FAMOUS TEXAN RANGER AND COMMANDER OF VALIANT BORDER FIGHTERS

IT was the year 1840. Texas was still a wild country, but the white settlers were pressing forward to farm and to raise cattle and horses. The redskins did not like it. The Comanches were particularly troublesome: they had been severely chastised by General Burleson and a Colonel John H. More, so they had sworn to revenge themselves upon the white-skinned invaders. With a large body of painted warriors they made a raid upon the defenseless settlers of Texas. They sacked and burned the town of Linnville, partly destroyed Victoria, and commenced their retreat back to the mountains with a great deal of plunder. There were six hundred warriors and many squaws in the party of invasion.

In going down from the mountains the Indians had kept between the rivers, where there were no settlements, and consequently they were not discovered until a short time before the attack upon Linnville. Runners were immediately sent to the various settlements, and men began to cut across the country in small squads from the valleys of the Colorado, the Guadalupe, and San Marcos. All of them were excited and eager for revenge, none more so than General Burleson, who—at the head of a large company—was just starting for the scene of action. When about one hundred and fifty men had arrived—among them settlers from Guadalupe and San Marcos—they started for the Indians.

Among those who came riding to the defense of the Texan frontier was a splendid looking, young fellow, who was the perfect picture of manly vigor. Clad in blue shirt, buckskin chaparejos (large trousers slipping over those usually worn) and high-heeled boots, the youthful Texan was a noble example of health and agility. A broad sombrero was upon his head, while a cartridge-belt hung about his supple waist. His name was John Coffee Hays; better known as Jack Hays: the Ranger.

This celebrated scout and Indian fighter had been named after General Coffee, who commanded a brigade in the army of General Jackson, at the battle of New Orleans. He had been born in Wilson County, Tennessee, in 1818, but had come to Texas in 1837, when but nineteen years of age. A surveyor by profession, he had taken up a residence at San Antonio, where he was employed to measure lands upon the frontier. His life in the open had given him a hardy constitution, and no one could endure more hardships or privations than he. His talent as a commander and director of rough-and-ready fighters early developed, and he was soon among the leaders of the borderers in Southwest Texas.

With a wild hurrah, which spelled REVENGE, in large letters, the Texans started after the Indians, and, after travelling for nine miles upon their broad trail, caught up with them near a winding stream called Plum Creek. Two redskins had been left by the invaders as spies. They were upon a ridge and sat quietly upon their horses, watching the approach of the white men, until the Texans were almost within gun-shot. Both of these Indians had on tall hats which they had obtained at the looting of Linnville. You can well imagine how comical they looked, for a black, stovepipe hat hardly becomes a wild rider of the plains. With his thick, long hair it never quite fits, and it certainly gives the red man a most grotesque appearance.

One of the Texan Rangers had a long-range gun. Dismounting, he cried out:

“Boys! Just watch me make the redskins hump!”

At the crack of his rifle, the Indians wheeled their horses in order to run away. As they did so, both lost their plug hats. They moved swiftly to their comrades, warning them of the approach of the Rangers, who spread out in a fan-shaped line, and kept on after the retreating braves.

Now began a hot fight. The redskins were well armed and made a good showing, but nothing could withstand the terrible fire of the Texan rifles. After an hour of rapid shooting the Rangers charged with a wild, ear-splitting whoop. Jack Hays was well up in front of the line as they did so. The Indians broke and galloped away in a disorganized mass.

Many of the redskins had on fine coats and boots which they had stolen during the raid. Some of them even carried umbrellas. Their spare horses and mules were packed with stolen goods, and these were driven ahead by the squaws, while the warriors fought the battle. After about a mile of fighting, the Comanches rallied in large force and a sharp contest ensued. But they could not stand the accurate rifle-fire from the Texans, and again fled in a scattered mass.

The pursuit continued in hot haste, for some high mountains were in front, and the Rangers knew that if the red men once reached them it would be quite possible for them to get away. Many of the pack-animals now gave out, were abandoned, and fell into the hands of the Texans. A boggy branch was in the path of the retreating braves. Several of the Indian ponies stuck fast in the mire: all of the pack-animals which had not yet been captured, became hard aground in the mud. The hindmost Indians used some of the poor, bogged animals as pontoons, and passed over the marsh by jumping from body to body. The Texans saw the predicament which the redskins were in and ran around the branch to the other side, where they cut off some of the Indians who were on foot, and killed them. The rest got away to the foot of the mountains, where the pursuit ended.

