Legends and Tales of the American West

by Richard Erdoes

  “La, Mister Harris, a what?”

  “A putrified forest, marm, as sure as my rifle’s got hind-sights, and she shoots center. I was out on the Black Hills, Bill Sublette knows the time—the year it rained fire—and everyone knows when that was. If thar wasn’t cold doin’s about that time, this child wouldn’t say so. The snow was about fifty foot deep, and the buffler lay dead on the ground like bees after a beein’. Thar was no buffler, and no meat, and me and my band had been livin’ on our moccasins, leastwise the parflesch, for six weeks; and poor doin’s that feedin’ is, marm, as you’ll never know. One day we crossed a cañon and over a divide, and got into a peraira, whar was green grass, and green trees, and green leaves on the trees, and birds singing in the green leaves, and this in Febrary, wagh! Our animals was like to die when they see the green grass, and we all sung out, “Hurraw for summer doins.”

  “Hyar goes for meat,” says I, and I jest ups old Ginger at one of them singing-birds, and down come the crittur elegant; its darned head spinning away from the body, but never stops singing; and when I takes up the meat, I find it’s stone, wagh! “Hyar’s damp powder and no fire to dry it,” I says, quite skeared.

  “Fire be dogged,” says old Rube. “Hyar’s a hoss, as’ll make fire come,” and with that he takes his axe and lets drive at a cottonwood. Schr-u-k—goes the axe against the tree, and out comes a bit of the blade as big as my hand. We looks at the animals, and thar they stood shaking over the grass, which I’m dog-gone if it wasn’t stone, too. Young Sublette comes up, and he’d been clerking down to the fort at Platte, so he know’d something. He looks and looks, and scrapes the trees with his butcher knife, and snaps the grass like pipe-stems, and breaks the leaves a-snapping like Californy wolves.

  “What’s all this, boy,” I asks.

  “Putrefactions,” says he, looking smart; “putrefactions, or I’m a nigger.”

  “La, Mister Harris,” says the lady, “putrefactions! why did the leaves and the trees smell badly?”

  “Smell badly, marm!” says Black Harris; “would a skunk stink if he was froze to stone? No, marm, this child didn’t know what putrefaction was, and young Sublette’s varsion wouldn’t shine nohow, so I chips a piece out of a tree and puts it into my trap-sack, and carries it in safe to Laramie. Well, old Captain Stewart, a clever man was that, though he was an Englishman, he comes along next spring, and a Dutch doctor chap was along too. I shows him the piece I chipped out of the tree, and he called it a putrefaction too; and so, marm, if that wasn’t a putrefied peraira, what was it? For this hoss doesn’t know, and he knows fat cow from poor bull, anyhow.”

  Well, old Black Harris is gone under too, I believe. He went to the Parks trapping with a Vide Poche Frenchman, who shot him for his bacca and traps. Darn them Frenchmen, they’re no account any way you lays your sight. (“Any bacca in your bag, Bill? this beaver feels like chawing.”)

  The Injin Killed Me Dead

  Oncet I wus settin’ traps in the Yellerstone country when I wus treed by a pack of tarnally hungry timber wolves. To save myself I shinnied up a tall tree, the varmints below me makin’ a divilish racket, howlin’, growlin’, yawpin’, lookin’ up at me, waitin’ for this child to come down to be made a meat of. Waal, I warn’t in no mood to be wolf meat an’ just set thar on the top-most branch, waitin’ for the cussed critters to go away. Waal, arter ’bout two hours, they gave up an’ vamoosed. I warn’t wroth to see ’em go an wus jest ’bout to climb down when the whole damn pack of ’em came back—snarlin’, an’ yawpin’, an’ barkin’ as before. Waal, sez I to myself, I’ll jest set up hyar a spell longer till the varmints get tired of the game, but I hadn’t larned yet how savvy them Yellerstone wolves can be, cause the dratted critters had brung with ’em just ’bout the most humongous beaver ever to chaw my tree down. When I seed that beaver, I don’t mind tellin’ you, I got skeered. An’ with good reason for the consarned thing started right away to chomp an’ chew an’ gnaw away at the trunk. An’ he warn’t slothful either. That dad-burn beaver war gnawin’ with a rare fury as if he knowed that I had his dead pappy’s plew in my possible bag. Hang me up for bear meat if he didn’t chomp plumb through the trunk in less’n three minnites. Down the tree comes this child, traps, possibles, branches—the whole shebang. The whole pack of wolves war ’pon me in a second. It’s a sad story, gennelmen, for the varmints ripped me apart into bite-sized chunks an’, if yer pardon the pun, wolfed me down, leavin’ nary a bone.

