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Here is a true "tall tale" as told by John Hatcher. The tale was intended to provide campfire entertainment for a good part of an evening, and as such it is rather long. This story is recorded by Lewis Garrard in 1847 (Wah-To-Ya). Here is the story: “Hatch, old hos! Hyar’s the coon as would like to hear of the time you seed the old gentleman. You’s the one as savys all’bout them diggin’s.” [asked by Louis Simmonds??] “What one is that?” asked Garmond. “Why, the old beaver says as how he was in hell once-eh, Hatch?” “Sartain!
This old hos wasn’t any whar else- wagh!” replied Hatcher to
Louy’s doubting remark; “an’ I tellee, it’s me kin tell the
yarn.” He kept his pipe
in his mouth, the stem hard held between the teeth, using his hands and
knife to cut from a solid plug of “ “Well!”
taking a puff at his pipe to deep in fire, “it’s me as had been to I looked round fur sign, and hurraw fur the mountains, if I didn’t find the cache. An’ now, if this hos hasn’t kissed the rock as was pecked with his butcherknife to mark the place, he’s ongrateful. Maybe the gravel wasn’t scratched up from that cache some! An’ me, as would have given my traps fur ‘old bull,’ rolled in the arwerdenty -wagh! I was weaker
‘an a goat in the spring; but when the Touse was opened, I fell back,
an’ let it run in. In four
swallers I ‘cluded to pull up stakes fur the head waters of It used to be the
best place in the mountains fur meat-me an’ Bill Williams has made it
come-but nothin’ in sight. Things
looked mity strange, an’ I wanted to make back track; “But” sez I,
“hyar I are, doesn’t turn, surely.” The bushes was
scorched an’ curled, an’ the cedar was like fire had been put to it.
The brown rocks was covered with black smoke, an’ the little
drink in the bottom of the kanyon was dried up.
We was now most under the old twin peaks of Wah-to-yah [ Somethin’ was
wrong; I must be shovin’ backards, an’ that afore long, or I’ll go
under; an’ I jerked the rein, but I’ll be doggone-an’ it’s true as
there’s meat a runnin’-Blue kept goin’ forrad.
I laid back, an’ cussed an’ kicked till I saw blood, sartin;
an’ I put out my hand fur my knife to kill the beast, but the Green
River wouldn’t come. I
tellee some onvisible spirit had a paw thar, an’ it’s me as says
it-bad ‘medicine’ it was that trappin’ time. “Loosin’ my
pistol-the one traded at ‘Big Horn, from Suckeree Tomblow, time I lost
my Yute squaw-an’ primin’ my rifle, I swore to keep rite on; fur,
after stayin’ ten year, that’s past, in these mountains, to be fooled
this way wasn’t the game fur me, nohow.” Well, we-I say
‘we’ fur Blue was some-good as a man any day, I could talk to her,
an’ she’d turn her head as ef she onderstood me.
Mules are knowin’ critters-next thing to human.
At a sharp corner, Blue snorted an’ turned her head but
couldn’t go back. Thar in
front was a level kanyon, with walls of black an’ brown gray stone,
an’ stumps of burnt pinyon hung down ready to fall onter us; an’ as we
passed, the rocks and trees shook an’ grated an’ creaked.
All at once Blue tucked tail, backed her ears, bowed her neck,
an’ whinnied rite out, a-rarin’ onto her hind legs, a pawin’ an
snickerin’. This hos
doesn’t see the cute of them notions; he’s fur examinin’, so I goes
to jump off the lam fool; but I was stuck tight as ef tar was to the
saddle. I took my gun-that ar
iron,” (pointing to his rifle, leaning against a tree), “an’ pops
Blue over the head, but she squealed an’ dodged, all the time pawin’;
but ‘twasn’t no use, an’ I says, ‘you didn’t cost moren two
blankets when you was traded from the Yutes, an’ two blankets aint worth
moren six plews at Fort William, which comes to dos pesos a pair, you
consarned ugly picter-darn you, anyhow!’
Jest then I heerd a laffin’.