The Rangers collected at the spot where the fight had been most severe and where most of the Indians had been dispatched. Here they camped for the night. Some of the Texans had been wounded, but none had been killed. Thus the battle of Plum Creek came to a glorious end.

Jack Hays had certainly distinguished himself in this affair. He distinguished himself still more in 1842, when San Antonio was captured by the Mexicans. Shortly after the battle of Plum Creek, Jack had been commissioned by General Houston to raise a force for protection of the frontier. He had no difficulty in doing this and was soon in command of several hundred Texan Rangers. They were wild fellows; ready for any emergency that might arise.

The Mexicans had about fifteen hundred men in San Antonio. They were commanded by a General Wall. Jack Hays and his Rangers rode up near the town and “dared” the Mexicans to come out and fight. This they were quite willing to do, and soon marched from the adobe huts of San Antonio, crossed a creek in order to face the Texans, planted cannon, and the battle commenced. The Rangers acted upon the defensive, dodged the limbs of the pecan trees which the whistling bullets began to cut off, and prepared to meet the Mexicans when they should charge.

General Wall, the Mexican leader, thought to rout the Texans with his artillery fire, but, as he failed to do this, he made preparations to charge them. Cavalry was dispatched across the creek in order to cut off retreat upon this side, and a band of Cherokee Indians were posted upon a branch below. The Mexicans believed that they would have an easy time of it, but they little thought with what kind of men they had to deal. Before them were expert riflemen: all keen shots and frontier fighters. They made a good account of themselves.

The bugles sounded the charge and the Mexicans came on in fine style. They were massed together densely, and, for a time, it looked as if the Rangers would be annihilated by mere force of numbers. But the Texans lay down behind the creek bank, and poured such a volley of death and destruction into the ranks of the oncoming foe that their formation was broken up and they retreated in confusion and disorder to their batteries, posted upon elevated ground. A company of their cavalry also charged, but the horses would not come on before the sheet of lead which the Rangers pumped into them. Many lost their riders and ran among the infantrymen, knocking them down as they galloped wildly about. The Rangers cheered loudly, and Captain Jack Hays grinned from ear to ear.

As the Mexicans gathered behind their cannon, about fifty Texans, under Captain Nicholas Dawson, came up on the right flank. They heard the sound of firing and hurried towards it, only to find that they had run into Wall’s entire army. The Mexicans surrounded them immediately, and poured a destructive fire into their ranks. What could fifty do against one thousand? Two Texans made their escape. About twelve were captured. The rest fell before the bullets of the invaders. Dawson, himself, was one of the last to go down.

After this, the Mexicans seemed to think that they had had sufficient fighting. They retired towards San Antonio, followed by the exultant Texans. Captain Jack Hays with his Rangers fought the rear-guard near Hondo, but the pursuit was soon abandoned and the frontiersmen returned to their homes. They had lost less than one hundred in killed and wounded.

The Rangers retreated to a place called Somervell, and, not long afterwards, were ordered out to look for Indians, which were then pretty thick in the neighborhood, and were doing considerable damage. There were between thirty and forty men in this expedition, some of whom had just returned from Mexico, where they had participated in the battle of Mier. They moved off towards the northwest, struck the Medina River, and kept on up the stream towards the place where now stands the town of Bandera. Here they made camp, and next morning turned north towards the Bandera Pass, which they entered at about ten o’clock in the morning.

The Comanches were waiting for them. They had discovered the approach of the Rangers as they came through the open country, and laid an ambush for them in the Pass. The famous Bandera Pass is some five hundred yards in length by one hundred and twenty-five in breadth. The red men were concealed among the rocks and gullies on both sides of the gorge, and they allowed Captain Jack Hays with his Texan Rangers to get about one-third of the way through before they commenced firing from both sides at once. The Rangers were riding three abreast, and, when this fusillade commenced, were thrown into momentary confusion, because of the frightened and wounded horses, which endeavored to wheel and run back.

“Steady, boys, steady!” exclaimed Captain Jack Hays. “Get down from your horses and tie them to the brush. We can whip these infernal redskins if you will only keep cool.”