  As to the weather, gents, in winter it’s so cold down in Ute country, that the hump meat freezes in yer stummick an’ the boudins inside your bowels turn to ice. Thar’s some folks had to wait until spring to go to the privy an’ ease their ’ntestines, if thar was a privy, which, natcherally thar wus not. Waal, in Febbr’y of 1830 it snowed down thar for seventy days w’thout stoppin’, an’ the snow piled up seventy feet high, an’ all the bufflers in the valleys froze to death an war buried unner the snow. When spring came, all I had to do war to tumble ’em into the Great Salt Lake, an’ I had pickled buffler ‘nuff for myself an’ the whole fur brigade for years.

  You arx me ’bout the tightest spot this child found himse’f in as far as the red divils are concerned. I’ll give it to you straight. I war in Blackfoot country. Them Blackfeet don’t shine for me, an’ the feelin’ is recipercated. ’Bout 1838, arter the last big rendyvous at Pierre’s Hole, I was jumped by six of them red fiends. They war on horseback, an’ so was I. This hoss had only one of them newfangled Colts to fight with, a six-shot gewgaw. Waal, I start blazin’ away at ’em an’ with every shot I killed one of them varmints, five ’n all, but thar wus still one of ’em left.

  We wus nearin’ the edge of a deep an’ wide gorge, an’ a fall to the bottom meant sartin death. I turned my hoss suddint an’ the Injin was upon me. We both fired to once, an’ both horses war killed. We now engaged in a han’-to-han’ fight with Bowie knives. He wus a powerful Injin—tallest I ever seed. It was a long, desp’rate scrape. One moment I had the best of him, an’ the next the infernal cuss had the upperhan’. It went on an’ on, knife, tooth, an’ claw. You arx me, stranger, how it came out—badly, very badly. The Injin killed me!

  Heaven According to Old Gabe

  Is thar a hell? Is thar a heaven? This hoss don’t know. Howsomever, if this paw’s child had his wish, I’d make ye a proper heaven, wagh! Not one of ’em state fixin’s heavens whar folks sit on clouds in thar nightshirts a-playin’ harps. That kind of heaven ain’t the holler tree fur this beaver nohow. It don’t shine. This child’s heaven is like Brown’s Hole, the Popo Agie, an’ the Bayou Salade, all rolled into one at rendeevoo time, wagh!

  This child’s heaven is akin to a valley, with grass ass-high, green as em’rals, with a river plumb across, an’ its water pure awardente fur the fellers to dip thar tincups into it, agin an’ agin, an’ be joyful. An’ no matter how much they swaller, that Ole Touse never quits a-flowin’. An’ close by thar’s a mountain, nigh upon a mile high, an’ sculp me, if it ain’t made up totally of twists of ’baccer, an’ it never gits smaller an’ the pilgrims can have as many chaws as they want, in all eternity. Wagh!

  An’ buffler’s thar by the thousands, an’, doggone, no matter how many of ’em you shoots down, the herd’s never gittin’ less. As soon as one is down, thar’s ’nuther comin’ up, weedlike, by ned! An’ ev’ry one of them fellers has his Jack Hawken fusee, an’ they all shoot plumb center, whoopee! Thar’s fun everlastin’ runnin’ meat, an’ no one’s ever hungry, but ev’ry pilgim has his meatbag full—nothin’ but fat cow, an’ tender buffler tongues, an’ sweet roasted boudins to tickle a man’s ribs. Wagh!

  Thar’s never any hard doin’s, an’ beaver hats never go out of style, an thar’s beaver a-plenty, fightin’ each other fur a chance to git themselves trapped, an’ it’s ten dollars a plew, old-un or kitten, prime plews all. An’ no matter how many of the critters ye trap, thar’s allus more a-waitin’ thar turn. An’ longside that Tangleleg River thar’s tepees ‘sfa
r as the eye kin see, full o’ squaws awaitin’ the mountain men’s pleasure—wanton like minks, Shyan, an’ Sioux, an’ ’Pache, an’ Yute—all plump an’ pretty, with shiny, greased faces, a-cookin’, an’ a-beadin’, an a-tannin’, with that lovin’ look in thar eyes, whoopee! They’re virgins, all of ’em, an’, hang me up fur b’ar meat, ef they’re not turnin’ back into virgins, agin an’ agin’, arter ev’ry set-to, hurraw! An’ ef a feller gits plumb tired of all them squaws, thar’s the Mexican señoritas—“Ay, bonita, mi corazón, let’s you an’ me fandango.” I tellee, old pard, that’s heaven fur sure. Wagh!

