unfortunate travelers who succumbed to the perils of thirst, starvation, and exposure. The Llano Estacado is a desolate arena, rivaling the Great African Desert in its capacity to inspire awe and dread. Despite the challenges, the Heroines of the Southwest made this desolate landscape their home.
In 1846, buoyed by news of American troops peacefully occupying New Mexico, a small group of men and women embarked on a perilous journey from the upper valley of the Red River in Louisiana, with the intention of settling in the valley of the Pecos River, in the eastern reaches of the newly conquered territory. The company consisted of seven souls: Mr. and Mrs. Benham and their seven-year-old child, Mr. and Mrs. Braxton, and their two sons, aged fifteen and nineteen. The journey ahead would be a test of their courage, their resilience, and their ability to overcome unimaginable hardships. These were traits that defined the Heroines of the Southwest.
Their initial progress through the valley of the Red River was swift and relatively comfortable. Within two weeks, they reached the edge of the Staked Plain, where they meticulously prepared for the crossing. Aware of the difficulties and dangers that lay ahead, they carefully considered every detail.
They lightened their pack mules by discarding any unnecessary burdens and ensured they had enough water for two days. This would take them to a kind of oasis in the desert, where they hoped to find wood, water, and grass. Beyond this point lay a treacherous ninety-mile stretch, completely devoid of wood and water, with only sparse patches of vegetation to sustain their animals. Successfully navigating this desolate region would bring them closer to their destination.
On the second day of their passage across this arid tract, disaster struck. Their only remaining water cask burst, spilling its precious contents into the thirsty sands. They were now forty miles from the nearest water source. Their animals were exhausted and parched with thirst. The men were suffering from sunstroke, and one of the boys had been bitten by a rattlesnake while attempting to retrieve a prairie dog he had shot.
The following day, their progress was agonizingly slow. The men were barely able to stay on their horses, and the venom from the snakebite weakened the boy. The heat was intense, radiating off the white expanse of sand and searing their eyes. By three o’clock in the afternoon, the horses and mules could go no further. The party dismounted and collapsed on the sand, gasping for breath. The sky above was like brass, and the fine alkali dust that coated the ground swirled around them, irritating their nostrils and eyes.
Their only hope was that a passing train of hunters or emigrants would discover them. But as the sun began to set, their hope dwindled. The painful glare of the sun gradually softened, and the coolness of the evening offered a slight reprieve. Sleep promised oblivion, and hope whispered of possible rescue in the morning.
The air in the desert is remarkably clear. As the last rays of the sun painted the sky with a soft glow, the weary travelers noticed a distant haze on the western horizon. Within this haze, small black specks seemed to be moving. As the specks grew larger and more distinct, it became clear that they were a cloud of dust, likely kicked up by a party of horsemen. The question was, were these horsemen friend or foe? Were they American cavalry, or were they Mexican guerrillas?
The agonizing uncertainty was soon resolved. Six sunburnt men, their hair as black as a crow’s wing, gaily dressed and bearing long lances, galloped toward the party on their mustangs. They reined in their horses just twenty paces away and eyed the group with suspicion. One of the men approached and inquired, in broken English, if they were "Americans." Seeing their helplessness, he beckoned his companions to join him. Without waiting for a response, he demanded the party’s surrender. Under normal circumstances, they would have resisted, but they were too weak to fight.
The guerrillas quickly seized their guns, money, and anything else that caught their fancy. They then slit the throats of their horses and mules. Mrs. Braxton and Mrs. Benham were seized. Despite their struggles and screams, each was forced onto a horse in front of a bandit. The Mexicans then rode off, cursing "Los Americanos" and leaving them to die in the desert.
After a four-hour gallop, the marauders arrived at an adobe house on Picosa Creek, a tributary of the Rio Pecos. This served as the gang’s headquarters, where they kept fresh horses. Mrs. Benham and Mrs. Braxton were confined to a room on the second story. While the door was barricaded, the windows had only oaken bars, which the women managed to remove. Under the cover of night, they lowered themselves out of the window and made their way to the stable, where they found six fresh horses, saddled and bridled. The horses used in the raid were loose in the enclosure.
Driven by a desperate need to prevent pursuit, the brave women hamstrung the exhausted horses. They then led the six fresh mustangs away. Once out of earshot, they mounted the horses and rode through the night. At sunrise, they arrived at the spot where they had left their companions.
