“A toothache is no emergency. My whiskey is for snakebite only.”
Soon after, Whiskey Johnny appeared again, limping pitifully, a bloody rag wrapped around his left leg. “This is truly an emergency. The ax slipped and went into my shin. Whiskey, for pity’s sake!”
“A superficial wound,” said the doctor, “this is no emergency either. Whiskey is for snakebite. How often do I have to repeat it?”
A few days later, as he passed a spot called Rattlesnake Hill because it harbored a den of those venomous reptiles, the physician noticed Whiskey Johnny, barefoot and with his pants legs rolled up over his knees, madly stomping through the grass and heather.
“Johnny, Johnny,” cried the doctor, “what do you think you’re doing?”
“What I’m doing, you damned old fool,” Whiskey Johnny shouted back. “Can’t you see that I’m trying to get snakebit?”
The Peg-Leg Cat
Jacob Schutz, the hunter of the Great White Hart, owned a cat. No ordinary cat would do for him. As Jacob was a mighty hunter among men, so his tomcat, Tiger, was a mighty hunter among felines. No run-of-the-mill barnyard tabby was he, hunting for mice and rats in kitchen and cellar. Tiger was a fearful outsized member of the whiskered tribe, the offspring of a real wildcat and some lovesick grimalkin. His mewing was more like a cougar’s roar, his claws terrifying curved daggers. So fierce was he that none but Jacob dared to come near him, and then only with his leather mittens on. Even Jacob’s huge black dog, Wacker, beat a hasty retreat when faced with this formidable feline. This mighty puss disdained the ordinary diet of the peaceful mouser. Staying out in the forest most of the time, even in the coldest winter, Tiger consumed only what he himself had caught—squirrels, gophers, rabbits, groundhogs, and such like. Birds above a certain size (he ignored the smaller ones) were snatched out of midair. Likewise the pike from the stream.
Once Tiger had been out of sight for many days, vanished without a trace. “He’s met his match in a catamount or lynx,” thought Jacob, but he stumbled upon Tiger with a foreleg caught in a bear trap. He was in the process of biting it off and had almost succeeded. The leg could not be saved. It had been gnawed through until only shreds of sinew and muscle remained. Jacob released Tiger from the trap. The feral cat sensed that the feral man was trying to help him. He allowed Jacob to take him home. Hunched before the fireplace, the ravenous Tiger accepted a proffered chunk of venison, for once eating something he had not caught himself. While he devoured the meat, Jacob whittled a wooden leg for him. It was not easy to figure out how to fasten the artificial limb to the stump. In the end, Jacob tied wooden leg and stump together with wet rawhide. As the hide dried and shrank, the peg leg remained fixed in place as if welded to the stump. For extra measure Jacob also fashioned a sort of harness that bound the artificial limb to Tiger’s body as well. Happy to end his enforced stay in Jacob’s rude cabin, the tom went thumping along, seemingly well satisfied. He purred, sounding like a dozen grinding stones. Then he sauntered off into the forest, taking up his accustomed life, obviously doing all right. Waxing fat and sleek, he soon seemed to be his old self again. Soon word spread throughout the region about this remarkable peg-legged animal.
On one of his infrequent forays to the village for provisions, Jacob ran into an old acquaintance who inquired, “It wonders me, friend, how does it go with thine Kater?”
“Ach, sehr gut, very well, better than afore.”
“And he can hunt wiss his Holz Bein, his peg leg? How does he catch his prey?”
“Ach, friend, I vil tell you. I saw him de other day catch a rabbit viss one paw, like so, and hit him aufn Kopp, beat its brain out, viss his wooden leg!”
CHAPTER 16
Mostly Lies
And here is proof, if proof be needed, that the American frontier produced some of the biggest liars in the world.
Somebody in My Bed
I just dropped in at a comfortable-looking inn, where I concluded to remain a day or two. After a good substantial meal, I lit a “York County Principle” (the like of which sell in these regions at the rate of four for a penny), and seated myself in the ring formed around the barroom stove. There was a brawny butcher, the effeminate taylor, a Yankee fiddler, two horse dealers, a speculator, a blackleg, the village Esculapius, and “the captain,” who in consequence of being able to live on his means, was a person of no small importance, and therefore allowed to sit before the firestove with the poker to stir the fire—a mark of respect granted ONLY to persons of standing.
