Western legends tell not only of semihistorical heroes and badmen but also of witches, ghosts, devils, and fabulous beasts. They speak of buried treasures and lost mines. Some are known, pure and simple, as “lying stories,” and here again the lies are the biggest and most unbelievable in the world. Many tales recur again and again in many guises, involving different people in a variety of places and situations.
Tales of the Hispanic Southwest have an altogether different flavor of pride and honor, of saints and Penitentes, of haughty caballeros and seductive señoritas.
The well has not dried up. The West abounds in modern legends, tales of ghostly trains, planes, and automobiles, even of bewitched computers. Tabloids on display in western supermarkets scream at us with strange headlines, such as I CARRY THE BABY OF ELVIS PRESLEY’S GHOST or JOHN WAYNE IS ALIVE ON THE PLANET ZENOBIA!
“West” is a word of many meanings. To the western Viking it meant first Greenland and then Vinland, that is, North America. From the very beginning the first white men who stepped upon the shores of the New World steeped their stories in myth. Thorgisl, sailing westward for weeks on end, cut his nipple and let his starving baby son tug on it until, at first, blood flowed from it. He made the infant suck and suck until the blood turned into milk. Thus, a father’s love nourished the son.
The Vikings came ashore in the land of “One-Footers” (Einfoetingr).
This is true, us men pursued
a One-Footer who came to the strand.
This One-Footer ran swiftly over hills.
This we tell you.
Thorvald, son of Eric the Red, was killed by such a One-Footer. And there was “Freydis, big with child, whetting her sword on her bare breasts,” facing the Skraelings with blade and blood-ax until they fled in terror.
The border advanced bit by bit. To the pilgrims and the settlers of New Amsterdam, the West was the land beyond the Alleghenies. “Kaintuck,” the country beyond the Cumberland Gap, was the Far West. To the early keelboatmen, the Ohio country was the wilderness eventually called The Old Northwest. As that region became the Midwest, the West meant the prairies beyond the Mississippi and Missouri rivers, the playground of Indians, buffalo, and the mountain men or beaver trappers. The area slightly beyond that became the home of gold-seekers, cowboys, gunfighters, and vigilantes; in time it came to be known as the Wild West. The last barrier to be pierced was the Rockies, Zebulon Pike’s “Shining Mountains.” Once the great range had been conquered, the way lay open to the Sierras and, finally, the Pacific, the Farthest West. After 1847, the vast region won as the result of the War with Mexico became the Southwest.
Each of these clearly marked geographical areas gave birth to a special sort of men and women, to a particular form of speech, and to a distinct form of mythology and folklore, to the legends of backwoodsmen and pathfinders, of pioneers and keelboatmen, prospectors and farmers, cowboys and shootists, gamblers, painted cats and railroaders. Thus were born a thousand wild and untamed tales told around a thousand campfires, expressive of William Blake’s heartfelt “Oh, how I dreamed of things impossible!”
CHAPTER 1
Ohio Fever
Disowned in an age of scepticism, there was once—and the time is not so far removed, no part of the body politic over which what we now vaguely term the legendary did not exercise the strongest influence, so that far from being merely a record of amusing fables, these tales, which are mostly founded in fact, disclose the secret springs by which society was moved and history made.
SAMUEL ADAMS DRAKE
The colonists called it “the West.” What they meant by this was the Pennsylvania wilderness beyond York and Lancaster, a country teeming with bears, catamounts, wolves, and deer, as well as with hostile Indians. On its farthest border an occasional buffalo could be met with. Here the French barred the advance of English-speaking settlers pressing forever westward, consumed by “Ohio fever.”
It has been said that the wilderness was conquered by the ax, the long rifle, the canoe, and the Conestoga wagon. Emerson Hough, a man inspired by dreams of empire and manifest destiny, waxed lyrical in his paeans to these four articles by which, in his opinion, the West was won.
I ask you to look at this splendid tool, the American ax.… If you cannot use it, you are not American. If you do not understand it, you cannot understand America.
