Legends and Tales of the American West

by Richard Erdoes

  When with a large party of trappers anything occurred which gave him a hint that trouble was coming, or more Indians were about than he considered good for his animals, Bill was wont to exclaim—“Do ’ee hyar, boys, thar’s sign about? this hoss feels like caching”; and, without more words, and stoically deaf to all remonstrances, he would forthwith proceed to pack his animals, talking the while to an old, crop-eared, raw-boned Nez-percé pony, his own particular saddle-horse, who, in dogged temper and iron hardiness, was a worthy companion of his self-willed master. This beast, as Bill seized his apishamore to lay upon its galled back, would express displeasure by humping its back and shaking its withers with a wincing motion, that always excited the ire of the old trapper; and no sooner had he laid the apishamore smoothly on the chafed skin, than a wriggle of the animal shook it off.

  “Do ’ee hyar now, you darned crittur!” he would whine out, “can’t ’ee keep quiet your old fleece now? Isn’t this old coon putting out to save ’ee from the darned Injuns now, do ’ee hyar?” And then, continuing his work, and taking no notice of his comrades, who stood by bantering the eccentric trapper, he would soliloquise—“Do ’ee hyar now? This niggur sees sign ahead—he does; he’ll be afoot afore long, if he don’t keep his eye skinned—he will. Injuns is all about, they ar’; Blackfoot at that. Can’t come round this child—they can’t, wagh!” And at last, his pack animals securely tied to the tail of his horse, he would mount, and throwing the rifle across the horn of his saddle, and without noticing his companions, would drive the jingling spurs into his horse’s gaunt sides, and muttering, “Can’t come round this child—they can’t!” would ride away; and nothing more would be seen or heard of him perhaps for months, when they would not unfrequently, themselves bereft of animals in the scrape he had foreseen, find him located in some solitary valley, in his lonely camp, with his animals securely picketed around, and his peltries safe.

  Kindly Old Bill would often lecture the greenhorn, introducing him into the mysteries of trapper life: “Do ’ee hyar now, you darned greenhorn, grizzlies air bad, but Blackfeet is worse. Them’s the ornariest Injins fer sure. When yee git into their diggin’s yer hair’s already half offen yer skull, do ’ee hyar? Blackfoot diggin’s won’t shine in this crowd. No, stranger, Blackfeet air worse than a painter defendin’ her cubs. Oncet I war trappin’ beaver at the head of the Yellerstone with nary an Injin sign around. W-a-a-l, this child lit his fire an’ wuz a-smokin’ his pipe. I knowed I hadn’t orter, but I did. I war b’ilin’ beaver tails when, all of a sudden, thar they be, the cussed varmints, Blackfeet, four o’ them, and me with but me old tooth-picker. I gutted one o’ the red divils with me knife, brained the second with me tommihawk, kneed the third in the groin, and got a-hold o’ the fourth by the nose with me teeth, taken keer of all four varmints at the same time. Hang me up fer b’ar meat, if I didn’t. Yessir, Blackfeet are bad, but this hoss is badder. Them Injins air pizen, son, steer clear o’ them, do ’ee hyar?”

  Old Bill might have admonished a newcomer in the same vein as a fellow trapper named Long Hatcher: “This child hates an American what hasn’t seen Injuns skulped or doesn’t know a Yute from a Shian mok’sin. Sometimes he thinks of makin’ tracks for white settlement but when he gits to Bent’s big lodge on the Arkansa and sees the bugheways, an’ the fellers from the States, how they roll thar eyes at an Injun and yell worse nor if a village of Camanches was on ’em, an’ pick up a beaver trap an’ ask what it is—jest shows whar the niggurs had thar brungin’ up—this child says, “a little bacca ef it’s a plew a plug, an’ Dupont an’ G’lena, a Green River or so,’ an’ he leaves for the Bayou Salade. Darn the white diggins while thar’s buffler in the mountains!”