The Comanches greatly outnumbered the Rangers. They were armed with rifles and with bows and arrows. Many came down the Pass and rode up to close quarters with the Rangers. Pistols were freely used and many hand-to-hand conflicts took place. The Comanche chief was struck down by a ball from the rifle of “Kit” Ackland, who, himself, was wounded a moment later. It was a furious affair,—one of the most desperate Indian battles of the frontier.

One of the scouts—a fellow named Galbreath—was wounded by an arrow which struck him above the pistol-belt, on the left side. It penetrated as far as the hip bone. The hardy frontiersman made no complaint, but drew the missile out at once, loaded his gun, and continued to fight on as if nothing had happened. No one knew that he had been wounded until the worst part of the battle was over.

The Indians fought with great fury, but they soon saw that they could not drive the Rangers back, and so withdrew to the north end of the Pass. Here they buried their dead chieftain; killed all of their crippled horses, and held a scalp dance over the remains of their fallen comrades. Five Rangers had been killed and six had been wounded. The men under Jack Hays retreated to the south end of the Pass, where they buried those who had met their end, and attended to the wounded. Next morning they jogged along to San Antonio. The Indians did not pursue.

The battle of Bandera Pass had taught the red men that the Rangers were not to be trifled with. Captain Jack was continually on the lookout for them, and soon had another experience which he had no occasion to forget. It happened about a year after the famous battle at the Pass.

Fourteen Rangers—under Captain Jack—went upon a scout up the Neuces Canyon, with the expectation of meeting the Indians, who were then upon the war-path. After a long trip to the head of the river, without seeing any fresh Indian sign, Hays turned back down the canyon and camped. Next day the little party travelled onward, and—about noon—some one discovered a bee tree.

“Hold on, Captain!” said a Ranger. “Just wait a minute and I’ll chop all the honey out of that tree-top.”

“All right,” replied Hays. “Sail in and let’s see what you can do. Pull your bridles off, men. Let your ropes down and allow your horses to graze. We will rest here awhile and get some honey.”

The Ranger secured a small axe that was in the luggage on a pack-mule, and ascended the tree, for the purpose of chopping into the honey without cutting down this stout piece of timber.

About this time a large band of Comanches were coming down the canyon on a raid, and, seeing the trail of the Rangers, they followed it. The fellow in the tree had a good view of the valley, and, to his startled vision appeared a great body of redskins.

“Jerusalem, the Golden, Captain!” he sang out. “Yonder come a thousand Indians! Jerusalem!”

The Comanches were riding rapidly down the trail and made a good deal of dust. Hays sprang to his feet, as quick as a cat, and sang out his orders promptly, and to the point.

“Come out of that tree, there! Men, put on your bridles! Take up your ropes! Be ready for them! Be ready for them!”

All sprang to their horses, and were soon prepared to meet the onrush of the red men.

The Rangers were armed with Colt’s five-shooters, besides their rifles and a brace of holster single-shot pistols. Thus each man could fire nine shots. The Indians had never before come in conflict with scouts armed with the five-shooter, and they rode on exultingly, for they greatly outnumbered the whites. Jack Hays never ran from Indians, and had never yet been defeated by them.

The Comanches came forward, yelling loudly. They thought that it would be an easy matter to ride over the small squad of white men, who were drawn up around the old bee tree. Some of the scouts began to raise their guns, but Captain Jack cried out:

“Now, boys, do not shoot too quickly. Let the redskins come closer. Hit something when you do shoot. Stand your ground. We can whip them when we shoot. There is no doubt about that.”

The redskins thundered down upon the Rangers. When they were quite close, Captain Jack called:

“Fire, and let every shot tell!”

A sheet of flame burst from the rifles of the scouts, and so many ponies went down that the redskins divided to the right and left, discharging their arrows as they swept by.

At this moment Captain Jack sprang into his saddle.

“After them, men,” he cried. “Give them no chance to turn on us! Crowd them! Powder-burn them!”

Never was a band of redskins more surprised; for they expected the Rangers to remain near the tree, and upon the defensive. With a wild whoop, the followers of Jack Hays galloped after the running braves, keeping up a perfect fusillade with their pistols. The Comanches were thunderstruck at this turn of affairs. Some tried in vain to turn their horses and make a stand, but such was the wild confusion of running horses, popping pistols, and yelling Rangers, that they abandoned the idea of a rally, and sought safety in furious flight. In endeavoring to dodge the terrible five-shooters, some dropped their bows and round shields. Some kept off the Rangers by thrusting at them with their long lances.

