Then, suddenly, Buddy’s head bobbed up from the water, and Kevin, who was still spitting and cursing, pulled him into the boat. “Did that all really happen?” was all Buddy could say. Kevin had climbed back into the boat, and was sitting there sorrowfully thinking how could he tell everybody Buddy had drowned. Just as he had begun to accept that Buddy was really gone, up he popped from the water, and Kevin was very angry with him, thinking he had played a Halloween trick on him. As for Buddy, “He was as silent and as white as the underbelly on a fish.”
When they got back to Buddy’s uncle’s house, it was clear the old man had a few drinks under his belt. Even so, he could tell by the way the boys were acting that something was wrong. “You two boys got some gumption going out on the lake on Halloween night with the Indians out there and all,” he said. “What?” the boys both asked, in unison. Buddy thought maybe his uncle had pulled a fast one on them so he told his uncle what had happened.
Their uncle, his grizzled beard working and his eyes glittering with excitement, said he believed the story the boys told him. When he was 17, he saw the Indian once, he said. And then he told them the legend. Buddy had never heard the story before, but he had seen it re-enacted before his very eyes. His uncle missed a few things, but Buddy didn’t say anything. It was close enough.
According to the News account, Buddy Boudreaux cleaned up and hustled himself on over to Tammy Theriot’s Halloween party after all. He decided to take the big Indian’s advice and keep an eye on his own little “Kisselpoo.” Whether her daddy liked him or not, Buddy decided that he’d give old Roger Landry a real run for his money!
The Legend of the Indian Maidens
This old legend came to me through the generosity of Yolanda Gonzalez, librarian at the Arnulfo L. Oliveira Memorial Library at the University of Texas at Brownsville. It appeared in an anthology of stories entitled Studies in Brownsville History edited by Milo Kearney.
The story was told by Felipe Lozano to some of his grandchildren at the beach in 1964, and was recorded by Peter Gawenda.
It seems that many centuries ago this part of the country belonged to a fierce tribe of very tall Indians whose hunting grounds reached from Tampico all the way up to Corpus Christi across to San Antonio and Laredo and back into Mexico. They were feared because of their size, and of their ability to throw a spear more than four hundred yards. Sometimes they are said to have been cannibals who ate the hearts of their enemies, but this is not proven. [Author’s note: This sounds like the Karankawa tribe.] There is an old story, though, that has been told for a long time.
The young Indian male had to prove his bravery to his young bride before he was permitted to take her with him. At times this proof of bravery cost the young lad his life. The young bride had to follow her groom to insure that he would be permitted into the eternal hunting grounds. As it was believed that the hunting grounds started beyond the sea, the young maiden was taken in a boat to Padre Island and was permitted to keep her loincloth, a small bowl with water and one cob of corn. The boat then went back to the mainland. The marriage marks for the Indian maiden were one black streak across the forehead and two white streaks on the cheeks. The girl would first sing her wedding song and then perform the customary death ceremony. Then she would get up and very slowly walk into the sea. When only her head was still above the water the face would look almost like a sea gull. But the maidens had to keep on walking until they were completely under water, and it is said that the gods of these Indians would allow the soul of the maiden to return to earth as a sea gull.
Hardly any traces or artifacts are found that have been left by these Indians. But if it’s true that the souls of Indian maidens return as sea gulls, many young Indian lads lost their lives before their wedding ceremonies!
When Padre Island was not yet covered with concrete and still had sand dunes, every once in a while one could hear the marriage song in the soft winds at night or the death cries coming from the water, and Felipe insisted that sometimes you could even see the image of one of the maidens kneeling on the beach.
The Legend of El Muerto
There are several really hair-raising legends that have been around South Texas for many long years. They concern headless horsemen. One of the best known stories is that of the “dead man” or “El Muerto” as he is most often called. I first read of him in a column written by Henry Wolff, Jr., columnist for the Victoria Advocate. He had interviewed Marilyn Underwood, an English instructor at Victoria College. Underwood was brought up in San Patricio, and she had first heard the grisly tale from her father, Woodrow Hicks, Sr.
Later on I came across other versions of the story, in newspapers, in the late Ed Syers’ book Ghost Stories of Texas, and from several individuals who had heard the story at one time or another. It’s the sort of tale you don’t tell little children before tucking them into bed for the night!
It seems a man known only as Vidal roamed South Texas earning his questionable livelihood by stealing and selling cattle. Then, as now, cattle rustling wasn’t exactly an acceptable occupation. Vidal had stolen some livestock from a man named Creed Taylor, a rancher who lived “up river, in the hill country” according to Wolff. Taylor got a party of horsemen together to track down the thief. One of the group was a frontiersman who had earned the reputation of being a pretty tough man to come up against. His name was “Bigfoot” Wallace. A pioneer Texas Ranger, he was a tough lawman, fast with a gun. You just didn’t want to tangle with “Bigfoot.”
