Trails West

Two mud splattered riders slouched wearily in their saddles as they gazed out over the raging, rust-colored waters of the Brazos de Dios, the treacherous old river whose Spanish name meant the Arms of God. Heavy spring rains had filled the normally low and lazy stream to the top of its banks. Whole trees came drifting by, caught up in the swollen, swirling, muddy current. Echoing loudly through the forest came the thunderous sound of sections of the river's red clay banks as they crashed into the angry water below, sliced off mercilessly by the grinding, swift river. Trees and other vegetation left behind, dangled precariously along the rim of the river canyon, their roots reaching out into the empty air above the dangerous waters of the Brazos.

To the west of that wild river before them the late afternoon sun was setting in a fiery display that was truly breathtaking. Its rays glowed brilliantly scarlet as it slipped briefly out of the black, ominous rain clouds into a narrow strip of purple and gold sky above the horizon. Downward it dropped behind the dense growth of willow trees in those last awe-inspiring moments of an otherwise dreadful day. In its final dying act, the sun had painted an enormous, multi-colored double rainbow on the still dark eastern sky, a gorgeous arch stretching the full expanse of the heaven from north to south, forming a heavenly bridge from one side of that river to the other. The land at the rainbow's end on the far side of the impassable river was what the two brothers had come over a thousand miles to see, Austin's promised land. The year was 1822, and the land that stretched before them was Stephen F. Austin's Texas colony.

The eager blue eyes of James Bell, the older of the two brothers, stared longingly at the untouchable property across the river. James' big black stallion, snorted, shook his head and blew hard, shaking his whole body as he did. The tired animal reached for a bunch of tall grass on the riverbank, and began to graze. Bell reached down and patted his neck affectionately, "I know you're tired, Eagle. So are we. It looks like we ain't goin' any further tonight."

"Looks like we ain't going any further for quite awhile, don't it Jim?" remarked his brother Tommy disgustedly. He slapped a mosquito on the back of his neck. "That's one hell of a mean river there. I told you we should've taken a boat out of New Orleans. We are already three months late meeting up with Austin and the rest. Never should have split up. It's been one damn hardship after another comin' overland like this," he complained. "I told you."

James sighed with exasperation and shook his head. "Will you quit your constant gripin', Tommy. I'm just about sick of it. I told you it would be rough out here but you insisted on comin' anyway. Nobody forced you. And besides, we're here now, anyhow, aren't we? Can't we just try to make the best of it?"

"Yeah, I guess you're right. I'm just tired. That's all. Sorry." He took off his grimy hat and wiped the mud from his forehead. He had stuck a feather in its headband from a wild turkey they had killed a couple of days ago, and now he played with it thoughtfully. "O.K. Jim, you're the one with all the answers. Just how in hell do you propose to get across this?" asked Tommy, pointing toward the river.

James Bell shook his head. "Well, it looks like we're not going to, at least not tonight, doesn't it? Not for quite a spell I guess. Not ‘til that old river goes down and it stops raining." Then his mood changed abruptly, and he spoke with renewed enthusiasm. "Hell, Tommy. This is the new land. No matter which way you look. It's virgin soil that's never seen a plow?not on either side of this damn river." He turned in his saddle, extended his arm, and indicated the land behind him, "I doubt that the other side of the river is too much different than this side right here. It all looks like decent farmland. We're almost out of supplies. It's time to stop."