"Hoo-a-dogs!" sixteen year-old J.G.W. Pierson shouted at the top of his lungs, like a Marine drill sergeant encouraging his troops. Instead, he was urging on his bloodhounds in search of an Indian who'd attacked his neighbor. In the distance, the teen could hear Old Ball answer. The boy had little more information than this, except the neighbor was William Willis, and it was a lousy way to spend Christmas Eve. Hamilton County, Texas had its share of native attacks in 1866, and they weren't going to slow down just because the year was winding down to a close.W

hat young Pierson didn't know was that Willis had been on his way to a dance on his mule when Indians cut him off and surrounded him. Fast-thinking Willis dismounted, and using his beast as a shield, unloaded his Spencer rifle into the one he believed to be the leader. The poor mule was filled so full of arrows, Willis had to leave it and r un for town alone. Being str uck by an ar row, Willis didn't get scared, just mad. He knelt down and let the chief have it. The red man on the big dun horse reeled, but then soon uprighted, almost as if he were tied to the animal. Maybe he was.

Also, J.G.W. Pierson knew that the fifteen minutes it took to ready his hounds for the hunt sure allowed for a much fresher trail than the ten-plus hours it took to round up a human posse. To keep the pack from tiring too soon, the boy kept them at only a good r unning gait until they reached the site of the attack. Listening to Old Ball's intense baying, J.G.W. commented, "There is blood on this trail." To his men, he added, "Y'all stay behind me. I don't want you to run over my dogs." It was a legitimate concern, for the sedge grass brushed the riders' feet and completely hid the short tracking animals. Clouds covered the moon, a norther came in, and sleet began peppering the men. At the location of the attack, Pierson saw something on the g round. It appeared to be a man, but in fact, was a blanket and a native's war shield. Upon daylight, the boy discovered both items covered in enough blood that he knew the wound had to have been fatal. The dogs then and there split up, meaning the tribe divided up to throw off their scent in different directions. Each man took one dog and followed a separate group. After the dogs had r un thir ty-five miles, almost nonstop, they began to stiffen up from the cold and the distance. The f lint rocks had cut and swelled the pads on their feet.

The chief's body never was found by the dog men, for the natives would retrieve and bury the bodies of their dead.

The next day, Willis' mule was found dead. Willis sur vived the initial attack, but the ar row had str uck him in the back, the point penetrating his spine. Willis lived three weeks, and doctors did everything they knew to help him survive, but his wounds proved to be fatal as well.

Source: Indian Depredations in Texas, J.W. Wilbarger, Eakin Press, 1889.