  An’ ev’ry day thar’s a rendevoo, makin’ all other rendevoos prior tharto look like Sunday school doin’s. Whoopee! Nigh upon a thousand beaver men, mountain men, pilgrims, bushways, traders, mangeurs de lard, Injuns, squaws an’ squawmen, hosses, mules, dawgs—all a-yellin’, singin’, barkin’, neighin’, hollerin’, screechin’ like the devils! The fellers all in thar finest beaded an’ quilled outfits, the squaws in all thar foofaraw—I tellee, no better sight fur sore eyes, “enfant de garce!” as the Frogs say. Thar’s nothin’ too rich fur my blood, wagh!

  An’ ev’rywhar boys swappin’ stories, takin’ horns of red up-risin’, chawin on thar ’baccer, sweet-talkin’ Injun gals, tradin’ plews fur gold an’ silver. Thar are no vide poches. All are rich. They gamble—all honest games, not a kyardsharp among ’em!

  “Ho, boys, hyar’s the deck an’ hyar’s the beaver. Who war’ set his hoss? Wagh!

  Some mountaineers gratify their dry; papoose-makers with squaw fever are a-gropin’ an’ a-squeezin, makin’ thar sloe-eyed partners squirm an’ giggle. Others take a shine to hagglin’ over foofaraw, or indoolge in a game of Injun poker. But most, like this hoss, have a hankerin’ fur sports. I tellee, this coon loves to cut his wolf loose, by ned! An’ what’s the greatest sport? I tellee. It’s fightin’. Us trappers love it. The Injuns love it. The coureurs de bois love it. So we grabs our weapons, an’ the bucks put on thar war paint, an’ at it we go! This hoss is a man-killer, never curried below his knees, a two-legged airthquake an’ prime specimen of chain-lightnin’. I tellee, stranger, this beaver’s the champeen eye-gouger an’ hair-lifter of the Rockies, whoopee! So we lift topknots an’ whip out our butcher knives an’ wade into liver up to the Green River. So we cuts throats, an’ shoot, an’ stab, an’ hack with tommyhawks, an’ arrers, an’ pistols, but it’s all friendly-like, an’ no hard feelin’s. Jest good fun, doee hyar? Come evenin’, those who have gone under, git up agin, eyeballs pop back into thar sockets, teeth sprout again, skulps grow back on bleedin’ skulls. Trappers an’ Injuns set around the fire, smoke the pipe, take a swig of snakehead whiskey, an’ brag about thar great deeds. Come mornin’, all start fightin’ agin, wallowin’ in blood up to thar armpits, amoosin’ themselves with manly sports. It shines, wagh!

  I tellee, stranger, arter this hoss has chewed his last plug of ’baccer, that’s the kind o’ heaven he’d take a shine to, not to a psalmsingin’, hippercrit preacherman’s paradise, but a real man’s heaven, wagh!

  Damn Good Shootin’

  Four grizzled mountain men sat hunkered down around their campfire—Jim Bridger, Bill Jackson, Captain Ben Bonneville, and Bill Williams, the Old Tanglebeard—drinking whiskey straight from tin cups, chomping on a mess of boudins, reminiscing while spitting ambeer all over their hunting shirts. Everything was as right as right can be. The whiskey, for once, had not been adulterated, the boudins were lightly roasted, almost raw, just as they liked them, and the ’baccer was strong and muscular. Numberless buffalo were there for the taking, and the young Absaroka squaws were obliging. Yet the four trappers were a sad-looking bunch, sitting there with an expression as if they had been sucking lemons.

  “Beaver don’t shine anymore,” grumbled Old Jim. “Some dratted cuss in London invented that disgustin’ stuff they call felt to make hats of ’stead of from beaver. Beaver don’t shine no more. Wagh!”

  “Cain’t git a dollar fer a plew what usta go fer five, enfant de garce!” added the captain.

  “Beaver’s trapped out, anyhow,” said Bill Williams, “an’ trappers like us is trapped out too. Whar are they now? Gone under, by Ned, an’ the grass a-wavin’ over ’em.”

  “An their topknots wavin’ from tepee poles,” lamented Jackson. “This hoss has had enough. I’m goin’ to sell my traps to some greenhorn who hasn’t caught on yet that beaver’s gone.”

  “Gone under an’ rubbed out, Brother Beaver an’ the Montagne Man, wagh! Beaver don’t shine now, that’s sartin fur sure,” said the captain.

  “Waal,” said Old Jim, “no use whinin’ like a coyote a-howlin’ at the moon. Thar’s still sumphin fer a man to do. Thar’s still some fun to be had. This child’s headin’ fer the white man’s diggin’s to scout fer them settlers’ wagon trains.”

  “Beaver’s gone, sartinly,” Jackson added, “but Injuns ain’t. Thar’s plenty of them red fiends left, an’ they are half-froze for hair. Them pilgrims and their prairie schooners need our protection an’ got to shell out fer it.”

