What follows is a guest post by John Bullard.  Take it away, John.  And by the way, there are spoilers.  You have been warned.

In Part One, we began to examine the historical incidents and people from Texas history that Howard used in creating his story, “Beyond the Black River”, hereinafter abbreviated as BBR, grounding the tale as a story about the settling of Texas and not about the American Colonists fighting with the Eastern First Nations. We saw that Howard was particularly interested in the history of the settlement of Comanche lands in Central and North Central Texas by Anglo settlers, and started using the long years of conflict as the foundation for his creating his Conan story of “Beyond the Black River”. He used the general geography of the Texas lands bounded by the Trinity and Brazos rivers and transposed it into the woodland setting of the story bounded by the Thunder and Black rivers. Finally, it was shown that Howard used the actual incident of the destruction of Fort Parker by the Comanche and Kiowa in 1836 as the destruction of the fictional Fort Tuscelan in “Beyond the Black River”. Now, we will look at some of the peoples and stories of Texans fighting for survival against the Comanches who were waging their own war to keep their lands.

Conan and the Texas Rangers

Conan first appears in the story saving Balthus from certain death from a hidden Pict warrior. Conan tells Balthus “I’m no soldier. I draw the pay and rations of an officer of the line, but I do my work in the woods. Valannus knows I’m of more use ranging along the river than cooped up in the fort.”(BBR) Howard appears to have drawn Conan’s actions and abilities in the story from two members of the famous Texas Rangers who patrolled the Texas frontier fighting Indians from the early colony days of Texas through its nationhood, and finally statehood. These two men are John Coffee Hays and William “Bigfoot” Wallace¹².

In BBR, after rescuing Balthus from being sacrificed by Zogar Sag, and fleeing to warn the Fort of the oncoming attack, Conan and Balthus run into a group of Picts waiting in bushes, preparing to cross the Black River and attack the fort. Conan rushes the Picts and easily kills five of the seven attackers. This incident seems to link Conan’s fighting skills to the historical figure, John Coffee “Jack” Hays, one of Howard’s favorite Texas Rangers. Jack Hays was one of the first commanders of the Texas Rangers, and was feared and admired by friends and enemies for his fearless fighting abilities. (For more about Hays, see this post. – KW) Howard wrote about an incident where Hays single-handedly attacked and killed eleven Comanches to Lovecraft and Derleth, specifically mentioning Hays’ fighting abilities:

“I hardly think that such men as John Poe, Pat Garrett and Jack Hayes looked on the apprehending of criminals as “a stage for the showing off of their personal merits.” When one of these men went out after a desperado single-handed it was not because of an inflated ego, but a cool confidence in his ability to do the job alone. When Jack Hayes went into a thicket and killed eleven Comanche Indians in hand-to-hand combat, he did not do this because he wanted to show-off. It was his job and he did it. He was confident of his ability, and he did not need a mob of men to help him.”(Lovecraft, Sep. 22, 1932)

And:

“But some of the early heroes of the Southwest did feats almost equal to the legendary exploits of the gentleman from the Pecos [Pecos Bill]. There was Jack Hayes, for instance — the first Ranger captain. He went into a thicket where twelve Comanches were lurking, and killed eleven of them in hand-to-hand fighting, and lived to tell the tale, as the saying is. Incidentally the remaining redskin was shot down as he ran, by Jack’s Rangers who were stationed around the thicket.”(Derleth, Dec. 1932)

Conan later has a hand to hand fight with a Swamp Demon that has been doing Zogar Sag’s bidding. In the first draft of BBR (BBR Draft A), the fight is fairly quick—only two paragraphs, mainly just Conan and the Demon closing with each other, and Conan striking the Demon three times with his sword, killing it. In the second draft (BBR Draft B), and in the printed version, Howard has expanded the fight to five paragraphs and made it more of a physical, hand-to-hand brawl with Conan desperately attacking the demon with his sword, and the demon slashing and slowly destroying Conan’s chain mail with each swipe of the demon’s talons. Howard appears to have drawn inspiration for the fight from William “Bigfoot” Wallace’s fight with “the big Indian”:

“Tales, and many tales, are told of his adventures as a scout, a ranger, a soldier and a stage-driver from San Antonio to El Paso, but the tale I like best is the tale of his battle with “the big Indian”, the epic combat of all the Southwest.

