autobiography, and at last accounts he was still at it. His shack and
the little room over the store had gradually become literary temples.
His complicated manuscripts and notes were kept in an old black satchel
of once shiny oil cloth, that he called his “war bag.” On its side was
the roughly lettered inscription: “HISTORIC CRONICELS—STILES.” He
carried it back and forth between his abodes with much solicitude.
During the many evenings I spent with him, he would frequently extract
its contents and read aloud in the dim light of a kerosene lamp. He
often paused and looked over the rims of his spectacles, with animation
in his gray eyes, when he came to passages that he deemed of special
importance. The masses of foolscap contained records that were only
intelligible to the writer. His grammar and spelling were hopelessly
bad, his methods of compilation were baffling, and his penmanship was
mystic, but his collection of facts and near-facts was prodigious. He
took long reflective rests between the periods of active composition.
They were deathless chronicles in the sense that they seemed to be
without end, and they appeared to become more and more deathless as he
proceeded.
The first two or three hundred pages were what Bill called a “Backfire
Chapter.” It began with the Creative Dawn, and was a general historical
résumé down to the time of his appearance on earth. It skipped lightly
over the great events, that loom like mountain peaks in the world’s
history and tower away into the receding centuries. When he came to the
Deluge he got lost among Noah’s animals for awhile and floundered
hopelessly for adjectives. It was impossible to enumerate and describe
all of them, but he did the best he could. Through a maze of wars and
falling empires, he got Columbus to America. The Republic was
established, and civilization finally flowered with the birth of Bill
Stiles, A.D., 1836. From the dawn of time to the rocking of Bill’s
cradle was a far cry, but his annals included what he considered the
essential features of that dark period.
In addition to a vast amount of matter of purely personal interest, the
work was designed to accurately record the happenings in the river
country during Bill’s lifetime.
Much of his material was collected at the store. The year that Bundy’s
Bridge was built, and the ferry ceased operations, was shrouded in
historic gloom. Five times the year had been changed in the chronicles,
for five eminent authorities differed as to the date, and each of them
had at one time or another succeeded in impressing Bill. He seemed
confident of all his other facts. The other bridges had given him no
trouble.
There was no question in his mind as to when the Pottowattomies were
relieved of their lands and forcibly removed from the country, or when
the camp of horse thieves on Grape Island was broken up.
There was a tale of another band of horse thieves, whose secret retreat
was on an island in the middle of a big lake of soft muck several miles
south of the river.
The one route of access to it was a concealed sand bar known only to the
outlaws. The unsavory crew collected their plunder on the island, where
the pilfered beasts were cared for, and their markings changed with
various dyes. In due time they smuggled them away in the darkness to
distant markets. They once captured a too curious preacher, who was
looking for his horse, and kept him in durance vile for several months.
The expounder of the gospels labored so faithfully in that seemingly
hopeless vineyard that the blasé bandits were finally “purified by the
word of the Lord, gave up their dark practices, made restitution, and
ever after lived model lives.”
There was a record of a mighty flood that drowned out everything and
everybody, ran over the top of the bridge and carried part of it away,
and following this were notations of approximate dates of sundry
happenings—when the gang of counterfeiters that dwelt in Pinkamink Marsh
were caught and “sent up”—the year that Bill killed a blue goose on
“Boiler Slough”—when the tornado blew all of the water out of the river
at “Ox Bow Bend” and left the channel bare for half an hour, and the
year that “forty-six thousand rat skins was took off Shelby Marsh.”
A page was devoted to a reign of terror that lasted several weeks in
1877. For five nights an awful roar had come out of “Bull Snake Bayou.”
The mystery was never explained, but Bill thought that the noise had
been produced by a “whiffmatick” or a “hodad” that had come down with
the spring flood, lost its way, and was shedding horns or scales in the
vine-clad thickets.
The births, weddings and deaths of all the old settlers were carefully
recorded, and many of their exploits detailed at length. There was an
account of the capture of Hank Butts and his illicit still by the
revenue officers, the failure of the jury to convict, owing to the
reputations of the culprit’s two sons as dead shots, and the story of
Hank’s death in a feather bed, with his boots on, when he went to visit
a city relative and blew out the gas a few months later.
