Chapter VI: Part 6

“It was in the fall of 1900. This country was just beginning to settle. I was working for old man Jeff Keister’s outfit then, taking a herd through to New Mexico. We’d been on the trail some ten days, I guess, when we came to a ranch in a valley down on the Salt Fork. Keister says a friend of his lives there, and he rides off. After a while two boys ride up and tell us that they will herd the cattle while the outfit goes down to the ranch to dinner.

“When we rode down to the house, Keister and an old man were sitting under a brush arbor that represented the front porch. First thing I noticed about the old man was that one of his arms is only about two-thirds as long as the other, and that he has to put it where he wants it with his other hand. We meets him and sets down to wait for dinner, not saying much but listening some.

“‘You’ll find a-plenty good places to hold ‘em nights, Jeff, but about the third night out you will be some’ers near Stampede Mesa. Don’t you try to hold them thar.’

“‘I’m aimin’ to hold them right there, Bill,’ Keister says.

“‘Now, Jeff, you ain’t forgot that stampede in ’91, have you? Well, maybe you have, but I hain’t. I carry a little souvaneer that won’t let me forget. There was phantom steers in that herd that night. You recollect as how them steers went over the steep side of the mesa, Jeff? I must a been a sight when you found me. It’s right nigh onto twenty year now, and I ain’t moved this old arm since.’

“Well, the wife called dinner just then, and the old man got strung out on something else, but that stampede business jest stuck to my mind.

“Along late one evenin’ old Keister and I were riding the drag, when he puts the dogie he’s been a-carryin’ on his saddle down on the ground, and says, ‘Taint fer now, yuh kin walk. We are campin’ on Stampede Mesa, as they call it.’

“‘I guess yuh noticed that feller’s arm, back there in the valley,’ says Keister, jerking his hand back toward the way we come.

“‘Yes,’ I said, waiting for him to go on.

“‘Well, he got it up there on the south side of that mesa. Hoss went plumb crazy. Bill’s allys said they wuz ghost steers in that herd that night. I think I seen ‘em too. They jest came a-sailin’ through the herd and right past your horse. I don’t believe in hants, but it wuz scary.’

“Well, we drove ’em up on the mesa and let ’em graze. A feller and me took first guard that night. The herd settled down pretty soon, but I couldn’t get that stampede tale out of my mind; every time a cow moved I thought something was going to happen. It was a mixed herd, and they lay as quiet as a bunch of dead sheep. It got so quiet that I could hear my pardner’s saddle creak, away off to one side. The moon set, and it got darker. Just about then something passed me. It looked like a man on a horse, but it just seemed to float along. Then there was a roar, and the whole bunch stampeded straight for the bluffs. I rode in front of one critter like, and he jest passed right on, jest kinder floatin’ past me. Then some old cow bellered and we milled ’em easy—but they wouldn’t bed down again that night and it took every derned one of us to hold ’em.”

There are some who say that the phantoms of this legend are tumble weeds, blown by the wind. But there are many honest men who will tell you of the weird calls of the phantom nester and of the galloping phantom steers. Knowing the story, you cannot look at the mesa, branded by the white scar of the old trail, without a strange emotion.

THE WOMAN OF THE WESTERN STAR: A LEGEND OF THE RANGERS

By Adele B. Looscan

(With apologies to the memory of Judge Hugh Duffy.)

Judge Hugh C. Duffy, to whom I am indebted for this legend, was identified with the interests of Bandera County for fifty-four years. As host of the Duffy Hotel, his genial gifts made friends of all who shared his hospitality. His acquaintance with the rangers enabled him to gather from them and others a rare collection of tales, which he related with convincing accuracy of detail. The Pioneer History of Bandera County, by J. Marvin Hunter, contains an appreciative sketch of his life and a tribute to his many fine qualities.

I tell the tale now as it was told to me, when the moon was full and shone on a merry group of friends seated on the ground, in the neighborhood of Polly’s Peak. The narrator began with these words: “It was on just such a night as this.” Then followed the legend in the time-honored style sacred to legendary lore, impossible for me to imitate.

A more charming landscape cannot be found than the hills and dales of Bandera County. The Indians loved this country, and every year resorted thither, to fish in the waters of the Medina and to hunt deer and turkeys on the mountains. But their intentions were not always so peaceful, and Texas Rangers were not infrequently called upon to protect the few white settlers who were bold enough to call this region home.

In the summer of 1844, there had been some fierce conflicts between the white and the red men; the latter had fled precipitately, showering their arrows behind them upon the rocky ground. The battle having ended with slight loss to the victorious rangers, they were taking their rest near the base of a conical eminence, afterwards known as Polly’s Peak.

The moon was at its full. The rangers lay at ease near their camp fire, whose glowing coals of red and yellow seemed to vie with the moon’s glorious golden hue. The story-hour had come, and each in his turn told of his own or another’s thrilling experience or hairbreadth escape. A mocking bird, perched on the topmost bough of a gnarled oak, poured out the melodious measures of comedy and tragedy that make up his wonderful repertoire. The story tellers were forced to listen to him and interpret, as best they might, the infinitely varied notes of his song.

