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Speaker 1: Snake by Galen C. Collin. It was Saturday afternoon and

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the men of Moreland County were gathered, as was their custom,

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on the porch of the post office at Clayton Springs.

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They were watching a man who was a stranger to

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most of them, making his way toward them down the

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trail from the hills. It's Ben Tibbets, said Jim Bates.

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He's the feller that came over the divide a month

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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

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I do know is too much. He beats his wife

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with that. He spat, disgustedly on the porch floor. As

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Ben Tibbets came nearer, a playful puppy, one of the

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pack that always followed Jean Barton, ran to meet him

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with an oath. He gave the puppy a brutal kick

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and sent it sprawling ten feet and rushed at the stranger.

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Instead of defending himself, Tivvetts grobbled at Shan's feet. He

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fairly writhed in fright. Every movement, every expression showed terror

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

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and walked back to the group of interested watcherskwardly. Snake

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was his only comment, and Snake was his name from

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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.

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His eyes were small and beady, black and furtive. All

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the cunning and lack of conscience of a swamp moccasin

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were shown in his shifty glance. Trapping was ostensibly his occupation.

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Rumour had it otherwise. Hundreds of Chinese were smuggled across

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

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and the emigration officers were constantly watching him. He was

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never caught red handed, for he was too sly and patient.

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He made no move until he was absolutely safe. A

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

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thought of physical injury made him hold his temper well

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in hand toward men. The incident at his first visit

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to Clayton Springs was his only display. Towards his wife.

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He gave it full sway. Never was her face and

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body free from the marks of his beatings, and his

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blows and insults had left her spiritless. Dorothy Tibbott's was

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frail and flaxen haired, always tired looking still after six

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years as the wife of Snake, she showed more than

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a hint of her former beauty, loveliness that had made

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her the belle of the home village in Old York

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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

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and endured his lashings of both tongue and fist. Owing

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to the idolatry of every man in Moreland County, none

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dare say a word against Snake in her presence. They

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were not so reticent among themselves. Jim Bates voiced the

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opinion of all that damn snake he burst out one day,

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if he ever accidentally nips his thumb when he takes

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a chaw of eating tobacco, all the booze in the

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state won't curious poison. He'll swell up and burst like

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a mosquito. These neighbors, had they ever learned the details

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of Snake's demise, would have been the first to sense

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the poetic justice of it. When building his trap lined

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cabin in a secluded ravine up the mountain side. Snake

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built with time, serpent cunning. He labored alone. No one

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had seen him at work. No one knew that beneath

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the rough slab floor was a cellar some eight feet

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square and five feet deep. It was reached by a

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trapdoor cleverly concealed beneath the bunk. The only light came

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through a narrow crack between the cabin wall and the ground. Someday,

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mused snake, as he dug, I'll get sore and kill

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

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at a six foot length of one inch rope coiled

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in the corner. It was a drizzly, damp spring night

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when Snake realized that his foresight would prove of immediate worth.

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His wife had been more than usually docile. She endured

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his curses without remonts rance. This inflamed Snake's twisted brain

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with maniacal fury. He seized her about the throat and

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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,

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as realization of what he had done, donned, he made

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a pack of all the edibles in the house, slinging

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it to his back, he started for his retreat. He

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did not know that the slamming door had overturned the

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lamp and fired the house. The wind howled dismally through

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the trees. Wet branches, like dead hands, slapped Snake in

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the face. At times. The scraping of boughs brought him

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up standing. So much like the groan of a strickened woman,

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they sounded. It was with a somewhat shaky set of

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nerves that Snake pushed open the cabin door. Into the cellar,

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Snake dragged a few blankets, his pack of provisions, and

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two canteens of water followed. It was pitch dark. Not

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daring to strike a light, he spread the blankets and

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laid down to dream troubled sleep. His neighbors were on

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the trail sooner than he had expected, attracted by the

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light from the burning cabin. Sean Paxton was the first

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on the scene of the tragedy. He lived but half

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a mile down the valley and arrived in time to

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read the marks. Soon a dozen well armed men were

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on the trail, Knowing of Snake's mountain cabin. It was

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there that the hunt centered. A thorough search failed to

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reveal the well concealed hiding place. On account of the

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intense darkness, it was useless to search further. That night,

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the manhunters bumped down in the cabin to snatch a

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few hours of sleep before dawn was their stirring. That

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

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lay with his eyes closed, listening to the comments on

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the killing hang. It's too good for that dirty devil,

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growled Jem Bates. Burnin is better, but I vote for

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

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across the divide, hazarded Jack Williams veteran trailer. We'll follow

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him clean to California. The Lull'll never get its hands

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on him. Snake almost chuckled aloud as he slowly opened

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his eyes. Instantly, he froze with horror. Not three feet

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

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Quickly he closed his eyes for a few seconds. It

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was no dream. The coil was there. He could almost

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see the quiver of the sinuous body about to strike

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it's He could feel the pair of jet black, glistening

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eyes glaring into his own. He could imagine deadly fangs

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fastening into his cheek. If only he dared draw his

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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

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above would leave before some inadvertent movement drew that attack.

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Then stark terror took him. Now the reptile breathed twin

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jets of fire. Now it grinned at him in hideous fashion.

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Again it grew and grew, until it almost crowded him

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out of the cellar. He had disappeared for a second.

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Then the blessed relief was broken by finding it more

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menacing than ever in the other corner. Through it all,

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

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eyes drew him. He gently rolled onto his stomach. He

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began to wriggle toward the thing. Could he grasp at

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its slimy throat and choke it before it struck? That

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was his only chance. He would rather die from the

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poisonous fangs than lie here trembling and chilling with terror.

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He moved cautiously, stealthily, His fear filled eyes dimmed and glowed. Alternately,

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was the reptile moving toward him, or merely lying in wait,

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biting its time. Before it struck, he was close enough

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to grasp it. Slowly he raised his hand, he slipped

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his face fell forward into the very center of the

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coil as his hand closed around the slimy throat. Then

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it was over. Many days were consumed in the search

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for the murderer. At length, the disappointed men returned empty handed.

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In time, the story of the crime was almost forgotten.

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But to this day in the cellar, beneath the rough

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slab floor on a faraway mountain ravine, lies the moldering skeleton,

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its long bony fingers clutched tightly around the end of

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a six foot strand of slimy rope. The End of

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Snake by Galen Cullen