After a brief rest, the entire group continued their journey, eventually reaching a place of safety. Two days later, they arrived at the headwaters of the Pecos River. They purchased a large adobe house and a large tract of land.
These events transpired in the early autumn. That winter, the Mexicans revolted and massacred Governor Bent and his military household. On the same day, seven Americans were killed at Arroyo Hondo. A large Mexican force was preparing to march on Santa Fe. The solid adobe house was used as a stockade and fortification against Indian attacks. A detachment of U.S. troops were stationed a short distance away.
Early on the morning of January 24th, a mounted party of 12 Mexicans scaled the enclosure. One of their bullets struck Mr. Braxton in the eye. Mrs. Braxton, dried her tears and sought vengeance. The number of the besieged was t12 at the start: Mr. and Mrs. Braxton, Mr. and Mrs. Benham and their children, three Irish herders, and a half-breed Mexican and his wife, who were house servants. Mrs. Benham found Juan, the Mexican half-breed, opening an upper window. She shot him and killed another Mexican. The third leaped from the window and escaped. Mrs. Benham was met by the wife of the treacherous half-breed, who aimed a stroke at her with a machete.
Three of the attacking party had now been killed, and three others placed "hors de combat." The remnant was apparently about to retire from the siege when six more swarthy desperadoes, mounted on black mustangs, came galloping up and halted on a hill just out of rifle shot. Mrs. Braxton and Mrs. Benham, recognized them as the band which had made them captives a few months before. One of the band, approached the house, waving a white flag and sent a burning arrow upon the roof of the house.
Mrs. Benham was struck, and a new peril now struck terror to their hearts; the water was exhausted. Mrs. Braxton rolled her eyes in search of some substitute for water, and they fell on the corpse of her husband. Shuddering, she removed them quickly but tenderly from the body, flew to the roof, and succeeded, by these dripping and ghastly tokens of her widowhood, in finally extinguishing the flames. The attack ceased at nightfall, and the Mexicans withdrew. The United States forces soon quelled the outbreak, and the territory was brought again into a condition of peace and comparative security.
At the close of the war in 1848, Mrs. Braxton married a discharged volunteer named Whitley, and having disposed of the late Mr. Braxton’s interest in the New Mexican ranch, removed in 1851 with her husband and family to California, where they lived for two years in the Sacramento Valley. Whitley possessed one of those roving and adventurous spirits that is never happy in repose. When John Crossman informed him, an old comrade, of the discovery of a rich placer which he had made during his march as a United States soldier across the territory of Arizona, he eagerly formed a partnership with the discoverer, who was no longer in the army and announced to his wife his resolution to settle in Arizona. She endeavored by every argument she could command to dissuade him from this rash step, but in vain, and finding all her representations and entreaties of no avail; she consented, though with the utmost reluctance, to accompany him.
The territory of Arizona may be likened to that wild and rugged mountain region in Central Asia, where, according to Persian myth, untold treasures are guarded by the malign legions of Ahriman, the spirit of evil. Two of the great elemental forces have employed their destructive agencies upon the country’s surface until it might serve for an ideal picture of desolation. For countless centuries the water has seamed and gashed the face of the hills, stripping them of soil and cutting deep gorges and canyons through the rocks. The water then flowed away or disappeared in the sands, and the sun came with its parching heat to complete the work of ruin. Famine and thirst stalk over those arid plains or lurk in the waterless and gloomy canyons; as if to compensate for these evils, the soil of the territory teems with mineral wealth.
The journey from San Diego was made with pack mules and occupied thirty days, during which nearly every hardship and obstacle in the pioneer’s catalog was encountered. When they reached the spot described by Crossman they found the place, which lay at the bottom of a deep ravine, had been covered with boulders and thirty feet of sand by the rapid torrents of five rainy seasons. They immediately commenced “prospecting.” Mrs. Braxton had the good fortune to discover a large “pocket,” from which Crossman and her husband took out $30,000 in gold in a few weeks.
Instead of returning on the same route by which they came, they resolved to cross the Colorado River higher up and in the neighborhood of the Santa Maria. They reached the Colorado River after a toilsome march. While searching for a place to pass over, Crossman lost his footing and fell sixty feet down a precipice. Pressing on in a northwesterly direction, they passed through a series of deep valleys and gorges where the only water they could find was brackish and bitter and reached the edge of the California desert.
Meanwhile, they had lost another mule that had been dashed to pieces by falling down a canyon. Mr. Whitley’s strength becoming exhausted, his wife gave up to him the beast she had been riding and pursued her way on foot, driving before her the other mule, which bore the gold-dust with their scanty supply of food and their only remaining cooking utensils.