The Indians ran for three miles before they could get away. The Rangers now rode back, well satisfied with the day’s work, and were surprised to see the result of their charge. The ground was fairly black with dead redskins. Many years afterwards a friendly Delaware Indian, called “Bob,” met the Comanche chieftain who led his warriors in this fight.

“Who did you battle with upon this occasion?” he asked.

“Ugh! Jack Hays and his Rangers,” gloomily replied the Comanche chief, shaking his head. “I never want to fight him again. Ugh! Ugh! His soldiers had a shot for every finger on their hands. I lost half of all my warriors. Ugh! Me never fight with him again.”

The Rangers soon afterwards had another tough little scrimmage with the Comanches. Fifteen of the Rangers were together at this time and they met an almost equal number of Indians, who were discovered at the foot of the mountains near the Frio River. The Indians were riding very tired horses, and the scouts thus gained upon them rapidly. The red men kept under cover, as much as possible, riding in ravines which had brushes and prickly pears around them, wherever they could do so.

Captain Jack and his men arrived at a little dried-up creek called Ci Bolo (buffalo creek) where they came close to the Indians, who were travelling in a ravine which hid them from view. The Rangers heard their leggings scraping against the brush, so, for some distance, they rode parallel with the savages, waiting for a chance to make a charge. The redskins could be heard talking to each other.

Suddenly the Comanches left the ravine and rode out in open view, not more than thirty yards away. They apparently were not aware of the presence of the scouts until a sharp crack warned them of their danger. At the first discharge, a redskin fell from his horse. The others attempted to run back to cover, yelling and shooting at the Rangers as they did so. But the scouts were too speedy for them and cut them off. One, however, seemed determined to get into the ravine. He disappeared into a thicket, at the edge of the gully, but a Ranger called Tom Galbraith dismounted, and, running to the edge of the thicket after the Indian had reached it, fired, and killed him.

The rest of the savages endeavored to make their escape across the open country, which was filled with scattered bunches of the prickly pear, cactus, and cat-claw bushes. Some were on mules, and others on jaded horses. The Rangers rode hard after them and fired with deadly effect. The Indians had no guns—only bows and arrows—so they did but little damage.

As the chase continued, one young Ranger called Stoke Holmes, who rode a fast little pony, singled out an Indian and cried out:

“Watch me, Boys! I’m going to rope him!”

While he was running along and was swinging his lariat, the pony attempted to jump a large bunch of prickly pears. He reared so high that his rider lost his seat in the saddle and fell backwards into the terrible cactus. Some of his comrades saw the mishap. They quickly shot the redskin and then came rapidly to his rescue, as he was unable to get up. The valiant scout was in a sad plight. His body had thousands of pear thorns in it, and his clothing was pinned to him on all sides. He was in agonies of pain. Pulling him away from the grip of the cactus, the Rangers stripped off all of his clothing, extracted all of the large thorns, and endeavored to pull out the small ones. But this was an impossibility, as there were thousands of small needle-like prickers in his flesh. With a sharp knife the Ranger shaved them close to the skin so that his clothing would not irritate his body by rubbing against them. The bold young fellow was hardly able to ride for several days thereafter. As for the rest of the redskins,—only three escaped.

Not many months later Captain Hays and his men were close upon a band of Indians, who had been located by his scouts in a bunch of cedars. The Rangers had not eaten all day, because they had been hot in pursuit.

“Dismount, men,” cried the captain. “Stay here a few minutes and partake of the cold bread and beef in your saddle-bags. But, boys, by no means raise any smoke, or the redskins will surely see it, and will know that the Rangers are upon their trail.”

“You’re right, Captain!” cried many. “We are half famished.”

Captain Hays always had a few Mexicans with him, as they were good guides and trailers, but, upon this occasion, they lighted their cigarettes after eating and dropped the hot ashes into a pile of leaves. Smoke was soon curling above the tree-tops.

“Curse it, boys!” cried Captain Hays. “Did I not tell you not to set fire to anything. Put that out, immediately!”

Some of the Rangers began to stamp upon the glowing fire. Hays was so angry that he struck the Mexicans with his quirt.