  Old Bill ate whatever walked, ran, hopped, crawled, crept, slithered, swam, or flew. All others scorned painter meat. Even the hardiest trappers found it too strong for their taste. Old Bill relished it. Rattlesnake stew did shine. Locust, roasted to a crisp, would do when nothing else was to be had. When starving, he had recourse to eating the parfleche soles of his moccasins. As Ruxton remembered: “Old Bill, however, never grumbled! He chewed away at his shoes with relish even, and as long as he had a pipeful of tobacco in his pouch, he was a happy man. On his one visit back to civilization, at his brother’s farm in Missouri, he grabbed the intestines of a freshly slaughtered calf and squeezed out their contents into his gaping mouth, swallowing it all down with grunts of delight and an expression of sheer ecstasy. He flavored his food with buffalo gall and put more than just a pinch of pepper and gunpowder in his whiskey “to give ’er a kick.” He was accused of having eaten a fellow trapper during John Charles Frémont’s disastrous winter expedition, and was rumored to have boasted that “it war mighty good eatin’, speshly the liver lights.” Surprisingly, in view of his barbaric fare, he could, at times, be finicky. To quote Ruxton again:

  On one occasion, they had come upon a band of fine buffalo cows, and shortly after camping, two of the party rode in with a good supply of fat fleece. One of the party was a “greenhorn” on his first hunt, and, fresh from a fort on the Platte, was as yet uninitiated in the mysteries of mountain cooking. Bill, lazily smoking his pipe, called to him, as he happened to be nearest, to butcher off a piece of meat and put it in his pot. Markhead seized the fleece, and commenced innocently carving off a huge ration, when a gasping roar from the old trapper caused him to drop his knife.

  “Ti-yah,” growled Bill, “do ’ee hyar, now, you darned greenhorn, do ’ee spile fat cow like that whar you was raised? Them doin’s won’t shine in this crowd, boy, do ’ee hyar, darn you? What! butcher meat across the grain! why, whar’ll the blood be goin’ to, you precious Spaniard? Down the grain I say,” he continued in a severe tone of rebuke, “an’ let yer flaps be long, or out the juice’ll run slick—do ’ee hyar, now?” But this heretical error nearly cost the old trapper his appetite, and all night long he grumbled his horror at seeing “fat cow spiled in that fashion.”

  At that time, Old Bill and his party were deep in Blackfeet country. Beaver were plentiful, but so were signs of Indians. Some of the men suggested finding a more congenial place to trap. Old Bill wouldn’t hear of it. Usually shunning the Blackfeet like devils incarnate, he now declared:

  “Do ’ee hyar now, boys, thar’s Injuns knocking round, and Blackfoot at that; but thar’s plenty of beaver, too, and this child means trapping anyhow.” He went on to say that no matter where they went they were bound to run into tarnal red fiends, and they might as well stay where prime plews could be gotten. While old Bill stayed behind to guard the camp, three parties of two men each went off to look for beaver sign. One pair was made up of Markhead and another newcomer named Batiste. These two were waylaid by a passel of Blackfeet. Markhead was wounded and Batiste killed. Markhead galloped off, a volley of balls and arrows whistling after him. He drew no bit until he reined up at the camp-fire, where he found Bill quietly dressing a deer-skin. That worthy looked up from his work; and seeing Markhead’s face streaming with blood, and the very unequivocal evidence of an Indian recontre in the shape of an arrow sticking in his back, he asked—“Do ’ee feel bad now, boy? Whar away you see them darned Blackfoot?”

  “Well, pull this arrow out of my back, and maybe I’ll feel like telling,” answered Markhead.

  “Do ’ee hyar now! hold on till I’ve grained this cussed skin, will ’ee! Did ’ee ever see sich a darned pelt, now? It won’t take the smoke anyhow I fix it.” And Markhead was fain to wait the leisure of the imperturbable old trapper, before he was eased of his annoying companion.

  Old Bill had no word of regret for the death of the unfortunate Batiste, declaring it was “jest like greenhorns, runnin’ into them cussed Blackfoot,” and commented that pauvre Batiste was only a no-account vide-poche frog-eater. He had, however, lost his appetite for trapping in that particular location, packed his possibles, got on his horse—this time another ungainly beast named Santeefé, and “put out.”

  Old Bill had the reputation of be
ing a fine marksman. During shooting competitions he bet as much as a hundred dollars’ worth of pelts on himself. Ruxton wrote that Williams was “a dead shot with his rifle, though he always shot with a double wobble, for he never could hold his gun still, yet his ball went always to the spot.”

