Tall tales from Texas

by Mody C. Boatright

The literary use of the tall tale in the South seems to have been checked by the Civil War, but after that struggle it found a congenial home and flourished orally in the cow-camps of the new Southwest. While it is true that the cowboy deserves his reputation for reticence and reserve, it is also true that when conditions were favorable to the exercise of the art of story telling, he often proved an inveterate liar. Among the cattlemen of a generation ago books and periodicals were scarce, and all sorts of shifts were resorted to for amusement. It is a tribute to the cowboy’s adaptability that he was able to utilize as well as he did the resources at his command. So, while the gifted story-teller was often referred to disparagingly as a “windy,” he was welcome around the camp-fires, and any large outfit was likely to have one or more among its numbers.

Old tales that were applicable to the new conditions survived; others were adapted to the new environment; Crèvecoeur and Münchausen seem to have supplied others, though of course there is no proof that the Southwestern analogues were not of independent origin. The adaptations, if they were such, often exhibit admirable ingenuity. Still other tales grew directly out of the soil.

The cowboy liked horseplay, and took keen delight in “loading” the greenhorn. This pastime, which usually occupied the hours after supper in the evening, consisted in telling for the benefit of the uninitiated a species of yarn locally known as the “windy.” If the auditor appeared credulous, the narrators went on vying with each other, heaping exaggeration upon exaggeration, consciously burlesquing the misconceptions which the newcomer had brought with him from the East. Sometimes the listener was informed by a sell at the end of the story that he had been taken in; more often he was made aware of the fact by the sheer heights of exaggeration to which the narrative ascended; occasionally he accepted the story in good faith and went away neither sadder nor wiser. The good story-teller, then, did not demand credence. All he wanted was a sympathetic listener. His reward was the joy of mere narrative.

The result was a literature at once imaginative, robust, and humorous: one in striking contrast to the better known pensive and melancholy ballads, which, taken in themselves, present a one-sided picture of the cowboy’s character.

Since much of the cowboy’s romancing was done to inspire fear in the newcomer, the fauna of the Southwest, really comparatively harmless, was represented as dangerous in the extreme. And among the living things none was better adapted to the cowboy’s purpose than the rattlesnake. As a matter of fact, there were few fatalities from snake-bite among cowmen. The rattlesnake rarely strikes without warning. He presents no danger to mounted men; and when dismounted, the cowboy was afforded good protection by his boots. Yet because of his terrifying aspect, his blood-curdling rattle, and the reputation he had acquired in the East, the rattlesnake was an especial source of terror to the greenhorn; and he was the subject of many a harrowing tale told around the campfire, frequently as a prelude to some practical joke. This means of entertainment was a well established custom in the days of Big Foot Wallace.

If the existing fauna could not be made impressive enough, imaginary animals could be drafted into service. These mythological creatures were numerous, and were not completely standardized either in terminology or in anatomy. Some were harmless, and the point of the story was to “sell” the greenhorn. Others were extremely ferocious, and the tenderfoot was advised to avoid them under all circumstances. He also received minute instruction in the technique of escaping when pursued. Like all mythological animals, they were compounded of the parts of well-known species.

The greenhorn’s misconceptions and his conduct arising therefrom were frequent themes of western windies, as well as of tales of actual fact.

Another favorite subject of cowboy yarns was the weather. The changeableness of atmospheric conditions in the Southwest has long been proverbial, and many a fantastic yarn has been spun to illustrate this fickleness of weather.

A different type of tall tale was that involving narrow and ingenious escapes and hair-raising adventures. This sort of tale demanded a hero, but the cowboy’s love of exaggeration did not lead him into supernaturalism. The hero of his fiction was a mere mortal who possessed to a high degree endurance, agility, and the other qualities which the cowboy of necessity exemplified, and which he consequently admired. The hero of the cowboy’s tall tale could drink his coffee boiling hot and wipe his mouth on a prickly-pear. He could ride a tornado, but he was not a giant, the impact of whose body in being thrown from one would form the Great Basin of the West; and those who have attributed to him such a prodigious stature have written too much under the influence of the Paul Bunyan legend.

Nor did cowboy fiction ever become unified around a single character. When a hero was needed, his name might be invented on the spot; the feats of daring might be ascribed to some local character; or the narrator himself might appropriate the honors. Certain names, however, were in rather general use, California Joe and Texas Jack being among the more common.