The posse caught up with Vidal and justice was swiftly carried out. Wallace had the hapless man beheaded, and with the help of the other men of the posse, he lashed the dead outlaw to his saddle, which was placed on the back of a wild mustang. His hands were tied to the pommel and his feet to the stirrups, so he would ride sitting up straight. His head, still wearing its big sombrero, was lashed by means of a rawhide thong to the saddle horn. The terrified horse was turned loose to wander the countryside, unable to get rid of his grisly burden.
Wild to start with, afraid of men, and now living with the stench of a decaying corpse on his back, the mustang carried his burden far from civilized areas. Even so, an occasional lone rider or cowpoke would spot the headless rider. Many, terrified at what they saw, shot at the mounted rider. Many knew they had hit him, and why he still remained astride the horse was a real mystery to them.
Probably some innocent riders were shot at, also, since stories of the ghost rider spread far and wide and spooked a lot of cowboys into shooting almost anything they saw from a distance and could not distinguish.
Finally, the mustang was spotted drinking at a water hole called the Bull Head. He was roped and captured as he drank. Still strapped to his back was the sun-dried corpse of Vidal, riddled with scores of bullet holes, his skull still covered by his big sombrero. The body was cut off the mustang and buried in a hastily dug, unmarked grave somewhere out on the prairie near Ben Bolt. The mustang was turned loose at last, freed of his terrible burden.
That should have ended it. But there are those who say that “El Muerto” is still out there. He can be seen on clear moonlit nights, clinging to his mount, his sombreroed head swinging back and forth like a pendulum from the thong tied to the saddle horn.
In Syers’ story, he said one tale around old San Patricio mentions there also is a headless horseman who was a wealthy Kentuckian murdered and beheaded for his money. Another version told is like the Wolff story . . . only it was a horse thief instead of a cattle rustler that was beheaded, and is said to be the ghostly rider.
No doubt, there are more headless horsemen around, if only we had the time to really get out and hunt for them.
The Headless Rider at
Dead Man’s Lagoon
According to several accountings, this must be a true story. It has been handed down for a number of years. It’s the gruesome account of a headless horseman that’s been scaring folks over in Duval County for a long time.
In a write-up in the Corpus Chr
isti Caller-Times, October 31,1992, the tale surfaced once more. It seems back in 1917 a couple was traveling by wagon, headed to the little town of San Diego, west of Alice, to visit the man’s elderly uncle. It was getting late and they had started looking for a good place to camp for the night. Way up ahead they spotted a light, which looked to be coming from a campfire. Not knowing the area too well, the man thought it might be good to camp near some other folks, and so he pointed his wagon in that direction and told his team of mules to “giddi-up.”
The closer they came to the campfire, the dimmer it seemed to get. By the time they arrived, they saw they were on the banks of a lagoon, or pond, and the campfire, which was near a big oak tree, had died down to just a few embers. Disappointed that whoever had been there had left, the man started collecting some wood to build up the fire. Then he unloaded their supplies and bedrolls and spread them out under the big oak tree.
Just as the fire blazed up brightly, they heard horses’ hooves, coming fast! Suddenly, right in front of them a huge gray horse materialized. He was running at break-neck speed, fast as the wind, and hanging onto his back was a rider, spurring the horse in its flanks as they rode by. But the rider didn’t look quite right . . . because he had no head. . . .
The woman fainted. Her startled husband watched as the horse and his weird rider rode straight across the lagoon, as if it had been a paved highway. They disappeared on the other side of the body of water, and as they disappeared, the fire that had been burning also flickered and quickly went out, leaving them in darkness.
The man was very uneasy and when his wife came to, she was almost hysterical. Neither could explain the scene that had just taken place in front of their startled eyes. They decided they just couldn’t stay the night in that strange place, and so they hitched up the mules and took off in the darkness. Before they left, the man tore some rags into strips which they tied to the branches of the oak tree to mark the spot. . . .
When they arrived at the man’s uncle’s ranch over at San Diego, they told him of the strange scene they had witnessed. Not at all surprised, the old man told them that he had heard lots of rumors about “Dead Man’s Lagoon,” which was, he was quite sure, where they had seen the headless horseman.
He told them the story of how four cattlemen who had big ranches in those parts had gotten together to see who had the best horse. They decided to have a race, and whoever won was to get everything the others had, their horses, land, ranches, and houses. All was to be bet on the outcome of the race.
One man, named Dickson, had a huge gray stallion named Hercules. When the race was run, Dickson and Hercules won with such ease, far outdistancing the others, that not only were they angry, they were humiliated as well. The three losers decided they wouldn’t hold to their bargains. But they knew Dickson would tell everybody how they didn’t honor their commitments, so they decided they would have to kill him. They did. They killed him with a machete, and then decapitated him.
Now, since then, many people are said to have seen old Hercules and his headless master running the race over and over again, just to prove how fast they were.
The couple and their uncle went back to find the spot where they had camped the night before. But there was no sign of a campfire ever having been there. The rags that had been placed in the oak tree were gone, and there were no tracks of the wagon and the mules in the soft mud along the banks of the lagoon. All was gone. Nothing was left but the indelible memory of the racing big gray horse and his headless rider.
