Jackson picked up the cup and stared at the hole the ball had made, plumb center through the bull’s eye. “Purty, purty,” he remarked, “but nary good enough, old chap.”
“What didje say, not good ’nuff, by Ned!” Bridger shouted, getting wrothy. “What the divil didje mean with yer consarned nary good ’nuf?!”
“Yer spilled the likker, Jim, an’ nary a drop left in the keg. That’s very wasteful.”
“How in hell kin I shoot the bulls-eye outer yer cup w’thout spillin’ some of that whiskey?”
“I’ll show yer, Jim.” Jackson took the other cup, scraped up some mud from the ground, rolled it up into a little ball and filled the cup’s handle with it. “Thar,” he said, “this here mud in the handle is our bull’e-eye. This child’ll shoot it out w’thout spilling any of that whiskey.”
“I never seed it done that way,” said Bridger, “but it’s all the same to me. Whang away an’ see if I flinch.”
Gingerly, with great care, Captain Bonneville placed the full-to-the-brim cup upon Bridger’s head. Bridger stood at his mark as calm and unruffled as a cool spring morning. “Put her more sidewise, Ben, to give me a fair shot,” Jackson called out, and the captain adjusted the cup to Bill’s liking. Jackson raised his Kaintuck iron and aimed. Bridger’s eye never blinked. Bill pulled the trigger. There was a flash, a puff of smoke, the crack of the old rifle. Bridger remained standing as if carved from stone. The cup had not moved. The ball had gone clear through the handle without touching it.
“Careful with the likker!” Jackson shouted.
Gently, Jim took the cup down. It was still full to the brim. The four men examined it. “Damn good shootin’!” said Old Tanglebeard, and all agreed. Jim Bridger raised the cup and took a sip: “Here’s to the old days when beaver war plenty and plews war five dollers apiece.” He half-emptied the cup and passed it to Bill Jackson. “Thar, have a sip, yer old wood-tick.”
“An’ here’s to the free trappers who’ve gone under,” said Bill, draining the proffered tin cup with one gulp. Tanglebeard and the captain did likewise. “The whiskey’s gone,” said Bill at last, “an’ I’ve got to ride herd on them pilgrims. You, Jim, kin keep yer pony.”
“Waal, old hoss, it won’t be long now an’ me too will have to go back to the white man’s diggin’s. I don’t like thinkin’ ’bout it an’ I hate to see yer go.”
“I hate it too, durn it. Take keer of yerself.”
They shook hands. And then Bill Jackson got on top of his old lame mule and the two of them ambled off into the sunset. Bill looked back but once, lifting his hand in a last farewell. The other three, at the end of their own trail, waved back.
Uncle Joe the Humorist
“Uncle Joe” Meek was a famous mountain man, muscular, handsome, with a luxuriant beard, a jungle of hair, and dark, flashing eyes. He was absolutely fearless, a man who could stare down a grizzly and take on three enemy braves at the same time. Like “Old Gabe” Bridger, Meek was a mighty storyteller, with a great sense of humor. When beaver gave out, Meek became a guide nursing pilgrims along the newly opened Oregon Trail. He eventually settled down as a farmer, dying in Oregon at the age of sixty-five. Like Kit Carson and Jim Beckwourth, Uncle Joe dictated his life’s story to a writer, Frances Fuller Victor, who was a better writer than many others, because she managed to preserve the flavor of Meek’s way of expressing himself.
On the Yellowstone, Hawkins and myself were coming up the river in search of camp, when we discovered a very large bar on the opposite bank. We shot across, and thought we had killed him, fur he laid quite still. As we wanted to take some trophy of our victory to camp, we tied our mules and left our guns, clothes and everything except our knives and belts, and swum over to whar the bar war. But instead of being dead, he sprung up as we come near him, and took after us. Then you ought to have seen two naked men run! It war a race for life, and a close one, too. But we made the river first. The bank war about fifteen feet high above the water, and the river ten or twelve feet deep; but we didn’t halt. Overboard we went, the bar after us, and in the stream about as quick as we war. The current war very strong, and the bar war about halfway between Hawkins and me. Hawkins war trying to swim downstream faster than the current war carrying the bar, and I was a trying to hold back. You can reckon that I swam! Every moment I felt myself being washed into the yawning jaws of the mighty beast, whose head war up the stream, and his eyes on me. But the current war too strong for him, and swept him along as fast as it did me. All this time we war looking for some place to land where the bar could not overtake us. Hawkins war the first to make shore, unknown to the bar, whose head was still upstream; and he set up such a whooping and yelling that the bar landed too, but on the opposite side. I made haste to follow Hawkins, who landed on the side of the river we started from, either by design or good luck; and then we traveled back a mile to whar our mules war left—a bar on one side of the river, and two bares on the other.