Yarn after yarn had been spun and the hour for retiring had arrived—the landlord was dozing behind his bar,—and the spirit of the conversation was beginning to wane when the doctor whispered to me that if I would pay attention, he would “topp off” with a good one.
“I believe, Captain,” said the doctor, “I never told you about my adventure with a woman at my boardinghouse, when I was attending the lecture?”
“No, let’s hear it,” replied the individual addressed, who was a short, flabby, fat man of about fifty, with a highly nervous temperament, and a very red face.
“At the time I attended the lectures, I boarded at a house in which there were no females but the landlady and the old colored cook—” (Here the doctor made a slight pause, and the captain, by way of requesting him to go on, said “Well.”)
“I often felt the want of female society to soften the severe labors of deep study, and dispel the ennui to which I was subject—”
“Well,” said the captain.
“But as I feared that forming acquaintances among the ladies might interfere with my studies. I avoided them all—”
“Well.”
“One evening after listening to a long lecture of physical anatomy, and after dissecting a large negro, fatigued in body and mind, I went to my lodgings—”
“Well,” said the captain.
“I went into the hall, took a large lamp, and went directly to my room, it being then after one o’clock—”
“Well.”
“I placed the light upon the table, and commenced undressing. I had hardly got my coat off when my attention was attracted to a frock, and a quantity of pettycoats lying on a chair near the bed—”
“Well,” said the captain, who began to show signs that he was getting deeply interested.
“And a pair of beautiful small shoes and stockings on the floor. Of course I thought it strange, and was about to retire—but then I thought it was my room, I had at least the right to know who was in my bed—”
“Exactly,” nodded the captain. “Well!”
“So I took the light, went softly to the bed and, with a trembling hand, drew aside the curtain. Heavens! What a sight! A young girl—I should say an angel, of about eighteen, was in there asleep—”
“Well!” said the captain, giving his chair a hitch.
“As I gazed upon her, I thought that I had never witnessed anything more beautiful from underneath a little nightcap, rivaling the snow in whiteness, curled a stray ringlet over a neck and shoulders of alabaster—”
“Well!” said the excited captain, giving his chair another hitch.
“Never did I look upon a bust more perfectly formed. I took hold of the coverlid—”
“Well!” said the captain, throwing his right leg over his left.
“And softly pulled it down—”
“Well!” said the captain, betraying the utmost excitement.
“To her waist—”
“Well!” said the captain, dropping the poker and renewing the position of his legs.
“She had a nightdress, buttoned up before, but softly I opened the first two buttons—”
“Well!” said the captain, wrought to the highest pitch of excitement.
“And then, ye gods! What a sight to gaze upon—a Hebe—pshaw! words fail me. Just then—”
“Well!!!” said the captain, hitching his chair right and left, and squirting his tobacco juice against the stove that it fairly fizzed again.
<
br /> “I thought I was taking a mean advantage of her, so I covered her up, seized my coat and boots, and went and slept in another room.”
“IT’S A LIE!” shouted the excited captain, jumping up and kicking over his chair. “It’s a lie! I’ll bet up to fifty dollars that you got into the bed.”
The Weather
A tenderfoot said to an Arizona cowman: “This would be a fine country if it had water.” “So would hell,” was the reply.
Sandstorms in the Southwest can be trying. After a particularly violent one, a saddle bum was riding across the desert when, in the middle of nowhere, he came upon a bowler hat resting on the desert floor. He dismounted to pick it up and found a head under it.
“Godalmighty,” he said, “The ’Paches cut a tenderfoot’s head off, but where, in hell, is the rest of him?”
To the cowpuncher’s horror the head, which turned out to belong to an English traveler, began to talk, very politely: “I say, dear chap, would you lend a hand? I happen to be buried alive up to my chin by this infernal sandstorm of yours.”
“Amazin’,” said the local citizen. “What in tarnation are you doin’ afoot in the middle of the desert?”
“Hurry please, dear fellow, because I am deucedly uncomfortable. And get a shovel. I am not on foot. I have my horse under me.”
