Legends and Tales of the American West

by Richard Erdoes

  “Oldtimer,” he said triumphantly, “beat this if you can.”

  The white-bearded trapper got down on his knees, sighted along his arm, using his thumb like a gunsight, and let fly, his wad landing plum center on the dime. The old man got up, bent down slowly, picked the dime out of the wad of ambeer, pocketed the dollars, and smiled his toothless smile.

  “Is that how you do things around hyar?” said the ring-tailed roarer, putting on his bear coat again and disappearing out the door into the darkness beyond.

  “This hoss sez the drinks are on me,” announced the ancient beaver man, whose name was Old Bill Williams.

  The Nuptials of Dangerous Davis

  On the morning on which Adam Forepaugh entered the city of Laramie, and with a grand array of his circus’s hump-backed dromedaries, club-footed elephants, and an uncalled-for amount of pride, pomp, and circumstance, captured the town, Dangerous Davis, clad in buckskin and glass beads, and ornamented with one of Smith & Wesson’s brass-mounted, self-cocking Black Hills models, entered His Honor’s office, and walking up to the counter where the Judge deals out justice to the vagabond tenderfoot, and bankrupt nonresident, as well as to the law-defying Laramite, called for $5.00 worth of matrimony.

  On his arm leaned the fair form of the one who had ensnared the heart of the frontiersman, and who had evidently gobbled up the manly affections of Dangerous Davis. She was resplendent in new clothes, and a pair of Indian moccasins, and when she glided up to the centre of the room, the casual observer might have been deceived into the belief that she was moving through the radiant atmosphere like an $11.00 peri, if it had not been for the gentle patter of her moccasins as it fell upon the floor with the sylphlike footfall of the prize elephant as he moves around the ring to the dreamy strains of “Old Zip Coon.” A large “filled” ring gleamed and sparkled on her hand and vied in splendor with a large seed wart on her front finger. The ends of her nails were draped in the deepest mourning, and as she leaned her head against the off shoulder of Dangerous Davis, the ranche butter from her tawny locks made a deep and lasting impression on his buckskin bosom.

  At this auspicious moment His Honor entered the room, with a green-covered German almanac for 1852 and a copy of Robinson Crusoe under his arm, and as he saw the young thing who was about to unite herself to the bold, bad man from Bitter Creek, he burst into tears, while Judge Blair, who had adjourned the District Court in order to witness the ceremony, sat down behind the stove and sobbed like a child. At this moment William Crout, who has been married under all kinds of circumstances and in eleven languages, entered the room and inspired confidence in the weeping throng.

  Dangerous Davis changed his quid of tobacco from one side of his mouth to the other, spat into his hands, and asked to see the Judge’s matrimonial price list. The Judge showed him some different styles, out of which Dangerous Davis selected the one he wanted.

  By this time about one hundred and thirteen men, who had been waiting around the court room during the past week in order to be drawn as jurymen, had crowded in to witness the ceremony.

  After all the preliminaries had been gone through with, the Judge commenced reading the marriage service out of a copy of the Clown’s Comic Song Book. When he asked if anyone present had any objections to the proceedings, Price, from force of habit, rose and said, “I object;” but Dangerous Davis caressed his brass-mounted Grecian bend, and Price withdrew his objection.

  After the usual ceremony, the Judge put the bridegroom through some little initiations, instructed him in the grand hailing signs, grips, passwords and signals, swore him to support the Constitution of the United States, pronounced the benediction on the newly wedded pair, and the ceremony closed with an extemporaneous speech by Judge Brown and profound silence and thoughtfulness on the part of Brockway, as he reflected upon the dangers which constantly surround us.

  Dangerous Davis mounted his broncho, and tying his new wife on behind him on the saddle with an old shawl strap, plunged his spurs into the panting sides of his calico-colored steed, and in a few moments was flying over the green plains, while the mountain breeze caught up the oleaginous saffron-hued tresses of the bride and in wild glee mingled them with the broncho’s sorrel tail, and tossed them to the four winds of heaven.

  Killing Off the James Boys

  Now that a terrible mortality has again broken out among the James boys, it is but justice to a family who have received so many gratuitous obituary notices to say that the James boys are still alive and enjoying a reasonable amount of health and strength.

