Legends and Tales of the American West

by Richard Erdoes

  The shaman was up by then, hurrying to the scene of carnage. Mad with blood, screaming in his colossal fury, the stallion turned upon his master whom, in his frenzy, he no longer recognized. There was only one place of safety for the man—on the enraged animal’s back. The Mescalero vaulted onto it, his thighs and heels digging into the great horse’s flanks, his fists gripping the mane, holding on for dear life. The demon steed bucked, skydived, plunged, and reared as no other horse before. He leaped six feet into the air. He tried to sideswipe his rider, to scrape him off against some tree. The stallion rolled over on his back to crush the shaman beneath his immense weight, but the Apache was off his back in a flash and, just as swiftly, was in his seat again as soon as the Black Devil was on his feet. The stallion turned his head back as far as he could to fasten his teeth upon the bold rider, who managed to remain barely out of reach. Thus the finest rider of the Southwest and the mighty demon horse matched strength against strength, remaining in deadly combat all through the night. The Black Devil employed every trick in his repertoire in vain, as the Apache remained stuck to his back, so that man and horse fused into one and together crashed, plunged, and thundered over the trembling ground. With dawn exhaustion overcame them. They grew faint and fell. Panting, they lay side by side.

  Daylight came, and in the rays of the rising sun the Black Devil recognized his rider. Then the demon steed addressed the shaman for the second and last time with a human voice: “Master, I love you, but only an hour ago I would have torn you to pieces in my fury. This must never happen again. There has been enough killing. Whatever wrong has been done to us has been avenged a hundredfold. I know of a faraway high mesa, covered with lush grass, with a great water-hole in its center that never runs dry. There I shall end my life among my willing mares. You, my master, return to your tribe, henceforth to live in peace, rearing a family to replace the one you have lost.”

  “It shall be so,” replied the shaman.

  Snake Yarns

  A settler was driving along in his horse and buggy when a large diamondback struck his wagon tongue, which immediately began to swell up. Fortunately, the driver had his ax with him and with great presence of mind chopped the wagon tongue off at its root, thus saving the rest of his buggy. The same snake, or more likely, one of its descendants, struck a telephone pole that immediately swelled up to twice its width. People on the line complained of static noises which at times were so loud as to drown out the conversation. One customer said that the noise reminded him of the sound of a large diamondback’s rattles. One lady customer, who was constantly on the phone and who had a habit of pressing the receiver tightly against her right ear complained of pain in that particular organ, which swelled up and turned purple. That snake’s poison was very potent.

  The roadrunner is New Mexico’s state bird. Its diet consists of snake meat, particularly that of rattlesnakes. In a duel between rattler and roadrunner the bird invariably wins. Deftly evading the furiously striking fangs, the bird pecks the snake to death, devouring it with great gusto.

  A certain campesino named José got drunk every Saturday night. One time he got so very besotted that he fell down unconscious on his way home. There he was lying in the middle of the road, snoring, with his mouth wide open. A small rattlesnake slid down his throat, all the way down into his stomach, where it curled up contentedly. José was so soused that he noticed nothing. He must have been very drunk indeed.

  José awoke with a great commotion going on inside his stomach. He at once sought help from a curandera, a bruja, a witchwoman with a great reputation of being able to cure the most outlandish diseases. The curandera knew at once what was causing the commotion inside José’s body.

  “Pobrecito,” she told the bewildered patient, “you have a live culebra de cascabel inside your stomach. Listen, don’t you hear it rattle?”

  The curandera knew just what to do. She warmed up a pitcher of milk and held it close to José’s mouth. The culebra smelled the milk and instantly came up to get its share, rattlesnakes being inordinarily fond of warm milk. As soon as the rattler stuck its head out of José’s mouth, the curandera grabbed it by its neck, pulled it out of José’s gullet, and flung in into her backyard, where she kept a pet roadrunner. The bird eagerly killed the culebra and gobbled it up.

