I have previously written of Magoosh, a roadrunner was named
for a man who visited here many times on his travels from Central Texas to the
mountains of New Mexico.
Once when
Magoosh was in his mid-40's, he visited here to hunt buffalo. A week before
arriving here, he and a few others visited the Border Survey wagon train of
Charles Bartlett.
In drier
years, buffalo drifted off the southern Llano Estacado at the Big Spring and
meandered down the Colorado watershed to its confluence with the Concho. But
that year, fall rains filled the local playas and buffalo could be found
grazing in scattered bands throughout the area. Magoosh chose the large playa
southeast of present-day Midland for his hunting grounds. He camped far from
the playa, so as not to disrupt the natural rhythms of the buffalo. To the west
lay the grazing grounds of pronghorn.
At his
campsite, two large hackberries with ground-sweeping branches shaded a shallow
rain-water pool. To the north was a ridge that overlooked the present day site
of Midland. In rainy spells, sheetwash was funneled to the hackberry pool.
Today, tobosa grass grows among mesquite at the site, but back then the
hackberries were surrounded by alkali sacaton, a waist tall pampas grass
look-alike. The soil there is dark gray Midessa clay loam and both sets of
plants are associated with that soil type. No hackberries can be found at the
site today and the rainwater pool now covers several acres, since buffalo no
longer wallow and deepen the catchment area.
Four other
people accompanied Magoosh and his wife. They slept under the hackberries. If
they killed buffalo, the meat could be hung to dry in the trees, which also
served to hide the virtually smokeless buffalo dung campfire of the previous
evening. A few miles to the east were 15 square miles of shinoak-covered sand
dunes, a maze that offered a retreat if unwelcome visitors came too close.
Water could be dug out of the mostly wooded draw on the north side of the
dunes.
"When
arriving at a hunting range, act like the shiest deer," Magoosh told his
companions. The two young couples were proud to be traveling with Magoosh to
procure supplies for the folks just arriving at the wintering camp down in the
Pecos canyons. Old people awaited the luxuries provided by buffalo, which they
had not been afforded in several years, because of the treachery of Bigfoot
Wallace and other settlers on their old grounds along the Nueces.
Magoosh knew
the Comanches were busy at their fall camp at the Big Spring, with dozen of
hunters harvesting tons of meat to supply the elderly people and children while
the men raided deep into Mexico. He had originally headed west, but ran into
Ciboleros around the Mustang Springs. He knew the leader, but did not want to
infringe upon their hunting grounds. A camp of Mostenas utilized Mustang Ponds,
so Magoosh headed for the playa further south and found the two hackberries
near the ridge.
"Wake
up!" hissed a voice in Spanish. "All you baghairs speak Spanish, so
you know what I am saying."
Magoosh wore
his hair short on one side and long on the other. The long side was never cut,
but was often coiled, wrapped and hung at the name of his neck. Magoosh felt a
knife at this throat and his blood welling.
"Listen!
I could have killed all of you but my helper told me to introduce myself and
go. I am Mow-way, and we will meet again when I have a son with wife and child.
I was on the ridge when you came, and I was told you are part of the vision of
my spirit quest. My helper said you would help me in the future. Remember my
name!" To the south and southwest of Midland is a large area usually
without surface water. Once upon a time, it was an empty quarter, perfect for
vision quests during four-day fasts.
The young
Comanche quickly disappeared through the low hanging branches of the
hackberries. The other members of his group had awakened but remained
motionless at the wave of Magoosh's hand. Odd things often happened around
Magoosh; it was if his presence broke old balance, the resulting upset rippling
through everyday reality. And, he always seemed to know the way to a new
balance, leading without seeming conscious of his role.
Near
daybreak, low dark clouds thickened and fell. Dawn brought thick fog, drenched
grass, and the further lowering of the hackberry branches with the weight of
the fog-water. A cow buffalo and yearling calf came silently out of the fog and
made their way to the pool. Magoosh, the only one awake, grabbed his bow and
with two quick shots sent the dying buffalo running back into the fog. Their
grunts and thumping hooves awoke the others in time to see Magoosh trotting
around the pool. By the time they had stood and stretched and rubbed their eyes
he had returned. In his hands were two large pink tongues -- for breakfast, of
course.
Three hours
later, the buffalo had been completely butchered by the women. Magoosh
instructed them to leave some of the guts at the butchering. At midday, the fog
lifted and all could see a large wolf sniffing at the morsels. The wolf became
aware of their watching. He sat down and stared at each one in turn, lastly at
Magoosh. After two full minutes of staring at Magoosh, he stood, stretched,
yawned and wagged his tail. He then trotted to the south, where now could be
heard the deep, shaking rumble of buffalo running.
Anyone and
everyone is a storyteller. We all communicate through stories. The specific
information comes from both reading and researching
publications about the Llano Estacado and from shared oral stories. To create a
more complete regional mythology -- roughneck and oil-field stories, cowboy,
ghost town, cotton farming, and hunting stories should be told along with such
historical and natural history stories.
Stories of adaptation to the rigors of life on the Llano Estacado by
members of every ethnic group that has settled here should also be gathered and
shared as well.
When a Navajo travels within the four
mountains of his homeland, there is always a landmark visible that has a story.
Stories both pass on knowledge of the land and animals, and also impart a
shared world view. Character traits that are respected by a given society
appear in each of its stories. Gary Barsho wrote a book about a group of
Apaches who chasten a wayward tribal member by merely saying the name of a
landmark where a tribal member or culture hero had acted outside of the best
interests of the tribe. The errant one remembers the story of the landmark and
realizes he and she has been acting in an inappropriate manner. Because of the
transience of our society, we can never hope to approach this level of
sophistication, but we should tell the stories of our homelands. It is
essential for the health of our society.