The rangers had trailed the Indians to the head-waters of the Llano. They went into camp, seeing at sundown the signal-smokes going up. Bigfoot was restless; that turbulent, individualist spirit of his would not let him lie down and sleep quietly with the enemy near, while other men stood guard. A few hours before dawn he slipped out of the camp and glided through the mesquite and chaparral like a ghost. Daybreak found him traversing a steep narrow canyon, which bent suddenly to the left. As he made the bend, he found himself face to face with a giant painted brave. In fact, they caromed together with such force that both were thrown to the earth by the compact. Simultaneously they bounded to their feet and for a flashing instant stood frozen, the grey eyes of the white man glaring into the flaming black eyes of the Indian. Then as if by mutual consent, each dropped his gun and they locked in mortal combat.

Big Foot Wallace

No white man in the Southwest could match Wallace in hand-to-hand fighting, but this red-man was quick as a cougar and strong as a bull. Not as heavy as Wallace, he was nearly as tall, and, clad only in a loin-cloth, and covered with bear’s oil, he was illusive and hard to grapple as a great serpent. It was man to man, blade to blade, the terrible strength and ferocity of the giant white man matched against the cruel craft and wiry agility of the savage, with all his primitive knowledge of foul crippling holds and twists. Back and forth they reeled, close-clinched; now rolling and tumbling on the ground, tearing and gouging; now staggering upright, locked like bears. Each was trying to draw his knife, but in the frenzy of battle, no opportunity presented itself. Bigfoot felt his wind failing him. The iron arms of the brave bent his ribs inward and threatened to shut off his breath. The grimy thumbs with their long black nails gouged cruelly at his eyes, ripping the skin and bringing trickles of blood; the steely fingers sank deep in his corded throat; the bony knees drove savagely for his groin. Shaking the blood and sweat from his eyes Wallace reeled upright, dragging his foe by sheer strength. Breast jammed hard against breast, they leaned against each other, gasping wordless curses. The great veins swelled in Wallace’s temples and his mighty chest heaved; but he saw in the red mist the sweat beading thick the redskin’s face, and the savage mouth gaping for breath. With one volcanic burst of superhuman effort, Wallace tripped his foe and hurled him backward, falling on him with all his great weight. The Indian’s head struck crashingly against a sharp-pointed rock and for an instant his dazed body went limp. And in that instant Wallace, with a desperate lunge, snatched out his knife and sank it to the hilt in the coppery body. As a dying tiger bursts into one last explosion of terrible power, the Indian started up convulsively, with a terrible yell, throwing off the giant white man as if he had been a child. Before Wallace could recover himself the Indian’s hand locked on his throat, the brave’s knee crashed down on his breast, and the knife in the red hand hissed down. In that flashing instant Wallace looked death stark in the face — he thought agonizedly of his childhood home and a girl who waited him at the settlements — he saw the black eyes of the Indian “gleaming like a panther’s in the dark” — the knife struck hard — but only into the earth beside Wallace and as the knife came down, the Indian fell forward with it, and lay dead on the breast of his foe. And Wallace said that a grim smile curved the warrior’s lips, as if, dying, he believed he was sending the white man to blaze the ghost trail ahead of him.” (Lovecraft, Oct. 1931)

Details of this fight also show up in the previously mentioned incident of Conan and Balthus attacking the group of Picts in the bushes, specifically in Balthus’s fight with the Pict that attacked him:

“One of them hurled his ax at Balthus and rushed after it with lifted knife. Balthus ducked and then caught the wrist that drove the knife licking at his throat. They went to the ground together, rolling over and over. The Pict was like a wild beast, his muscles hard as steel strings.

Balthus was striving to maintain his hold on the wild man’s wrist and bring his own ax into play, but so fast and furious was the struggle that each attempt to strike was blocked. The Pict was wrenching furiously to free his knife hand, was clutching at Balthus’ ax, and driving his knees at the youth’s groin. Suddenly he attempted to shift his knife to his free hand, and in that instant Balthus, struggling up on one knee, split the painted head with a desperate blow of his ax.” (BBR)

Replace Balthus’s ax with a knife plunged in the Pict’s chest, and it’s pretty much the same fight.

Stories from a Savage Land Provide Plot Details

Howard loved to stop and talk to older people about their experiences living in a tougher, less civilized time. In Day of the Stranger, Novalyne says:

Novalyne Price Ellis

“(Bob) was so interested in the stories that older people had to tell. He did a lot more of that before he became a full time writer than he did afterwards, when I knew him. There was never a time, though, that Bob wouldn’t stop his car or stop whatever he was doing and go to the courthouse in Brownwood or any other place where he could be around old people to get their stories. Clyde (Smith, Howard’s best friend) interviewed everybody in the county, I think, and even some in the adjoining counties–that was yet another subject of conversation which they had, because Bob was very, very interested in the early days of Texas, and what Clyde was turning up were the stories of these people, how they felt when they came in there. They had come in before Brownwood was even a town: how did they feel, how did they think, what did they do–all that was fascinating to Bob. He was patriotic to the N-th degree. He put something of Texas history into much of his writing. I’m not familiar with all of his writings–as much as a lot of other people are–but I know that he did try desperately to get the place and the situations into his stories.”¹³