  “Amigo,” the curandera told José, “you owe me a sheep, a fat one. And stop drinking!”

  A Texas cowboy once came upon two rattlesnakes that had each other by the tail. He sat down to watch. The snakes swallowed each other up until only their heads were left. “Never saw anything like it,” the cowboy later told his friends.

  There is one nonvenomous species of snake which lives on a diet of other snakes, including rattlers. It swallows them whole, beginning at the head, being impervious to the venom.

  A Rolling Snake Gathers No Moss

  His ax on his shoulder, a young man was walking across a field toward a stand of timber to cut some wood. He heard a rustling noise and saw that he had almost stepped on a large rattlesnake. He took his ax and chopped the snake into three parts. The rattler’s head kept on moving, hissing, looking at him. Then he saw something that made the blood curdle in his veins. Out of the grass rose the snake’s wife. She was enraged because he had killed her husband. She was a full six feet long and slithering toward him at full speed. Her mouth was open, showing her big fangs dripping yellow poison. The young man threw his ax away and began running for his life, looking all the time over his shoulder to see if he was gaining on the venomous serpent. Then he noticed something that made his hair stand on end: the snake took her tail into her mouth, making herself into a hoop. It was rolling along like a wagon wheel, faster and faster. The young man ran on in a cold sweat. His teeth were chattering. No matter how fast he ran, the hoop snake kept right after him. He jumped over a brook, the snake rolled over it. He leaped over a fence, the snake leaped after. He thought he could outrace it by running uphill, but the hoop snake rolled up, up, up behind him. The young man’s lungs were about to burst. His heart was beating so fast he thought it would jump out of his chest. Blood spurted from his nostrils. His legs were giving out under him. But then, with great presence of mind, he remembered what his grandmother had once taught him—the only way to get rid of a hooper. With a last great effort he jumped to the side just as the rattler was about to bump into him, and as the living hoop passed by, he quickly jumped through it and ran in the opposite direction, the one he had come from. The snake wife was rolling so fast she couldn’t stop. The hoop rolled on and on, down a steep slope, plunging finally into the river. In that river lived the greatest catfish ever. It was at least fifteen feet long, endowed with a mouth like a gaping barn door. It took one look at the hoop snake and swallowed it whole with one bite.

  Hoop snakes are just about the worst critters a fellow can bump into, especially if they have taken a dislike to him.

  The White Snakes

  The German settlers of Missouri, Iowa, and the Dakotas tell snake stories that might be partially of European origin.

  In the last century there lived a young pioneer who had taken up his homestead of 160 acres in the new land west of the Missouri. He was very much in love with his beautiful wife, whom he cherished in every way. In the crawl space beneath his cabin two white snakes had taken up their abode. They were as white as snow and had sparkling eyes as red as rubies. The young settler had become used to these uninvited guests, and actually grew fond of them. Every evening he put out a cup of milk for them, which was always empty in the morning.

  One day the young man’s wife caught a fever, sickened, and died. Her husband was beside himself with grief and would not be consoled. He said that he wished to die too and be buried with his one and only love. As his wife’s body was laid out for a last viewing, the two white snakes suddenly crept up to the bier. One of them carried three sprigs of a special kind of sage in its mouth. The snakes placed one sprig each on the dead wife’s lips and eyes and, at once, she opened her eyes, was
breathing again, and sat up. In a short while she was well again to the excessive joy of her husband, who had not words enough to praise the white snakes that had brought his wife to life again.