Now it seemed a human voice, calling, “Come here! Come here! Come here!” Now, a cry of distress, as of a captive frog in the toils of a snake; again, household words pealed forth: “Tut! Tut! Tut! Chick! Chick! Chick! Mew! Mew! Mew!”; then came high pitched trills of bewildering sweetness, rivaling those of the most gifted prima donna, followed by a low, soothing, caressing lullaby. The song ceased suddenly and left as its echo an uncanny stillness. The breeze had entirely died away; the leaves on the near-by trees seemed to stand at attention, as if awaiting orders. From whom? A voiceless presence commanded an attitude of motionless silence.

The rangers felt its strange influence and looked inquiringly at each other; meanwhile not a word was uttered. The tense silence became painful. A cloud, veiling the face of the moon and dimming its light for a few moments, invited them to watch its passing, and, as they gazed upon its flitting shadows, there suddenly stood in their midst a tall, beautiful Indian woman.

Her hair hung in long braids over her shoulders; her brow was crowned by a circlet of sparkling crystal beads; countless strings of colored beads and shells adorned her body; a skirt of a filmy blue fabric reached nearly to her ankles. She carried a bead-embroidered quiver at her side, and swung across her back was a bow of bois d’arc. The rangers arose and gazed in amazement at her majestic attitude, and several minutes elapsed before their captain controlled his voice to ask: “Where do you come from, and why are you here alone?”

Quietly folding her arms, she replied: “My people are tired of fighting. So many of our braves have fallen, victims of your death-dealing weapons, that we are helpless. I come to ask that the path between my people and yours be again made white! I come alone, because I know not fear. The Great Spirit is my father!”

She laid three polished arrows at her feet and stood for a moment looking up into the sky, while the moonlight glittered on her shining ornaments, and the blooming white yucca that surrounded her gleamed like silver. She turned toward the west and, pointing to a star, wonderfully brilliant in spite of the moonlight, exclaimed, “That star is my home! I go there!”

Her listeners, almost breathless from amazement, were men accustomed to danger; it was their daily duty to meet it. They now saw no threatening danger, no indication of a cowardly ambush; but the silence, like that of the desert, created a feeling akin to awe, and acted like an admonition. But for a hasty sign of the cross, a slight movement of the lips on the part of a few, they stood as lifeless as a group of statuary.

A dark cloud had been rapidly gathering about the summit of Polly’s Peak, but the rangers, bewildered by the strangeness of the situation, seemed transfixed as by some magic spell, and saw naught but the graceful figure and pointing finger of the woman. Their senses were dulled as in the mazes of a dream. The plaintive note of a whippoorwill began to tell his mournful tale, the piercing shriek of an owl startled the little company, and a blinding flash of lightning and crash of thunder broke the spell of their enchantment.

They sprang to their stack of arms, seized their guns, and made ready to face an enemy. Some cursed, with wild unreason. Others cried: “Where is the woman, damned siren that she is, who made it her business to bewitch us men, while the red devils of her tribe prepare to attack and kill us! Let’s find and follow her! Look for the arrows she laid at her feet!”

One swore he had seen her caught up into the black cloud as it opened to emit the thundering electric bolt—plain proof that she was an emissary of the devil.

While confusion thus reigned, some tried in vain to find the arrows, which might give a clue. With the earliest dawn, a careful and persistent search failed to discover the arrows, or the presence of a single Indian within the radius of a hundred miles.

The presence and disappearance of the “Woman of the Western Star” must be classed as a mystery, and, like many another mystery, its influence was not only felt at the time, but had lasting beneficial effect. Henceforth the Indians came and went peacefully, committing no depredations, and unmolested by the white men. At a certain season of each year, they placed flint arrowheads and beads of many colors in the grave of their most noted chief and planted a peace feather at its head. In the long ago, he and his tribe had resisted the Spanish invasion and he had fallen, mortally wounded, in battle against them. On a high cliff overlooking Bandera Pass, his grave could still be seen thirty years ago.

THE DEVIL AND STRAP BUCKNER [95]

By N. A. Taylor

[The legend of “The Devil and Strap Buckner” reprinted here in a much abridged form, through the courtesy of Mrs. Natalie Taylor Carlisle and Miss Grace B. Taylor, of Houston, daughters of the deceased author, affords sufficient perplexity to the folk-lorist. There is no doubt that the legend as told is based on a pure folk tale; there is no doubt that the author in telling it took many liberties with it, much as Washington Irving took liberties with the legends of the Hudson; and there seems little doubt that the legend has perished from the folk among whom it once existed. The book in which it is preserved is very scarce, hardly procurable at any price.

Colonel Nathaniel Alston Taylor came to Texas shortly before the Civil War and began his travels of “2000 miles on horseback,” concluding them after the war was over. I should say that in addition to being the most delightful of all Texas books of travel, his book contains the most incisive information on the social conditions of pioneer Texans. According to Mrs. Carlisle, though the name of H. F. McDanield is printed as an associate author, he had absolutely nothing to do with the authorship. Mr. Taylor needed financial help to publish the book and McDanield gave it on the condition that his name should be used as joint author. Mr. Taylor left manuscript journals containing notes on his travels in which the legend is mentioned; and Mrs. Carlisle writes:

