Snake by Galen C. Collin. It was Saturday afternoon and the men of
Moreland County were gathered, as was their custom, on the porch of the
post office at Clayton Springs. They were watching a man who was a stranger
to most of them, making his way toward them down the trail from the
hills. It's Ben Tibbets, said Jim Bates. He's the feller that came
over the divide a month or two ago and built a cabin about ten miles
up the trail. Don't know much about him, but what I do know
is too much. He beats his wife with that. He spat, disgustedly
on the porch floor. As Ben Tibbets came nearer, a playful puppy,
one of the pack that always followed Jean Barton, ran to meet him with
an oath. He gave the puppy a brutal kick and sent it sprawling ten
feet and rushed at the stranger. Instead of defending himself, Tivvetts grobbled at
Shan's feet. He fairly writhed in fright. Every movement, every expression showed
terror beyond control. With disgust, Sean spurned him with a foot and walked
back to the group of interested watcherskwardly. Snake was his only comment, and
Snake was his name from that time on to the men of these western mountains.
Swarth and low browed he was, with long gorilla like arms. His
eyes were small and beady, black and furtive. All the cunning and lack
of conscience of a swamp moccasin were shown in his shifty glance. Trapping was
ostensibly his occupation. Rumour had it otherwise. Hundreds of Chinese were smuggled across
the border. Much of this smuggling was attributed to Snake, and the emigration
officers were constantly watching him. He was never caught red handed, for he
was too sly and patient. He made no move until he was absolutely safe.
A fiery temper had Snake. Physical cowardice. Abject terror at the thought
of physical injury made him hold his temper well in hand toward men. The
incident at his first visit to Clayton Springs was his only display. Towards his
wife. He gave it full sway. Never was her face and body free
from the marks of his beatings, and his blows and insults had left her
spiritless. Dorothy Tibbott's was frail and flaxen haired, always tired looking still after
six years as the wife of Snake, she showed more than a hint of
her former beauty, loveliness that had made her the belle of the home village
in Old York State before she came west to be the wife of Snake.
With the unaccountable heart of a woman, she loved Snake and endured his lashings
of both tongue and fist. Owing to the idolatry of every man in Moreland
County, none dare say a word against Snake in her presence. They were
not so reticent among themselves. Jim Bates voiced the opinion of all that damn
snake he burst out one day, if he ever accidentally nips his thumb when
he takes a chaw of eating tobacco, all the booze in the state won't
curious poison. He'll swell up and burst like a mosquito. These neighbors,
had they ever learned the details of Snake's demise, would have been the first
to sense the poetic justice of it. When building his trap lined cabin in
a secluded ravine up the mountain side. Snake built with time, serpent cunning.
He labored alone. No one had seen him at work. No one
knew that beneath the rough slab floor was a cellar some eight feet square and
five feet deep. It was reached by a trapdoor cleverly concealed beneath the bunk.
The only light came through a narrow crack between the cabin wall and the
ground. Someday, mused snake, as he dug, I'll get sore and
kill that whimpering female. Then I'll need this hideout. He glanced at a
six foot length of one inch rope coiled in the corner. It was a
drizzly, damp spring night when Snake realized that his foresight would prove of immediate
worth. His wife had been more than usually docile. She endured his curses
without remonts rance. This inflamed Snake's twisted brain with maniacal fury. He seized
her about the throat and wrung her neck as a cook wrings the neck of
a chicken. He carelessly flung her body into a corner. Then, as
realization of what he had done, donned, he made a pack of all
the edibles in the house, slinging it to his back, he started for
his retreat. He did not know that the slamming door had overturned the lamp
and fired the house. The wind howled dismally through the trees. Wet branches,
like dead hands, slapped Snake in the face. At times. The
scraping of boughs brought him up standing. So much like the groan of a
strickened woman, they sounded. It was with a somewhat shaky set of nerves
that Snake pushed open the cabin door. Into the cellar, Snake dragged a
few blankets, his pack of provisions, and two canteens of water followed.
It was pitch dark. Not daring to strike a light, he spread the
blankets and laid down to dream troubled sleep. His neighbors were on the trail
sooner than he had expected, attracted by the light from the burning cabin.
Sean Paxton was the first on the scene of the tragedy. He lived but
half a mile down the valley and arrived in time to read the marks.
Soon a dozen well armed men were on the trail, Knowing of Snake's mountain
cabin. It was there that the hunt centered. A thorough search failed to
reveal the well concealed hiding place. On account of the intense darkness, it
was useless to search further. That night, the manhunters bumped down in the
cabin to snatch a few hours of sleep before dawn was their stirring. That
awakened snake day was just breaking. For some moments, he lay with his
eyes closed, listening to the comments on the killing hang. It's too good
for that dirty devil, growled Jem Bates. Burnin is better, but I
vote for a slow Burnin. You bet, I bet he's lit out across
the divide, hazarded Jack Williams veteran trailer. We'll follow him clean to California.
The Lull'll never get its hands on him. Snake almost chuckled aloud as
he slowly opened his eyes. Instantly, he froze with horror. Not three
feet in front of his face was a sinister and menacing coil. Quickly he
closed his eyes for a few seconds. It was no dream. The coil
was there. He could almost see the quiver of the sinuous body about to
strike it's He could feel the pair of jet black, glistening eyes glaring into
his own. He could imagine deadly fangs fastening into his cheek. If only
he dared draw his gun and blow off the reptile's head, that would bring
more enemies, more deadly about him, If only the men above would leave
before some inadvertent movement drew that attack. Then stark terror took him. Now
the reptile breathed twin jets of fire. Now it grinned at him in hideous
fashion. Again it grew and grew, until it almost crowded him out of
the cellar. He had disappeared for a second. Then the blessed relief was
broken by finding it more menacing than ever in the other corner. Through it
all, Snake uttered no word. At length, With hypnotic power, the
eyes drew him. He gently rolled onto his stomach. He began to wriggle
toward the thing. Could he grasp at its slimy throat and choke it before
it struck? That was his only chance. He would rather die from the
poisonous fangs than lie here trembling and chilling with terror. He moved cautiously,
stealthily, His fear filled eyes dimmed and glowed. Alternately, was the reptile
moving toward him, or merely lying in wait, biting its time. Before
it struck, he was close enough to grasp it. Slowly he raised his
hand, he slipped his face fell forward into the very center of the coil
as his hand closed around the slimy throat. Then it was over. Many
days were consumed in the search for the murderer. At length, the disappointed
men returned empty handed. In time, the story of the crime was almost
forgotten. But to this day in the cellar, beneath the rough slab floor
on a faraway mountain ravine, lies the moldering skeleton, its long bony fingers
clutched tightly around the end of a six foot strand of slimy rope. The
End of Snake by Galen Cullen