  He was the hero of innumerable Indian fights, One of these he might have described thus: “I tellee, stranger, Blackfeet air pizen. I calkilate this hoss’d rather shoot an’ skulp an Injun than eat, even if it war fat buffler cow. W-a-a-l, thar I wuz trappin’ along the Columbia, plumb in the middle o’ Injun diggins, when I seed b’ar sign. Grizzly, by ned! I war wolfish fer b’ar meat, fur sartain. W-a-a-l, instead b’ar I run into a passle of them cussed Blackfeet. I tellee, friend, I thought I war a gone beaver, mity nigh to losin’ his hair. When them varmints seed me, they started yellin’ like the divils, owgh-owgh! makin’ an orful racket. I knowed I wuz in fur a scrimmage. Quicker ‘an a greased fart I raise me trusted Knockumstiff, all primed and loaded fur b’ar, and let fly! Wagh, I keeled one o’ them, a precious big bastard. I tellee, this child didn’t stop to reload but made fur the timber with three o’ the darned niggurs arter me, froze for hair. I wuz swift as a roadrunner then an’ gained ‘nuff head-start on ’em to reload an’ as them tarnal critturs came out o’ the piñon, I let fly again an’ drop the foremost, by Jihosaphat! Whoopee!

  “Stranger, I tellee, agin I get a start on them miscreants an’, hidin’ behind a rock, ram down ’nuther wad an’ G’lena, an’ let fly. Hang me up fur b’ar meat if I didn’t hit that consarned savage plumb between the eyes. Sez this old coon to hisself, ’Hurraw, ye’re rid of them divils when, I’ll be doggone, ’nuther three Blackfeet are comin’ out of a side canyon. Wagh! This child’s plew warnt whuz a cussed plug o’ baccer. ‘Ye’re goin’ under fer sure,’ I sez to myself. That war hard doin’ then, by Ned! I wuz plumb tired out but put on one more spurt, gittin’ away from ’em for a mite, hidin’ in the timber, an’ then doublin’ back like a grizzly fer some two or three hunnerd yards come up behind them precious bastids an’ shoot one dead, gut the next with my Green-River, an’ brain the last with me tommihawk. Thar wuz some more but they didn’t wait for similar treatment, but lit out fer home like deer with a painter arter them. W-a-a-l, this old coon retraced his steps an’ took thar skulps, all six o’ them, an’ hung ’em on his belt to dry, an left the rest o’ them sonsabitches fur wolf meat. Wagh! I reckoned that thar mought be more Injuns knockin’ about, an’ this hoss didn’t want to leave any tracks fur ’em to follow, so this child jumped astride a log floatin’ down the river an’ used his fore-paws to paddle all the way home to camp. Wagh! I swar, that’s what happened, an’ ye better believe me, do ’ee hyar!”

  The era of the free trappers and mountain men lasted, at the most, some thirty years and came to an abrupt end around 1840. The reasons were twofold—the beaver had been virtually trapped out and, in Europe, beaver hats were no longer the rage, especially as the newly manufactured felt was so much cheaper than pelt. The trappers did not want to believe that their way of life was coming to an end. One of Ruxton’s friends, a mountain man named Killbuck, soliloquized: “Howsever, beaver’s bound to rise; human natur can’t go on selling beaver a dollar a pound; no, no, that ain’t agoing to shine much longer, I know. There was the times when this child first went to the mountains: six dollars the plew—old ’un or kitten. Wagh! But it’s bound to rise, I says agin.” But it never rose again and, reluctantly, one by one, the free souls of the wilderness had to look for another way to earn their plugs of ’baccer and gallons of “red uprising.”

  For a while Old Bill tried his luck as a storekeeper in Taos, but selling foofaraw, calico, and ribbons to señoritas and old crones just was not his meat—it “did not shine.” One day, exasperated at one female haggling over mere centavos, he flung his bolts of cloth and calico into the dusty street, threw the bolts out as far as they would unroll, shouting in his squeaky voice:

  “Hyar, damn ye! If I cain’ sell ye my goods, I’ll give ’em to you fer free. Thar, ye cussed hyenas, fight fer them!”

  While the ladies pulled hair, bit, scratched, and kicked in a frenzied free-for-all, Old Bill saddled his ancient crop-eared nag, took his old Hawken and possible sack, and trotted off to his beloved mountains. He tried some more trapping for a while, without much luck, and then bethought himself of another profession. Legend has depicted Old Bill Williams as an ornery, eccentric, picturesque, but kindly and lovable character. There was, however, another, different side to the old coon.

  It has been said that the mountain men looked upon horsestealing as a perfectly legitimate undertaking, provided that it was “properly directed.” By this was meant that, if one could avoid it, one should not steal horses from fellow trappers or friendly Indians upon whose good will one depended. Stealing horses from Mexican “greasers” and Californios, on the other hand, including killing the owners if they resisted, was not only profitable, but also a glorious, thrilling sport. Old Bill went into horse stealing in a big way. He teamed up with the likes of Pegleg Smith and other rough, not to say murderous, characters to organize veritable horse-stealing expeditions in the grandest manner. On his first venture he came back to Bent’s Fort, the horse thief’s heaven, with about three hundred stolen horses and mules. The fort’s “bourge-way,” Charles Bent, did not ask any awkward questions as to the caballada’s origin, nor did he want to see bills of sale, but shelled out enough dineros for a colossal binge that lasted until the liquor gave out.