I looked up, an’ two black critters-they wasn’t human, sure,
fur they had tails an’ red coats (Injun cloth like that traded to the
Navyhoes), edged with shiny white stuff, an’ brass buttons. They kem forrad
an’ made two low bows. I
felt fur my scalpknife (fur I thought they was ‘proaching to take me),
but I couldn’ use it-they were so darned polite. One of the devils
said, with a grin an’ bow, ‘Good mornin, Mr. Hatcher!’ “’Hell!’
sez I, “How do you know me? I swar this hos never saw you afore.’” “’Oh! We’ve
expected you a long time,” said the other, “and we are quite happy to
see you-we’ve known you ever since your arrival in the mountains.” I was gittin
sorter scared. I wanted a drop
of arwerdenty mity bad, but the bottle was gone, an’ I looked at them in
astonishment, an’ said, ‘The devil!’ “’Hush!”
screamed one, “you must not say that here-keep still, you will see him
presently.” I felt streaked,
an’ cold sweat broke out all over me.
I tried to say my prayers, as I used to at home when they made me
turn in at night-‘Now I lay
me down to sleep-Lan’lord fill the flowin’ bowl.” “P’shaw!
I’m off agin, I can’t say it.” But
if this child could have got off his animal, he’d tuk ‘har’, and
gone the trail fur All this time the
long-tailed devils was leadin’ my animal (an’ me on top of her, the
biggest fool dug out) up the same kanyon.
The rocks on the sides was pecked as smooth as a beaverplew rubbed
with the grain, an’ the ground was covered with bits of cedar, like a
cavyard of mules had been nippin’ an’ scatterin’ ‘em about.
Overhead it was roofed; leastwise it was dark in thar, an’ only a
little light come through holes in the rock.
I thought I knew whar we was an’ eeched awfully to talk, but I
sot still an’ didn’t ax questions. Presently we were
stopped by a dead wall-no opening anywhar.
When the devils turned from me, I jerked my head around quick, but
thar was no place to get out-the wall had growed up ahind us too.
I was mad, an’ I wasn’t mad nuther, fur I expected the time had
come fur this child to go under. So
I let my head fall onter my brest, an’ I pulled the old wool hat over my
eyes an’ thought for the last of the beaver I had trapped, an’ buffler
as had took my G’lena pills in thar livers, an’ the ‘poker’ an’
euker’ I’d played to rendevoo an’ Fort William.
I felt comfortable as eatin’ ‘fat cow’ to think I hadn’t
cheated any one. All at once the
kanyon got bright as day. I
looked up, an’ thar was a room with lights, an’ people talkin’ an’
laffin’ an’ fiddles a screechin’.
Dad an’ the preacher to Wapakonneta [the community in which
Hatcher grew up] told me the fiddle was the Devil’s invention; I believe
it now. The little feller
as had hold of my animal, squeaked out-“Get off your mule, Mr.
Hatcher!” “Get off!”
sez I, for I was mad as a bull pecked with Comanche lances, fur his
disturbin’ me, “Get off? I
have been trying to ever since I came in this infernal hole.” “You can do so
now. Be quick, for the company
is waitin” sez he, piert-like. They all stopped
talkin’ an’ were lookin’ rite at me.
I felt riled. “Darn
your company. I’ve got to
lose my scalp anyhow, an’ no difference to me how soon – but to
obleege ye”- so I slid off as easy as ef I’d never been stuck. A hunchback boy,
with little gray eyes way in his head, took old Blue away.
I might never see her agin, an’ I souted –“Poor Blue;
Good-bye Blue!” The young devil
snickered; I turned around mity starn – ‘”stop your laffin’, you
hellcat – ef I am alone, I can take you,” an’ I grabs fur my knife
to wade into his liver; but, it was gone – gun, bulletpouch, an’
pistol – like mules in a stampeded. I stepped forrad
with a big feller, with har frizzled out like an old buffler’s just
afore sheddin’ time, an’ the people jawin’ worse ‘an a cavyard of
parokeets, stopped, while Frizzly shouted; “Mr Hatcher, formerly of
Wapakonetta, latterly of the Rocky Mountains!” Well, thar I
stood. Things was mity
strange, an’ every darned niggur on ‘em looked so pleased like.
To show ‘em manners, I said- “How are ye!” an’ I went to
bow, but chaw my last ‘bacca ef I could, my breeches was so tight –
the heat way back in the kanyon had shrunk them.
They were too polite to notice it, an’ I felt fur my knife to rip
the doggone things, but recollecting the scalptaker was stolen, I
straightens up an’ bows my head. A
kind-lookin’ smallish old gentleman with a black coat and britches,
an’ a bright, cute face, an’ gold spectacles, walks up an’ pressed
my hand softly. “How do you do,
my dear friend? I have long
expected you. You cannot
imagine the pleasure it gives me to meet you at home.