“As told me by my father, the legend of Strap Buckner is really folk-lore. It was told to him in very simple form by a ‘dapper young man’ explaining why the creek was named Buckner’s Creek. The young man said that Strap Buckner came to Texas with Austin’s colony and gained his queer reputation for good naturedly knocking men down, and that he had several times knocked down the great Austin himself; he would not hesitate to knock down anything. My father remarked, ‘He’d try to knock down a bull, wouldn’t he?’ Thereupon the young man said that it was related that Strap Buckner had tackled and put to flight, with his bare fists, a great black bull that occasionally made himself obnoxious in Austin’s colony. But Strap became unpopular and betook himself to the La Grange vicinity, where he settled in a log cabin of his own construction near the creek. Here he ‘tried to be good,’ but finally again began knocking men down, and knocked down the Indians and even the chief and his ‘queen’ and the chief’s daughter. The Indian chief admired him so much that he presented him with the swiftest horse he had, a gray nag. This recognition of ‘his genius’ so aroused the spirits of Strap that he became gloriously drunk and declared himself ‘the Champion of the World’ and challenged any and everybody to fight—the whole Indian tribe, the Devil himself. At this point, a terrible tempest arose, during which the air was charged with brimstone, and the Devil appeared, and a dreadful fight took place, lasting all the day and night. The Devil conquered, and carried Strap and his gray nag away on a cloud of pale blue smoke that arose from the ‘battle ground.’ My father was so impressed by the tale that he added to it with the result to be read in his book.”

In hope of finding some survival of the legend in the La Grange neighborhood, I sent a copy of it to Mrs. W. H. Thomas, a member of the Texas Folk-Lore Society, who has long lived at La Grange. She and her son, Mr. Wright Thomas, circulated the legend widely without being able to get a surviving trace of it. Nevertheless, there is a large creek that empties into the Colorado River near La Grange called “Buckner’s Creek.” The country up it “used to be considered wild and rough,” says Mrs. Thomas, “and when I was a child and we wanted to describe anyone as rough, rude, or illiterate, we would say that he must have come ‘from high Buckner.’”

Mr. Wright Thomas interviewed an old German woman known as “Aunt Vogt” who came to the settlement in 1840. She says that a carpenter named Buckner lived in the country before she came but that she never heard any legend connected with the name.

The legend of a hero of superhuman strength is as old as the imagination of man. In America it has thrived, particularly among the lumber camps of Maine and of the Northwest, in the myth of Paul Bunyan and his wonderful Blue Ox, “Babe,” “seven ax-handles wide between the eyes”—some say, “forty-two ax-handles and a plug of chewing tobacco.” In the Century Magazine for May, 1923, pages 23–33, Hubert Langerock has reported in detail, as from original folk sources, concerning “The Wonderful Life and Deeds of Paul Bunyan.” In West Virginia, according to Margaret Prescott Montague, the performer of deeds of superhuman strength is known as Tony Beaver. See her article called “Up Eel River,” in the Atlantic Monthly for May, 1923. The superhuman hero in the Southwest has thrived in the person of Pecos Bill, who really belongs in a large part to Texas. Those who would know of him are referred to “The Saga of Pecos Bill,” by Edward O’Reilly in the Century Magazine for October, 1923, pages 827–833. Thus we see that Strap Buckner, no matter what his derivation or what his lamentable death, is no alien to our soil. It is a pity, though, that he is not thriving like his brothers Paul Bunyan, Tony Beaver, and Pecos Bill.—Editor.]

A mile above the ferry, I entered a charming valley leading from the west. It was a succession of farm after farm. The song of the plowman was merry in the air, and there was an odor of the newly-turned soil, which showed just a tint of the coloring matter of the Colorado, proving that the mighty river had invaded the valley with its back-water. Gentle slopes and eminences and detached groves of oak looked upon this pleasant valley from either side. Through the middle of it flowed a small stream known as Buckner’s Creek. I had ridden a few miles up this attractive valley when a young horseman cantered up by my side, traveling the same direction with myself. I said involuntarily as he checked his prancing steed beside me and bowed politely: “A young gentleman and a scholar!”

After an interchange of courtesies and some pleasant conversation, I asked why the sparkling brook was called Buckner’s Creek, and why it had not been named for some water nymph, who, in the mythological days, must have chosen it for her haunt; or for some Indian princess with a musical name who had lived and loved on its banks?

“Ah,” said he, turning upon me with his beaming eyes, which grew larger and brighter, “and thereby hangs a tale—a tale of the olden time. And as I perceive that you are one who loves knowledge, I will tell it to you if you will have the patience to hear me.”

I thanked him and begged him to proceed.

“You must know then,” continued he, “that this vale in which you are riding is one that has witnessed strange company and remarkable events. In the olden time there came to Texas with Austin, who, you are aware, brought ‘the first three hundred’ Americans who founded this great commonwealth, a youth whose name was Strap Buckner. Where he was born, whence his lineage, or why he bore the name of Strap the records do not tell. Certain it is, he was of giant stature, and of the strength of ten lions, and he used it as ten lions. His hair was of the redness of flame, as robust as the mane of a charger, and his face—it was freckled. He was of a kindly nature, as most men of giant strength are, but he had a pride in his strength which grew ungovernable. With no provocation whatever, he knocked men down with the kindest intentions and no purpose to harm them. He would enter a circle of gentlemen with a smiling visage, and knock them all down; and when any received bruised or broken limbs, he nursed them with more than the tenderness of a mother, and with a degree of enthusiasm, as if his whole heart was bent on restoring them to health as soon as practicable, in order that he might enjoy the pleasure of knocking them down again. His genius was to knock men down. He knocked down Austin’s whole colony at least three times over, including the great and good Austin himself.