  Alive she was, but a change had come over her. She no longer loved her husband but conceived a passion for their neighbor, an unmarried, unprincipled rake. The unsuspecting husband stood in the way of their wicked desires and the guilty pair resolved to kill him. One day while he was working in the field, his neighbor crept up behind him and stabbed him in the throat so that he fell down dead. The bad wife told all the folks around that her husband had died of an accident. “He stumbled and fell onto his scythe,” she said, lamenting loudly so that all pitied her. Many people came to the wake, because the young husband had been liked by all the folks in his part of the country. Among the mourners was the murderer, who said over and over again how much he had liked the dead young man who had been such an ornament to the community. So there was much weeping—genuine and pretended. While the wake was in progress the two white snakes suddenly appeared. They slithered up to the open coffin and one of the serpents placed sprigs of sage on the victim’s throat and eyes. Instantly, his death wound closed and he opened his eyes. As he came alive again, the first thing he did was point at his wife and say, “I loved and cherished her, and yet she connived at my murder.” He then pointed at his wicked neighbor, exclaiming: “My death was no accident. This man treacherously stabbed me in the throat. Behold my murderer!”

  Before those present could seize the guilty pair, the two white snakes were gliding toward them. One snake stung the wicked wife in the leg, the other struck her lover. They fell down and died in agony.

  In good time the revived young man fell in love, remarried, and raised a fine family. He died of old age, happy and contented. The white snakes survived him because their kind lives for hundreds of years. They might still be there, in the crawl space beneath the old cabin, provided it still stands.

  A Pair of Fine Boots

  This story, in many variations, is told throughout the Southwest.

  Dõna Inez was a most handsome woman, vivacious, small-waisted and high-bosomed, with sparkling eyes of black obsidian. She was married to a wealthy ranchero who owned some hundred thousand acres on which he ran several thousand longhorns. This husband of hers was also active in politics and involved in a number of businesses besides cattle raising. The marriage had been arranged between the two families concerned. The ranchero was twenty years older than Doña Inez. He was often absent on business—for days, even for weeks.

  The ranch was managed by a ramrod called Miguel, a tall, swaggering, good-looking fellow with a go-to-hell grin, gleaming teeth that seemed artificial but were not, a sweeping mustache, and luxurious sideburns. In the husband’s absence Miguel often came to the main house with its many-columned porch to discuss ranch business with Doña Inez. He usually stayed for dinner and a glass of wine or a copita of aguardiente. Their discussions of ranch business often lasted for a considerable time.

  Whenever Miguel went up to the big house to make his reports, he dressed with great care. He combed his mustache, donned a fine silk shirt, and put on his special visiting boots. His pride and joy, these boots were hand-tooled, richly carved with the images of eagles and roses, and outlined with tiny bits of silver. Of solid silver also were his jingling spurs, equipped with enormous rowels. Thus ensplendored from head to toe, the eternal cigarillo dangling from his lips, Miguel set out to discuss business with Doña Inez. He always chose the finest-looking horse for these visits, with a saddle and bridle to match the magnificence of his clothing.

  Riding from his own place to the big house, Miguel had to cross an arroyo that was at all times pervaded with a foul, oppressive odor, the stench, it was said, of a giant diamondback, La Reina de las Cascabelas, the Queen of All Rattlesnakes. Fabulous and frightening stories were rife about this monstrous serpent that had not been seen for years but was believed to be still living in a cave deep inside the arroyo. Wise folks made a wide detour around this evil place, but not Miguel, who was not afraid of any snake, however large.

  One night, having taken care of ranch business with Doña Inez while her husband was away, Miguel mounted his noble steed to return to his own dwelling. In the darkness the horse stepped into a gopher hole and broke its left foreleg. There was nothing to do but put the animal out of its misery. Not given to hesitation, Miguel unholstered his six-gun and shot the horse between the eyes, not without profound regret. He took off the ornate saddle and, sadly, continued on foot. In the uncertain light of an early dawn, Miguel made out what seemed to be a tree trunk and sat down upon it to rest. This was a fatal mistake because the tree trunk turned out to be the Queen of Cascabelas, about a hundred years old, some fifteen feet long, with a back the width of a dog’s, and very much alive. The mammoth diamondback reared up into a coil and struck, its enormous fangs penetrating Miguel’s wonderfully ornamented boots, stabbing into the ramrod’s ankle. Miguel’s leg swelled up instantly and turned blue. As the sun rose, Miguel died, unshriven and unconfessed. Vaqueros found his body with the odor of rattlesnake still pervading the air all around.

