Now Uncle Steve’s gun was an old-fashioned, sawed-off muzzle-loading hog rifle, and he didn’t have time to reload it. So to save the dog, he just rushed up to the bear from behind, put his legs around the bear, and started prying the dog’s snoot out of the bear’s mouth.
“And before I knew what happened,” says Uncle Steve, “the bear let go of the dog, and got my right hand in his mouth, and began a-crunchin’ and a-growlin’ and a-eating on my hand.
“One long tooth went right through the palm of my hand, and another went through the back of my hand. There wasn’t nothin’ for me to do but reach around with my left hand for the bear’s throat. I got him by the goozle and started clampin’ down. Pretty soon he let go. Then I just choked him till he was deader’n 4 o’clock.” Uncle Steve spit in the fireplace.
Mrs. Cole was sitting on the bed, listening. Nobody said anything for a minute. Then Mrs. Cole chuckled and said, “Four o’clock ain’t dead.”
Uncle Steve didn’t dignify her quibble with an answer. He just spit in the fireplace again.
WILEY OAKLEY
The most famous man in the Smokies, as far as visitors are concerned, is Wiley Oakley. He is called “The Roamin’ Man of the Mountains.” He is 55, and all his life he has just wandered around through the Smokies.
He is a natural woodsman, with a soul that sings in harmony with the birds and the trees and the trees and the clouds. His English is spectacular, and on many things he is as naive as a baby. But on other things he almost shocks you with his meticulous knowledge.
He has a house in the hills, and a rustic-craft shop in Gatlinburg. Most of his life he has made a living as guide to hunters, and later to tourists. There are industrialists by the score in America who worship at Wiley Oakley’s feet after a few days in the mountains with him.
He is a famous teller of tall tales (but he won’t tell one on Sunday). He has been on the radio, and on one trip to New York was offered a contract. It scared him so badly he took the train home without saying goodbye.