He would absorb these stories and they would infest his dreams. He wrote to Lovecraft about one of his many recurring dreams of his fighting against a Comanche raid:

“But my most vivid dreams have been of Indian wars. The last Indian raid in Central Texas was in 1874 when Big Foot and Jape the Comanche left their reservation and swept through Texas, leaving a trail of fire and blood. The Frontier Battalion — Rangers — trapped the war-party on Dove Creek perhaps a hundred miles west of here, and both war-chiefs went to the Happy Hunting Ground at the muzzles of Texan rifles. But the old people of this country have many tales of Indian terrors, and I have listened to many such stories, particularly when I was a child and very susceptible to such things. So the Indian wars seem even more realistic and actual than even the World War. When old timers have told of red skin raids, the telling, even of a halting illiterate style, has seemed so vivid to me, that sometimes it seems as if I, too, must have really lived through those times. Even now, the tale of a massacre and scalping that occurred perhaps seventy years ago seems more real and horrifying than the horrors of the Great War little more than a half score years ago.

Comanche Spoilers by Howard Terpning,

And I’ve often relived those days in my dreams. I have known the lurking stillness about a lone cabin, broken suddenly by the nameless rustle of leaves and underbrush — the tense waiting in the darkness, eyes straining into the shadows for the crawling foe — the quavering call of the wolf, and the sudden horrified realization that it was no beast that gave tongue in the night — the glimpse of vague shadows flitting among the trees and underbrush — the sudden, blood-freezing clamor of madly exultant yells and the rain of arrows and bullets against the cabin-logs — the vain and frenzied firing at mocking, darting shadows — the cold clammy sweat of fear, and fingers clumsy with haste fumbling with powder horn, wadding and bullet pouch — the arching, comet-like flight of flaming shafts into the roof and the terrorizing smell of smoke — the ghastly realization that the ammunition is exhausted — the new tenor of the war-whoop as the savages find their shots are unanswered — the rush across the clearing in the moonlight and the shattering strokes of rifle stock and tomahawk on the splintering door — the futile efforts to hold the door, in a shower of flaming embers from the burning roof — the deluge into the room, over the ruined door, of fiendish painted faces and brawny arms, polished bronze in the red glare of the flames — the frenzied swinging of the broken rifle stock at narrow, shaven heads in the strangling smoke — the gleam of tomahawks in lean hands — then red chaos and oblivion. All this I’ve known in my dreams. They always get me, the red devils!” (Lovecraft, Jan. 1931)

This letter to Lovecraft is very important in showing that Howard took these dreams of fighting and survival on the southwest frontier and wrote them into BBR. The story starts off with Balthus walking through the woods on his way to Tuscelan. The mood Howard sets of the fear and paranoia growing in Balthus that he is in danger from hidden foes in the trees echoes his dream description of an Indian attack:

“The stillness of the forest trail was so primeval that the tread of a soft-booted foot was a startling disturbance. At least it seemed so to the ears of the wayfarer, though he was moving along the path with the caution that must be practiced by any man who ventures beyond Thunder River…

But it was instinct more than any warning by the external senses which brought him up suddenly, his hand on his hilt. He stood stock-still in the middle of the trail, unconsciously holding his breath, wondering what he had heard, and wondering if indeed he had heard anything. The silence seemed absolute. Not a squirrel chattered or bird chirped. Then his gaze fixed itself on a mass of bushes beside the trail a few yards ahead of him. There was no breeze, yet he had seen a branch quiver. The short hairs on his scalp prickled, and he stood for an instant undecided, certain that a move in either direction would bring death streaking at him from the bushes.”(BBR)

Later, Balthus, after gathering up a group of women and children refugees, realizes that an oncoming band of Picts will overtake the group unless he stops to fight the Picts to buy the group time to escape further towards safety. Balthus, and the rogue dog, Slasher, make their stand behind some fallen trees to stop the Picts. In the May 1935 letter to H.P. Lovecraft, Howard relates the story of a young brother and sister and their desperate fight against Comanches:

