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Snake by Galen C. Collin.
It was Saturday afternoon and the men of

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Moreland County were gathered, as was
their custom, on the porch of the

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post office at Clayton Springs. They
were watching a man who was a stranger

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to most of them, making his
way toward them down the trail from the

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hills. It's Ben Tibbets, said
Jim Bates. He's the feller that came

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over the divide a month or two
ago and built a cabin about ten miles

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up the trail. Don't know much
about him, but what I do know

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is too much. He beats his
wife with that. He spat, disgustedly

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on the porch floor. As Ben
Tibbets came nearer, a playful puppy,

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one of the pack that always followed
Jean Barton, ran to meet him with

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an oath. He gave the puppy
a brutal kick and sent it sprawling ten

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feet and rushed at the stranger.
Instead of defending himself, Tivvetts grobbled at

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Shan's feet. He fairly writhed in
fright. Every movement, every expression showed

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terror beyond control. With disgust,
Sean spurned him with a foot and walked

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back to the group of interested watcherskwardly. Snake was his only comment, and

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Snake was his name from that time
on to the men of these western mountains.

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Swarth and low browed he was,
with long gorilla like arms. His

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eyes were small and beady, black
and furtive. All the cunning and lack

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of conscience of a swamp moccasin were
shown in his shifty glance. Trapping was

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ostensibly his occupation. Rumour had it
otherwise. Hundreds of Chinese were smuggled across

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the border. Much of this smuggling
was attributed to Snake, and the emigration

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officers were constantly watching him. He
was never caught red handed, for he

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was too sly and patient. He
made no move until he was absolutely safe.

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A fiery temper had Snake. Physical
cowardice. Abject terror at the thought

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of physical injury made him hold his
temper well in hand toward men. The

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incident at his first visit to Clayton
Springs was his only display. Towards his

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wife. He gave it full sway. Never was her face and body free

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from the marks of his beatings,
and his blows and insults had left her

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spiritless. Dorothy Tibbott's was frail and
flaxen haired, always tired looking still after

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six years as the wife of Snake, she showed more than a hint of

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her former beauty, loveliness that had
made her the belle of the home village

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in Old York State before she came
west to be the wife of Snake.

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With the unaccountable heart of a woman, she loved Snake and endured his lashings

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of both tongue and fist. Owing
to the idolatry of every man in Moreland

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County, none dare say a word
against Snake in her presence. They were

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not so reticent among themselves. Jim
Bates voiced the opinion of all that damn

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snake he burst out one day,
if he ever accidentally nips his thumb when

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he takes a chaw of eating tobacco, all the booze in the state won't

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curious poison. He'll swell up and
burst like a mosquito. These neighbors,

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had they ever learned the details of
Snake's demise, would have been the first

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to sense the poetic justice of it. When building his trap lined cabin in

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a secluded ravine up the mountain side. Snake built with time, serpent cunning.

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He labored alone. No one had
seen him at work. No one

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knew that beneath the rough slab floor
was a cellar some eight feet square and

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five feet deep. It was reached
by a trapdoor cleverly concealed beneath the bunk.

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The only light came through a narrow
crack between the cabin wall and the

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ground. Someday, mused snake,
as he dug, I'll get sore and

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kill that whimpering female. Then I'll
need this hideout. He glanced at a

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six foot length of one inch rope
coiled in the corner. It was a

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drizzly, damp spring night when Snake
realized that his foresight would prove of immediate

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worth. His wife had been more
than usually docile. She endured his curses

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without remonts rance. This inflamed Snake's
twisted brain with maniacal fury. He seized

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her about the throat and wrung her
neck as a cook wrings the neck of

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a chicken. He carelessly flung her
body into a corner. Then, as

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realization of what he had done,
donned, he made a pack of all

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the edibles in the house, slinging
it to his back, he started for

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his retreat. He did not know
that the slamming door had overturned the lamp

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and fired the house. The wind
howled dismally through the trees. Wet branches,

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like dead hands, slapped Snake in
the face. At times. The

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scraping of boughs brought him up standing. So much like the groan of a

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strickened woman, they sounded. It
was with a somewhat shaky set of nerves

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that Snake pushed open the cabin door. Into the cellar, Snake dragged a

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few blankets, his pack of provisions, and two canteens of water followed.

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It was pitch dark. Not daring
to strike a light, he spread the

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blankets and laid down to dream troubled
sleep. His neighbors were on the trail

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sooner than he had expected, attracted
by the light from the burning cabin.

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Sean Paxton was the first on the
scene of the tragedy. He lived but

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half a mile down the valley and
arrived in time to read the marks.

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Soon a dozen well armed men were
on the trail, Knowing of Snake's mountain

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cabin. It was there that the
hunt centered. A thorough search failed to

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reveal the well concealed hiding place.
On account of the intense darkness, it

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was useless to search further. That
night, the manhunters bumped down in the

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cabin to snatch a few hours of
sleep before dawn was their stirring. That

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awakened snake day was just breaking.
For some moments, he lay with his

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eyes closed, listening to the comments
on the killing hang. It's too good

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for that dirty devil, growled Jem
Bates. Burnin is better, but I

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vote for a slow Burnin. You
bet, I bet he's lit out across

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the divide, hazarded Jack Williams veteran
trailer. We'll follow him clean to California.

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The Lull'll never get its hands on
him. Snake almost chuckled aloud as

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he slowly opened his eyes. Instantly, he froze with horror. Not three

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feet in front of his face was
a sinister and menacing coil. Quickly he

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closed his eyes for a few seconds. It was no dream. The coil

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was there. He could almost see
the quiver of the sinuous body about to

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strike it's He could feel the pair
of jet black, glistening eyes glaring into

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his own. He could imagine deadly
fangs fastening into his cheek. If only

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he dared draw his gun and blow
off the reptile's head, that would bring

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more enemies, more deadly about him, If only the men above would leave

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before some inadvertent movement drew that attack. Then stark terror took him. Now

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the reptile breathed twin jets of fire. Now it grinned at him in hideous

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fashion. Again it grew and grew, until it almost crowded him out of

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the cellar. He had disappeared for
a second. Then the blessed relief was

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broken by finding it more menacing than
ever in the other corner. Through it

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all, Snake uttered no word.
At length, With hypnotic power, the

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eyes drew him. He gently rolled
onto his stomach. He began to wriggle

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toward the thing. Could he grasp
at its slimy throat and choke it before

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it struck? That was his only
chance. He would rather die from the

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poisonous fangs than lie here trembling and
chilling with terror. He moved cautiously,

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stealthily, His fear filled eyes dimmed
and glowed. Alternately, was the reptile

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moving toward him, or merely lying
in wait, biting its time. Before

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it struck, he was close enough
to grasp it. Slowly he raised his

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hand, he slipped his face fell
forward into the very center of the coil

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as his hand closed around the slimy
throat. Then it was over. Many

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days were consumed in the search for
the murderer. At length, the disappointed

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men returned empty handed. In time, the story of the crime was almost

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forgotten. But to this day in
the cellar, beneath the rough slab floor

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on a faraway mountain ravine, lies
the moldering skeleton, its long bony fingers

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clutched tightly around the end of a
six foot strand of slimy rope. The

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End of Snake by Galen Cullen