Legends and Tales of the American West

by Richard Erdoes

  But here is a tale of the cheater cheated.

  There was a Nipissing chief called the Red Owl, a mighty hunter and trapper, who brought enough meat to his wigwam to support several wives. His abode was always filled with the choicest pelts of otter, beaver, fox, mink, and weasel.

  There also was a trader, Smith, or Miller, or, possibly, Cooper. Well, whatever his name, he was a mean liar and cheat who would have sold his own mother’s soul to the devil for two pieces of eight. One day this thieving swindler came to the Red Owl’s wigwam, pointing to a stack of prime beaver plews, saying, “I’ll have those.”

  “What you gimme for them?”

  “How about this keg of whiskey, Chief? Strong as lightning.”

  “No whiskey,” said the Red Owl, who could not be bamboozled by an offer of rattlesnake piss.

  “Tell you what I’ll do for you, Chief,” said the trader, handing the Red Owl a small bag of coarse-grained powder. “I’m in a giving mood today. I’ll swap this for your beavers.”

  “This little powder for big heap pelts?”

  “These are seed grains, Chief. You plant ’em in the soil and grow bushels of grains like these. You’ll never need to swap for powder again.”

  “Let’s smoke calumet. You smoke’um calumet, you cannot tell a lie.”

  “Sure, Chief, let’s smoke.”

  They smoked the pipe and this Smith, or Miller, or Cooper, went off with the furs whistling a merry tune.

  The Red Owl planted the powder grains. He cared for them tenderly. He watered them every day. But no plants heavy with powder grains ever came up.

  A year later the same trader came to the Red Owl’s wigwam. He had so many tricks up his sleeve that he had forgotten the one he had played on this chief. He spread his wares.

  “I take’um gun, lead, looking glass, two bags of beads, bolt red stuff, bolt blue stuff, coat with gold lace.”

  “Fine, fine, Chief,” said the trader rubbing his hands. “Now for all that stuff I want so and so much beaver, silver fox, red fox, ermine, otter, and musquash.”

  “Me not have’um pelts. Took on one more wife. Young, plump, very active. No time for trapping. Come back in twelve moons. The Red Owl give mighty heap of pelts, beaver, silver fox, red fox, ermine, otter, and musquash.”

  “Let’s smoke the calumet, Chief. When you smoke the calumet, you can’t lie. Right?”

  “Let’s smoke,” said the Red Owl.

  Another year went by. Again this Smith, or Miller, or, possibly, Cooper appeared at the lodge: “Here I am, Chief, let’s have those furs you promised me.”

  “No furs for you!”

  “What, you cheating, thieving red devil? No furs?”

  “No furs!”

  “You miserable red varmint, you helliferous savage, you promised. We smoked the calumet!”

  “No furs!”

  “Damn you, you painted godless heathen! Hand over the furs! Hellfire and brimstone! You promised!”

  “White man,” said the Red Owl grinning broadly, “you gave me bag of black powder, bag so little, like this. Told me to plant’um grain. Watch powder bushes grow. Tell chief never again gottum swap pelts for powder. Grains grow slow. Very slow. Come back sometime when bushes heavy with powder grains. Then chief pay with big heap beaver, silver fox, red fox, ermine and musquash.”

  “Damn your eyes!” said the trader.

  The Wild Hunt

  This story of English origin occurs in many American versions.

  There was a gentleman whom everybody called Squire Jack. He had the air of a lord and was the wealthiest man in the colony. He owned the biggest estate between York and Somerset. He also owned the most imposing house, the finest horses, and the keenest hunting dogs. He dressed most elegantly and could be very polite to the ladies, but was strong-willed and much given to cursing and swearing. He kept a good table and even better cellar. His home was always open to his many boon companions and hangers-on.

  A confirmed bachelor, he never spoke of his past. Some said that he had left England on account of a tragic love affair. Others were sure that he had fled a debtor’s prison or had escaped the hangman after having killed his rival for a lady’s favors in a duel. Still others maintained that he had been a gentlemanly highwayman getting away to America with all his loot. Nobody knew for certain and nobody asked because Squire Jack was rich, powerful, and dangerous when crossed. His passion was for woman flesh and horseflesh, but his greatest obsession was riding to the hounds.

