Ozark Country

by Ozark Country (retail) (epub)

  Fear of the abnormal is the base of most superstitions. If a dog howled at night, it was taken as a sign of death by the primitive mind. The pioneer host never stood in the door and watched his guests depart. To do so meant that he would never see them again. In the old days mourners never left the cemetery until the last clod of dirt was in the grave. To do so was not only a breach of respect, but it was likely to bring calamity to the relatives of the deceased. Hundreds of such beliefs continue to guard the folks of the backhills. Some of them have specific penalties for disobedience, others portend good or bad luck of a more general nature. A general atmosphere of bad luck surrounds those who thoughtlessly remove rings from their friends’ fingers, close gates which they find open, or move cats and brooms. No specific calamity may follow, but general misfortune is certain to prevail.

  Many people in the Ozarks, as elsewhere, believe in warnings through dreams. To dream of muddy water means trouble, but of an indefinite nature. A dream of snakes means that the dreamer has made enemies as dangerous as the reptile he dreams of. A dream told before breakfast, or one dreamed on Friday night and told on Saturday, is sure to come true. There is a widespread belief that people at the point of death are endowed with unusual gifts such as foretelling the future of friends and relatives, or glimpsing the land of no return which they are about to enter. The curse of a dying man is greatly feared, but his blessing is eagerly received.

  A taboo exists in the hills against transplanting cedars. This beautiful tree is clothed with an old superstition which causes the Ozarker to shudder when he observes summer residents beautifying their homes with it. In the back of his mind is an indelible picture of the Grim Reaper. It is his belief that when the tree reaches a height sufficient to cast a shadow long enough to cover the grave of the person who transplanted it, that person will die. A Missouri woman tells me that she can remember when transplanting a cedar in some person’s yard caused great confusion. The length of time it would require for it to grow high enough to cast a shadow sufficient to cover a spot as large as a grave would be computed, and some old person would be requested to set the cedar in the hole. For an aged person the risk was minimized. But sometimes this person would persist in living far beyond his normal allotment and this caused many hours of uneasiness. Some thought that cutting down the tree would appease the Grim Reaper. Sometimes an old-timer tried to outwit the supernatural by putting a flat rock in the hole before the tree was set. “That thar keeps a person frum dyin’ as soon as th’ tree gits big enough t’ shade his grave, or hit ’most always does.”

  Signs of spring are legion in the Ozarks. Some hillsmen think that the arrival of the turkey buzzard in the hill country is the best sign that crop time is near at hand. Others hold to the frog theory. It is believed that frogs come from hibernation early enough to be frozen and retarded twice before their third and permanent appearance. But with most hillfolks, Groundhog Day provides the most reliable sign of spring. According to this theory, the groundhog comes from its den on February 2 (some say February 14). If it is cloudy on this ominous day, to the extent that the little animal cannot see its shadow, the groundhog stays out and spring is near. But if the sun shines, the shy creature takes fright at its shadow, returns to its den, and winter continues for a period of six weeks.

  Superstitions die hard in the backhills. To erase the supernatural from the commonplace things of life is to eradicate fear and that is about as futile as attempting to put a muzzle on a milk snake. You must have something to tie it to.

  As far as I am concerned, these peculiar beliefs need no apology. If a man wishes to look at the new moon with silver in his pocket or carry the left hind foot of a rabbit (killed at midnight in a graveyard) and interpret them as signs or charms of good luck, it is undeniably his right to do so. Perhaps few of these practices are trustworthy, but I prefer to allow the horse breeder to continue the traditional practice of holding a colored cloth in front of the mare at breeding time in order to color the colt to suit his fancy even if he gets a sorrel when he expects a bay. The colts of science and politics are not always colored as men would have them. I never question my neighbor’s sincerity if he ties a yarn string around a persimmon tree to cure the chills or closes his windows at night because “night air is poisonous.” If he prefers to sit in the cold rather than put certain kinds of wood on the fire, it is satisfactory with me, providing I am not required to sit with him.

  CHAPTER XIII

  Stormy Roads

  Seat of Justice

  Court week in a sleepy little backhill town. For six days all is hustle and bustle in the country metropolis. We halt our checker game at the barber shop to investigate the stir. Lawyers stepping lively, briefcases in hand; sheriff and deputies on the alert; cafés taking on new help; hotel lobbies (both of them) filled with pungent cigar smoke; filling station attendants jumping like Mexican beans as cars squeak to a stop for service; plaintiffs, defendants, witnesses, jurymen—all adjusting themselves to the program of the week; the judge, with dignity, leaving the hotel for the courtroom; the editor of the county paper conditioning the Washington handpress to give the four pages of the weekly Herald a legal countenance; merchants dusting shelves, tossing attractive wares into show windows, and spreading reams of flypaper. The old county seat town takes on a new complexion.

  The courtroom is a stage upon which the dramas of the hills are acted. With the criminal docket a heavy one, folks have driven long distances to see the emotional fireworks. They have come in buggies and wagons, on horseback and in automobiles bringing lunches, babies, and dogs with them. The dispensing of justice, or injustice, is a matter of great concern to hillsmen. Some have relatives involved, others have been called as witnesses or jurymen, many come through curiosity, or to meet friends, swap horses, and enjoy themselves in general.