Raiding; texasbeyondhistory.net

“I remember another man, or rather a mere boy, who did not realize that “chivalry” and the masculine protective attitude are “artificial” either. He was only a backwoods kid, born and raised on the Texas frontier. I doubt if he could read or write. I don’t even remember his name. Most of his people had been murdered by the Comanches, but the remnant clung doggedly to their tiny log cabin, their pitiful field of corn, shadowed by trees that the axe had never touched, and from which painted death struck again and again. It struck suddenly, one day, and littered the rude yard with corpses. The boy and his sister gained the shelter of the cabin; but the boy had a flint-tipped arrow through his body. He could not draw it out. He knew he was dying. But his only thought was to save his sister. She bolted the door and stood staring at him with wide, numbed eyes, incapable of thought or action. She was only a child. Great beads of sweat stood out on his forehead as he dragged the muzzle-loaded rifle from the wall and thrust the muzzle through a knot hole. The Indians saw it, and they kept to cover. He was only a boy, but he was of the old Texas breed, which was more deadly than a wounded panther at bay; and he had killed and killed again. They knew him, those lean, painted, furtive figures slinking through the live-oaks. They did not know whether he was wounded or not. They did know that as long as he lived they would not rush the cabin, for the price they must pay for his scalp and the scalp of his sister would be too high for their liking. He knew they were waiting to hear his death-groans, and he grinned, a ghastly, savage grin of pain. He knew he was dying; he could not withdraw the barbed shaft, and if he could have, it would only have hastened his death. He made his sister lie down on the floor out of range of possible shafts finding cracks between the logs. And he lay on his bunk, grasping his rifle, and choking back the groans that rose involuntarily to his lips, and which would have told the lurking braves that he was dying. The slow hours dragged and the sun dipped behind the trees, but the starlight glinted on the barrel thrust from the knot-hole, and it did not waver. No sound came from the woods but the dismal hoot of an owl, the far wavering cry of a wolf. But the shadows were full of phantoms, gliding from tree to tree, with red eyes and glinting weapons. In the cabin the boy fought his lone, grim fight with death. What agony he endured no man can guess, save dimly. Thrust a thorn through your foot; tear your hand on a sharp stone; and try to guess the pain a man must suffer with a jagged flint point and a yard of wooden shaft through his body. But no sound escaped his lips. Blood dripped slowly on the puncheon floor; blood oozed from the corners of his livid lips; he clenched his teeth and made no sound; not even in the delirium that shook him did a single moan escape him. His will-power rose above human weakness; above pain and fear and suffering and delirium, above death itself. Not even his sister knew when he died. But the sun came up at last, a sick, red sun staggering above the trees, and splashed crimson on a rifle barrel that jutted from a knot hole. And the trees about the cabin were empty, the slayers were gone; only the scalped and mangled dead in the clearing stared with sightless eyes up at the rising sun. And on the rude bunk the boy’s body crouched stiffly over the cocked rifle, and his sister rose numbly from the floor to stare vacantly at it. He had won his fight; he had died without a moan to betray his plight to the skulking devils among the trees.”(Lovecraft, May 1935)

Although this letter was written after BBR, Howard’s language implies that he knew of the story for years. It is clear that this story and Howard’s dreams of fighting the Comanches made it in to BBR in the language and writing of the passages dealing with Balthus’s encounters with the Picts, especially with Balthus’s desperate last stand mirroring Howard’s dreams and the young man’s defense of his sister in language and action. Also, many Howard scholars believe that the characters of Balthus and Slasher are stand-ins for Howard and his dog, Patches. Howard’s January 1931 letter to Lovecraft gives the final proof that Balthus and Slasher are indeed Howard and Patches, in its descriptive language of the stalking and attack by the Indians on Howard’s cabin, especially in that Howard, in his dreams “always” dies fighting the Comanches. Compare the language and events of these two letters with Howard’s writing of Balthus’s and Slasher’s last stand:

“(Balthus) grinned. How Zogar Sag would froth if he knew his warriors had let their destructive natures get the better of them. The fire would warn the people farther up the road. They would be awake and alert when the fugitives reached them. But his face grew grim. The women were traveling slowly, on foot and on the overloaded horses. The swift-footed Picts would run them down within a mile, unless—he took his position behind a tangle of fallen logs beside the trail. The road west of him was lighted by the burning cabin, and when the Picts came he saw them first—black furtive figures etched against the distant glare.

Bob and his dog.

Drawing a shaft to the head, he loosed and one of the figures crumpled. The rest melted into the woods on either side of the road. Slasher whimpered with the killing lust beside him. Suddenly a figure appeared on the fringe of the trail, under the trees, and began gliding toward the fallen timbers. Balthus’s bowstring twanged and the Pict yelped, staggered and fell into the shadows with the arrow through his thigh. Slasher cleared the timbers with a bound and leaped into the bushes. They were violently shaken and then the dog slunk back to Balthus’s side, his jaws crimson.