  On one monster horse-stealing raid, kindly Old Bill joined Captain Bonneville, Sylvestre Cerré, Walker, Joe Meeker, and some other trappers, because beaver was scarce while there were horses aplenty in California. On the way, they killed twenty-five Indians just for the fun of it. In the Pueblos of the peaceful Moquis (Hopis) they plundered the people of their blankets and corn, killing a few who were bold enough to protest. Having arrived in California, they settled down in Monterey and “reveled in a perfect fools’ paradise,” spending their days in a wild orgy of fiestas, bullfighting, bullbaiting, cockfighting, gambling, wenching, fisticuffs, knife fights and, above all, drinking, “pursuing a career toward California which emulated the Forty Thieves of the stirring story of Ali Baba.” They then rounded up an immense herd of stolen horses and mules and, in a cloud of dust visible for thirty miles, retraced their steps homeward. The fact that the injured hacendados had sworn to tie any of the marauders they could catch to a horse and drag him through the cactus until only little bits were left for the coyotes gave the whole enterprise its special zest.

  Old Bill’s and his companions’ endeavors were not always crowned with success. On one veritable Jornada del Muerte, Old Bill tried to drive a herd of 1,500 stolen animals through the Mojave Desert. Closely pursued by the enraged owners, two-thirds of the horses and most of the mules died of thirst and exhaustion, the rest were stampeded by a Ute war party.

  Suffering badly from Indian raids, Mexican officials hired a band of former trappers to wipe out the marauders, promising fifty dollars for every scalp brought in. Old Bill took part in this atrocity. They came back with 1,000 horses, 300 sheep and goats, 183 scalps, and 18 women. As the Mexicans wanted to pay only ten dollars per live woman, a ferocious trapper called Spiebuck offered to kill the female captives to sell their scalps at the higher price. Be it said that Old Bill balked at this and sold the women as slaves.

  Old Bill once went to visit his folks back in Missouri. His brother John did not recognize the strange, outlandish creature before him.

  “Wagh,” exclaimed the offended visitor, “don’t ye know yer own brother, ye old hoss?”

  “I would if I seed him, but ye’re no kin of mine, that I know of,” answered John.

  “Thyar, ye old mule, I’ll prove it to ye,” said Bill, exhibiting a half-moon-shaped scar on his forearm. Satisfied as to Bill’s identity, John invited him in. At night Bill couldn’t stand the agony of sleeping in a bed and settled down on the floor.

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bsp; Old Bill’s last escapade occurred when Frémont, the “Great Pathfinder,” hired him as a guide to map out a way for a railroad to the Pacific. The expedition started out in November 1848 and ended in disaster. Frémont insisted upon crossing the mountains in midwinter—a desperate undertaking. To make matters worse, he chose the wrong route. Old Bill and other experienced mountain men pointed out the dangers involved, but Frémont was vain, self-centered, and convinced that he knew better. The expedition was ravaged by blizzards and marooned in hip-deep snows. Food gave out. Men ate their moccasins, horses nibbled on each other’s tails and manes—and died. Frémont was stuck in the icy wastes of the La Garita Mountains. Not being able to go forward, he yet could not bring himself to go back. Some men froze to death. Old Bill nearly shared their fate. In the words of Micajah McGehee, one of the survivors, “Bill dropped down upon his mule in a stupor and was nearly senseless when we got into camp.” Frémont sent Williams and three others on a 160-mile trip to the rear to get supplies. There were no horses left and they had to make the terrible journey on foot. Each was given a blanket, a small bag of frozen mule meat, a handful of sugar, a Hawken rifle, and a dozen bullets. Plagued by howling snowstorms, they crept back at a snail’s pace. On some days they made only one mile. Their food ran out. For days they had only a small hawk and the carcass of an otter to divide among themselves. One of them, a man called King, collapsed and had to be left behind. One of the remaining three, Breckinridge, managed to bring down a deer and drag it back to Old Bill and McGehee. “Old Bill took the meat in his bony hands and began tearing off great mouthfuls like a savage animal.” It took the three men ten days to crawl and limp the remaining forty miles to the nearest settlement. The last survivor of Frémont’s party staggered into Taos on February 9, 1849.