On the exceedingly rare occasions when it does rain, the whole Southwest turns into a sea of mud. A traveler noted in his diary: “Ten inches of dust by measurement.” The next day he noted that knee-deep mud prevented him from crossing the street. A man making his way gingerly on the boardwalk in front of a Bisbee, Arizona, saloon after a sudden rainfall, slime already oozing below the swinging doors into the bar, noticed a head sticking out of the mud in the street, asking for a drink. The good Samaritan obligingly produced a shot glass of red liquor and inquired if he could be of further assistance.
“No, thanks,” answered the head, “I’m in the saddle and as soon as my horse gets its second wind, we’ll work ourselves out of this.”
General William Tecumseh Sherman once said, apropos the southwestern climate, that if he owned both Texas and hell, he’d sell Texas and, with the proceeds, buy himself a home in the other place.
It Gets Mighty Cold Around Here
I’m telling you, stranger, come winter it gets mighty cold around here. The first real cold night I heerd an orful noise like thunder, arthquake, floods, and cannon fire all ramsquaddled together. In the mornin’ I take a peep out o’ my winder and where there had been a mighty forest, there was nothin’. Not a single tree was standin’. They had all been cracked to flinders by the frost lying about for miles an’ miles an’, I’m telling you, stranger, the cold had petrified ’em and turned ’em into glass, an’ when there was a breeze, it made a tinklin’ so loud it split my eardrums. An’ overhead, you can hang me up for bar meat, ef a flock o’ birds didn’ freeze in flight and came down on me like hail. Waaal, stranger, thinks I: “This will make a fine wild chicken pie,” an’ with that I gathered up a few bushels o’ them thar birds, an’ took ’em into the cabin an’ lit a fire. Strike me dead, stranger, if the flames didn’t freeze into icicles. I broke ’em off, right an’ left, and sold ’em to some Yankees on their way to a place that was just a bit warmer. Yessir, I made good money on the deal. I was sittin’ by the chimbley when suddenlike, the whole roof crashed down on me. You can call me a lyin’ skunk ef’n the smoke risin from the chimbley hadn’t frozen to a height of a hundred feet an’ the weight had caved the whole roof in. Yessir, the wind blew so cold that my feet all froze up. I put ’em in a tub of bilin’ water an’ it froze up faster than a greased fart on a lightnin’ rod, an’ there I was with my feet stuck in a tub of ice. I had to chisel ’em out, bit by bit. Yessir. An’ when I stepped out, the air was frozen solid an’ I had to chop it up fine afore I could breathe. Sez I to myself, “Tom, old hoss, let’s go over to the tavern whar it might be warmer.” Call me a dead chicken ef it war not colder than the darn cabin. The fiddler sawed at his bow with his mittens on, but not a sound came out of it. I had a mind to cheer him up with a song, but it froze in my mouth. The boniface was yellin’, makin’ a lot of chin music, but that was frozen. He was wavin’ his arms like a windmill, excited like, pointin’ to the winder, and, stranger, strike me dead, ef it waren’t a cussed Injun standin’ thar drawin’ a bead on me with his rifle. I grabbed hold of a kettle o’ bilin’ water an’ chucked it at him, a-knowin’ that it would turn to ice, an’ so it did. That thar chunk o’ ice went right through the winderpane and hit that red varmint on his noggin, strikin’ him dead on the spot. To keep warm I was chawin’, beaverlike, on a twist of ’baccer, an’ when I spit out the ambeer it turned into ice too an’ hit the boniface in the mouth an’ knocked out three of his front teeth. Come spring, an’ I don’t lie to you, friend, when I woke up heering fiddling an’ singin’ comin’ out o’ the tavern. I was ramsquaddled. Fiddlin’ and singin’ on a Sunday mornin’? But, sure enuff, I heerd myself singin’ to the tune of a fiddle. My song an’ the fiddler’s sawin’ had come unfrozen, an’, to tell the truth, it was almost too loud to bear. I’m tellin’ you, stranger, winters are mighty cold around here.