“Mount! Mount!” cried he. “We must go quickly after the redskins, as I fear that they have seen the tell-tale fire and have decamped.”

A furious run was now made for the tepees of the hostiles, which were a mile away. It was as the knowing Captain had anticipated. The Indians saw the smoke and knew that the Rangers were on their trail. They had fled, leaving many things in their camp, which were seized by the troopers. The Comanches had gotten safely away.

In 1844 Captain Hays and his men had a hard fight,—one of his hardest, in fact. It was near the Pedernales River. Upon this occasion he had gone out with fourteen men, about eighty miles northwest from San Antonio, for the purpose of finding out the position of the redskins and the probable location of their camp.

As the river came in view, about fifteen Indians were discovered. They soon saw the Rangers. Riding towards them, they shook their clenched fists and seemed to be desirous of having a fight. As the Rangers rode forward they retreated and endeavored to lead them towards a ridge which was covered with thick underbrush.

“Oh, no,” said Captain Hays, “I am too well acquainted with your wiles to move on. I know that you have an ambush laid for me and my men.”

It was hard to keep the Rangers from advancing to the attack.

“Go around the redskins to the second ridge,” cried the knowing Captain. “We can thus get the Indians in the rear.”

The Rangers were posted upon a long hillock, separated from the Indian position by a deep ravine. They were not here long before the redskins discovered who was before them, and, as they knew Captain Jack full well, decided to give up trying to catch him by stratagem. They now showed themselves to the number of seventy-five and cried out, in pigeon English:

“Come on, white men! Ugh! Come on! We get your scalps soon!”

“I’ll meet you right away!” answered Captain Hays.

He started down the hill immediately, followed by his entire command. He moved slowly, and, when the bottom of the ravine had been reached, turned—raced ahead at full speed—and came up in the rear of the Indians. While they had their eyes glued to the front, eagerly awaiting the advance from that direction, they were charged in the rear by the Rangers. The first fire threw them into instant confusion.

Yells, war-whoops, and shrill screams rent the air. The redskins scattered like quail, but, seeing the superiority of their own force, soon rallied.

“Draw your five-shooters, men,” cried the Captain of the Rangers. “We must meet the charge of the Comanches as we have always met them.”

The redskins were surrounding the Texans, so the Rangers were formed in a circle, fronting outwards. They were still mounted on their horses, and, for several minutes maintained that position without firing a shot. The Indians came on, yelping, and were soon near enough to throw their lances at the Texan frontiersmen.

Crash!

A spitting volley came from the five-shooters of the scouts and many a red man fell to the sod. Again a volley rang out and the Comanches ceased to advance, for the fire of the Rangers was fearfully accurate. The redskins fell back, but they were not defeated, and—in a few moments—again came on to the attack. The fight continued for an hour. Twice the Rangers charged and retreated to their first position. Their loads were now exhausted. The Comanche chief was rallying his henchmen for one more assault. Twenty-five of his painted warriors were prostrate upon the prairie.

The situation was critical for the Rangers, as many were badly wounded. Several had been killed.

Captain Hays, who was in the centre of the circle, now saw that their only chance was to kill the Indian chief.

“Have any of you men a loaded rifle?” he asked.

“I have,” answered a scout called Gillespie.

“Then dismount, my boy,” said the Ranger Captain, “and make sure work of that chief.”

Gillespie was a brave man. He had been badly wounded by an Indian spear which had gone clean through his body. He was hardly able to sit his horse, but, slipping to the ground, took careful aim and fired. As his rifle cracked, the chief fell head-long from his horse.

It is a strange thing, but Indians always lose heart when their leader is slain. Wailing loudly, the Comanches now left the field, pursued by a portion of the Texans. They carried their chieftain safely away, in spite of the fact that they were pressed very closely by the Rangers. Thirty Indians lay dead upon the battle-ground, while only two of the Texan frontiersmen had been killed. Five, however, were badly wounded; chief among whom was Gillespie, who had really ended the fight.

Captain Hays and his men went back to San Antonio well satisfied with the day’s work. A month later he had another desperate encounter with the Comanches.

With twenty of his men the gallant Ranger was on a scout near the “Enchanted Rock.” This was a depression in a hill, which was conical in shape, and was doubtless the crater of an extinct volcano. A dozen or more men could hide in this place and put up a stout defense against a great number of enemies, as the ascent was steep and rugged. Not far from the bottom of this curious hillock the Rangers were attacked by a large force of Comanches.