Bill’s experience with a “cattymount” was related with much detail. He
had encountered it in the woods when he was young, and had spent two
days and nights in a tree, living on crackers, plug tobacco, and a
bottle of sage tea that he fortunately happened to have with him. The
animal’s foot had been shattered by Bill’s only bullet and this
prevented it from going into the foliage after him. The captive had
chewed up over a pound of the plug and had carefully aimed the resulting
juices at the baleful eye-balls that gleamed below him at night, hoping
to blind his besieger. When the supply of this ammunition was exhausted
the animal’s eyes were still bright, although Bill had scored many body
hits and had decidedly changed the general color of his enemy.
Hunger finally compelled the savage beast to beat a retreat and the
situation was relieved. The “cattymount” had evidently increased in size
with the succeeding years, for in the manuscript its estimated length
had been twice corrected with a pen, the last figures being the highest.
Bill added that he had killed this “fierce an’ formidable animal” later,
and that “its skin was taken east.”
Somewhere among the confused piles was the tale of the last voyage of
the little stern-wheel steamer, “Morning Star” to the ferry, under
command of “Cap’n Sink.” She had come up from the Illinois river, and
the falling waters had left her stranded for a week on a sand bar. Her
doughty commander paced the deck and blistered it with profanity. He
swore by nine gods that he never again would go above “Corkscrew Bend,”
that was so crooked that even the fish had sense enough to keep out of
it. His vociferous impiety filtered intermittently through the green
foliage that overhung the river, and desecrated the shadow-flecked
aisles of the forest, until the Morning Star’s sister boat, the
“Damfino,” came wheezing up stream. The unfortunate craft was pulled off
the bar and navigation officially ended.
Reliable data was becoming scarce. Bill’s recollections were getting
hazy. The old settlers, whose memories could be relied upon, were dying
off, and the mists were absorbing his ascertainable facts, but, while
life lasts the chronicles will go on, for Bill’s genius is not of the
sort that admits defeat.
There is much human history that might with profit be entombed in these
humble archives, and its obscurity would be a blessing to those who made
it. As the world grows older it finds less to respect in the dusty tomes
that are filled with the story of human folly, selfishness and needless
bloodshed.
Bill and I were enjoying a quiet smoke on the store platform one July
afternoon, and discussing his historical labors.
“We’r livin’ in ter’ble times, an’ the things that’s happenin’ now mops
ev’ry thing else offen the map,” he declared, as he refilled his cob
pipe. “I see things in my paper ev’ry week that oughta be noted down in
my history, but I’m pretty near eighty, an’ if I try to put ’em all in
I’ll never git through. There’s too damn much goin’ on. They’r ditchin’
the river an’ hell’s to pay up above. They’r blastin’ in the woods with
dinnymite, an’ some o’ them ol’ codgers that lives in them shacks up
above English Lake’ll be blown to kingdom come if they don’t watch out
an’ duck. They better wake up an’ come down stream. Say, d’ye see that
damn cuss comin’ over the bridge? That’s Rat Hyatt, an’ I’m goin’ to
jump ’im when ’e gits ’ere. He lost my dog I let ’im take. That feller’s
no good, an’ ’e’s ripenin’ fer damnation.”
“Muskrat Hyatt” was a tall, raw-boned, keen-eyed ne’er-do-well sort of a
fellow, who had hunted and trapped on the river for many years. He lived
in an old house boat that had floated down stream during high water one
spring, and got wedged in among some big trees in the woods, about half
a mile above the bridge. He moved into it when the waters subsided and
found it an agreeable abode.
“I hope the owner never shows up,” remarked Rat, after I knew him. “I
don’t think I’d like him. If the water ever gits that high ag’in an’
floats me off, I’m willin’ to go most anywheres in the old ark so long’s
she don’t take a notion to go down an’ roost on the bridge with me.”
He greeted us, with rather an embarrassed air, as he came up, and the
old man spent considerable time in attempting to extract some definite
information about “Spot.” Rat was evasive and unsatisfactory.
“They ain’t no more patheticker sight than to see some feller that sets
an’ flaps ’is ears, an’ can’t answer nothin’ that’s asked ’im without
tryin’ to chin about sump’n else all the time,” declared Bill. “I don’t
care nothin’ about its bein’ hot. I want to know where in hell my dog
is.”
“That dog o’ your’n’s all right,” said Hyatt. “I reckon ’e’s off some’rs
chas’n rabbits, an’ you needn’t do no worryin’. If anybody’s stole ’im
you bet I’ll git ’im an’ the scalp o’ the feller with ’im. If ’e aint
’ere tomorrer I’ll take a look around. A dog like that can’t be kep’ hid
long, an’ somebody’ll ’ave seen ’im. He ain’t no fool, an’ if ’e’s shut
up anywheres, you bet ’e’ll come back w’en ’e gits out.”
