A Tale of Bigfoot Wallace — As Recounted by Charles T. Carlton (1924)

In the early days of Texas, around the 1860s, when the state was still young, I was just fifteen years old, living with my family on a farm near present-day Somerset. Most of the men were away fighting in the Civil War, leaving the responsibility of protecting homes largely to boys like us.

During that time, Comanche raiding parties frequently moved through our region, especially along the Frio and Medina Rivers during full moon nights. They would steal horses and, at times, attack entire families without mercy.

On one such occasion, I gathered as many boys as I could, and we set out to scout the countryside for signs of raiders. We eventually camped along the Chicon, about twenty miles from Castroville. After killing a stray calf for supper, we were preparing our meal when none other than Bigfoot Wallace arrived—as he often did in such situations—and joined us.

Most of the boys in our group were barely fourteen. After supper, Wallace asked who was leading the party. I told him no one—we were just a group of boys hunting for signs.

“Well,” he said, “you ought to be captain.”

I refused at first, but he insisted. At his urging, the boys held a vote, and I was elected captain on the spot. Right there, we formed our own little ranger company.

Wallace then suggested we get a pack mule to carry supplies. He claimed there was one nearby we could take. We spent the entire day searching but found nothing. When I told him, he casually admitted the mule belonged to Captain Sam Lytle—who had once killed his dogs—and Wallace had hoped to get even by giving it away. I declined immediately.

That evening, after supper, Wallace entertained us with one of his own encounters:

He described returning to his cabin one night, securing everything tightly. His dogs, left outside, began whining—something they only did when they sensed danger. Suspecting nearby Indians, Wallace quietly opened a porthole but saw nothing. Still convinced of trouble, he spent the night molding bullets.

At dawn, he discovered all his horses were gone. The raiders had cut the rawhide ties at the corral and driven them off.

Tracking them for about a mile, Wallace spotted smoke rising from a small grove of hickory trees. Before approaching, he filled his clothing—his shirt and trousers—with hickory nuts, packing them thickly around his body. It made him look bulky and awkward, but it served a purpose.

Creeping through the grass, he came within range and saw two warriors standing while the others sat near a fire. He fired, dropping the largest of the two. Reloading quickly, he shot another.

The remaining group sprang into action, firing arrows and attempting to surround him. But the arrows struck the hickory nuts packed around his body and bounced off harmlessly.

Drawing his revolvers, Wallace fought them off as they circled. After a brief but intense skirmish, the attackers, believing perhaps they were facing something supernatural, retreated—taking their fallen companions but leaving Wallace’s horses behind.

Conclusion

This story of Bigfoot Wallace isn’t just about a fight—it shows how courage, quick thinking, and resourcefulness can turn the tide even in the toughest situations. With limited resources, he relied on his wit and bravery, proving why he became a true frontier legend.

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