Ba’tiste’s Nightmare
“Bien, excusez, Monsieur, you must know first place, de ‘Medicine Bag’ is mere humbug, he is no medicine in him—no pills; he is someting mysterieux. Some witchcraft, suppose. You must know that tous les sauvages have such thing about him, pour for good luck. Ce n’est que hocus pocus, to keep off witch, suppose. You must know, ces articles can nevare be sold, you see dey cannot be buy. So my friend here, Monsieur Cataline, who have collect all de curiosités des pay sauvages, avait made strong applique to me for to get one of dese medicine bags for his Collection curieux et I had, pour moiměme, le curiosité extreme for to see des quelques choses ces étranges tings was composé.
“I had learn much of dese strange custom, and I know when de Ingin die, his medicine-bags is buried wis him.
“Monsieur, so it never can be got by any boday. I hap to tink wen we was live in de mous of Yellowstone, now is time, and I avait said Monsieur Cataline, que pensez vous! One of de chiefs of des Knisteneux has die. Il avait une medicine-bag magnifique, et extremement curieux; il est of de wite wolf skin, ornament et stuff wid tousand tings wich we shall see, ha? Alors, suppose Monsieur Cataline, I have seen him just now. I av see de medicine-bag laid on his breast avec his hands crossed ovare it. Que pensez-vous? I can get him to-night, ha? ’Tis no harm—’tis no steal—he is dead, ha? ‘But, would you not be afraid, Ba’tiste, (said Monsieur Cataline), to take from dis poor chap his medicines on which he has rest all his hopes in dis world, and de world to come?’ Pardon, je n’ai peur, non, Monsieur, ne rien de peur. I nevare saw ghost I have not fear, mais, suppose, it is not right, exact; but I have grand disposition pour for to obligé my friend, et le curiosité moiměme pour to see wat it is made of; suppose to-night I shall go, ha? ‘Well, Ba’tiste, I have no objection (says Monsieur Cataline) if your heart does not fail you, for I will be very glad to get him, and make you a handsome present for it, but I think it will be a cold and gloomy kind of business.’ Nevare mind, Monsieur Cataline, (I said) provide he is well dead! I had see les Knisteneux when dey ave bury de chap—I ave watch close, and I ave see how de medicine-bags was put. It was fix pretty tight by some cord around his bellay, and den some skins was wrap many times around him—he was put down in de hole dug for him, and den de hole was to be fill up; now was de only time possible for de medicine-bag, ha? I ave very pretty little wife dat times, Assineboine squaw, and we sleep in one of de stores inside of de fort, you know, ha?
“So you may imagine, I was all de day perplex to know how I should go, somebody may watch—suppose he may not be dead? not quite dead, ha? nevare mind—le jour was bien long, et le nuit dismal! Oh, by gar it was dismal! plein of apprehension, mais je n’avais pas peur! So some time after midnights, when it was bout right time pour go, I made start, very light, so my wife must not hear. Oh diable l’imagination! quel solitude! well, I have go very well yet, I am pass de door, and I am pass de gate, and I am at lengts arrive at de grave! B’atiste, courage, courage! Now is de times come. Well, suppose I am not afraid of DEAD m
an, mais, perhaps, dese medicine-bag is give by de Grand Esprit to de Ingin for something? Possibe! I will let him keep it. I shall go back! No, Monsieur Cataline will laughs at me. I must have him, ma foi, mon courage! so I climb down very careful into de grave, mais, as I descend, my heart rise up into my mouse! Oh mon Dieu! Courage, B’atiste, courage! ce n’est pas l’homme dat I fear, mais le medicine, le medicine. So den I ave lift out de large stones, I ave put out my head in de dark, and I ave look all de contré round; ne personne, ne personne—no bodé in sight! Well, I ave got softly down on my knees ovare him and when I ave unwrap de robe, I ave all de time say, ‘pardon, courage!’ until I ad got de skins all off de bodé; I ave den take hold de cord to untie, mais!! two cold hands seize me by de wrists and I was just dead—I was petrifact in one instant! Oh, St. Esprit! I could just see in de dark two eyes glaring like fire sur upon me! and den, it spoke to me, ‘Who are you?’ (Sacré vengeange! it will not do to deceive him, no,) ‘I am Ba’tiste, poor Ba’tiste!’ ‘Then you are surely mine, (as he clenched both arms tight around my boday) lie still! Ba’tiste.’ Oh, holy Vierge! St. Esprit! O mon Dieu! I could not breathe! miserable! Je suis perdu! oh pourquoi have I been such a fool to get into dese cold, cold arms! ‘Ba’tiste? (drawing me some tighter and tighter) do you not belong to me?’ Yes, suppose! oh diable! Oui, oui, je suis certainement perdu, lost, lost, for evare! Oh! can you not possibe let me go? ‘No, Ba’tiste, we must nevare part.’ Grand Dieu, c’est fini, finis, finis avec moi! ‘Then you do not love me anymore, Ba’tiste?’ Quel! quoi! what!! est-ce vous, Wee-ne-on-ka? ‘Yes, Ba’tiste, it is the Bending Willow who holds you, she that loves you and will not let you go. Are you dreaming, Ba’tiste?’ Oui, diable,—!”