“Well, you see that ’e gits out,” replied the old man with asperity.
“I’m done havin’ heart disease ev’ry time I don’t see that dog w’en I go
by your place, an’ I want ’im back where ’e b’longs. I didn’t give ’im
to you, an’ if you don’t know where ’e is you aint fit to have charge o’
no animal. This aint no small talk that I’m doin’. Its the summin’ up o’
the court.”
Spot was a well trained bird dog. Hyatt had borrowed him from the old
man about two years before, and, as his facilities for taking care of
him were much better than Bill was able to provide, the animal was
allowed to remain at Hyatt’s house boat on indefinite leave. He slept
under the rude bed and seemed much happier there than at home.
Hyatt was now in rather a delicate position. The dog had not been seen
in the neighborhood for over a week. An old trapper had come down the
river in a canoe and stopped for an hour or so at the house boat. He
announced his intention of leaving the country forever, and was on his
way to the Illinois where he hoped to find enough muskrats to occupy his
remaining days. He wanted a good quail dog, and, after much jockeying,
had acquired Spot in exchange for a repeating rifle and a box of
cartridges. The dog was tied in the front end of the canoe and departed
with his new owner. Hyatt had an abiding faith that Spot would return in
a few days, and that the stranger would be too far away down stream to
want to buffet the strong current to get him back.
The dog’s homing instinct had proved reliable heretofore, as he had been
sold several times under similar conditions, and was now regarded as a
possible source of steady income by his thrifty guardian.
Hyatt was careful not to sell the animal to anybody who was liable to be
in that part of the country again. Spot had once gone as far as the
Mississippi river with a confiding purchaser, and was away only a little
over two weeks. He was now expected back at any time, in fact he was
under the bed when Hyatt arrived home after the disagreeable reproaches
of Bill Stiles, and the next day the incident was considered closed by
both parties.
The only pet that Bill had cared anything for in recent years, besides
his dog, was a one legged duck that he called “Esther.” The missing
support had been acquired by a snapping turtle in the river, and Bill’s
sympathies and affections had been aroused. During her owner’s absence
from his shack, Esther and her brown brood were confined in the hollow
base of a big tree, protected from the weasels and skunks by a wire
screen over the opening.
By Saturday night Hyatt and Stiles had become quite chummy again. It was
very hot and we sat in front of the store with our coats off. Bill was
discoursing sapiently on topics of international import, when we saw
somebody down the road.
“That ol’ mudturkle comin’ yonder with that pipe stuck in all them
whiskers, is Bill Wirrick,” he announced after further observation. “We
call ’im ‘Puckerbrush Bill,’ on account of ’is bein’ up in Puckerbrush
Bayou one night in ’is push boat, an’ tryin’ to make a short cut to git
back to the river. He got ’is whiskers tangled in the puckerbrush an’
had to cut away a lot of ’em with ’is knife to git out. He’s between
some pretty big bunches of ’em now, but they aint nothin’ to what they
was. He had pretty near half a bushel an’ ’e used to carry ’is money in
’em. I s’pose ’e’ll begin tellin’ about all ’is troubles w’en ’e gits
’ere. That’s what’s the matter with this place, an’ it makes me tired to
hear all these fellers tellin’ their troubles w’en they oughta be
listenin’ to mine. My troubles has got some importance, but theirs don’t
interest nobody.
“Hello, Puck,” greeted the old man, as Wirrick came up, “how’s things
down to the slough?”
“Pretty slow; got’ny tobacco?”
“Listen at ’im!” whispered Bill.
[Illustration:
“PUCKERBRUSH BILL”
]
He was duly supplied, and took one of the hickory chairs under the
awning. Notwithstanding their reported depletion, his whiskers were
still impressive, and the warm evening breeze played softly and fondly
among the ample remnants. His mouth was concealed somewhere in the maze.
His pointed nose and watchful furtive eyes gave his face a peculiar foxy
expression.
“Its a good thing you didn’t strike a prairie fire with them whiskers,
instid of a mess o’ puckerbrush,” remarked Bill, after a period of
silence.
“I’m goin’ to mow ’em in a few days to cool off, an’ then raise a new
crop fer next winter. They’s lots more whar them come from,” replied
Wirrick. “I’ll git some whiskers that’ll make you fellers set up an’
take notice ’fore the snow flies.”