“He could plant a blow with his fist so strongly that it was merry pastime with him to knock a yearling bull stark dead; and even the frontlet of a full grown animal could not withstand him. In those days a huge black bull appeared mysteriously in Austin’s colony, who by his ferocity became a terror to the settlement, and was known by the dread name of Noche. Strap challenged this bull to single combat, and invited the colony to witness the encounter. When the day came, the entire colony looked from their doors and windows, being afraid to go out, every one, probably, praying that both Strap and the bull would be slain. He threw a red blanket over his shoulder, and walked on the prairie with the air of a hero who goes forth to meet a mighty foeman. He bore no weapon whatever. When the bull perceived him, he tossed his tail, pawed the earth, and emitted a roar of thunder. Strap imitated him, and pawed and roared also; which perceiving, the bull came toward him like a thunder-bolt clothed in tempest and terror. Strap received him with a blow on his frontlet from his bare fist, which sent him staggering back upon his haunches, and the blood flowed from his smoking nostrils. Recovering from his surprise, Noche, to the astonishment of all, turned his tail and fled away, bellowing. He was never more seen in those parts.

“Strap’s fame greatly arose, insomuch that men looked upon him in awe, and maidens and strong women pined in secret admiration. He became a great hunter, using no other weapon but his fist and an iron pestle, or mace. About this time also Strap became addicted to strong drink and grew boisterous, to such a degree that people shunned him in spite of his kindly nature. No man would meet him alone; but when he was seen approaching, men would shut themselves up in their houses, or collect in knots, all with guns and pistols cocked. Strap now determined that he would seek other fields of glory. So, early on a bright spring morning he arose, and throwing his bundle of raiment over his left shoulder, and bearing his iron pestle in his right hand, he turned his back upon the unappreciative community.

“He traveled west over the great plains. After days of wonders Strap reached the site where La Grange now is, and to his surprise found a solitary trading house, where Bob Turket and Bill Smotherall exchanged beads and liquor with Indians for furs and skins, and for horses they might steal. He liked the country greatly, and whiskey being accessible, he determined to abide in these quarters. On the first day of his arrival, he knocked down both Bob Turket and Bill Smotherall, but so handsomely and with such an air of unspeakable kindness that they could conceive no offense. Before a week had elapsed he had knocked down every Indian brave who dwelt within ten miles round; and finally he knocked down the great king himself, Tuleahcahoma. The Indians called him the Red Son of Blue Thunder. The great king held him in such reverence that he presented him with a gray horse with a bob-tail, which, though ugly and lank to look at, was famed as the swiftest horse known to all the Indians.

“Now this great king and his powerful tribe dwelt in this fair valley in which you ride. Strap saw it, and he loved the beautiful land. He resolved to settle within it, and chose yon lovely site, and there built his residence of cedar posts. He procured a jug of whiskey and set up housekeeping, an object of great reverence to his neighbors. Daily he went forth and knocked down many Indians with great grace. At last they conceived that they did not like this, and they determined to abandon the vale. On a dark night they silently stole away, and next morning Strap found himself alone. When he beheld the deserted valley, but yesterday teeming with braves and fair maidens, he wept in the kindness of his heart. ‘Other friends,’ said he, ‘have left me before. Such is the common penalty of greatness.’

“Two days he pondered on his greatness and his misery, and the struggle between his genius and his better spirit was terrible. He who hath genius hath a heaving ocean or a volcano in his breast. At length, a dark light gleamed in Strap’s impatient eyes; it was his genius startled and indignant. He arose with a proud air, admiringly gazed upon his enormous fists, and groaned deeply for the presence of some one whom he might knock down. His bosom heaved and swelled. And then a sweet gentleness stole into his eyes, as his better spirit spoke to him in a soft voice: ‘Ah, Strap, hast thou not glory enough? Hast thou not knocked down many times nearly every man in Texas ... even the great Austin and the mighty king Tuleahcahoma? Come, gentle Peace; encircle thy pleasant arms about me and bathe my brow with kisses. My laurels are sufficient, and the great man shall have repose.’

“He felt a thirst, and he reached forth his hand for his jug, but found it empty. ‘Ah!’ said he, ‘this will not do.’ He called his swift gray nag, and holding his jug in one hand and the rein in the other, hied away, his long red hair streaming like a meteor behind him. When he rose on the east bank of the Colorado, as fate would have it, he saw twenty-two Indian braves, who, having exchanged their skins for whiskey and trinkets, were having a gay dance under the boughs of an oak. Strap dismounted, and stepping lightly into the circle of braves, knocked them all down. He then turned to each one and bowed with exquisite grace, and the gentleness on his countenance was sweet. You see how treacherous genius is, and how feeble are the best efforts to withstand it. He that hath a genius must needs let it work. Lightly he stepped into the trading house, smiling as the dawn, carrying his clenched fists before him. He met Bob Turket at the door, and instantly knocked him down. His eyes sparkled, his genius was aglow. Bill Smotherall, beholding the light of his countenance, essayed to escape, but a powerful blow overtook him between the shoulders and felled him face downward to the floor. Strap jumped upon the counter and flapped his elbows against his flanks, and crowed a crow which rang among the hills and forests of the Colorado. His genius for the first time had overcome his kindness of heart; for never before, in all his achievements, had he uttered a note of triumph. I fear me it was a mark of the decadence of his noble spirit.