This tool is so simple and so perfect that it has scarcely seen change in the course of a hundred years. It lacks decoration, as do the tools and weapons of all strong peoples.… It is simple, severe, perfect.… It is a tremendous thing, this ax of early Americans.
Over the second article Hough exulted:
Witness this sweet ancient weapon of our fathers, the American rifle, maker of states, empire builder.… This is no belonging of a weak or savage man. It is the weapon of the Anglo-Saxon, that is the Anglo-Saxon in America, who invented it because he had need of it.
Of the third article he remarked:
Here is the fairy ship of the wilderness, the birchbark canoe, the first craft of America.… It is the ship of adventure, belonging by right to him that goes far and travels light, who is careless of his home coming.… It is a great-hearted craft.
As to the Conestoga wagon, it became the “inland ship,” the “frigate of commerce,” and, ultimately, the “prairie schooner.”
Stripped of its John Wayne verbiage, there is some truth in Emerson Hough, but he was a chauvinist, even a racist, otherwise he would have known that his “American rifle” was the creation of German gunsmiths who first wrought this wonder weapon at the town of Hickory, later known as Lancaster. Known as the Kentucky rifle, it should rather be called the Pennsylvania rifle. By 1750 thousands of them were in use all along the border. The birchbark canoe was invented by American Indians and mightily improved upon by French voyageurs. The Conestoga wagon was first knocked together by Pennsylvania Dutchmen of the Conestoga Valley in Lancaster County. So much for that.
The early Pennsylvania border was a place where peaceful sectarians found their utopias, but also a region of massacres, abductions, and hairbreadth escapes. Here young Major George Washington founded Fort Necessity and was forced to surrender it to the French. Here General Braddock and a large British and colonial army was defeated by a force of French regulars, Canadian coureurs de bois and their Indian allies. Here was the country of the homespun heroes whom some historians have called the “first westerners.”
The Devil and Major Stobo
This story appears in many versions, taking place in different locales with different characters. Only one of the protagonists remains always the same.
Major Stobo, a hero in war as in love, had grown old. His hair had turned white, his skin to parched leather. He was suffering from gout and, worse, John Thomas was no longer answering all the demands the major made upon him. Favors, once granted willingly, nay, with enthusiasm, had now to be paid for. Worst of all, he had finally run through his fortune—no great surprise considering his lifestyle. He was reduced to one tottering manservant who worked, unsatisfactorily, for room and board. An ancient cackling crone prepared his meals, no longer dainty and mouth-watering but, in Stobo’s opinion, unpalatable. He was sitting hunched over before his fireplace, a plaid over his shoulders, his suffering, throbbing foot swathed in bandages, resting on a padded footstool. Stobo was grumbling to himself: “Old age be damned! I’d sell my soul to the devil to be rid of this confounded gout, to be able to roger Belette, that saucy wench, to have John Thomas do his duty again, to have some money to spend!”
No sooner said than there was a deep rumbling in the chimney. The crows on the tree before the window broke into a diabolic cackling. Screeching with terror, the old tomcat leaped down from the major’s lap to hide himself, his fur setting off sparks. The elderly hound dog howled mournfully, cowering in a corner. A shower of sparks came down the chimney, followed by great clouds of choking ashes, followed, in turn, by a smiling stranger of endearing manners. The decidedly odd fellow
was dressed in red velvet. His white ruffled shirt and white laced cuffs were clean and unsmudged. Not a speck of soot could be discerned on his face, quite remarkable in view of the path by which he had entered the house. The stranger was swarthy. He had a pointed nose, a pointed stylish goatee, oddly pointed shoes, and a towering, old-fashioned wig with two points at each side at the top.
Stobo perceived at once that he was in the presence of his satanic majesty. The wig, he had realized at once, was intended to hide the horns. Yet the devil was clearly a gentleman, something Stobo had always suspected.
“At your service,” said Old Nick, making a courtly bow.