  Although the papers are generally agreed upon the statement that they are more or less dead, yet in a few days the telegraph will announce their death again. They are dying on every hand. Hardly a summer zephyr stirs the waving grass that it does not bear upon its wings the dying groan of the James boys. Every blast of winter howls the requiem of a James boy. James boys have died in Texas and in Minnesota, in New England and on the Pacific coast. They have been yielding up the ghost whenever they had a leisure moment. They would rob a bank or a printing office, or some other place where wealth is known to be stored, and then they would die. When business was very active, one of the brothers would stay at home and attend to work while the other would go and lay down his life.

  Whenever the yellow fever let up a little the Grim Destroyer would go for a James boy, and send him to his long home.

  The men who had personally and individually killed the James boys from time to time contemplate holding a grand mass meeting and forming a national party. This will no doubt be the government next year.

  Let us institute a reform. Let us ignore the death of every plug who claims to be a James boy, unless he identifies himself. Let us examine the matter and see if the trade mark is on every wrapper and blown in the bottle, before we fill the air with woe and bust the broad canopy of heaven wide open with our lamentations over the untimely death of the James boys. If we succeed in standing them off while they live, we can afford to control our grief and silently battle with our emotions when they are still in death, until we know we are snorting and bellowing over the correct corpse.

  Theme and Variations

  Old Slim is suspected of horse theft. An improvised court sentences him to be hung. The verdict is executed on the spot, a nearby tree coming mighty handy. Half an hour later a fellow appears leading the missing horse by the bridle. It has not been stolen. It merely ran away. The boys are scratching their heads, but erring is human. Smilin’ Jack, known for his winning ways, is chosen to explain the situation to Old Slim’s wife. He rides over to her house:

  “Mrs. Mulligan, ma’am, I don’t rightly know how to put this, but we hung your Slim for horse stealin’. Then we found out he didn’t do it. I guess the joke’s on us.”

  Old Slim is hung for horse theft. His innocence is proven—post mortem. Smilin’ Jack is appointed to gently break the news to Slim’s old lady. He rides over to her place, determined to make it short:

  “Are you the Widow Mulligan?”

  “I’m Mrs. Mulligan, but I ain’t no widder.”

  “Want to bet?”

  Old Slim is charged with having stolen a fine saddle horse. The boys are in a lynching mood. They put Old Slim on a horse with his hands tied behind his back. They lead the animal to a tree, put a rope around Slim’s neck, and fasten the other end to a branch above him. Somebody slaps the animal’s rump so that it runs off, leaving Old Slim dangling, kicking his heels for a while until he’s dead. A little later the fellers find out they hanged the wrong man.

  “This here little accident is kind of awkward,” says the man who acted as the chief executioner. “Who’s to tell his missus?”

  “Let Smilin’ Jack do it,” is the unanimous decision. So Jack moseys over to Old Slim’s place. “Mrs. Mulligan,” he says, “there’s been a slight mishap. Nobody’s fault, really. Some darn fool said Slim was a hoss thief. Slim’s a-sittin’ on his pony, and they tied him up, and put the horse, with Slim on it, under the n
earest tree, and placed a rope around your husband’s neck, wrapping the other end around a convenient branch. They was about leading the pony from out under him when I says, ‘Whoa, boys, let’s not be hasty. This could be a mistake we don’t want to be sorry about later. Let’s talk this over.’

  “So we all go over to the Legal Tender to resolve the matter over a jolt of sneaky pete and, natcherally, come to the conclusion that Slim couldn’t have done it. So we all go over to where we’ve left him to bring him the good news, and I’ll be damned, ma’am, if that fool hoss hasn’t walked off, leaving Old Slim dangling in the air. We took him down and got some whiskey into him, but we was too late by a minit. It’s a goddam shame, ma’am, but accidents will happen.”

  They hung Old Slim for horse theft. Just a sad joke, really. The buckaroos deputized Smilin’ Jack, on account of his savoir faire, to explain matters to Slim’s old lady.

  “Why me, always me?” Jack complained.

  “ ’Cause you’re good at jawin’,” they told him.

  So Jack moseyed over to Slim’s spread. “Mrs. Mulligan,” Smilin’ Jack says, “the boys asked me to tell you that some goddam dudes used your Slim to decorate a tree.”