  One fine Sunday morning the church bells were ringing, but Squire Jack and his friends—no churchgoers they—were off to the chase. Merry fellows all, they blew their horns, hollered, and huzzahed, jumping their horses over fences and ditches. A buck or two fell victims to their hunt. The day was hot. Frequently, the young bloods stopped to take a swig from their flasks, drinking a toast to the chase, to their ladyloves, to the health of good King George. The day wore on. Squire Jack felt for his flask, but it was empty. He shook it. Not a drop was left. He called to his friends for a swig, but their flagons were empty too.

  “Dammee,” said Squire Jack, “I’d go to hell for a quaff!”

  Instantly, there was at his side a newcomer, a horseman nobody had noticed before, certainly no acquaintance to any of them. The stranger, obviously a gentleman, was attired in a suit of black velvet with large silver buttons. His pale, sharply etched face was adorned with a black mustache and Vandyke beard, which had been the rage in the long-ago days of the Second Charles. His curly black wig hailed from the same period. His horse also was raven black. The strange gentleman was accompanied by a blackamoor servant, dressed like his master, but wearing a turban on his head instead of a wig.

  The decidedly odd cavalier doffed his hat and proffered Squire Jack a foaming brimmer, saying, “Allow me, sir, this small offering.”

  “God’s wounds,” said the astonished squire, “where in hell have you come from?”

  “From the place you just mentioned,” answered the smiling stranger.

  “Harroomph, Sir, you are an odd fish, but your liquor is exceedingly good. Let me have another swig.”

  “With the greatest of pleasure.”

  The chase continued. Squire Jack’s hounds brought a stag to bay. The squire shot it, but instantly the strange hunter claimed it for himself, ordering his servant to throw it over his horse’s crupper.

  “What is the meaning of this, sirrah!” shouted the squire angrily. “Would you cheat me of my meat, sirrah?”

  “Is a brimmer of the choicest liquor not worth a little venison?”

  “You provoke me, sirrah! Hand the deer over at once!”

  “You shall not have it!”

  “Damnation, you rogue. I’ll go to hell to get my meat back!”

  “And so you shall!”

  With these words the strange cavalier snatched Squire Jack from his mount and sat the surprised hunter before him on his black horse. Off they went, at breakneck speed, ventre-à-terre, over stick and stone, tearing through the countryside, followed by the squire’s yelping hounds and, at a distance, by his companions trying in vain to catch up. On and on went the wild hunt. They came to a wide, swift-flowing stream and without the least hesitation the horse with its two riders plunged right into the middle of the swirling waters, followed by the howling dogs. When the squire’s friends reached the stream, its waters were boiling and all was covered with white-hot steam while a foul odor of sulphur pervaded the air. When the steam evaporated, the waters were seen flowing as before. Squire Jack, the strange cavalier, the dogs, all had been swallowed up without a trace. They looked for the stranger’s servant who, they thought, had ridden among their midst, but he, too, had vanished. They rode their horses into the water up to their saddles, hoping to bring the squire to the surface, if not alive, then dead, to give his body a Christian burial, but find it they could not. They rode downstream on both sides of the river, searching for a long time, but not a wig, not a button, not a hair turned up.

&n
bsp; “The devil take it all,” cursed one of Squire Jack’s companions.

  “I fear he has done so,” was another’s comment.

  Dreams

  Among most Indian tribes dreams are considered sacred and their fulfillment an equally sacred obligation.

  Soon after Sir William Johnson had been appointed superintendent of Indian affairs in America he wrote to England for some suits of clothes richly laced. When they arrived, Hendrick, king of the Mohawk nation, was present and particularly admired them. In a few succeeding days Hendrick called on Sir William and acquainted him that he had had a dream. On Sir William’s enquiring what it was, he told him that he had dreamed that he had given him one of those fine suits he had lately received. Sir William took the hint and immediately presented him with one of the richest suits. The Indian chief, highly pleased with the generosity of Sir William, retired. Some time after this, Sir William happening to be in company with Hendrick, told him that he had also had a dream. Hendrick being very solicitous to know what it was, Sir William informed him that he had dreamed that he (Hendrick) had made him a present of a particular tract of land (the most valuable on the Mohawk river, of about five thousand acres). Hendrick presented him with the land immediately, but not without making this shrewd remark: “Now, Sir William, I will never dream with you again, you dream too hard for me.”

