[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.”