Home Forums Hunting & Shooting Hunter's Campfire Comancheria

Careful, turns out Smithwick (seen below) was a PC apologist fer the Disney Channel (prob'ly no accident he ended up in California).



I mean he partnered with a White guy who had married a Black woman, lived with Comanches, rode with Cherokee, and the Lipans who rode with Jack Hays used to hang out at Smithwick's gun shop. Nary an attempted smallpox infestation or razor stropping or head removal at all. Even had the nerve to call a fresh In'jun scalp a "loathsome trophy" and says that his attempted recapture of some runaways slaves was "the meanest thing he ever did".

To top it all off, the wrote THIS...

The storm abated on the fourth day, but the snow had obliterated the Comanches' trail, so I took a Lipan and went on in the direction they had been heading. We kept on up the Colorado on the east side till near the mouth of the San Saba, when on ascending a rise overlooking the valley, we saw smoke rising some miles up the San Saba.

The Indian said he knew it was from camp fires because it ascended in columns; if it were prairie fires it would spread out in clouds. He said it was no use to go any farther, as he knew exactly where the camp was located. It was then late in the day, but not caring to tarry, we turned back, riding on far into the night.

While riding along about dark we heard a wolf howl behind us. My guide stopped short and assumed a listening attitude. In a few moments another answered, way to the right. Still the Indian listened so intently that his form seemed perfectly rigid. Then another set up a howl on our left. "Umph, lobo," said the Lipan, in a tone of relief. I can't say that I admired the music of the wolf at any time, but it certainly never had a more unmusical sound than on that occasion, and when I saw that even an Indian's ears were uncertain whether it were wolf or Comanche, I felt the cold chills creeping over me.

Some distance ahead we entered a cedar brake, just in the edge of which we came upon a turkey roost. We had nothing to eat, so with the approval of my guide, I shot a turkey. Securing our prize, we hurried on, putting many miles behind us before we ventured to draw rein. Several times I suggested stopping, but the Indian said "No; there was no suitable place." Late in the night we came to a dry ravine, and the Indian said we might stop.

Selecting a spot where there were no trees to reflect the light, he started a fire and prepared to roast the turkey. "You go to sleep," said he, and I was glad to obey the order, feeling perfectly safe in his care. At daybreak he roused me up to breakfast, having roasted the turkey while he kept guard. I doubt if he slept at all. A few hours' ride brought us into camp.


As if all that weren't enough, the poor deluded fool thought the War Between the States was actually about slavery.

Next.... John Salmon Ford: Secret Liberal.

Birdwatcher