Texican Liars
Two characters met at a San Jacinto River crossing and sat down by a campfire regaling themselves with these tall tales:
I see that war no help for it, so I took my feet outen the stirrups, threw my saddlebags over my shoulder, and in me and my mare went.
We war in a awful tight place for a time, but we soon landed safe. I’d jest got my critter tied out, and a fire started to dry myself with when I see a chap come ridin’ up the hill on a smart chunk of pony.
“Hoopee! stranger”—sings out my beauty—“How d’ye? Kept your fireworks dry, eh? How in thunder did ye get over?”
“Oh,” says I, “mighty easy. Ye see, stranger, I’m poerful on a pirogue; so I waited until I see a big log a-driftin’ nigh the shore, when I fastened to it, set my critter a-straddle on it, got into the saddle, paddled over with my saddle-bags, an’ steered with the mare’s tail.”
“Ye didn’t so, by Ned!” says he, “did ye?”
“Mighty apt to,” says I, “but arter ye’ve sucked all that in and got yer breath agin, let’s know how you crossed.”
“Oh!” says he, getting his pig’s eyes on me, “I’ve been a-ridin’ all day with a consarned ager, an’ orful dry, and afeard to drink at the prairie water holes; so when I got to the river I jest went in fer a big drink, swallered half a mile of water, and come over dry shod.”
“Stranger,” says I, “ye’r just one huckleberry above my persimmon. Light and take some red-eye. I thought ye looked green, but I were barkin’ up the wrong tree.”
CHAPTER 17
Miracles, Saints, and Witches
Tales of the Hispanic Southwest are in a category by themselves. There are so many of them that nobody has counted them yet. They came up across the Rio Grande together with the conquistadores, with Don Juan de Oñate and, later, Don Diego de Vargas. They came to New Mexico, aptly called the Land of Enchantment, as early as 1598. They came from Spain via Mexico. Unlike the stories and fairy tales of Anglo-Saxon America, Hispanic legends have a strong Old World flavor, telling of kings and dukes, princes and princesses. The immigrants peopling the province of Neuva México were profoundly Catholic, which gave a unique color to their “cuentos,” with emphasis on miracles, on Santa María and the Holy Child, on saints, priests, and witches.
During many centuries of history Spain has been home to many different peoples—Iberians, Celts, Basques, Phoenicians, Carthaginians, Greeks, Romans, Visigoths, and Arabs. Out of their multi-cultural myths grew the folklore of Spain. Travelers from western Europe, crossing the Pyrenees, brought with them bits and pieces of their own mythology. Gypsies contributed their part. In Mexico, Hispanic elements mingled with Aztec, Mixtec, and Mayan traditions and, north of the Rio Grande, the Pueblo Indians and the Hispanic newcomers influenced each others’ dances,
songs, and festivals. Thus the Spaniards brought to the Southwest the Mattachine Dances, of Moorish origin, and the Fiesta del Gallo, or Chicken-Pull, which have become part of certain Pueblo festivals. On the other hand, some Indian sacred clown rituals have infiltrated the Hispanic fiestas.
From Europe too came the stories of “brujas,” witches, and of ghosts. The belief in witchcraft is still strong today, being shared by both Pueblo Indians and Navajos.
In the mountain villages of New Mexico, Spanish is the universal language, an old-fashioned, seventeenth-century Spanish. It has been said that the Catholic faith can be worn like a brilliant silken mantilla or like a hair shirt. The villagers wear it both ways, at their patron saint’s colorful fiesta and on Good Friday, when the Penitentes scourge themselves with whips to atone for their own and the world’s sins. In such places not only are the old stories still told, but new ones are born time and again. Here saints still appear to the devout. It is the Land of Enchantment, the Land of Legends.
The Three Lost Daughters
Don Manuel Juarez was a rico hombre, the wealthiest rancher in the San Luis Valley, where he owned the finest hacienda, thousands of acres, and large herds of horses, cattle, and sheep. Don Manuel, a proud Castilian, was a widower. He lavished all his love and affection upon his three daughters, one more beautiful than the other, and all of the pure blood of Spain. He also had a beloved son, Fernando, an accomplished young caballero, the finest horseman in the valley, admired and respected by all.
Legends and Tales of the American West Page 44