The mention of fire in connection with his whiskers must have suggested
something to Wirrick, for, when he appeared without them the following
week, he said that he hated a razor, couldn’t find any shears, and had
“frizzled ’em off with a candle.”
Bill was shocked at his appearance.
“You look like you was half naked. I see now w’y you been keepin’ that
ol’ mug o’ your’n covered up. You’ve got a bum face. You git busy an’
git all the whiskers you can right away!”
The next arrival was Swan Peterson, an aged Swede, who lived in a
dilapidated shack, festooned on the inside with rusty muskrat traps,
near the mouth of “Crooked Creek.” His liver had rebelled against many
years of unfair treatment, and his visage was of a greenish yellow. A
prodigious white moustache, that suggested a chrysanthemum in full
bloom, accentuated the evidence of his ailment. He was considerably over
six feet tall. The years of hardship and isolation had bent his mighty
shoulders and saddened his gray eyes. Peterson was cast in a heroic
mould. His ancestors were the sea wolves who roved over perilous and
unknown waters, and met violent deaths, in years when the Norse legends
were in the making, but their wild forays and stormy lives meant nothing
to him. He had no interest in the past or traditions to uphold. All he
now wanted in the world was plenty of patent medicine and whiskey to mix
with it, and in a pinch, he could get along without the medicine.
The jaundiced Viking came slowly up on to the platform, looked us over
languidly, and commented on the general cussedness of the weather and
life’s monotonies.
“I ban har fifty years, an’ I seen the same damn thing ev’ry year all
over again. It ban cold in winter an’ hot in summer. I eat an’ sleep,
an’ eat an’ sleep some more, an’ work hard all day, an’ then eat an’
sleep—ev’ry day the same damn thing. I ban takin’ medicine now five
years, an’ I can’t git none that’s got any kick. Mebbe I got some o’
them things that Rass Wattles says Wahoo Bitters’ll cure, but mebbe I
got something else that they didn’t know about when they mixed that
stuff. I find mixin’ half Wahoo an’ half whiskey ban some help, but I’m
goin’ to try some other bitters an’ mix in more whiskey. That whiskey
ban a good thing, an’ when I get a good thing I put a sinker on it.”
[Illustration:
SWAN PETERSON
]
Old “Doc” Dust drove up in a squeaky buggy with an ancient top. His lazy
gray mare seemed glad to get her feet into the hollowed ground in front
of the hitching rail.
Certain types in the medical profession are never called anything but
“Doc,” except when more profane appellations are required. Dust was a
befitting name for the old man, for he appeared to be much dried up. His
parchment like skin was drawn tightly over his protruding cheek bones,
and his emaciated figure seemed almost ready to blow away. A frayed
Prince Albert coat was secured with one button at the waist, and a rusty
plug hat was jammed down on the back of his head. These things were
evidently intended to impart a professional air, but they completed a
sad satire. The Doc looked like a hypocritical old scamp.
Much human character, or the lack of it, may be indicated by a hat, and
the manner of wearing it, particularly if it is a “plug.” Worn in the
ordinary conventional way, a “correct” plug is supposed to provide a
roof for a certain kind of dignity, but usually it indicates nothing
beyond a mere lack of artistic sensibility. Tipped forward, it suggests
sulkiness, obstinacy, and self-complacency—a sort of sporty rowdyism,
when worn on one side—and disregard of the rights and opinions of
others, when it is tilted back of the ears.
Of course the condition and the year of coinage of the plug enter into
the equation and complicate it, but even a very shabby plug is an
entertaining story teller. To a careful and discriminating student of
human folly, it is replete with subtleties.
A Fiji Island cannibal, whose only wearing apparel was a plug hat, was
once made chief of his tribe on account of it. It was probably as
becoming to him as it had been to the spiritual adviser he had eaten.
Such dignity and distinction as it was capable of imparting was his. He
had attained what is possibly the apotheosis of barbaric head dress of
our age.
Doc carried two medicine cases under his buggy seat on his professional
rounds. One of them was stocked with a dozen large bottles with Latin
labels, and the other with small phials containing white pills the size
of number six shot. If his patient preferred “Alopathy,” he or she got
it with a vengeance. If “Homepathy” was wanted, the smaller receptacle
was drawn upon. The “leaders” in the “Alopathy” box were castor
oil—calomel, and quinine. Aconite and Belladona–100, and Magnesium
Phos–10 occupied the places of honor in the other.
Dust had weathered several matrimonial storms, and his last wife was now
under the wild flowers in the country cemetery, where the epitaph on the
unpretentious stone—erected by her own relatives—was more congratulatory
than sorrowful.