  “Did he cash in his chips, at last?!” said the widow.

  “It was like this, ma’am,” Smilin’ Jack explained. “Me, and the fellers, and Ole Slim, was bendin’ an elbow at Nuttal and Mann’s Number Ten.”

  “Boozin’ and gamblin’ and fornicatin’ with the soiled doves, the hornswoggled son of a bitch!” said the widow.

  “A sportin’ man, Slim was, ma’am, a reg’lar fun-lovin fellow.”

  “By God! And what fun did I have?” complained the widow.

  “Well, Old Slim, he tried his luck at the faro table and lost all his wampum, and then changed to blackjack and chuck-a-luck, and lost his watch and chain, and his stickpin too, come to think of it.”

  “His stickpin, you say? The low-down bastard! A diamond the size of a grape!” screamed the widow.

  “Glass, really, ma’am, just plain glass,” said Smilin’ Jack. “Well, arter that, Slim sat in on a game of stud and lost his new boots, standin’ there in his stockin’ feet. Lost all his tail feathers, I’m afraid.”

  “The no-good son of a gun! I need a new pair of shoes and the sorry dog wastes his dineros that way!” complained the widow.

  “W-a-a-l, Mrs. Mulligan, I thought to do him and you a favor. There were these rich dudes in our watering spot, city slickers from back East, tryin’ to play the western he-man …”

  “Come here to cure their ailin’ lungs, the chicken-chested bastards,” the widow interrupted.

  “ ’Xactly ma’am. Well, I told Ole Slim to get on his pony and ride off, and then I raised the devil, yellin’ that Slim stole a hoss, and the dudes to make up a posse and go arter him. It made those gents swell up, all right.”

  “Makes no sense,” commented the widow.

  “Don’t you get it, Mrs. Mulligan? I figgered Slim’d let ’em catch him and bring him back for a necktie party, and then hit ’em for damages, defamashiun of character, false arrest, and playin’ posse without bein’ properly deputized.”

  “For how much?” inquired the widow.

  “I thought for ’bout five hundred smackeroos.”

  “You cheap son of a gun!” said the widow.

  “W-a-a-l, ma’am, we saddle stiffs was waitin’ for the dudes to come back, and back they came, but without Slim.”

  “It figgers,” was the widow’s comment.

  “Where’s Old Slim?” we asks.

  “Died of hemp fever,” said the chief dude. “We had a proper necktie party. No use wastin’ time pussyfootin’ around.”

  “Are you locoed?” says I. “You strung up an innocent man!”

  “You figgered five hundred dollars for a false arrest. Hangin’ Slim should be worth a hell of a lot more,” said the widow.

  “My feelins ’xactly. Me and the boys took them dudes straight-away over to the bank and made ’em shell out. I’m right sorry, ma’am, that my plan didn’t work out, but the joke’s on me.”

  “Never you mind,” said the widow. “How much?”

  “ ’Bout five thousand bucks, near’s I can tell. In gold too, no paper. I’ve got it right here.”

  “Come to think, Old Slim, he did have some good in him,” said the widow.

  Old Slim is a compulsive gambler. He moseys over to Nuttal and Mann’s Saloon Number Ten, at Deadwood, for a game of stud. One of the players, falsely, suspects Slim of cheating and shoots him dead. “Shucks,” says one of the boys, “somebody’s got to tell his missus.” Smilin’ Jack is elected. He rides over to Slim’s and commiserates with the departed’s wife:

  “You know how it is, ma’am. Old Slim’s got the gamblin’ fever. So he goes to Nuttal and Mann’s and tries his luck at faro, and he loses and loses—ev’ry cent he’s got. So he tries to recoup his losses playin’ three-card monte. He shouldn’t have done it. That’s a sucker’s game. So he loses his gold watch and chain, and diamond ring too. Next he sits in on a poker game, and stakes his prize bull and, after he’s gone, stakes his saddle horse and loses it. I reckon it warn’t Slim’s lucky day.”

  “That no-good husband of mine. That son of a bitch. I’ll kill him!”

  “Don’t incommodate yourself, ma’am, somebody’s already done that job for you!”

  Poor Old Slim got hisself shot over somethin’ that wasn’t any concern of his. “You was there, you’ve seen it,” the saddle bums told Smilin’ Jack, “you better go tell Slim’s missus. You’re good at that kind of thing. You’ve got a way with words.”