“Well, Ba’tiste, that’s a very good story, and very well told; I presume you never tried again to get a medicine-bag?”
“Non, Monsieur, je vous assure, I was satisfy wis de mistakes dat night, pour for je crois qu’il fut l’Esprit, le Grand Esprit.”
Song of the Voyageur
Ax’ heem de nort’ win’ w’at he see
Of de Voyageur long ago,
An’ he’ll say to you w’at he say to me,
So lissen hees story well—
I see de track of hees botte sau-vage
On many a hill an’ long portage
Far far away from hees own vill-age
An’ sound of the parish bell.
I nevair can play on de Hudson Bay
Or mountain dat lie between
But I meet heem singin’ hees lonely way
The happies’ man I know—
I cool hees face as he’s sleepin’ dere
Under de star of de Red Rivière,
An’ off de home of de great white bear,
I’m seein’ his dog traineau.
De women an’ chil’ren runnin’ out
Of de wigwam of de Cree—
De leetle papoose dey laugh an’ shout
When de soun’ of hees voice dey hear—
De oldes’ warrior of de Sioux
Kill hese’f dancin’ de w’ole night t’roo,
An’ de Blackfoot girl remember too
De ole tam voyageur.
CHAPTER 6
Timber!
The western logger has always been a tantalizing subject for legends. All the stories about the bold, shaggy-bearded lumberjacks finally became concentrated in one supernatural figure—Paul Bunyan, the loggers’ demigod. Some say that the real Paul Bunyan was Paul Pierre Bonhomme, a giant Canuck axman and fearless leader among Papineau’s rebels against the British Crown in Canada’s year of trouble—1837. But like Bunyan, Bonhomme is merely a figment of the imagination. Paul Bunyan lives on in the minds of Canadians and Americans, young and old. The fact that he never existed, except in mythology, matters not at all.
Paul Bunyan and His Little Blue Ox
Paul Bunyan is an oddity among the legendary frontier characters because, like Deadwood Dick, he never existed. No matter how outright fabulous and fairy tale-like some of the stories told about David Crockett, Mike Fink, or Doc Holliday, they all were at some time alive and walked the earth, while the King of Lumberjacks was entirely the product of a writer’s imagination. He also was different from the other, once living, western heroes in being something of a newcomer, first mentioned in a Detroit publication of 1910. Tales of giant axmen of the Bunyan type seem to have originated in Canada. There are even claims that anecdotes about a herculean Canuck logger named Bonjon had inspired the first Paul Bunyan stories. But there is no proof of this. Though Bunyan’s home grounds were the logger camps of northern Canada, he jumps the Mississippi, drives his oxen across the Bering Strait, and gives birth to Puget Sound by uprooting a giant redwood tree. Paul Bunyan is a true westerner.