HE COMETH!

“But all of this perhaps had not been so bad had he not now resorted to whiskey. Calling for his jug, he ordered it filled, and seizing a quart measure, he drank at one draught all it would hold. Instantly, as might be supposed, his genius broke all bounds; it raged. Filling the quart measure with water, he made with its contents a wet ring on the floor, in the center of which he leaped like a savage beast. He smote the air with his fists and exclaimed in a loud voice: ‘Behold in me, Bob Turket, Bill Smotherall, and ye red men of the forest and prairie—behold in me the champion of the world! I defy all that live. I wager my swift gray nag. I defy the veritable old Devil himself—him of the cloven hoof and tawny hide. Black imp of hell, thou Satanas, I defy thee!’

“Scarcely had he uttered these words when a singular murmuring sound issued from the forests of the Colorado, which, growing louder and louder, at last seemed to quiver under the whole heavens. Bob Turket and Bill Smotherall looked at one another, speechless and pale. The braves gathered about the door stricken with terror. Said the great Medicine Man, sounding his big bongbooree: ‘It is—it is—it is he! The Great Father of the Red Son of Blue Thunder has descended from the clouds. He cometh to aid his great son.’

“Outspake Bob Turket: ‘Mighty champion of the world, norate to us what is that!’

“The champion of the world, still occupying the center of the ring, responded: ‘It is not the Great Father of the Red Son of Blue Thunder. I know that familiar voice: it is Noche—it is dread Noche! I conquered him once before, and I will conquer him again. Black, dread Noche, I defy thee!’

“The singular murmuring sound again issued from the deep forests of the Colorado, growing louder and louder, till the everlasting hills trembled with the reverberation, and the great oaks bowed their heads. It articulated distinctly, according to the true report of Bob Turket: ‘Ah, Strap—ah, Strap! Remember, Strap, remember!’

“The champion seized his jug by the handle, and pouring out a quart measure of the treacherous liquid, imbibed it at a single draught. He then mounted his swift gray nag and sped away with the fury of a whirlwind. Bob Turket and Bill Smotherall watched him as he passed out of view, and then listened to the rapid clatter of hoofs till they died away in the distance, but durst not venture out of their doors.... Strap entered his cabin.

LA NOCHE TRISTE

“Night was rapidly falling, and rolling clouds involved the heavens in pitchy blackness. Fearful thunder resounded through the deserted vale. A storm of wind and rain burst upon the cabin with terrible fury. In the midst of it Strap proceeded to cook his supper of hoe-cake and fried bacon. The bacon sizzled deliciously, and the hoe-cake grew to a rich brown. When all was ready, he spread his table, and was invoking an earnest blessing on him who invented fried bacon and hoe-cake, when suddenly an impetuous blast of the tempest blew open one of his windows. Strap raised his eyes and saw two fiery balls, about four inches apart, staring at him through the open window. ‘Ah,’ said Strap, ‘Ocelot—wildcat—hast thou come to interview me?—or wouldst thou forget thy sorrows in a sip from my jolly jug?—or wouldst thou take a little fried bacon and hoe-cake?—or is the tempest too much for thy glossy skin that thou comest to implore refuge with me under my roof? Truly, I might accord thee of all these and feel myself blessed to do it, but thy glaring, infernal eyes betray thee, and say that thou wouldst return villainy for these mercies. Speed thee away! What! Starest still? Wouldst fight? Then take this!’

“He plucked a stone from his hearth and threw it with all his might at the glaring balls, but it missed its mark and they did not move.

“‘Ah, thou art brave,’ said he, ‘and my hand is unsteady. Wouldst beard me in my den? Then let me try thee with my pestle!’ With that he seized his iron mace and strode with it uplifted to the window. He drew back to plant the blow of a giant between the glaring balls. The blow fell, but it struck only against the window-sill, with such force that it sank half through the heart of oak. The balls disappeared in the outer darkness. Strap then barred the window more firmly than before, and sat down to sup.

“He was chewing a lengthy piece of bacon, whose ends protruded from each corner of his mouth, when a blinding flash of lightning fell, accompanied with a burst of thunder. For a moment Strap felt himself stunned with the flame and concussion. ‘Bless me,’ said he, ‘now has the Father given us enough of lightning and dire thunder! But what, ye gods, is this?’

“He beheld, dancing on the floor before him, a remarkable black figure, with insolent eyes of fiery redness. It was in the shape of a man, but was not three feet high, it had two red horns on its head, and its feet, which were large, were cloven like the hoofs of a bull. Its nose was prominent and hooked like the beak of an eagle, and its face was gaunt and thin. Though so small of stature, its visage was hard and wrinkled, and showed age and infinite villainy. As it danced before him, it placed the thumb of the right hand against its nose and made at Strap the insulting sign of derision; but it spake not.

“Strap was amazed, but he was not overcome. He let the long piece of bacon drop from his mouth. The singular object ceased to dance, and stepping by Strap’s side, took a seat unbid in a chair upon the hearth. As it did so, it commenced growing, and did not stop until it had grown to twice its original proportions. It drew from between its legs a long tail, with a hard pronged point, which Strap had not observed before, and twirled it over so that the point fell on Strap’s knee. This disgusted Strap. He hastily pushed his chair away to the opposite corner of the hearth, and observed: ‘Keep thy prolongation to thyself, strange visitor!’