“Doc” Hopkins, or “Hoppy Doc” as he was irreverently dubbed along the
river, was Dust’s only rival. The competition was bitter, and many
untimely ends were ascribed by each of them to the other’s criminal
ignorance. Hoppy Doc often told, with great relish, a story of Cornelia
Kibbins, Dust’s first wife, alleging that after a year of tempestuous
married life, she had fled to her father’s home late one winter night
for refuge. Her irate parent refused her an asylum. He had felt greatly
outraged when the wedding took place and never wanted to see his
daughter again. In answer to the plaintive midnight cry at his door, he
leaned out of a second story window and delivered a torrent of
invective. As he closed the window he shouted, “Dust thou art, and unto
Dust shalt thou return!”
The suppliant disappeared, and evidently the worm turned, for Dust was a
physical wreck for a month afterwards. Old man Kibbins subsequently
declared that while his daughter “was a damn fool, she had fight’n blood
in ’er, an’ the Doc ’ad better look out fer squalls.”
Dust was guyed good-naturedly by the occupants of the platform, as he
went into the store to get some fine cut.
“What’s that you’ve got out there between them buggy thills, Doc?”
queried Hyatt.
Bill winked at me and asked him if he had driven by his garden lately—a
delicate reference to the cemetery, intended to be sarcastic.
Another stove pipe hat was brought by “Pop” Wilkins, an octogenarian. He
also wore it jammed well down behind his ears. The old man climbed
painfully up the steps with his hickory cane, and dropped into a chair
that Hyatt brought out of the store for him. He placed the ancient tile
under it, mopped his bald head with a large red bandanna, and looked
wistfully beyond the river.
Pop had been afflicted with intermittent ague for several years. He was
once a preacher and a temperance advocate. He was placed on the
superannuated list by the Methodist conference, and had finally been
expunged as a backslider. He fell from grace and yielded to the lure of
strong waters. Once, after he had over indulged for several weeks, he
went and sat in sad reflection on the bank of the gloomy river at night.
Out of its depths came strange six footed beasts and multicolored
crawling things that terrified Pop and drove remorse into his soul.
Since that eventful night he had been more moderate, but he was still in
danger, and it was a question as to whether old age, ague, or J.
Barleycorn would get him first.
My friend “Kun’l” Peets, who was a comparatively recent importation into
the river country, came over the bridge with a basket on his arm
containing a couple of setter pups that he wanted Posey to see, with a
view of possibly having them applied on his account at the store. He was
an ex-confederate from Tennessee, and seemed sadly out of harmony with
his surroundings. The pups were liberated on the platform and subjected
to much poking about and criticism by the experts. The Colonel
considered them “fine specimens of a noble strain,” but Wirrick thought
“they looked like they had some wolf blood in ’em.” Posey agreed to
accept the little animals in lieu of eight dollars owed by the Colonel,
with the understanding that they were to be kept for him until they were
a month older. Everybody understood his kindly consideration for the old
man, and knew that he had no earthly use for the pups.
The assemblage in front of the store became more varied and interesting
with the arrival of other visitors. The chairs were exhausted and the
platform edge was entirely occupied. Bill Stiles had just commenced the
narration of a horse trade story, when an old man appeared in the
twilight on the bridge. He wore a long gray overcoat, although the
evening was very warm. The story stopped and interest was centered on
the slowly approaching figure.
I asked Posey who he was. He bent his head toward me confidentially,
and, in something between a low whistle and a whisper, replied:
“S-s-s-s-t——‘the Serpent’s Hiss’!!!”
We were in prohibition territory, and the old “bootlegger” was bringing
twelve flat pint bottles in twelve inside pockets of the gray overcoat
to break the drought at Posey’s store.
He was an unbonded warehouse, and the reason for the mysterious
gathering on that particular evening was now apparent.
He came slowly up the steps, and seemed embarrassed to find a stranger
present. I was introduced and vouched for by my friend Posey, and he
seemed much relieved.
Conversation had been rather dull during the last half hour, but now it
had a merry note. The jaundiced Viking brightened up and wondered how
many bird’s nests had been constructed with the whiskers that Wirrick
had left up in the bayou. Time worn jokes were laughed at more than
usual. Some new insurance that Posey had acquired was regarded as
indicating a big fire as soon as business got dull, and Doc Dust was
told that he ought to keep the small bag of oats under his buggy seat
away from the medicine cases or he would lose his horse.