  “How you flatter me,” says Smilin’ Jack, but he hitches up his buckboard and drives over to Mrs. Mulligan, the brand-new widder woman.

  “Life’s one damn thing after another,” he tells her.

  “Ain’t it the truth!”

  “Ole Slim was playin’ poker at the Number Ten Saloon.”

  “I know where he’s at, the bum.”

  “Wild Bill is the sheriff right now. Those eastern writers call him the King of the Pistoleers. Between you and me, ma’am, we call him the Human Ant-eater, on account of his nose. Old Slim was there at the same time, also playin’ poker. He’s sittin’ there with Deadshot Rube. Bill gets it into his head that Rube’s dealing from the bottom and tells him so. Rube’s insulted and throws down on Bill. They go for their artillery and swap lead. They’re bangin’ away at each other acrost the table. You know ma’am, that the King of the Pistoleers can’t hit the side of a barn at twenty paces and Deadshot Rube can’t hit the bottle in front of him. They keep missing each other, but they hit the bardog and poor Old Slim at the other end of the room. The bardog gets away with a flesh wound, but poor Slim gets it in the head and the heart and cashes in his chips right then and there.”

  “Tough luck.”

  “Well, Wild Bill and Deadshot Rube get tired shootin’ at each other. They make up and shake hands. No hard feelin’s. They are mighty sorry ’bout Old Slim. I suggest takin’ up a collection—for you, ma’am.”

  “That’s very thoughtful, Jack.”

  “Well, Wild Bill and Rube contribute handsomely, and all of Slim’s many friends, all the ramrods and ranchers and cowpokes. The miners chip in too, particularly them what hit pay dirt.”

  “How much?”

  “Bout three, four thousand smackeroos, I’d say, more than enough to give Old Slim the grandest funeral ever held in these here parts. More than enough to ease him down gently in a silk lined casket with silver handles, and lots left over for the handsomest headstone in our boneyard, with a carved marble angel. And, natcherally, we’ll have a band playin’ the death march from Saul, and mighty fine preachin’, and afterward a great fiesta in Slim’s honor with plenty of good feed and booze for all comers.”

  “You make me weep, Jack, but it won’t do. Poor Slim always told me: ‘When I’ve gone up the flume, I want no do-funnies, no folderol, no fancy doin’s. Plant me in the sod
in a plain pine box, and put up a wooden cross, and have Smilin’ Jack say an Our Father over me. He’ll do it in style.’ I’d sure like to do him up with a silk-lined coffin with silver handles, and all that, but we must respect the last wishes of our loved ones, who’ll be lookin’ down on us.”

  “What’d he do with a silver-handled casket anyhow? There’s better ways of spendin’ that money.”

  “Ain’t it the truth!”

  The Winchester Ghosts

  There stands a strange, turreted and domed castle in California’s Santa Clara Valley, exclusively inhabited by thousands of ghosts. It was, as a matter of fact, especially built for them by a guilt-ridden woman—Sarah Winchester, widow of William Wirt Winchester, the “Rifle King,” owner of the great firearms factory at Hartford, Connecticut.

  Petite, wasp-waisted, cheerful Sarah had been a doting wife and mother, relishing to the fullest a life spent in the lap of luxury. No amount of money, however, can protect a family, even a multimillionaire’s family, from sickness and death. The Rifle King fell victim to consumption. On his deathbed, knowing that his daughter and only child, stricken by the same dread disease, would soon follow him to the grave, he told his weeping wife: “Dearest, this is God’s punishment for the manufacturing and selling of instruments of death. Every time one of my repeating rifles kills a human being, I am committing murder—secondhand murder, maybe, but murder all the same. And you, my poor darling, are guilty too, because you enjoy the fruits of murder—our fine mansion, jewels, fashionable dresses, furs, and luxuries of every kind. The spirits of countless victims, slain by my famous rifles, are crying out for vengeance. It is their ghosts which are roaming without proper graves, hovering in limbo, their remains mouldering on lonely prairies and deserts, their bones scattered by wild beasts. My dearly beloved, soon I will shuffle off my mortal coil, but I will always be with you as a spirit. When my shade appears to you, be not afraid, it will tell you what must be done.”