“‘Skin for skin,’ said the figure. At the same time he twirled his tail over again with such force and accurate aim that the sharp point of it stuck deeply into the mantel-piece, and there it hung fixed.

“‘What might thy name be,’ said Strap, ‘who visitest me at this unseemly hour? Speak! thy name and thy business!’

“‘Sir,’ said the object, rising from the chair, extracting its tail from the mantel-piece, and advancing a step toward Strap, ‘men call me by many names. Thou hast called me “black imp of hell, thou Satanas!” So be it. Skin for skin! Thou hast thrice challenged me to duel, and thrice have I accepted. I have come to meet thee now, or to fling thy challenge into thy teeth.’

“He seized his tail in his right hand, and held it like a javelin about to be thrust. Strap gazed upon this singular instrument, and meditatively spake: ‘Good Sir Devil, take a seat. Wouldst thou attack a gentleman in his cups? None but a thief and coward would do that. Put thy prolongation away, I prithee. Leave me to my sleep and restoration, and I will meet thee man to man. Tomorrow morning at nine o’clock will I meet thee.’

“The Devil advanced again, saying: ‘Give us thy hand, Strap Buckner; skin for skin: tomorrow morn at nine o’clock, under yon oaks that overlook thy dwelling from the south.’ They shook hands heartily. ‘Now,’ said he, ‘will I leave thee to sleep and restoration. Truly, he hath neither courage nor honor who would attack a gentleman in his cups.’

“The Devil then stepped toward the door. Strap moved forward to unbar it and let him out, but the Devil made a bound for the key-hole, and passed through, tail and all, in the twinkling of an eye. As he did so he filled the room with a strong odor of brimstone. The champion burned a few cotton rags to deodorize the room, and then sat quietly by his table and ate a hearty repast of hoe-cake and bacon. Afterward he walked his cabin an hour to promote digestion.

THE DAY OF EVENTS

“Day had dawned, but its light struggled almost in vain with the storm which held carnival in the valley. Strap arose refreshed and vigorous. He breakfasted on the remnants of the hoe-cake and bacon of the night’s repast. The merry jug stood near, but he turned away from it with a look of reproach. Donning his garment of buckskin, he said: ‘The hour arrives!’ Then taking his iron limb in his right hand, the only aid he asked from art, this matchless hero stepped out into the storm, called his swift nag, and rode away to war.

“He had advanced but a few paces when the Infernal Fiend, in the form of a skinny, ugly dwarf, appeared before him, dancing a jig, but he did not make the insulting sign of derision. He bowed politely and said: ‘Hail to thee, Strap Buckner! I see that thou art a man of honor. Receive my obeisance to a man of courage! I will lead and thou wilt follow.’

“‘I dare follow where the Foul Fiend leadeth,’ said Strap. And both moved onward through the storm, the Fiend in advance. A white flame of lightning illuminated the valley, and when Strap looked again the Fiend had disappeared, but an enormous bull, black as night, strode before him. ‘Ah,’ said Strap, ‘this is my old friend Noche, I perceive. How is thy frontlet, Noche? Hast thou had the screw worms picked out of thy wounds? Better betake thee to a pretty, protected nook, and eat cowslips and make calves for an honest milk-maid.’ Again the blinding lightning came, and when Strap recovered his sight, Noche had departed; in his stead the Fiend in stately form marched before him.

“They had now reached the foot of the upland that looks into the vale. Silently they ascended to a cluster of noble oaks. The green sward was rich and level around them. Rather seemed it a place for fairies to dance under the moonlight than for Fiend and hero to meet in the struggle of death. Strap dismounted and, turning his gray nag loose, said to him: ‘Charge thyself with grass, whilst I charge myself with the Devil. Prosper my work like thine!’ The gray nag wagged his bobtail, and said, ‘I charge.’ Without the tremor of a nerve, without air of fear or air of boast, this matchless hero confronted the Fiend. As he did so, the latter meanly commenced to grow, and ceased not to grow till he had achieved such stature that his head was a hundred and ninety feet in the air, and he was eighty feet in girth. His tail grew in correspondence, till, seizing it, he gave it a twirl, and the point struck in the bosom of a black cloud. As he had a right to do, Strap complained of this injustice. Said he: ‘Foul Fiend, thou art no fair man to ask me to fight with thee on unequal terms. If thou choosest such terms, I brand thee villainous coward.’

“The Fiend looked down from his lofty stature, and with a voice that confused all living things within a vast circumference, said: ‘Put aside thy iron limb, thy mace, thy pestle, and I will accommodate me to thy size. Skin for skin!’ Strap tossed his pestle aside, whereat the Fiend commenced shrinking, and ceased not to shrink till he had shrunken to Strap’s size—all save his tail, which still remained hitched in the bosom of the cloud. He now took position before Strap in the attitude of a boxer, and Strap took position before him in the same attitude. He kept his eye on Strap, and Strap kept his eye on him, either guarding against any advantage or cheat by the other. The Fiend now drew back for a pass at Strap, but just at that moment the black cloud in which his tail was hitched was rapidly passing beyond its length, and it drew the Devil backwards and upwards with great force, causing him exceeding great pain at the point of its juncture with the body. Now had Strap but used the advantage which offered itself to him, what infinite fame would be his. Instead of this, under a false sense of honor, and in the kindness of his heart, he proffered the Fiend assistance to unhitch his tail! The Devil leaped up in the air and rolled himself up in the coils of his tail till he had reached the cloud, and there, with the help of claws and hoofs and horns, succeeded at last in unhitching it. Immediately, back he sprang, and stood before Strap in the attitude of a boxer.