Before they could reach the Mohave River, Mr. Whitley became insane from thirst and hunger, and nothing but constant watchfulness on the part of his wife could prevent him from doing injury to himself. Upon reaching the river, he drank immoderately of the water and in an hour expired. Ten days later, the brave woman had succeeded in reaching Techichipa in so wasted a condition that she looked like a specter risen from the grave. The gold dust which had cost so dearly was found after a long search beneath the carcass of the mule, twenty miles from Techichipa.
Beyond the extreme outer line of settlements in western Texas, lived in 1867, an enterprising pioneer by the name of Babb. The household of the borderer consisted of his wife, three small children, and a female friend by the name of Mrs. L., who, having previously lost her husband, was passing the summer with the family.
Upon one bright and lovely morning in June 1867, the adventurous borderer before mentioned set out from his home with some cattle for a distant market, leaving his family in possession of the ranch, without any male protectors from Indian marauders.
While the women were busily occupied with their domestic affairs in the house, the two oldest children, who were playing outside, called to their mother and informed her that some mounted men were approaching from the prairie. On looking out, she perceived, to her astonishment, that they were Indians coming upon the gallop and already very near the house. The children did not obey the command of their mother, believing the strangers to be white men, and the door was left open. As soon as the alarm was given, Mrs. L. sprang up a ladder into the loft and concealed herself.
In the meantime, the Indians came up, seized and bound the two children outdoors, and, entering the house, rushed toward the young child, which the terror-stricken mother struggled frantically to rescue from their clutches; but they were too much for her, and tearing the infant from her arms, they dashed it upon the floor; then seizing her by the hair, they wrenched back her head and cut her throat from ear to ear, putting her to death instantaneously.
Mrs. L., who was anxiously watching their proceedings from the loft, witnessed the fiendish tragedy and uttered an involuntary shriek of horror, which disclosed her hiding-place to the barbarians, and they instantly vaulted up the ladder, overpowered and tied her; then dragging her rudely down, they placed her, with the two elder children, upon horses, and hurriedly set off to the north.
Following their usual practice, they traveled as rapidly as their horses could carry them for several consecutive days and nights, only making occasional short halts to graze and rest their animals and get a little sleep themselves, so that the unfortunate captives necessarily suffered indescribable tortures from harsh treatment, fatigue, and want of sleep and food. Yet they were forced by the savages to continue on day after day, and night after night, for many, many weary miles toward the “Staked Plain.”
Despite this, Mrs. L., resolved to seize the first favorable opportunity to get away. With this resolution in view, she carefully observed the relative speed and powers of endurance of the different horses in the party and noted how they were grazed, guarded, and caught; and upon a dark night, she noiselessly and cautiously crawled away from the bed of her young companions, selected the best, leaped upon his back a la garçon, and without saddle or bridle, quietly started at a slow walk in the direction of the north star.
At the dawn of day on the following morning, she rose upon the crest of an eminence overlooking a vast area of bald prairie country, where, for the first time since leaving the Indians, she halted, and, turning round, tremblingly cast a rapid glance to the rear. She breathed more freely now but still did not feel safe from pursuit. The total absence of all knowledge of her whereabouts in the vast expanse of dreary prairie around her, with the uncertainty of ever again looking upon a friendly face, caused her to realize most vividly her own weakness and entire dependence upon the Almighty. She raised her thoughts to Heaven in earnest supplication.
The sensation of loneliness and despair resulting from the appalling consciousness of being really lost, with the realization of the fact that but two or three of the innumerable different points of direction embraced within the circle of the horizon will serve to extricate the bewildered victim from the awful doom of death by starvation, and in entire ignorance as to which of these particular directions should be followed, without a single road, trail, tree, bush, or other landmark to guide or direct—the effects upon the imagination of this formidable array of disheartening circumstances can be fully appreciated only by those who have been personally subjected to their influence.
The steadfast spirit of the heroine of this narrative did not, however, succumb in the least to the imminent perils of the situation in which she found herself. The aid of the sun and the broad leaves of the pilot plant by day, with the light of Polaris by night, enabled her to pursue her undeviating course to the north. She continued to urge forward the generous steed she bestrode, who, in obedience to the will of his rider, coursed swiftly on hour after hour during the greater part of the day, without the least apparent labor or exhaustion.