  At Doña Inez’s suggestion, her husband gave Miguel a magnificent funeral. He ordered for his deceased ramrod an impressive headstone with the carved likeness of a cowboy boot encircled by a snake, held up by an angel, the whole surmounted by a fluttering dove. As was fitting, Miguel was laid to rest in his finest charro costume, but with his plain instead of his ornamented visiting boots on. These had been appropriated, with all the vaqueros’ consent, by his best friend, Maclovio. The boot that had been struck by the monster cascabela had burst at the seam because of the dead man’s leg having swelled up enormously, and even so it had taken two strong men to pull it off. The busted seam was easily repaired. Maclovio was happy with his newly acquired fancy footwear.

  Now this Maclovio succeeded Miguel as the ranch’s manager. He too was tall and handsome, and had an extraordinary set of gleaming teeth that he exposed in a hell-for-leather grin. It was not long before he also went regularly up to the big house to discuss the state of the cattle and related matters with Doña Inez in her husband’s absence. Like his predecessor, Maclovio also spruced up before these visits—combed his mustache and put on his dead friend’s gorgeous boots. On one of these visits Maclovio had taken his boots off. Why he had done such a thing nobody could imagine. Taking his leave, Maclovio put on his boots again with a flourish and great force. Doing this, he let out a cry of pain and jerked the right boot off again. Looking at his ankle, he saw imbedded in it one of the huge fangs of the Queen of Rattlers. It had remained, undetected up to that moment, stuck in the boot. The fang still contained a great deal of deadly venom. Maclovio’s leg turned first yellow, then green, and finally black. It swelled up and caused Maclovio unendurable pain. In a panic Doña Inez tried to suck out the poison with her ruby lips. Now Inez had been created, by god or the devil, depending on how one looked at it, with an absolutely perfect body, the body of a goddess made for love, a body like those one admires on the canvases of Titian or Goya. It had only one single small blemish—a rotten tooth, invisible, far in the back of her sensuous mouth. The baneful toxin found this weak spot. Doña Inez and Maclovio expired in each other’s arms. The patrón sold his ranch and moved elsewhere. Don Ignazio, the village priest, saw in this calamity the finger of God. Now nobody dares to go anywhere near that arroyo in which the monster snake is supposed to live, or to have lived, because all this happened a long time ago and the Queen of all Rattlesnakes must surely be dead by now. But one never knows. It is better to be careful.

  According to experts on the subject, the fang of even a very large diamond-back cannot penetrate a thick cowboy boot. Also, a single fang can no longer do much harm. The severed head of a recently killed rattlesnake, on the other hand, can still bite and inject a lethal dose of venom.

  The Young Man Who Wanted to Be Snakebit

  There was a young man whom everybody c
alled Whiskey Johnny on account of his fondness for strong drink. He lived in a tiny settlement at the edge of the wilderness. A single road connected it to the rest of the world. It was hardly more than a deer track. The French were on the warpath. The whole country swarmed with hostile Indians. The settlement was cut off and supplies were running low. Strong liquors were not to be had anywhere, not even at the tavern. The hamlet had neither school nor church, but it had a doctor in residence who also doubled as apothecary, leech, barber, and tooth-puller. It was rumored that he kept a keg of whiskey for medicinal use. Whiskey Johnny sauntered into the physician’s house, slammed two bits on the table and said, “Give me a drink!”

  “This whiskey is for curative purposes only,” said the doctor, “and for emergencies, such as snakebite.”

  The next day Whiskey Johnny appeared again, with a swollen cheek, his head swathed in a dirty towel. “This is an emergency, Doctor,” he stammered, “my rotten tooth is driving me mad. I can’t stand the pain. Give me a shot of the hard stuff!”