“The battle raged with varying fortunes all day, till the Devil grew again to monstrous size, and at last wore Strap out on the unequal terms, till the mighty champion sought quarter, crestfallen and utterly overcome. The country for a great circuit round rang with the hideous noise of battle, and Bob Turket and Bill Smotherall and forty Indian braves stood on the bank of the river and hearkened to it, amazed. As night fell they saw a great gray horse riding through the air down the valley, with the dread form of a red monkey astride his back in front, and the form of an overpowered man dangling across him behind. The horse and riders lit on the top of yon cedar-covered mountain that looks down upon La Grange from the north, and then all disappeared in the forest. On the spot of the dread encounter no earth has ever accumulated, and no green grass or tree has ever grown there since; but it remains, and will forever remain, in black deformity.

HE RETURNS

“Three months passed, and one morn as Bob Turket and Bill Smotherall were counting their skins, they were stricken with amazement to see Strap Buckner ride up before them on his swift gray nag. He dismounted and stood before them, and they were the more amazed. And he looked distant and sad and solemn, as if he were contemplating things afar off. He spake to them not; but they fell on their faces before him, and said: ‘Mighty champion of the world, depart hence!’ He said simply: ‘Skin for skin!’ and sadly and slowly rode away. Bob Turket and Bill Smotherall watched him depart, and counted no more skins that day.

“Three months he dwelt in his cabin, and thrice weekly he visited the trading house, where he walked about like one contemplating the dead, with a sad and distant air. He was a changed man. He would drink no whiskey, and would knock no man down. Finally, one night, a great blue flame rose far above the valley, and cast a pale, deathly light over the land. On the top of the blue flame appeared a great gray nag, and astride him sat the dread form of a red monkey, and behind the red monkey sat the form of a gigantic man waving a gigantic iron pestle, whereat the dread form of the red monkey seemed to cower. When morning arose, Strap’s house was in ashes and cinders.

“Evasit, abiit! Since that mysterious and perhaps fatal night, he has never been seen in his proper person as in the olden time. Yet often at night when the tempest howls and the thunders roar, his form, or shadow, or image, or whatever it be, is seen to stride this valley in which we ride, on his swift bob-tail nag. When a Buckner’s Creek baby cries, whether from pure perverseness or from colic, only say to him ‘Strap Buckner’ once, and he will forthwith scrooch up in his cradle, and you will hear no more from that baby for hours. Behold in him the titular divinity to whom all the cowboys lift up their emulation and prayers.”

“I perceive, sir,” said I, “that thou art a true poet, and I thank thee.”

“And I perceive, sir,” said he, “that thou art a true epilogue, and I thank thee. This is the road which bids me depart from thee. Farewell!”

He turned his horse and departed from me, as other friends had done before.

THE LEGEND OF CHEETWAH

By Edith C. Lane

[To me, this legend sounds like some naive excuse invented by the Spanish to account for their great overthrow by the Indians of the Southwest in 1680. Just as likely it is an Indian boast of that overthrow. An observation recorded by the observant Josiah Gregg in 1844 seems to me luminous here. Gregg says that, according to tradition, numerous and productive mines were “in operation in New Mexico before the expulsion of the Spaniards in 1680; but that the Indians, seeing that the cupidity of the conquerors had been the cause of their former cruel oppressions, determined to conceal all the mines by filling them up, and obliterating as much as possible every trace of them. This was done so effectually, as is told, that after the second conquest (the Spaniards in the meantime not having turned their attention to mining pursuits for a series of years) succeeding generations were never able to discover them again. Indeed it is now generally credited by the Spanish population, that the Pueblo Indians, up to the present day, are acquainted with the locales of a great number of these wonderful mines, of which they most sedulously preserve the secret. Rumor further asserts that the old men and sages of the Pueblos periodically lecture the youths on this subject, warning them against discovering the mines to the Spaniards, lest the cruelties of the original conquest be renewed towards them, and they be forced to toil and suffer in those mines as in days of yore.”—Gregg, Josiah, Commerce of the Prairies, Philadelphia, 1855, Vol. I, pp. 162–163.—Editor.]

Upon a northwestern peak of Mount Franklin, near El Paso, there stands out against the brilliant blue of a western sky the distinct outline of an Indian’s head. It is plainly visible at almost any hour of the day and is an object of wonder and speculation to the majority of beholders.

According to the legend told me many years ago by an old, old Indian, Cheetwah was the chief of an ancient tribe in New Mexico. He was accustomed to go into old Mexico every few years, and often at the point in the mountains where the Indian head now shows, he with his followers encountered hostile wanderers, whereupon followed battles short but fierce.

Finally, after about two centuries of goings and encounters, Cheetwah came upon a band of another and a strange race, the Spaniards. With much pomposity, they commanded him and his people to surrender to them all their gold and silver and then to be gone. The order so incensed Cheetwah that, climbing to the top of the peak, he sent forth a great call to all the Indians in the spirit world to rally to his assistance and rout the haughty Spaniards forever from their usurped power in Mexico.