  The Skeleton Hand

  Jacob Schutz probably never existed in the flesh, but he lives on in a saga of the earliest “Far West,” namely the Pennsylvania wilderness, battleground of Indians, settlers, Canadian coureurs de bois, and British and French soldiers. The name Schütz, in German, means “shooter” or “marksman”—a fitting name, as Jacob’s overmastering passion was the hunt. No ordinary huntsman was he. Small game was not for him. Only the fabulous and supernatural drew him on. He had no use for a woman and children of his own, who would have been in the way of his one and only passion. He shunned the company of men and lived the solitary life of a badger. If any pioneer settled closer than ten miles from his one-room log cabin, he at once felt crowded and abandoned his hovel to move deeper into the primeval forest. He suffered only two living beings to share his hermit life—a huge, black, shaggy dog called Wacker, that is, “bold,” and an equally huge, black, and ornery stallion named Rabe, meaning “raven.” His cabin was made of rough, untrimmed logs, carelessly chinked, so that the wind whistled through it whenever a storm arose. The floor was dirt trampled into metallic hardness. The chimney and fireplace was indifferently cobbled together with rocks of various sizes and colors. Acrid smoke filled the single room whenever a fire was lit. A bearskin served as bed, a rolled-up deer hide as pillow, two sewn-together timber wolf skins as blanket. Of possessions there was an iron kettle, blackened with soot; a knife and fork; a wooden spoon, plate, and cup, artlessly carved by Schutz himself; an ax and a saw—that was all. At night the chimney fire shed the only light.

  As the house, so the man. Jacob’s lean, muscular frame was encased in dirty gray homespun pants and a fringed rawhide shirt, made by a long-departed squaw who had also fashioned for him a pair of beaded moccasins, now worn with age, the beads mostly gone. A coon cap and a sort of woolen poncho completed the huntsman’s wardrobe, everything mended and remended, yet full of holes. Of visage this Schutz was severe, hollow-eyed, sharp-nosed and beetle-browed. His hair was matted, his shaggy beard unkempt, his body scarred. His eyes were compelling, piercing, and steely blue—the eyes of a fanatic, a madman even. By contrast, his weapons were fine and lovingly cared for—an ancient jager, a snaphaunce-type weapon his father had brought over from the old country, artfully inlaid with figures of men and animals, done in ivory, paired with a recently made Lancaster rifle, unadorned, yet beautiful in its perfection. An incised powder horn, the fruit of much labor on its owner’s part, and an old German hirschfänger completed the armament. The latter was wicked, outlandish, more sword than hunting knife, designed to give a wounded beast the coup de grace.

  Jacob’s nourishment consisted almost entirely of meat—fowl and venison. He was not finicky. If he could not feast on deer or wild turkey, a muskrat, possum, or gopher would do. He eked out this monotonous diet with dried berries, nuts, and wild roots. Twice a year he would ride sixty miles to the nearest settlement to swap his furs for powder and lead, flour, salt, tobacco, and a keg of Monongahela rye. If someone had asked him how a Christian could live in this appalling manner, he would have answered that this kind of life suited him perfectly. He had, however, few occasions to philosophize. Only rarely did white men venture into his forbidding realm, which swarmed with dangerous beasts and hostile Indians. The latter avoided Schutz, thinking him mad. Madmen had strange powers. Their persons were sacred and inviolate. White folks, too, were afraid of him though he did them no harm. Jacob’s speech was a mixture of German, English, and Indian, including a few French words thrown in for good measure, almost unintelligible for lack of practice. Surprisingly, he was pious and God-fearing. The son of a Moravian Dutchman who had fled his native land to seek freedom of religion in the New World, Jacob prayed long and often, mostly for a successful hunt. A rare backwoodsman stumbling upon his cabin was given shelter for the night, a meal, a dram of whiskey, and then was speedily sent on his way. Fellow hunters were eyed with suspicion. They might have a hankering for what Jacob was after.

  And what was Jacob after? First of all, he lusted after the Great Fanged Death, a giant catamount, bigger than a tiger, with huge curved fangs, emitting a fearful, ear-splitting scream that turned men’s blood to ice.