  The hillsman who made liquor to keep the wolf from the door, parades his emotions, unreservedly, in every word he speaks. He might as well plead guilty and have it over. The hardened Ben Stutts, who killed a neighbor’s hog and sold the meat, accepts his two-year sentence stoically. Folkways are sometimes darkened with malicious conduct and it is the duty of the prosecuting attorney to delve into the darkness and bring forth the evidence. The defense lawyers, primed for action, with plenty of tobacco to loosen the vocal cords, battle for their clients, guilty or not guilty.

  Twelve hillsmen, good and true men, sitting on a jury, compose a still convoy of justice. Judges in the hills become expert psychologists, for nowhere on earth is mother wit put to better advantage to outwit the law. To the evildoer, prosecution is a thorn in the flesh of his freedom and he resents it.

  I mingle with hillfolks on the courthouse lawn and the public square, shaking hands with an old Civil War veteran from the Posey neighborhood, stopping to chat with Tobe Mullins from Woodville, talking politics with a prospective justice of the peace from Buckbrush township. Plenty of excitement and entertainment on the grounds. First, a real dogfight when a dignified Airedale takes issue with a quarrelsome bulldog. It took half the Clabber Creek community to pull the bulldog off. Then music in the air, for what is court week without some old-time fiddling and a few ballads.

  The Foster brothers, all three of them, are here from Bug Tussle with fiddle in poke and guitar and mandolin carefully wrapped to keep out the dust and hold the melody. Talk about devil’s ditties! “Just crowd in there by Bob’s café and get an earful of it.”

  After a few old breakdowns, a ballet is in order. Boy Foster leads out with an old-time love song which the crowd accepts seriously. Young lovers on the ragged edge of the crowd move close together as bass, baritone, and tenor tell the old, old story of “Lovely Jane.”

  The time draws near, my dearest dear, when you and I must part.

  But little you think of the pain and woe in my poor aching heart.

  Goodbye, sweet girl, I hate to leave, I hate to say goodbye,

  But I’ll return to you again, unless your Willie dies.

  We fo
ught them hard the first four years, the next four just the same.

  I loaded my trunk with golden ore and started back to Jane.

  We sailed along for about six weeks, along the foamy deep;

  One night we thought we all were lost; our captain was asleep.

  And then we came in sight of land, in sight of our native town;

  Our good old captain gave command to take the rigging down;

  And then a crowd of pretty girls came running to the ship,

  And Jane was there with all her curls; my heart began to wilt.

  Then hand in hand, we walked along ’til we came to her father’s door;

  The crowd did look so very neat while standing on the floor.

  The parson read the marriage law which bound us both for life,

  Now Jane is mine without a doubt, my own dear wedded wife.

  The ballad ends, the singers rest and smoke makin’-cigarettes while the crowd mills around in anticipation of more old-time singing. The jury, grave and silent, files by as the sheriff leads them to the Busy Bee café for supper. A group of men in front of the drugstore discuss the day’s proceedings. Young Jimmie Winters got thirty days in the county jail for disturbing a religious assembly—tossing a hornet’s nest into the arbor while the parson was praying. Lem Keeter got a change of venue in the dog-killing case. “A man sure can’t get justice in his home county.” Luke Walters has his case continued for the third time. His “continuation lawyer” knows human nature. The Potts boys plead guilty to a misdemeanor and get a suspended sentence. The big murder trial will start first thing in the morning and all is expectancy for the event. The prosecutor will ask for the death penalty, but the best criminal lawyer in the district will handle the defense. It will be eye for eye and tooth for tooth and folks will talk about it until it becomes a tradition.

  To realize the vital part the courts have in folk life, one must be present at a session of circuit court. It is a revelation of—But, listen, the Foster boys are tuning up again. I wonder how Nate Watkins, with ten years to do, would feel if he could hear the words over there in the jailhouse.

  Down in the valley, valley so low,

  Late in the evening, hear the train blow.

  The train, love, hear the train blow;

  Late in the evening, hear the train blow.

  Go build me a mansion, build it so high

  So I can see my true love go by,

  See her go by, love, see her go by,

  So I can see my true love go by.

  Go write me a letter, send it by mail,

  Date it and stamp it to Birmingham jail.

  Birmingham jail, love, Birmingham jail,

  Date it and stamp it to Birmingham jail.

  Roses are red, love, violets are blue.

  Angels in heaven know I love you,

  Know I love you, dear, know I love you,

  Angels in heaven know I love you.

  Gallant Outlawry

  The classical gang of freebooters known as the James Boys operated in Kansas, Missouri, and Arkansas following the Civil War. Outstanding members of the gang were Jesse James, his brother Frank, Cole Younger, and Clell Miller. Numerous small fry worked with these desperadoes but they seldom made the headlines. Some of the robberies and escapades of the James gang took place in the Ozarks, it is said, but this is merely popular opinion and has never been proved in court. The crimes and pranks of these daring robbers were frequently marked with gallant action in the manner of Robin Hood and Dick Turpin. But it must be remembered that time twists historical fact into romantic legend. Even a gallant outlaw is hardly a fit subject for hero worship.