I have watched your peregrinations in the busy, tiresome world with
much interest. Sit down, sit
down; take a chair,” an’ he handed me one. I squared myself
on it, but a ten-pronged buck wasn’t done sucking when I last sot on a
cheer, an I squirmed awhile, oneasy as a gut-shot coyote.
I jumps up an’ tells the old gentleman them sort of ‘state
fixins,’ didn’t suit this beaver, an’ he prefers the floor.
I sets cross-legged like in camp as easy as eatin’ boudin.
I reached for my pipe-a feller’s so used to it-but the devils in
the kanyon had cached it too. “You wish to
smoke, Mr. Hatcher?-we will have cigars.
Here!!” he called to an imp near him, “some cigars.” They was brought
on a waiter, size of my bulletbag. I
empties ‘em in my hat, for good cigars ain’t to be picked upon on the
peraira every day, but lookin’ at the old man, I saw somethin’ was
wrong. To be polite, I ought
to have taken but one. “I beg
pardon” says I scratchin’ my old scalp.
“This hos didn’t think-he’s been so long in the mountains, he
forgets civilized doin,” an’ I shoves the hat to him. “Never mind,”
says he, wavin’ his hand, an’ smiling faintly, “Get others,”
speakin’ to the boy aside him. The old gentleman took one, and touched his finger to the end of my cigar-it smoked as if fire had been sot to it. “Wagh! The
devil!” screams I drawin’ back. “The same,”
chimed in he, biting off the little end of his’n an’ spittin’ it out
– “The same, sir.” “The same!
What?” “Why the
Devil” “Hell! This
ain’t the holler tree for this coon-I’ll be makin’ medicin,” so I
offers my cigar to the sky, an’ to the earth, like Injun. “You must not
do that here – out upon such superstition,” says he, sharplike. “Why?” “Don’t ask to
many questions – come with me,” risin; to his feet, an’ walkin’
off slow, a blowin’ his cigar smoke, over his shoulder in a long line,
an’ I gets alongside of him. “I
want to show you my establishment – did not expect to find this down
here, eh?” My briches was
stiff with the all-fired heat in the kaynon, an’ my friend seein’ it,
said “Your breeches are tight; allow me to place my hand on them.” He rubbed his
fingers up an’ down once an’ by beaver, they got as soft as when I
traded them from Pi Yutes on the Heely (you mind, Louy, my Yute squaw; old
Cutlips, her boss, came with us far as Sangry Christy goldmine.
She’s the squaw that dressed them skins). I now felt as
brave as a butterfly in spring. The
old man was so clever, an’ I walked ‘longside like a ‘quaintance.
We stopped afore a stone door, an’ it opened without touchin’. “Hyar’s damp
powder, an’ no fire to dry it,” shouts I, stoppin’. “What’s the
matter-do you not wish to perambulate through my possessions?” “This hos
doesn’t savy what the “human” for perambulate is; but I’ll walk
plum to the hottest fire in your settlement, if that’s all you mean.” The place was
hot, an’ smelt bad of brimstone; but the darned screechin’ took me.
I walks up to other end of the ‘lodge,’ an’ steal my mule, if
thar wasn’t Jake Beloo, as trapped with me to Brown’s Hole!
A lot of hellcats was a pullin’ at his ears, an’ jumpin’ on
his shoulders, a swingin’ themselves to the ground by his long har.
Some was runnin’ hot irons in him, but when we came up, they went
off in a corner a-laffin’ and talkin’ like wildcats’ gibberish on a
cold night. Poor Jake! He
came to the bar, lookin’ like a sick buffler in the eye.
The bones stuck through the skin, an’ his har was matted an’
long – all over jest like a blind bull, an’ white blisters spotted
him, with water runnin’ out of ‘em.
“Hatch, old feller, you here, too?
How are ye?” says he, in a faintlike voice, staggerin’ an’
catchin’ on to the bar fur support.
“I’m sorry to see you here, what did you…”- he raised his
eyes to the old man standin’ ahind me, who gave him such a look he went
howlin’ an’ foamin’ at the mouth to the fur end of the den an’
fell down, rollin’ over the damp stones.
The devils, who was chucklin’ by a furnis whar was irons a heatin’,
approached easy an run one into his back.