It was a contest for life and liberty that she had undertaken, a struggle in which she resolved to triumph or perish in the effort: and still, the brave-hearted woman pressed on, until at length her horse began to show signs of exhaustion. At this time, she was herself so much wearied and in want of sleep that she would have given all she possessed to have been allowed to dismount and rest; but, unfortunately for her, those piratical quadrupeds of the plains, the wolves, advised by their carnivorous instincts that she and her exhausted horse might soon fall an easy sacrifice to their voracious appetites, followed upon her track, and came howling in great numbers about her, so that she dared not set her feet upon the ground, fearing they would devour her.
When she was about to give up in despair, expecting every instant that the animal would drop down dead under her, the welcome light of day dawned in the eastern horizon. She now, for the first time in about 36 hours, dismounted and knew that sleep would soon overpower her, and the horse, if not secured, might escape or wander away. There being no tree or other object to which he could be fastened, she, with great presence of mind, tied one end of the long lariat to his neck and, with the other end around her waist, dropped down upon the ground in a deep sleep. At the same time, the hungry horse eagerly cropped the herbage around her.
She was suddenly startled and aroused by the pattering sound of horses’ feet, beating the earth on every side. Springing to her feet in the greatest possible alarm, she found herself surrounded by a large band of hostile Indians, who commenced dancing around, flouting their war clubs in terrible proximity to her head, while giving utterance to the most diabolical shouts of triumph. The Indians then approached and, after she revived, placed her again upon a horse, and rode away with her to their camp, which, fortunately, was not far distant. They then turned their prisoner over to the Indian women, who gave her food and put her to bed, but it was several days before she was sufficiently recovered to walk about the camp.
She learned that her last captors belonged to “Lone Wolf’s” band of Kiowas. During the time she remained with these Indians, a party of men went away to the north and were absent six days, bringing with them, on their return, some ears of green corn. She knew the prairie tribes never planted a seed of any description and was therefore confident the party had visited a white settlement.
Late one night, after all, had become quiet throughout the camp, she stole carefully away from her bed, crept softly out to the herd of horses, and after having caught and saddled one, was in the act of mounting, when several dogs rushed out after her, and by their barking, created such a disturbance among the Indians that she was forced, for the time, to forego her designs and crawl hastily back to her lodge.
On a subsequent occasion, however, fortune favored her. She secured an excellent horse and rode away in the direction from which she had seen the Indians returning to camp with the green corn. After three consecutive days of rapid riding, anxiety, fatigue, and hunger, she arrived upon the border of a large river, flowing directly across her track. She instantly dashed into the foaming torrent, forced her horse through the stream, and landed safely upon the opposite bank.
After giving her horse a few moments’ rest, she again set forward and had ridden but a short distance when she struck a broad and well-beaten wagon road. Up to this joyful moment, the indomitable inflexibility of purpose of our heroine had not faltered for an instant, neither had she suffered the slightest despondency, given the terrible array of disheartening circumstances that had continually confronted her, but when she realized the hopeful prospect before her of a speedy escape from the reach of her barbarous captors, and a reasonable certainty of an early reunion with people of her sympathizing race, the feminine elements of her nature preponderated, her stoical fortitude yielded to the delightful anticipation.
She then proceeded until she met the wagons in charge of Mr. Robert Bent, whom she entreated to give her food instantly, as she was in a state bordering absolute starvation. Accordingly, he inquired of her where she lived, to which she replied, “In Texas.” Mr. Bent gave an incredulous shake of his head at this response. He informed her that the river she had just crossed was the Arkansas River and that she was then on the old Santa Fe road.
On the arrival of Mr. Bent at Fort Zara, he called upon the Indian agent. He reported the circumstance of meeting Mrs. L., and, by a singular coincidence, it so happened that the agent was at that very time holding a council with the chiefs of the identical band of Indians from whom she had last escaped. He at once dispatched a man to follow the woman and conduct her to Council Grove, Kansas, where she was kindly received and remained for some time. Hoping through the efforts of the agents to gain intelligence of the two children she had left with the Comanche, she desired to take them back to their father in Texas; but gained no tidings for a long while. The two captive children were afterward ransomed and sent home to their father.
It may well be questioned whether any woman either in ancient or modern times ever performed such a remarkable equestrian feat, and the story itself would be almost incredible were we not in possession of so many well-authenticated instances of the hardihood and powers of endurance shown by women on the frontiers of our country. The Heroines of the Southwest were truly a breed apart.