Fifteen miles west of Gonzales, Texas, on the road leading from that place to San Antonio, is a creek called Sandy--in summer, the only water that the western-bound traveler will find until he reaches the Cibolo, a distance of thirty miles. Its limpid current, gently rippling over the white sand, or standing in large, deep pools, covered with bonnet-leaf--a species of water-lilly--beneath which sport innumerable multitudes of the finest trout; the thick clumps of live-oak forming, with their interwoven, moss-fringed boughs, a shade almost as impervious as the banyan of Hindostan; together with the luxurious grass along its banks, make it one of the most agreeable and inviting stopping places to be found on this old traveled thoroughfare.

This noted spot, surrounded for many miles by dry, dreary wastes, has, from time immemorial, been the terminus of a day's journey for those traveling merchants and horse-drovers who, in days of yore, made it their business to trade from the Rio Grande to the Red River. In 1833, John Castleman, a backwoodsman from Missouri, enamored with the natural advantages in the vicinity of this lonely camping ground, which, environed as it was by desolation in all its hideous shapes--no doubt appeared to his wild fancy the greenest isle of earth--erected a pole cabin on a hillock, about a hundred yards from the stream.

In the spring of the year following he took possession of the isolated dwelling, with a family consisting of his wife, four children, and an aged lady--his mother-in-law--his worldly substance consisting (independent of these treasures) in a few cattle, two horses, his rifle, and four fierce specimens of the canine race. He supported his house-hold by fishing and hunting; and accustomed, as he had been from childhood, to a life among the border Indians of Missouri, was eminently qualified to act the part of vidette for his neighbors in Gonzales. To him were they often indebted for timely information of the movements of those hostile bands that so frequently visited the valley of the Guadalupe.

Many a benighted traveler, preadvised by our hero of the danger of encamping by the wayside in the vicinity of this noted "watering place," gratuitously shared the rude hospitalities of Castleman's Cabin, and the ensuing morning "went on his way rejoicing."

On a sultry evening in July, 1835, a company of French and Mexican traders, (in all about twenty persons,) on a return trip from Natchitoches, with a number of mules, laden with dry goods, for the "trans"-Rio Grande trade, halted in the grove near the stream, in front of Castleman's domicil. While in the act of unpacking for the night, Castleman informed the traders that he had that day "seen signs" of a large body of Indians; advising them, at the same time, to come to his cabin, and keep their animals closely confined.

"Why," asked one of the company, "would we be more secure if we were in your house?"

"Because," replied he, "these wild tribes have a kind of superstitious dread which deters them from attacking a house, unless they can accomplish it by stratagem; and again, I flatter myself that with my four dogs and this good rifle I could do them more harm than all of you with those worthless escopetas."

But laughing at his admonitions, they turned their animals loose to graze, telling him in an insulting tone to take care of himself, and they would do the same for themselves.

"To-night," said he, turning from them, "you will be convinced; but too late, that John Castleman advised you as a friend."

Scarcely had Castleman re-entered the door of his cabin, when eighty or a hundred Camanches, with the speed of lightning, swooped down on the traders, and drove off their horses and pack mules. Leaving the captured animals in charge of a small party, with the yells and gesticulations of infernal furies, the main body of the savages now encircled the fated traders, who, however, forming a breastwork of their saddles, bales of goods, etc., determined to fight to the last in defence of life and property. Hour after hour the fight continued.

The Indians (as is the wonted manner with the prairie tribes) would charge up, deliver their fire, and then wheeling about on their well trained war horses, retreat beyond danger to reload. Again, and again, were these manoeuvres repeated by the dastard assailants. Until at last, finding that they were not engaged with their dreaded foe--Americans--but with French and Mexicans, armed (as Castleman had said) with "worthless scopetts," they dismounted; and seizing the opportunity when a general discharge from the traders left the latter almost powerless, they rushed in among them, and in a moment completed the bloody work with lance and hatchet. Not one of the traders escaped, and, strange to relate, not an Indian was killed.

One hundred yards from the battle-field sat Castleman and his dogs, peeping through the portholes of the hut, anxious spectators of the changing conflict. Nothing short of the tears and supplications of the women and children, as on their knees they begged him not to fire, prevented the brave Missourian from participating in the fight.

"Oh," said he, as he looked along the barrel of his gun and his finger was forcibly held back from touching the fatal trigger, "see that cowardly chief! now, now, I could hit his eye!"

The party indicated was standing at the root of a tree, on which was fastened a paper perforated with balls from Castleman's rifle. No sooner =ad he, busily engaged as he was, discovered this alarming proof of the unerring aim of the dweller in the hut, than throwing a hasty glance towards the dangerous spot, he edged away to a less exposed position.

A few moments spent in stripping the clothes from the bodies, and the scalps from the heads of the lifeless traders, and the mules are brought up and packed with spoil. With savage exultation and ominous pointing of their long spears at the "castle" of our friend, as they ride by, and the victorious cavalcade are rapidly making their way towards their homes in the mountains.

But, "whither so fast, ye bloody wretches?" exclaimed our hero. As the shades of night drew their solemn mantle around the bloody scene in front of his cabin, Castleman loosed his savage dogs to protect its inmates, and with the swiftness of an eagle made his way to Gonzales.

Before the sun had again dried the dew from the grass, he and fifty well armed Texans are eagerly coursing along the broad trail of the freebooters.

The day following they came up with them, encamped on the bank of the Guadalupe, enjoying themselves by wantonly displaying on bushes around them the fine muslins and silks, or awkwardly decorating their persons with other valuable articles, of which they knew not the use.

"Now's the time, boys," said the captain; when, springing like panthers from their concealment, they soon ended the barbaric masquerade by a general butchery of the panic-stricken performers.

Out of eighty to a hundred warriors, only fifteen to twenty escaped. Many of them took to the river, where they were shot like ducks. All the animals were recaptured, and the victors returned to pay the last obsequies to the mutilated remains of the unfortunate traders.

Twenty-one years ago the place of their interment was marked by a large mound, and a Roman cross on the body of the live-oak at which Castleman had so often tested the accuracy of his rifle. That cabin, too, which had sheltered so many weary and benighted travelers, still showed its moss-covered roof above the clustering wild vines that clambered the mouldering walls.

J.H.S.