I jumped at ‘em and hollered, “You owdacious little hellpups,
let him alone; ef my sculptaker was hyar, I’d make buzzard feed of your
meat, an parfleche of your dogskins,” but they squealed out to “go to
the devil.” “Wagh!” says
I, “ef I ain’t pretty close to his lodge, I’m a niggur!” The old gentleman
speaks up, “Take care of yourself, Mr. Hatcher,” in a mity soft, kind
of voice, an’ he smiled so calm an’ devilish – it nigh on froze me.
I thought ef the ground would open with a yairthquake an’ take me
in, I’d be much obleeged anyhow. Thinks
I – “You Saint-forsaken, infernal hell-chief, how I’d like to stick
my knife in your withered old breadbasket.” “Ah, my dear
fellow, no use in tryin’ that is a decided impossibility.”
I jumped ten feet. I
swar, a ‘medicine‘ man couldn’t a heerd me, for my lips didn’t
move; an’ how he knew is more’n this hos kin tell. “Evil
communications corrupt good manners. But
I see your nervous equilibrium is destroyed-come with me.” At t’other
side, the old gentleman told me to reach down for a brass knob.
I thought a trick was goin’ to be played on me, an’ I dodged. “Do not be
afraid; turn it when you pull-steady there-that’s it”-it came, an’ a
door, too. He walked in.
I followed while the door shut of itself. “Mity good
hinges!” sez I, “Don’t make a noise, an’ go shut without slammin’
an cussin’ ‘em.” “Yes-yes!
Some of my own importation - No! They were made here.” It was dark at
first, but when the other door opened, thar was too much light.
In another room was a table in the middle with two bottles an’
little glasses like them to the Saint Louy drink houses, only prettier.
A soft, thick carpet was on the floor-an’ a square glass lamp
hung from the ceiling. I sat
cross-legged on the floor, an’ he on a sofy, his feet cocked on a chair,
an’ his tail coiled under him, comfortable as traders in a lodge.
He hollered somethin’ I couldn’t make out, an’ in comes two
black, crooked-shank devils, with a round bench on one leg, an’ a glass
with cigars in it. They
vamoosed an’ the old coon invited me to take a cigar, helped himself,
an’ rared his head back while I sorter lays on the floor, an’ we
smoked an’ talked. We were speaking
of the size of the apple Eve ate, an’ I said thar were none but
crabapples until we grafted them, but he replied thar was good fruit until
the flood. Then Noah was so
hurried to git the yelaphants, pinchin’ bugs, an’ sich varmint aboard,
he forgot good appleseed until the water got knee-deep, so he jumps out,
gathers a lot of our sour crabs, crams ‘em in his pickets, an’ Shem
pulled him with a rope in the ark agin. I got ahead of
him several times, an’ he, sez- “Do you really believe the preachers,
with their smooth faces, upturned eyes, and whining cant?” “Certainly I
do! Cause they’re mity kind
and good to the poor.” “Why I had no
idea you were so ignorant-I assuredly expected more from so sensible a man
as you.” “Now look’ee
hyar, this child isn’t used to be abused to his own face-I-I tell’ee
it’s mity hard to choke down – ef it ain’t, sculp me!” “Keep quiet, my
young friend, suffer not your temper to gain the mastery, let patience
have its perfect work. I beg
your pardon sincerely – and so you believe the Bible, and permit the
benighted preachers to gull you unsparingly.
Come now! What is the
reason you imagine faith in the Bible is the work to take you to
Heaven?” “Well, don’t
crowd me an’ I’ll think a little-why, it’s the oldest history
anyhow; so they told me at home. I
used to read it myself, old hos-this child did.
It tells how the first man an’ his squaw got hyar, an’ the
buffler, an’ antelope, an’ beaver, an’ hosses too.
An’ when I see it on the table, somethin’ ahind my ribs thumps
out: “Look, John, thar’s a
book you must be mity respectful to,” an somehow, I believe it’s
more’n human, an’ I tell’ee its agin natur to believe otherwise,
wagh!” Another thing the
old gentleman mentioned I thought was pretty much the fact.
When he said he fooled Eve an’ walked about, I said it was a
snake what deceived the ole woman. “Nonsense!
Snake indeed! I can
satisfactorily account for that-but why think you so?” “Because the
big Bibles, with picters, has a snake coiled in an appletree, pokin’ out
his tongue at Adam’s squaw.” “P’shaw!
The early inhabitants were so angry to think that Satan could
deceive their first mother and entail so much misery on them, that at a
meeting to which the principal men attended, they agreed to call me a
serpent, because a serpent can insinuate himself so easily.
When Moses compiled the different narratives of the earlier times
in his five books, he wrote it so, too.
It is typical, merely, of the wiles of the devil-my humble self”
and the old coon bowed, “and an error, it seems, into which the whole
world, since Moses, has irretrievably fallen.
But have we not been sitting long enough?
Take a fresh cigar, an’ we will walk.
That’s Purgatory where your quondam friend Jake Beloo is.
He will remain there a while longer, and if you desire it, can go,
though it cost much exertion to entice him here, and then only after he
drank hard.” “I wish you
would, sir. Jake’s as good a
companyero as ever trapped beaver, or gnawed poor bull in spring, an’ he
treated his squaw as ef she was a white woman.” “For your sake,
I will; we may see others of your acquaintance before leaving this,” sez
he, sorter queer-like, as if to say “No doubt of it.” The door of the
room we had been talkin’ shut of its own accord.
We stopped, an’ he touchin’ a spring in the wall, a trapdoor
flew open, showin’ a flight of steps.
He went first, cautioning me not to slip on the dark staars; but I
shouted ”Not to mind me, but thankee for tellin’ it though.” We went down,
an’ down, an’ down, till I ‘gan to think the old cuss was goin’ to
get me safe, too, so I sung out – “Hello! Which way?
We must be mity nigh under Wah-to-yah, we’ve been goin’ on so
long.” “Yes!”
sez he, much astonished, “We’re just under the twins.
Why, turn and twist you ever so much you lose not your
reckoning.” “Not by a long
chalk! This child had his
bringin’ up to Wapakonetta an’ that’s a fact.” From the bottom
we went on in a dampish, dark sort of passage, gloomily lit up, with one
candle. The grease was runnin’
down the block as had an augerhole bored in it for a candlestick, an’
the long snuff to the end was red, an’ the blaze clung to it as ef it
hated to part company, an’ turned black an’ smoked at the p’int in
mournin’. The cold chills
shook me, an’ the old gentleman kept so still, the echo of my feet
rolled back too hollow an’ solemn. I
wanted liquor mity bad - mity bad. Thar was a noise
smothered-like, an’ some poor feller would cry out worse ‘an Comanches
chargin’. A door opened, and
the old gentleman touchin’ me on the back, I went in, an’ he followed.
It flew to, an’ though I turned rite around to look fur sign to
‘scape ef the place got too hot, I couldn’t find it. “Wa-agh!” sez
I. “What now, are
you dissatisfied?” “Oh no!
I was just lookin’ to see what sort of lodge you have.” “I understand
you perfectly, sir – be not afraid.” My eyes were
blinded in the light, but rubbin’ ‘em, I saw two big snakes comin’
at me, thar yaller an’ blood-shot eyes shinin’ awfully, an’ thar big
red tongues dartin’ back an’ forad, an’ thar wide jaws open, showin’
long, slim, white fangs. On my
right, four ugly animals jumped at me an’ rattled thar chains – I swar,
ther heads were bigger ‘an a buffaler’s in summer.
The snakes hissed an’ the dogs howled, an’ growled, an’
charged, an’ the light from the furnis flashed out brighter an’
brighter; an’ above me an’ around me, a hundred devils yelled, an’
laffed, an’ swore, an’ spit, an’ snapped ther boney fingers in my
face, an’ leaped up to the ceiling into the black, long spiderwebs,
an’ rode on the spiders bigger ‘an powderhorn, an’ jumped off onter
my head. Then they all formed
in line, an’ marched, an’ hooted, an’ yelled; an’ when the snakes
jined the percession, the devils leaped on thar backs an’ rode.
Then some smaller ones rocked up an’ down on springin’ boards,
and when the snakes kem opposite, darted way up in the room an’ dived
down in their mouths screechin’ like so many Pawnees for sculps.
When the snakes was in front of us, the little devils came to the
end of the snakes’ tongues, laffin’, an’ dancin’, an’ singin’
like little eediuts. Then the
big dogs jumped clean over us, growlin’ louder ‘an a cavyard of grisly
b’ar, an’ the devils holdin on to thar tails, flopped over my head,
screamin’ “We’ve got you, we’ve got you at last!” I couldn’t
stand it no longer, an’ shuttin’ my eyes, I yelled rite out, and
groaned. “Be not
alarmed,” and my friend drew his fingers along my head an’ back, an’
pulled a little narrow, black flask from his pocket with “Take some of
this.” I swallered a few
drops. It tasted sweetish
an’ bitterish – I don’t exactly savy how, but soon as it was down, I
jumped up five times an’ yelled “Out of the way, you little ones,
an’ let me ride; an’ after runnin’ longside, and climbin’ up his
slimey scales, I got straddle of a big snake, who turned his head around,
blowin’ his hot, sickenin’ breath in my face.
I waved my old wool hat, an’ kickin’ him in a fast run, sung
out to the little devils to git up behind’ an’ off we all started,
screechin’ “Hooray fur Hell!!” The
old gentleman bent himself double with laffin’ till he purty nigh
choked. We kept goin’ faster
an’ faster till I got on to my feet (though the scales were mity
slippery) an’ danced injun, an’ whooped louder than ‘em all. All at once, the
old gentleman stopped laffin’ pulled his spectacles down on his nose
an’ said – “Mr. Hatcher, we had better go now,” an ‘ then he
spoke somethin’ I couldn’t make out, an’ the animals all stood
still; I slid off, an’ the little hellcats a pinchin’ my ears, an’
pullin’ my beard, went off squeakin’.
Then they all formed in a halfmoon afore us – the snakes on their
tails, with heads way up to the black cobwebby roof; the dogs rared on
thar hindfeet, an’ the little devils hangin’ everywhar.
Then they all roared, an’ hissed, and screeched seven times,
an’ wheelin’ off, disappeared, just as the light went out, leaving us
in the dark. “Mr.
Hatcher,” sez the old gentleman again, movin’ off, “you please amuse
yourself until I return,” but seein’ me look wild, “You haves seen
too much of me to feel alarmed for your own safety.
Take this imp fur a guide, an’ if he is impertinent, put him
through; an’ for fear of the exhibitions may overcome your nerves,
imbibe a portion of this cordial,” which I did, an’ everything danced
before my eyes, an’ I wasn’t a bit scairt. I started fur a
red light as came through the crack of a door, a-stumblin’ over a
three-legged stool, an’ pitchin’ my last cigar stump to one of the
dogs, chained to the wall, who ketched it in his mouth.
When the door was opened by my guide, I saw a big blaze like a
peraira on fire – red and gloomy; an’ big black smoke was curlin’,
an’ twistin’ an’ shootin’ an’ spreadin’, and
the flames a-licken’ the walls, goin’ up to a pint, and breakin’
in to a wide blaze, with white an’ green ends.
Thar was bells a tollin’, an’ chains a clinkin’, an’ mad
howls an’ screams; but the old gentleman’s “medicine” made me feel
as independent as a trapper with his animals feedin’ round him, two pack
of beaver in camp, with traps sot fur more. Close to the hot
place was a lot of merry devils laffin’ an’ shoutin’ with an’ ol
pack of greasy cards – it ‘minded me of them we played with to
rendezvoo – shufflin’ ‘em to “Devil’s Dream,” an’ “Money
Musk”; then they ‘ud deal in slow time’ with ”Dead March in
Saul,” whistlin’ as solemn as medicine men.
Then they broke out of a suddent with “Paddy O’Rafferty,”
which maked this hos move about in his moccasins so lively, one of them as
was playin’, looked up an’ sed – “Mr. Hatcher, won’t you take a
hand? – Make way, boys, fur the gentleman.” Down I sot
amongst ‘em, but stepped on the little feller’s tail, who had been
leadin’ the Irish jig. He
hollered till I got off it “Owch! But it’s on my tail ye are!” “Pardon,” sez
I, “But you’re an Irishman!” “No indeed!
I’m a hellimp, He! He! Who-oop!
I’m a hellimp,” an’ he laffed, and pulled my beard, an’
screeched till the rest threatened to choke him ef he didn’t stop. “What’s
trumps?” sez I, “an’ whose deal?” “Here is my
place,” sez one, “I’m tired playin’; take a horn,” an’ pickin’
up an iron rod heatin’ in the fire, he pinched a miserable burnin’
feller ahind the bars, who cussed him, an’ run way in the blaze outen
reach. I thought I was
great at poker by the way I took the plews an’ traps from the boys to
rendezvoo, but hyar the slick devils beat me without half tryin’.
When they slapped down a bully pair, they ‘ud screech an’ laff
worse ‘an fellers on a spree. Sez
one – “Mr. Hatcher, I reckon you’re
a hos at poker away to your country, but you can’t shine down
here – you are nowhar.” Well now, this
child felt sorter queer, so he santers ‘long slowly, till he saw an’
open place in the rock; not mindin’ the imps who was drinkin’ away
like trappers on a bust. It
was so dark thar, I felt my way mity still (fur I was afraid they ‘ud be
after me); I got almost to a
streak of light, when thar was sich a rumpus back in the cave as give me
the trimbles. Doors was
slammin’, dogs screamin’. They
come a chargin’. The snakes
was hissin’ sharp an’ wiry; the beasts howled out long an’ mournful;
an’ thunder rolled up overhead, an’ the imps was yellin’ an
screechin’ like mad. “It’s time to
break fur timber, sure,” and I run as ef a wounded buffler was raisin’
my shirt with his horns. The
place was damp, an’ in the narrow rock, lizards an’ vipers an’
copperheads jumped out at me an’ clum on my legs, but I stompt an’
shook ‘em off. Owls, too
flopped thar wings in my face, an’ hooted at me, an’ fire blazed out
an’ lit the place up, an’ brimstone smoke came nigh on chokin’ me.
Lookin’ back, the whole cavyard of hell was comin’ an devils on
devils, nothin’ but devils, filled the hole. I threw down my
hat to run faster, an’then jerked off my old blanket, but still they was
gainin’. I made one jump
clean out of my moccasins. The
big snake in front was closer an’ closer, with his head drawed back to
strike; then a helldog raised up nearly ‘longside, pantin’ an’
blowin’ with the slobber runnin ’outen his mouth, an’ a lot of
devils hangin’ on to him, was cussin’ me an’ screechin.
I strained every jint, but no use; they still gained’ not fast,
but gainin’ they was. I
jumped an’ swore an’ leaned down, flung out my hands, but the dogs was
nearer every time, an’ the horrid yellin’ an’ hissin’ way back,
grew louder an’ louder. At
last, a prayer mother used to make me say that I hadn’t thought of fur
twenty year or more, came rite afore me clear as a powderhorn.
I kept runnin’ an’ sayin’ it, an the niggurs held back a
little. I gained some on them
– “Wagh!” I stopped
repeatin’, to get breath, an’ the foremost dog made such a lunge at
me, I forgot it. Turnin’ up
my eyes, thar was the old gentleman, lookin’ at me, an keepin’
alongside, without walkin’. His
face warn’t more than two feet off, an’ his eyes was fixed steady,
an’ calm, an’ devilish. I
screamed rite out. I shut my
eyes but he was thar, too. I
howled an’ spit an’ hit at it, but couldn’t git the darn face away.
A dog ketched hold of my shirt with his fangs, an’ two devils,
jumpin on me, caught me by the throat, a-tryin’ to choke me.
While I was pullin’ ‘em off, I fell down, with about
thirty-five of the infernal things, an’ the dogs, an’ the slimy snakes
a top of me, a mashing’ an taren’ me.
I bit big pieces out of them an’ bit an’ bit again, an’
scratched an’ gouged. When I
was most give out, I heerd the Pawnee skulp yell, an’ I use my rifle fur
a pokin’ stick, ef it didn’t charge a party of the best boys in the
mountains. They slayed the
devils right an’ left, an’ sot ‘em runnin’ like goats, but this
hos was so weak fightin’ he fainted away. Then I found the
liquor, an’ my companyeros was slappin’ thar wet hats in my face to
bring me to. Round whar I was
layin’, the grass was pulled up an’ the ground dug with my knife, and
the bottle, cached when I traded with the Yutes, was smashed to flinders
‘gainst a tree. “Why, what on
airth, Hatcher, have ye bin doin’ hyar?
You was a-kickin’ an’ tearin’ up the grass an’ yellin’ as
ef yer “har” was taken. Why,
old hos, this coon don’t savy them hifelutin’ notions, he
doesn’t.” “The devils
from hell was after me,” sez I, mity gruff, “This hos has seen mor’n
ever he wants to agin.” They tried to git
me outen the notion, but I swar, an’ I’ll stick to it, this child saw
a heap more of the all-fired place than he wants to agin; an’ ef it
ain’t fact he doesn’t know “fat cow” from “poor bull – Wagh!” So ended Hatcher’s tale of Wah-to-yah, or what the mountaineer saw when he had the mania potu.
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