“Are you always in such a devilish hurry?” asked the major.
“My dear sir. I am ever prompt in giving satisfaction to my customers, especially men of quality like yourself. Also you are an old soldier. I am partial to them.”
“The devil you are.”
“Indeed. I chanced to overhear your monologue, my dear major. All your wants shall be taken care of. I am entirely at your command. Your gout—but it has already vanished, I trust. The fair Belette shall swoon tonight in your arms. Rest assured John Thomas will do his soldierly duty. Me thinks he is already bestirring himself. As to the wherewithal, the money, behold the pewter tankard yonder on the mantelpiece, a good-sized mug. You will find it full to the brim with specie—louis d’or, golden Georges, écus, thalers, escudos, doubloons, crowns, pieces of eight. And no matter how much you take out, esteemed Major Stobo, you shall find this most excellent bumper always filled to overflowing.”
“God’s fish! Doubloons, louis d’or you say?”
“Full to the brim, always and forever. There remains the small matter of price. A mere trifle, a superfluity you’ll never miss. I have prepared a document”—and here the devil drew from his ample sleeve a parchment scroll—“pray, peruse it. You will remark a blank space, left blank to insert the number of years after which this note shall be due. Shall we say three years?”
“Shall we say seven?”
“I can refuse nothing to you, sir. I ever indulge the wishes of an old hero. Seven it is.” And at once, as if by magic, the words “seven years” appeared in the open space. “It awaits only your signature.”
“Of course, but see here, old fellow, my eyes are not what they used to be. I will fetch my spectacles to study this agreement before appending my name. Also I shall apply my seal to make it official. I shall be back anon.”
The major went into an adjoining chamber, absentmindedly taking the scroll, closing the door behind him. Once alone, the major put on his spectacles and quickly scrutinized the document, which read:
“For services rendered Major Rbt. Stobo hereby bequeathes his body and soul to myself. This promissory note to fall due seven years from signing. Apollyon Mephisto, Esqu.”
Now the major had been many things in his life—soldier, Indian fighter, duelist, womanizer, and cardsharp. But these were not the total sums of his accomplishments. Stobo had also served as spy in the service of his royal master, King George, and was adept in the ways of this craft. He took from a drawer a phial of invisible ink and inserted between the words body and soul the sentence “in no wise my immortal.” He then heated sealing wax in the flame of a candle imprinting his signet ring with the Stobo coat of arms upon it. He then joined his guest by the fire.
“Ah, here you are, Major. I trust you found everything in order.”
“I did indeed, good sir. I shall now sign this agreement before your eyes.” Stobo was about to dip quill into inkwell, but the devil stayed his hand: “No, no, no, my dear major, my notes must be signed in blood.” Deftly, Lucifer pricked Stobo’s index finger with the tip of what looked like a lady’s jeweled hatpin and drew a little blood. Stobo took up a few drops on the nib of his goose quill and signed with a flourish: Major Robert Stobo, Knight. This done, he turned to his guest, saying, “This calls for a drink, my dear fellow.”
“I must decline, Major,” protested the devil, “I am abstemious. Never touch the stuff. Besides, I have pressing business elsewhere. I bid you adieu, my friend. I shall see you again seven years hence.” With this Lucifer took his departure by the usual route, up the chimney, not without making a great din of rattling and rumbling.
The rest of the night the major spent agreeably in the bed of a cooperative Belette, John Thomas putting on a sterling performance. Soon the major’s table was again covered with gleaming silver plate. Instead of mean rushes dipped in pitch, ornate candelabra with innumerable tapers now illuminated his splendidly refurbished home. He took on a French cook and a dozen new servants. Instead of one poor sorry nag, he now had blooded, high-spirited horses in his stable, and, beside his ancient half-blind dog, a fine pack of pedigreed hounds in his kennel. His cellar was filled with the choicest tipple—port, claret, sherry, madeira, sack, brandy, cognac, and Barbados rum, as well as the robust local applejack and Monongahela rye. He bought new gold-embroidered, brocaded clothes, shoes with silver buckles, and a dozen of the latest fashionable wigs. Also a brace of French pistols inlaid with ivory and silver wire. Best of all, he had regained a decidedly youthful appearance and a certain spring to his step so that his astonished friends assured him that he seemed to have come fresh from the Fountain of Youth. Thus the good major lived right merrily.