  “Merde! This coon ain’t goin’ to wet-nurse a bunch o’ cussed tenderfoots. I druther be gut-shot, by gar!” grumbled the Captain.

  “Durn it all!” said Jackson, “stop yer belly-achin’. Jim’s right. Thar’s a wagon trail yonder in the cottonwoods. This hoss is goin’ to scout for ’em.”

  “Don’t go, Bill,” said Old Tanglebeard, “thar’s nuthin’ there fer you but squalling kids, baby shit, an’ mollycoddlin’ the pilgrims. An’ in front of you nuthin’ but a thousand miles of rattlers an’ horny toads. You kin allus overtake ’em if you got a mind to, but stay, leastwise while thar’s whiskey in the keg.”

  “That’s a reas’nable proposition, friend. Like you said, while thar’s whiskey in the keg.”

  The four of them drank in silence, taking on quite a load.

  “We wus friends, waren’t we, Bill, an’ you, Cap, an’ you, Tanglebeard, good friends all, tried and true. Wagh!” Jim was getting just a wee bit maudlin. “Reckon it’s this child’s last rendyvous,” he went on, “jest the four of us. Pierre’s Hole, the Bayou Salade, them war the days!”

  “Pierre’s Hole, Brown’s Hole, the Popo Agie!” the captain fell into a reverie. “Le Grand Rendezvous, the stacks of pelts, the available loveliness of the Nez Percé mademoiselles, the gamblin’, the merveilleux fisticuffs, the glorious drinkin’ bouts, the horse races, the shootin’ matches! How good it was!”

  “The matches, wagh!” mused Jim, “thar wus good shootin’ then. No more, no more.”

  “Thar’s some good shots left, Jim,” said Jackson, offhandedly.

  “Tell me who. Whar’s the fellows could still do the trick we usta indulge in, shootin’ tin cups full of whiskey from each other’s heads, an’ narry a drop spilt.”

  “You an’ me, Bill, you an’ me, that’s who. We can still do it, I bet.”

  “Mayhap we could. I did it more’n oncet. This child’s hand is still stiddy like a rock. Let’s do it once more, fer old time’s sake.”

  “One more tam, enfant de garce!” exclaimed the captain. “Mille tonnères!”

  “Let’s have a few more drinks fust,” insisted Old Tanglebeard.

  “Do-ee trust me, Bill?” Bridger asked. “Ain’t you skeered?”

  “This old hoss skeered? Never! I trust you, Jim, I know ye can shoot. Harraw! I git my old Hawken, an’ you git your Kaintuck long gun, an’ we have a go at it, wagh!”

  “An’ I’ll get two new tin cups from the booshway,” volunteered Old Tanglebeard, ambling off on somewhat unsteady feet to the nearby fort.

  “You both are a leetle ivre, a wee bit drunk, Mes amis,” said the captain. “The shootin’ match, it could be peut-ětre dangereux.”

  “I can drink up an ocean of whiskey,” vowed Bridger, “an’ still hit a fly on the wing.”

  “Likker cain’t get me drunk,” boasted Jackson.

  Old Tanglebeard came back with two new shiny tin cups. Bonneville
picked out a piece of charcoal from the fire, using it to mark each cup with a black spot for a bull’s-eye. Bridger lost no time filling them with whiskey.

  “Let’s git on with it, old hoss,” said Jackson, “let’s shoot ’em off each other’s head like we usta do at the rendyvous!”

  “Have ye wiped yer barrel, Bill?” Bridger asked.

  “We’ll wipe her now.” They both withdrew their ramrods and carefully wormed their muzzle-loaders. Old Tanglebeard measured out the usual eighty paces and marked the spot for the two contestants to stand on. “Toss fer the fust shot,” he told them.

  Bridger won the toss. “If I win, I’ll git yer mule. If you win, you can have my pony.”

  “Neither’s worth a pitcher of warm spit, but it’s a deal.”

  Bridger primed and loaded his iron. “Go, take yer stand whar I marked the scratch,” Tanglebeard told Jackson, who took his position without the slightest hesitation, while the captain placed the full tin cup on his head without spilling a drop.

  “Are ye ready?” Bridger shouted.

  “Ready as a bridegroom on his wedding night,” answered Jackson, standing motionless like a gravestone.

  “Stiddy now, old hoss, stiddy,” Tanglebeard warned Bridger.

  “Ne bougez pas, mon vieux,” the captain needlessly reminded Jackson. “Don’t move, by gar!”

  Ever so slowly, Jim Bridger raised his Hawken, sighted carefully along its octagonal barrel, and let fly.

  “Hurraw! Bull’s-eye, bull’s-eye!” Old Tanglebeard shouted triumphantly as the tin cup flew high in the air, spattering him with whiskey.