Paul Bunyan was big like hell, fought like hell, and lied like hell. He was as tall as a redwood tree. He was so strong that he could pick up an ox between his thumb and forefinger. He made himself an ax handle out of a whole pine tree trunk. He chopped a ten-foot branch off an oak tree and used it for a toothpick. He once uprooted the biggest tree that ever was with his bare hands. The hole where the roots had been filled up again with water, and that became Puget Sound. Paul was a great jumper. He could jump over the Mississippi River and back again without ever touching ground. Paul loved to dance. He danced so hard he caused a number of major earthquakes. He once slipped and fell into Lake Superior, which made it spill over. This created the great flood that covered the states of Wisconsin and Minnesota, as well as the province of Ontario.
One day, absentmindedly, Paul Bunyan put one of his loggers in his pocket and then forgot about him. The pour soul nearly starved to death before Paul rummaged around in his pocket for a chaw of ’baccer.
Paul cut his hair and beard only once every three years. After he had his barbering, there was usually a mountain of hair left, as big as a haystack. Paul always combed it out and, on the average, got about fifty pounds of salt pork, a hundred pounds of beans, and ten gallons of molasses out of it.
Paul had an appetite to match his size. Once, leading a tote team to his campsite, he came to a large lake. It was growing dark. The sky was covered with clouds and there was no moon. They decided not to go on but to camp right there by the lake. Paul and his lumberjacks had worked up an elephant-sized hunger. Luckily, they were also carrying a year’s supply of food with them and Paul dumped all those beans and the salt pork into the lake. He built fires all around the lake until the water was boiling, turning the whole huge pool into bean soup. Paul and his loggers drank up the lake and it took years until it was full again.
The camp’s cooking oven covered an acre of ground and the frying pan was just as big. When pancakes were called for, the cook lit a whole forest fire underneath the pan and then had some of the boys tie the side of a hog to the bottom of their snowshoes, having them skate all over the pan to grease it up.
Everything having to do with Paul Bunyan was larger than life. He had a daughter called Peg who could chop down the biggest tree with one cut and break it to pieces over her knee for kindling. His horse was so big that an ordinary fellow needed a six-story fireman’s ladder to mount it, provided Paul let him.
Even the bugs in Paul Bunyan’s camp were considerably bigger than other bugs. Once, one of the loggers was working high up in a tree when a bunch of mosquitoes got right under the seat of his pants, lifted him clear off the branch he was sitting on, and flew away with him over the treetops. It might have gone badly with that fellow if that cloud of mosquitoes had not come down on a fat steer. That gave him the chance to get off without falling to his death. He hit one of those cussed insects a solid whack with his ax and the darn critter bit a good-sized chunk out of the blade. When that bunch of mosquitoes finally got off the steer, there was nothing left of the poor beast but a heap of bones. The mosquitoes then settled down on some tree stumps, picking their teeth with meat skewers. Paul had heard that in Africa they had man-sized bumblebees whose favorite food was mosquitoe
s. Paul at once ordered a boatload of these bumblers, but it turned out that the bees and the mosquitoes took a shine to each other, producing offspring of mosquito-bees with stingers at both ends. Paul promptly sent for a passel of special sixteen-legged, thirty-two eyed spiders whose favorite food consisted of bumblebee-mosquitoes, but these finicky critters preferred to gobble whole oxen. Paul sold the stingers of those rambuctious insects to the army as bayonets.
One day Paul Bunyan was lying down in the sun to get a little rest. A lumberjack passing by thought he saw a large bullfrog jumping and dancing on Paul’s bare chest. “What’s that bullfrog adoin’ dancin’ and jumpin’ up and down on you?” the fellow inquired. “That ain’t no bullfrog,” answered Paul, “it’s only one of those goddam cussed fleas!”
Paul had a pet catfish that followed him wherever he went. But that fish came to a sad end. It accidentally fell into the Big Onion River and drowned.
Paul had an ox, a rather large beast that grew two feet every time Paul looked at it. It was called Babe, though some remember it as Benny. These folks are wrong. The name was definitely Babe. One morning, when Babe was still only a bull calf, the loggers saw a big barn wandering into camp. It was the calf, having outgrown the barn and walking away with it, carrying it on its back.
Babe was known as Paul’s Little Blue Ox of the Woods. He measured twelve ax handles betweeen his eyes and weighed more than all the fish that ever got away. Babe saved Paul a lot of time and labor. Paul used to hitch him to hundred-acre plots of forest, one plot at a time. As he dragged these chunks of timberland along, Babe was driven right to the riverbank. There Paul cut the timber off, just as if he were shearing sheep, and then floated the logs down the Little Gimlet River.
Legends and Tales of the American West Page 18