When the first shot was fired, Captain Hays was some distance from his men, looking about in order to see whether or not he could discover the whereabouts of the Indians. As he turned to run towards the “Enchanted Rock,” he was cut off and was closely pursued by a number of red warriors.

The nervy Captain Jack dashed madly up the side of the hill and entrenched himself in the extinct crater. He was determined to make the best fight that he could, and to “sell out” as dearly as possible. The redskins arrived upon the summit shortly after he had entrenched, and, after surrounding the famous Captain of Rangers, set up a most hideous howling.

“There, Captain Jack,” said one. “Ugh! We get Big Smoky Stick this time. Ugh! We get scalp this time! Ugh! Ugh!”

But Captain Jack was game. Each time that the muzzle of his rifle would appear over the rim of the crater the warriors would dodge backwards, knowing that to face his unerring aim was sure death.

The Indians grew bolder and made a charge. Hays fired his rifle, killing a redskin at the discharge,—then shot his five-shooter at the yelping braves. Each bullet found a victim, so the redskins withdrew, which gave the gallant Captain a chance to reload. Again they came on, but again they were met with the same cool bravery. Howling dismally, they again drew away and made ready for another attack.

Suddenly wild cheering sounded from below the Ranger Captain. Shots came thick and fast. Wild yells arose. His comrades were coming to his rescue.

The Rangers had heard the rifle-fire upon the top of the hill and knew that their Captain was surrounded. So they were fighting their way up to him, in spite of the odds. Soon they came cheering and yelling to the edge of the crater, itself, to be greeted by the cool remark:

“Boys, I’m sure glad to see you! I was nearly all in!”

When the Comanches saw that the Big Chief had been rescued they retreated down the steep sides of the “Enchanted Rock.” They met their comrades, who had been badly cut up, and, deciding that the Rangers were too good for them, withdrew. Wild cheers welled from the crater of “Enchanted Rock,” and loud were the hurrahs for Texas Jack, the gallant and intrepid Ranger.

The war with Mexico found Captain Jack Hays ready and willing to march against the hated “Greasers.” He and his famous Rangers fought in nearly all of the desperate battles of the campaign. Many of his faithful friends and companions fell before the leaden missiles of the foe. But Captain Jack had a charmed life: he came through unscathed, returned to his beloved Texas, and then moved to California, where he was elected Sheriff of San Francisco County. He was very efficient as an officer and left an excellent record behind him.

In 1860 he had his last Indian fight. The Piute Indians in the state of Nevada declared war upon the whites, in that year, and committed many depredations. They massacred Major Ormsby and his men and spread terror broadcast. At this time there were rich mines in Virginia City, and among the many men who were employed there was an old Texan Ranger, Captain Edward Storey, a man of great personal courage. He was also very popular among the people.

“This Indian fighting has to stop, immediately,” said the old fellow, his fighting blood again boiling.

At once a company was raised, called the Virginia Rifles. Colonel Jack Hays heard of it, and immediately came over from California in order to enlist. With him were several other bold spirits who were eager for the excitement of a brush with the redskins. They marched to Pyramid Lake, not far from the present town of Reno, and there met the exultant braves,—about one thousand strong. They were flushed with their recent victory over Major Ormsby and his men, and thought that they could easily defeat the whites.

In this they were mistaken. The red men were in the hills and had the advantage of position, but the scouts attacked with vigor and a fierce battle ensued. Colonel Jack Hays was in the thick of the fight and conducted himself in a manner quite worthy of his name and fame. A complete victory was won by the Virginia Rangers, but at a fearful loss. Among those slain was brave Captain Storey, whose body was rolled up in a blanket and conveyed to Virginia City on the back of a pack-horse. Colonel Hays rode with the remains of his old friend of the wild days on the Texan plains, then returned to California.

Here the famous Indian fighter died in 1883. In his later years he became very wealthy and owned a beautiful home near Piedmont, California. He never lived in Texas again, but occasionally went there, in order to visit old friends and relatives. He was buried with a simple ceremony, and thus ended the career of one of the most deadly shots and courageous men who ever rode a mustang upon the plains of the West. His spirit still lives in the hearts of the Texans.

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