As the seventh year after the signing of the aforementioned document drew near, the major began to feel poorly. He seemed to have aged greatly, almost overnight. His last remaining teeth fell out. His neck became scrawny like that of a plucked chicken. His limbs grew stiff and feeble. His whole system was riddled with the pox, a gift of the fair Belette. His much-swollen liver was rotten from excessive imbibing of usquebaugh. His kidneys refused to function. He had trouble making water. He was, however, free from gout and John Thomas performed as before. As the seventh year ended, Stobo caught a chill. His spare, shaking frame was racked by a hacking cough. He was spitting blood. At last he heard once again the familiar rumbling in the chimney, preceded by sparks and clouds of ashes. Dressed as before in red velvet and unsmudged, brilliantly white lace, Old Nick approached Stobo’s sickbed.
“You seem to be unwell, Major,” said the devil, smiling pleasantly. “You are aware, I trust, that payment is due. I have come to collect it. You can have no objections. Here is the original document. You can see that everything is in order.”
“My eyesight is almost gone, sirrah, please hand me a candle.”
“With pleasure.”
The major passed the flame close to the parchment. Instantly, the heat made the invisible ink visible. “Pray note that my soul is expressly exempt from the deal. Remark the words in this brownish color ‘in no wise my immortal soul.’ ”
The devil took it badly. His satanic majesty was outraged. “Cods and bollocks! Perdition and damnation! I’m bubbled and buggered! I am deeply hurt, major. I took you for a gentleman. You have cheated me! I knew that you cheated the hangman, cheated at love, cheated at cards—but cheating me, me, me! It has never happened before!”
“You are welcome to the body, dear fellow. My skin and bones may bring a few pennies.”
“Your pox-ridden carcass is of not the slightest use to me,” said the fiend with indignation, uttering foul curses, breaking wind for emphasis, filling the hall with clouds of yellow sulphur. Then, quick as lightning, he shot up the chimney never to return.
“I foxed him,” said the major with a toothless grin, “my soul is saved. I yearn to be reunited with my old comrades in arms.” Thus, the hero of many battles shuffled off his mortal coils. His soul, sinful but repentant, was wafted up to heaven where brave General Wolfe’s ghost welcomed it with a brimmer of celestial ambrosia. Stobo’s spectre took a mighty swig: “Not bad, not bad at all, but Scottish usquebaugh is better.”
The Cheater Cheated
Traders to the Indians are part of the early West’s folklore. On the whole they were a sorry lot. As an eighteenth-century writer put it:
The English manner
of carrying on the Indian trade is this: the regular traders undertake twice or oftener each year journeys to the Indian villages, their Packhorses laden with Strowds, match coats, hats, looking-glasses, beads and bracelets of glass, knives, and all manner of Gawdy Toys and Knacks for children, as well as guns, flint, Powder, and Lead, and cags of potent Rum to be watered when they arrive to the Indian country. When there these Traders live with the Indians, selling them goods in prospect of the season’s fur catch and often keeping one or more squaws as wives and are trusted by their neighbours for they are content of two or three centum profit.…
Other Traders there are who frequently creep into the Woods with spirituous liquor and cheating trifles, after the Indian hunting camps, in the Winter season, and putting down several Cags before them, make them drunk selling their liquor at ten times its value, as the Indians will sell even their wearing shirt for inebriating liquors.… These Traders are the most vicious and abandoned Wretches of our Nation, a set of Mean Dishonest mercenary Fellows … they even debauch the Indians’ young women, and even their wives, when the husbands are from home or drunk.
Legends and Tales of the American West Page 2