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It wasn’t like Lucy Springer didn’t
know the risks of inviting Hooter to be part of a panel sharing
Texas legends with the community. She’d been a classmate years
ago; both victim and conspirator in a number of near-legendary
pranks. But this seemed so harmless: share a favorite Lone Star
legend with whoever wanted to show up at the old Grange Hall
east of town, as entertainment for an October Festival meal and
fundraiser.
Hooter outdid himself.
He shared the legend of the South
Texas headless horseman—El Muerto. In fact, this legend was
based on pure reality, according to various histories. It was
back in the 1850’s when a no-man’s land still existed between
the Rio Grande and the Nueces River further to the North. The
U.S. said the former was the border between it and Mexico;
Mexico said it was the Nueces. In between the geographic chaos
rustlers and bandits tried to prevail against a paltry number of
Texas Rangers. Among these Rangers were Creed Taylor and “Big
Foot” Wallace. As the legend goes, a rustler unwittingly stole
some of Taylor’s horses. Not only did Taylor and his pal,
Wallace, track the rustler down and hang him for his
transgression, Taylor went one better. He cut off the rustler’s
head, lashed the corpse to the recently deceased’s saddle in
such a way that the body remained upright, then tethered the
thief’s sombrero to a rope tied around the shoulders. He then
set the pony and headless corpse loose to serve as a grisly
billboard of what awaited other bandits.
Unsurprisingly, the legend of the
South Texas headless horseman was born. “Even today, people tell
of seeing him out there,” concluded Hooter with an earnest and
satisfied flourish.
Perhaps unsurprising also is the fact that Hooter saw a unique
opportunity to hammer home the point of his story. He and
Charlie often used the catch pens north of the Grange, so their
horses knew the country well. Figure, if you were one of Hooter
McCormick’s mounts, you’d have to possess a laid back attitude
akin to comatose. Anyway, the cousins tied some headless
scarecrows to a few of their mounts that were mingling about the
Grange as the festival participants disbursed.
Two women fainted; three kids
began to cry hysterically, one man ran for the gun in his
pickup. Delmar Jacobs sat down and proclaimed, “Let’s have a
drink.”
Lucy Springer went to hunting
Hooter, who was watching the show from atop the Grange, unable
to breathe, he was laughing so hard.
History and Whatnot
“Lord, Lucy, if they turned that pasty-faced tonight, think
what it would have been in November,” said Hooter.
Too used to Hooter logic, which
pin-balled from one direction to the next, Lucy simply said,
“Explain.”
“Well, you ask folks when the
spookiest time of year is, and most will talk about October,
because of Halloween, not realizing Halloween as we know it is a
fairly recent invention in this country. It wasn’t until the
1930’s most folks knew what trick-or-treating was,” explained
Hooter. “No sir, November has got October beat hands-down for
scaring the bejeebers out of you.”
Thinking of Thanksgiving, the
aroma of family meals making sturdy tables wobble, the promise
of Christmas just around the corner, even Lucy was having a hard
time seeing where Hooter might be coming from. “Go on.”
“Think of it,” continued Hooter,
“Notwithstanding a jillion turkeys before and hence that are
less than thrilled with the month, all that stuff about the
Mayflower and the Pilgrims showing up that time of year. That’s
how this country got its first Yankees. Ask the Indians how
tickled they are about that.”
“Yes, but…” tried Lucy.
“Speaking of which, it was in
November that General George Armstrong Custer killed Chief Black
Kettle. Speaking of which, it was November back in 1950 that two
idiots tried to assassinate President Truman. It was in November
13 years later that another idiot succeeded in assassinating
John F. Kennedy.”
“Still…” tried Lucy again.
“Then there was the stock market
crash of 1929,” said Hooter. “It was actually at the end of
October, but close enough for November to claim it; that’s when
it started sinking in what had really just happened; kind of
like the crash this year.”
Lucy took a seat on the side of
the building, realizing from experience that Hooter was just
tuning up.
“The wreck of the Edmund
Fitzgerald?” said Hooter. “That happened in November. Sherman’s
march to the sea, his pillaging, his destruction that cast the
divide that still exists today, that started in November. In
November of 1887 is when the South’s own Doc Holliday died. In
November of 1912 is when the original XIT Ranch sold its last
head of cattle. You might recall that the XIT was one of the
largest ranches in the world, about 3 million acres and 165,000
head of cattle. Of course, it wasn’t like it was built on
cattle; it was Chicago capitalists that put it together.”
“Yeah, but…” tried Lucy again.
“And who can forget November in
1923,” said Hooter. “That’s when Adolph Hitler launched his
failed Beer Hall Putsch, which led to his incarceration, which
gave him time to write Mien Kampf, which set the stage for the
largest act of genocide in modern history. It was 16 years later
that the same mad man survived an assassination attempt, which
would have prevented a whole lot of that.”
The people in the Grange parking
lot, any of them still left, were still scrambling. Lucy had
surrendered.
“Finally,” concluded Hooter,
“November is Election Day—now if that isn’t spooky, I don’t know
what is.”
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