The Strange Legend of Bouton Lake
The October 31, 1985 issue of the Beaumont Enterprise had an interesting article geared to ghosts in the area, as written by staff writer Julie Noble. The “Legend of Bouton Lake” tells a strange story about a farmer and his daughter. Transporting a wagon load of cotton they had grown, they were traveling on a dirt road about seven miles northeast of Zavalla in the dark and dense Angelina National Forest.
Lois Parker wrote in the Texas Gulf Historical and Biographical Record that “Suddenly they were swallowed in a large opening in the earth, and sank out of sight.”
According to the story, at the spot where the man and his daughter, their wagon, and team vanished, a lake began to form. Ultimately it filled to its present size, one half by three quarters of a mile long, a lagoon blessed with “breath-taking beauty enhanced by countless moss-draped trees.”
“But frequently,” Parker writes, “the night air hovering above the water grows strangely silent and the nocturnal murmurs and the croaks of the frogs cease.”
During the silence and stillness, a spectral form of a graceful young woman rises in the center of the lake. Wearing a filmy dress of gauze, she glides gently and rhythmically, almost as if she were ice-skating from the lake’s center towards the moonlit banks.
Those who have seen her say she is the daughter of the cotton farmer.
(I’ll buy that. But where’s her daddy, and the wagon and mules?)
“Sara Jane . . . Oh, Sara Jane . . .”
There’s an oft-told tale that circulates over in Port Neches. The story centers around the street that runs from the Texaco Neches Chemical Plant in Port Neches to FM 366 in Groves. There are several versions to the story, which has become quite a well-known legend. No matter which version is told, it always brings forth shivers.
One version, as noted by a Port Arthur News article (July 20,1970) says the “old river holds the legend of Bloody Mary. She was a legendary woman pirate supposedly hung by the villagers for her transgressions. The old woman is said to still haunt the river road, calling out on foggy nights for her lost baby.” The story goes that the child, named Sara Jane, drowned when thrown from a buckboard into the waters below the bridge which is now known as Sara Jane Bridge or Crybaby Bridge.
Another version, which was noted in the Beaumont Enterprise, October 31, 1985, claims that a pioneer woman supposedly drowned as she and her family were crossing the bayou, and true believers of the story say they’ve heard her plaintive cries for help coming from the bayou on moonlit nights ever since!
Still another twist to the story comes from the Port Arthur News October 31,1992. The News story says that one night in the’ 50s, before the area did away with the pollution problems (as one longtime resident put it, “when it’s cold, one can actually see the smoke or fog-like steam that comes off the refineries”), there was a woman who may have been named Sara Jane.
She was going from Lake Sabine to Port Neches in a wagon when she was accosted by a group of bandits. She had come to a canal where wastewater goes into the river. There was an old wooden bridge over the canal. For the safety of the infant, Sara Jane is said to have placed her in some weeds by the bayou and left her there, according to an old-time resident. “But when she came back, her baby was gone. The child had gotten into the canal or bayou somehow.”
The legend has it that on some still and dark foggy nights, when someone goes to the bridge they can hear a voice calling, “Sara Jane . . . oh, Sara Jane.” No one knows for sure if “Sara Jane” is the name of the mother, or of the missing baby. Nobody wants to stick around long enough to find out.
Saratoga’s Ghostly Light
Sometimes where the thicket is still and dark
Teens find the road there a good place to park;
The light comes from nowhere; it bobs down the trail
Where once ran the trains down the long silver rail.
It may be the ghost of a hunter, long dead;
Out searching the night for his still-missing head,
Or maybe the Spaniards out seeking their gold.
(There’s treasure out there, so we’ve been told!)
We don’t know what causes that eerie ghost light
That shines in the thicket, in the still of the night.
The southern fringe of East Texas’ Big Thicket ends up around Saratoga, a little community 46 miles northwest of Beaumont, on the outer edge of that great wilderness of tall pines, dogwood trees, and thic
k underbrush. Within that vast area lies a story, or several stories, told and retold, embellished, and changed around, for nigh onto 100 years. The stories told are about the mysterious ghost light of the Big Thicket, and scores of people swear it’s there, dancing and bobbing around on that long stretch of lonesome road that once served as the bed of the old railroad track that ran southwest from Bragg (now just a little ghost town) to Saratoga. For years the dancing light has defied all attempts at explanation, and so a multitude of legends have grown up centering around its reason for being.
The light, or lights, have been variously described, but most witnesses have said they’ve seen a single ball of light that just bobs up and down along that lonely road. The stories of why the light is there go way back, maybe even to the time before the Civil War, so we can rule out reflections from automobiles right away, because the light was reported long before there was such a thing as a horseless carriage.
Some of the more scientific-minded have said the light might be in the realm of jack-o’-lanterns, those strange luminations caused by gases from nearby swamplands, similar to the fox fires found near decaying logs or rotting forest vegetation.
There are almost as many stories explaining why the light is out there, as there have been sightings reported. These tales go way back to the early days when the loggers, oil field wildcatters, pioneers, and homesteaders first came to this wild country where alligators, panthers, and bears once roamed. That’s why the story is a real legend in every sense of the word. Everyone agrees the light is there, but no one can pinpoint the real reason for its being.
Ghosts along the Texas Coast Page 21