  Second, he wished to possess as a trophy the pelt of the Loup-Éclair, the supernaturally swift wolf of eight legs, four of them in their usual place, and four more on its back. When one set of legs got tired, the Loup-Éclair simply flipped itself over to run with redoubled speed on four fresh legs.

  Third, Jacob had in mind to capture a fantastic creature the Indians called the Gormagunt. It was said to be almost as big as an elephant, with enormous flapping ears, a porcine snout, and warty skin, equipped with two male members and three female pudenda.

  Finally, Jacob’s supreme quest was for the Great White Hart, the fabled Lord of the Mountains, an animal majestic and unblemished, with a royal set of antlers, its snow white body glowing like burnished silver in the moonlight.

  Jacob Schutz first came upon the Great Fanged Death, the gigantic man-eating catamount. The terrifying beast leapt down upon its pursuer from a cliff, digging its enormous claws and fangs into Jacob’s back, inflicting fearful wounds. Commending his soul to God, and with the help of his ferocious black dog, Jacob got the better of the panther, thrusting his hirschfänger through its gaping maw deep into its heart. The Fanged Death’s oversized pelt henceforth replaced the twin wolfskins as Jacob’s blanket. For a while the huntsman rested content.

  As soon as Jacob’s wounds were healed, he was seized with restlessness once more, resolved to hunt down the Loup-Éclair. It had been seen far beyond the outermost English settlement in country claimed by the French. There, in the most inaccessible fens, the strange beast made its home. A whole summer long Jacob searched for the speedy wolf’s tracks, living himself like a wild animal, sleeping under overhanging rocks or in caves. Sometimes, like a burrowing rodent, he dug a hole into the side of a hill to serve as shelter.

  At last, he saw signs that the wolf was nearby. The Loup-Éclair could not be outrun, or outridden, but it could be outfoxed. The lone hunter used a live fawn as bait, tying it to a tree, waiting for the Loup-Éclair to appear. For two days and nights he waited in vain. The eight-legged beast moved only at night, but Jacob had his long rifle loaded with a silver bullet, prayed over by pious Moravian elders and subjected to a spell by an ancient crone rumored to be a Hexe, that is, a witch. The silver bullet never failed to find its target, even in total darkness. During the third night the hunter sensed the wolf’s presence. The fawn bleated anxiously, straining at the rope. At last, Jacob’s sharp eyes discerned movement, a shape darker than the dark, moonless
night. Swiftly, he aimed his rifle at his nearly invisible prey and fired. The silver bullet found its target, slamming into the wolf’s vitals. Jacob had slain the Loup-Éclair. Soon the eight-legged skin adorned the hunter’s cabin. And again Schutz felt calm and fulfilled, staying close to his log hut, hunting only for his own and Wacker’s daily meal. During the winter he hibernated in his cabin like a bear, well supplied with smoked and salted meat, not infrequently taking a nip of brandywine. At night the black dog shared his blanket while the stallion munched hay in his lean-to. On the rare occasions Jacob felt lonely, he took up his jew’s-harp, drawing from it melancholy wailing sounds, like laments for the dead.

  Winter cold gave way to warmer weather and, with the thaw, spring fever seized the solitary hunter. He woke up one morning, his eyes glowing with excitement.

  “Ja, ja, jetzt geht’s hinter dem Gormagunt hier,” Jacob muttered to himself. “Now for the Gormagunt!”

  Mounted on his snorting stallion, his shaggy dog by his side, his rifle primed and loaded, the hunter set out for the strangest beast ever seen by human eyes. His search carried him farther than ever before into the untamed wilderness beyond the Ohio. In the mud of an evil-smelling swamp, “ein dreckich, schtinkich Loch.” And there, in its farthest recesses, Jacob found the Gormagunt. The creature was even more fantastic and misshapen than rumor had described it, but it was a sluggish, slow-moving, harmless plant eater. Jacob decided to take it alive and bring it back with him among people as proof of his prowess. But the Gormagunt was so huge. How was it to be moved?

  Jacob sought out a band of Erie Indians. In a mixture of German and English, sprinkled with a few French and Indian words, he indicated what he wanted. Gesturing and waving his arms, he commanded them to do his bidding.