No more appeared in the trail; Balthus began to fear they were stealing past his position through the woods, and when he heard a faint sound to his left he loosed blindly. He cursed as he heard the shaft splinter against a tree, but Slasher glided away as silently as a phantom, and presently Balthus heard a thrashing and a gurgling; then Slasher came like a ghost through the bushes, snuggling his great, crimson-stained head against Balthus’s arm. Blood oozed from a gash in his shoulder, but the sounds in the wood had ceased forever.

The men lurking on the edges of the road evidently sensed the fate of their companion, and decided that an open charge was preferable to being dragged down in the dark by a devil-beast they could neither see nor hear. Perhaps they realized that only one man lay behind the logs. They came with a sudden rush, breaking cover from both sides of the trail. Three dropped with arrows through them—and the remaining pair hesitated. One turned and ran back down the road, but the other lunged over the breastwork, his eyes and teeth gleaming in the dim light, his ax lifted. Balthus’ foot slipped as he sprang up, but the slip saved his life. The descending ax shaved a lock of hair from his head, and the Pict rolled down the logs from the force of his wasted blow. Before he could regain his feet Slasher tore his throat out.

Then followed a tense period of waiting, in which time Balthus wondered if the man who had fled had been the only survivor of the party. Obviously it had been a small band that had either left the fighting at the fort, or was scouting ahead of the main body. Each moment that passed increased the chances for safety of the women and children hurrying toward Velitrium.

Then without warning a shower of arrows whistled over his retreat. A wild howling rose from the woods along the trail. Either the survivor had gone after aid, or another party had joined the first. The burning cabin still smoldered, lending a little light. Then they were after him, gliding through the trees beside the trail. He shot three arrows and threw the bow away. As if sensing his plight, they came on, not yelling now, but in deadly silence except for a swift pad of many feet.

He fiercely hugged the head of the great dog growling at his side, muttered: “All right, boy, give ’em hell!” and sprang to his feet, drawing his ax. Then the dark figures flooded over the breastworks and closed in a storm of flailing axes, stabbing knives and ripping fangs.”(BBR)

The structuring and language used in BBR ties directly to these two letters’ contents and language of life on the Texas Frontier and Howard’s dreams of fighting the Comanches. In addition, one more early Texas settler’s story of surviving a Comanche attack features prominently in many of the story details of BBR.

In the next and final section, you will read Howard’s narration of the story of one Texan settler that he incorporated the most into crafting BBR. Also, you will read of other historical persons and incidents that Howard used to write BBR.

John Bullard is a retired attorney who lives in Texas, and has been slaving away for the last 2+ years on updating The Collected Letters of Robert E. Howard for The Robert E Howard Foundation Press, which barring any more newly found letters or changes on letter dates, should finally be done this year. He became a life-long Howard fan upon reading his first Howard story in an anthology of horror stories in 1974. While working on the Letters, he started seeing the subject matter of this series and has written it up for the education and edification of other Howard-ophiles.

NOTES

12. Conan being in part based on Bigfoot Wallace was proposed in an article by Mark Boardman. See: “On the
    Trail of Bigfoot”, Mark Boardman, www.truewestmagazine.com/on-the-trail-of-bigfoot/ July 15, 2014. See
    also “Conan the Texas Ranger”, Jim Cornelius, www.frontierpartisans.com June 26, 2019.

13. Burke, Day of the Stranger, pg. 7.

Sources

Letters

Robert E. Howard’s Letters:

To H.P. Lovecraft: Jan. 1931, Sept. 22, 1932, May 1935

Texts

“Beyond the Black River”, Draft A, Robert E. Howard Foundation Glenn Lord Typescript Collection

“Beyond the Black River”, Draft B, Robert E. Howard Foundation Glenn Lord Typescript Collection

“Beyond the Black River”, Weird Tales, May and June 1935 Issues, e-text provided by Paul Herman

Burke, R., (1989), Day of the Stranger: Further Memories of Robert E. Howard, Compiled, and with notes, Necronomicon Press

Roehm, R. (Ed.) (2007), The Collected Letters of Robert E. Howard Volume Two: 1930-1932, REHFP

Roehm, R. (Ed.) (2008), The Collected Letters of Robert E. Howard Volume Three: 1933-1936, REHFP

Websites

Boardman, Mark. “On the Trail of Bigfoot”, Mark Boardman, www.truewestmagazine.com/on-the-trail-of-bigfoot/ July 15, 2014

Cornelius, Jim. “Conan the Texas Ranger”, Frontier Partisans, June 26, 2019, https://frontierpartisans.com/16059/conan-the-texas-ranger/