Speaker 1: 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