  The robbery of a stagecoach between Malvern and Hot Springs National Park in January 1874 is usually attributed to the James Boys. This was before the railroads were built into Hot Springs and many wealthy visitors left the train at Malvern and rode the stage twenty-five miles through the hills to the spa. The coach carried fourteen passengers and was loaded to capacity on the day of the robbery. Money, watches, and jewelry worth three or four thousand dollars were taken from these passengers. The mail pouches provided a much larger haul and it is estimated that the gang secured a total of more than $30,000 in the holdup.

  This robbery was conducted in the usual James manner with the five freebooters cracking jokes and parading their wit without reserve. They did not neglect to include the usual display of chivalry. One man was given five dollars to permit him to send a message to his relatives. Another victim of the holdup was a man with a southern accent. He was asked if he had served the Confederacy during the Civil War. He said that he had, naming his regiment and command. His money and valuables were promptly returned. The James gang boasted that they never robbed a man who fought the Yanks.

  Many theories have been expounded concerning the disposition of the booty secured from this stagecoach robbery. One story is that the gang was hotly pursued by United States officers and that they hid the loot, valued at $32,000, in the Ouachita Mountains of Yell County, Arkansas, and never returned for it. Many expeditions have searched for this treasure but, if found, it has never been reported.

  The late B. W. Rice of Caldwell, Idaho, knew the James brothers personally when he lived in Missouri. He told me the following story:

  A few weeks before Jesse James was killed at St. Joseph, he was at the house of a friend of mine in Mexico, Missouri. Croquet parties were popular in those days and my friend was host to a group on his spacious lawn. Jesse was present but he remained in the house.

  One of the events at the party was a contest in pistol shooting. A few of the men had made good showings when our host invited James out to take part in the sport. Only two or three of us knew the celebrated bandit.

  The host placed a piece of card an inch square on a locust tree twenty paces away and everybody watched to see what the stranger would do. Jesse stood with his back to the mark a few seconds, then wheeled quickly, a pistol in each hand, working them up and down, firing eight shots. Each of the eight bullets found the mark. He did not remain at the party after the shooting, but quickly mounted his horse and rode away.

  A few years ago an aged man visited Eureka Springs, Arkansas, and asked Sam A. Leath, an experienced Ozark guide, to show him to a place on the old stage trail two or three miles south of the city. Finding the spot he was looking for, just off State Highway 23, the old man told the following story:

  It was in the late seventies when I resigned my parish at Ozark, Arkansas, to take over a church at Pierce City, Missouri. With four other men I traveled north on the stage, which was the only transportation available at that time. My companions were strangers but congenial fellows and I thoroughly enjoyed the ride through the Boston Mountains. At this spot, just south of Eureka Springs, we were halted by two bandits who proved to be Jesse and Frank James. They ordered us from the coach and stripped us of our money and valuables. Placing the loot in his hat, one of the highwaymen called me aside and asked me if I were not a minister of the gospel. I answered in the affirmative.

  “Your companions are notorious gamblers,” said the bandit, “and we have a special reason for robbing them. But with you it is different. We never take from preachers, widows, or orphans.” With these words, he poured a generous portion of the booty into my coat pocket and warned me not to return it to the gamblers. The bandits then mounted their horses and disappeared in the woods.

  There was an ominous silence among my four companions while riding into Eureka Springs. I couldn’t understand it. They made no complaint about being robbed and gave no indication of reporting the incident to the law. Even the driver of the stage seemed unconcerned about the affair.

  Arriving in town, I secured a room at a hotel for the night. As I was about to retire, I heard two men talking in an adjoining room. I recognized the voices as belonging to the two men we had encountered on the road. They were occupying the room next to me.

  “Do you suppose that man was telling the truth when he said he was a preacher?�
� said one of the men.

  “I think so,” replied the other, “but to make sure we will test him out at the breakfast table in the morning.” He continued by outlining the “third degree” they would give me.

  I heard every word of the plan and prepared to meet it. Far into the night, I prayed for strength to meet the ordeal. Then I fell asleep and did not awake until called for breakfast.

  The brothers were waiting for me when I reached the dining room. When I took a place at the table, the one I decided was Frank sat down beside me. Immediately I felt the pressure of steel against my ribs. Jesse sat across the table in front of me. He asked me to say grace.

  Never before did such a fervent prayer fall from my lips. I thanked the Lord for the food, for guidance on the journey, for the welfare of my old parish, for the people of my new pastorate, and, lastly, for the companionship of the two men who were with me. I concluded by asking that richest blessings reward them all through life.

  All through the prayer I could feel the gun pressing against my side and could sense the piercing eyes of the bandit leader from across the table. When I concluded the prayer, we ate the food set before us and conversed in a congenial manner. At the conclusion of the meal, Jesse called me aside.