After a battle in which the Indians seemed guided by some supernatural power, the Spaniards were vanquished. Then Cheetwah and his men vanished into the mountains, there to keep vigil through all the centuries that no alien should prosper from the mineral wealth of their land. Eventually the pale-faces came back, but it was further decreed by the Great Spirit that for all time the face of Cheetwah should remain upon the peak whence he had issued his great call, a reminder that, though conquered outwardly for a time, the Indian shall yet come back into his own and rule the mighty country that his ancestors possessed in freedom. Thus stands Cheetwah today, aloof and majestic, biding his time.

THE MYSTERIOUS WOMAN IN BLUE

By Charles H. Heimsath

So far as I know, the first mention of the legend of the “Blue Lady” is in the Memorial of Fray Alonso de Benavides, 1630. Benavides was (1621–1629) Father Custodian of the province of New Mexico, and his Memorial was written to present Philip IV of Spain an account of the “treasures spiritual and temporal” which that remote province contained. In the course of this highly entertaining document Benavides recounts at length, and with pious zeal, the miraculous conversion of the Jumano tribe of Indians. Benavides was at that time (probably 1629) somewhere in the upper Rio Grande valley. In this region, he states, the Jumano Indians had been demanding missionaries for “years back.” Finally he granted the missionaries.

“And before they went,” to quote the document literally, “[we]
asked the Indians to tell us the reason why they were with so much
concern petitioning us for baptism, and for Religious to go and
indoctrinate them. They replied that a woman like that one whom we
had there painted—which was a picture of the Mother Luisa de
Carrion—used to preach to each one of them in their own tongue,
telling them that they should come and summon the Fathers to
instruct and baptize them, and that they should not be slothful
about it. And that the woman who preached was dressed precisely
like her who was painted there; but that the face was not like that
one, but that she [their visitant] was young and beautiful. And
always whenever Indians came newly from those nations, looking upon
the picture and comparing it among themselves, they said that the
clothing was the same but the face was not, because the face of the
woman who preached to them was that of a young and beautiful girl.”
[96]

Another early reference to this mysterious lady appears in a letter of Fray Damian Manzanet to Don Carlos de Sigüenza y Gongora, 1690. In it the writer goes on to say as follows:

“At that time I was living in the Mission Caldera, in the province
of Coahuila, whither I had gone with the intention of seeing
whether I could make investigations and obtain information about
the country to the north and northeast, on account of facts
gathered from a letter now in my possession, which had been given
in Madrid to the Father Antonio Linaz. This letter treats of what
the blessed Mother Maria de Jesus de Agreda made known to the
Father Custodian of New Mexico, Fray Alonso de Benavides. And the
blessed Mother tells of having been frequently to New Mexico and to
the Gran Quivira, adding that eastward from the Gran Quivira are
the kingdoms of the Ticlas, Theas, and Caburcol. She also says that
these are not exactly the names belonging to these kingdoms, but
come close to the real names. Because of this information brought
by me from Spain, together with the fact of my call to the ministry
for the conversion of the heathen, I had come over and dwelt in the
missions of Coahuila.” [97]

And in the same letter a little further on Manzanet recounts this incident:

“For lack of more time I shall only add what is the most noteworthy
of all, namely this: While we were at the Tejas Hasinai village,
after we had distributed clothing to the Indians and to the
governor of the Tejas, that governor asked me for a piece of blue
baize in which to bury his mother when she died; I told him that
cloth would be more suitable, and he answered that he did not want
any other color than blue. I then asked him what mysterious reason
he had for preferring the blue color, and in reply he said they
were very fond of that color, particularly for burial clothes,
because in times past they had been visited frequently by a
beautiful woman, who used to come down from the hills, dressed in
blue garments, and that they wished to do as that woman had done.
On my asking whether that had been long since, the governor said
that it had been before his time, but his mother, who was aged, had
seen that woman, as had also other old people. From this it is
easily to be seen that they referred to the Madre Maria de Jesus de
Agreda, who was frequently in those regions, as she herself
acknowledged to the Father Custodian of New Mexico, her last visit
being in 1631, the last fact being evident from her own statement,
made to the Father Custodian of New Mexico.” [98]

It appears, therefore, that after the publication of his Memorial in 1630, Benavides visited Maria de Jesus de Agreda. She was already famous because of the publication of her La Mistica de Dios Historia Divina de la Virgin, Madre de Dios in 1627, [99] in which she recounts, among other preposterous things, what happened to the Virgin while she was in the womb. The mind of this woman, therefore, filled with the most extravagant fancies, was fertile for the story of Benavides. She immediately assumed the identity of the unknown female missionary; and, in the course of the visit, which lasted probably two weeks, elaborated fully the exact method of the holy visitations. Benavides with his charming medieval mind readily accepted her story. Because of the prominence of the two, and because of the universal interest in the New World, it obtained rapid and wide circulation and credence.

The story must have reached America quickly. Manzanet, in the above quotations, speaks of it as being in general circulation thirty years later. That it spread is also indicated by the fact that De Leon in a letter, May, 1689, accounts for the religious knowledge of the Texas (or Tejas) Indians through the ministration of a woman. The following extract from his letter reveals the fact that he was not so well acquainted with the Benavides account as Manzanet had been: