The Trail of the Serpent.
While these ministers of grace were engaged in pleasant conversation a
different kind of a crowd had met not far away. They were moonshiners.
Their rendezvous was a cave near the top of a hill about one mile back
from the Cumberland River. A motley company of about a dozen men they
were, dressed in cheap trousers supported by "galluses," coarse shirts,
and wide-brim straw hats.
Sam Wiles was leader of this band. As these pages are often to be
burdened with his name, we shall now take his measure. He belonged to
that part of the population called "poor whites." His parents had come
to the settlement when Sam was a little boy. They were poor, shiftless,
improvident, ignorant, and, worse than all, apparently contented with
their lot. They dwelt in a log cabin in the hills, and in a haphazard
way cultivated a few acres of half-barren land, raising a little corn,
tobacco, hay, fruit, and a few vegetables. There were six children in
the family, of whom Sam was the oldest. Five dogs guarded the house and
helped to make the inmates poor. "Tige," the coon dog, was the favorite
of this quintette.
Sam Wiles was the brightest of the children, his mind being naturally
active; but he had little disposition for study and very meager
opportunities, for "school kept" only a few weeks in a year. At the
time of this story he had just passed his majority, was somewhat above
medium height, solidly built, with broad, square shoulders. His brown
hair hung several inches below a coonskin cap he wore, and was
supplemented by a large mustache of which he was very proud.
Behold this leader of the moonshiners as he stirs the fire of logs
under the still and speaks to his pals:
"That war a mighty fine trick I played on Dick Granger, the revenue
deputy t'other night. He was after me with his dorgs, and saw me as I
was crossin' the road near Franklin Schoolhouse. 'Halt, there!' he
hollored; but I was not in the haltin' bizness, and I made tracks fur
Pigeon Crick close by. As I run he fired off his gun; but the light was
dim and I was mighty peart, and dodged in time. He called to his
bloodhounds and said, 'Sic 'im, Rex; ketch 'im Bull,' but by that time
I was wadin' in the crick. I run 'long till I cum to that big white oak
which grows by the crick where it makes a turn north, and I jumped and
caught a big branch an' pulled myself up into the tree. Then I walked
on the thick branches till I got to the furder side, and there war
standin' by the oak a mighty fine sugar maple with branches which
touched the oak. I walked out on an oak branch as fur as I could go,
and then swung from my hands back and for'ard with all my might. At
last my feet touched a branch and letting go my hands, I swung down
like a ham of meat in a smokehouse. Soon I pulled myself up and made
fifty feet crossing that tree, and then I dun the same turn to a big
walnut tree; and so on till I knew the dorgs could not track me, when I
clim down to the ground and got safe back to the cave."
"That war a monkey trick, shore nuff," said Tom Walker, a gaunt fellow
over six feet tall, who was stretched on the ground by the fire, and
who, because of his height, was usually called "Long Tom." In his
cavernous mouth he held an immense chew of tobacco, and ever and anon
he squirted tobacco juice into the fire with a precision and force
which showed long practice.
"I wish the devil would kill the whole crew of revenue officers," said
Wiles. "Why should we be hunted like wild beasts for makin' a few
gallons of whisky? Do we not raise the corn, and have we not a right to
turn it into drink? You fellers know how hard it is to make a living on
these hills; and if we make more money by changing corn into whisky,
why should we be hindered and our lives put into danger? We have a
right to make whisky and to drink it and to sell it, and I'm goin' to
do it in spite of all the officers in Kentucky," and he brought his big
fist down with a thwack on his knee to give emphasis to his words.[1]
[1] It was impossible for this lawbreaker to foresee that in
about one hundred years the whole whisky business in its
beverage aspects would be prohibited by law in the United
States, and that the sophistry he used would be employed by
multitudes in denying the eighteenth amendment to the national
constitution.
"Now yer speaking the truth, pardner," drawled Long Tom as he ejected
from his mouth a generous quantity of tobacco juice. "My father fit in
the Revolutionary War for liberty 'way down in ole Virginy, and I'll
never submit to have my right to make home-distilled whisky taken
away."
"Always stick to that and you'uns will be a man, even if you'uns die
with yer boots on."
The speaker was Zibe Turner, a creature who would pass for a Calaban. A
monster he was except his legs, which were short and slim, giving him a
dwarfish appearance. So he was a monster dwarf, if such a term is
allowable. His head was immense in size, covered with long unkempt
hair. His shoulders, arms and trunk would become a giant. A look at his
face showed a low forehead, black, restless eyes, wide apart, flat
nose, and large mouth.
Like Calaban he could be called "hag-seed," or the son of a witch and a
devil.
His moral nature was as misshapen as his body. His mind was degraded,
yet keen in plotting mischief and violence. His affections were
debased. Prospero's description of Calaban applied to him:
"Abhorred slave which any print of goodness will not take
Being capable of all ill."
The words of Saint Paul to the sorcerer fitted him: "O full of all
subtlety and all mischief, thou child of the devil, thou enemy of all
righteousness." He was a type of those whom the apostle described as
"filled with all unrighteousness, fornication, wickedness,
covetousness, maliciousness; full of envy, murder, deceit,
malignity--implicable, unmerciful."
Strangely enough, one of the moonshiners had read Shakespeare's
"Tempest," and gave Caliban's title of "monster" to Zibe Turner. From
that day he was generally nicknamed "Monster Turner."
"Always stick to dat," repeated Turner in his deep, gutteral voice.
"Let's drink to de health of all moonshiners and to de defeat an' death
of all revenue spies. Dat's my holt (hold)." Suiting the action to the
words, he raised a stone jug nearly full of spirits to his lips and
taking a long draught, handed it to the next, and so it went the
rounds. The liquor, which would have made an ordinary drinker
intoxicated in a few minutes, had no perceptible effect upon these men,
who scarcely ever tasted water, so commonly did they drink the product
of their stills; but it perhaps raised their feelings a trifle and
loosened their tongues to speak other words and strengthened their
purposes to perform unlawful acts.
Sam Wiles then spoke: "Next to these officer dorgs who hunt us on the
hills and mountains, I hate them shoutin' hypercrits who air holdin'
that camp meetin' near Poplar Crick. They're tryin' to make the whul
county pious, and you fellers know how their head men have jined with
others around here to appint a vigilance committee to drive all such as
we'uns air out'n the State. Because we believe in pursonal liberty,
because we think it right to make our own whisky and to race our
hosses, because we sometimes try our luck at cards and win money from
the young fools in the valley, they want to put the law on our tracks.
Now the more camp meetin's we have around here, the less pursonal
liberty we shall have; and I propose to you'ns that we jine with the
boys on Honey Crick and bust up the camp meetin'."
This proposition was hailed with delight by all the company except Long
Tom. When he had cleared his mouth of juice, he drawled out: "Byes,
none of ye would like to see that meetin' capsized better nor I would.
But we must be sure of our ground. I have hearn that the star preacher
there--what's his name? Jasper Hurry? No. Very? That's it, Jasper Very.
I have hearn that he is almighty strong and brave, and we had better be
keerful how we tackle 'im."
"Shucks," said Wiles, "they air all cowards, and their magistrates will
run at the first attack; and I say it is to our interest to break up
that meetin', and do it right away. What do you say, byes?"
They all consented to the attack, and took another swig around from the
big jug to seal the agreement.
"Now," said their leader, "it's time you'ns went to yer homes. Zibe
Turner will stay, and we'uns will tend de fire. Long Tom, tomorrow you
go to Bert Danks, the captain of the Honey Crick crowd, and ask him and
his pals to meet us here in de evenin'."