“The Legend of Buster Bahzellsword and the Deadman Snag”
(Told from the hollers of Baja Troy’s Kinfolk Chronicles)
Now back in them Smoky Ridge days, before the revenuers and them city boys paved every dirt road with good intentions, there was a crew known as The Legion of Poachin’ Wood. They weren’t no church choir neither — they was a ragtag bunch of stump-pullers, coopers, and moon burners, known fer sneakin’ into government timber to cut oak fer the stills.
Leader of that bunch was ol’ Buster Bahzellsword, a wiry feller with a beard like Spanish moss and a stare cold enough to freeze creek water in July.
Buster only came to town twice a year — once in spring, once come frost — to buy himself a coil o’ copper line and a hundred pounds o’ yeast. Never said much, just tipped his hat, traded gold coin, and rode back up into them foggy hills.
Buster only came to town twice a year — once in spring, once come frost — to buy himself a coil o’ copper line and a hundred pounds o’ yeast. Never said much, just tipped his hat, traded gold coin, and rode back up into them foggy hills.
Then one year, he just stopped comin’.
No copper bought, no yeast hauled, no sign o’ smoke risin’ from his holler.
No copper bought, no yeast hauled, no sign o’ smoke risin’ from his holler.
Folks whispered in the general store that the revenuers done got ‘im, but others said somethin’ worse — that he met the old Deadman o’ the River.
The Tale o’ the Deadman
See, down below Bahzellsword Ridge runs a crooked stream called Deadman Creek. Got its name ‘cause years back, a logging barge hit a submerged log — one o’ them “deadmen” — and took three men to the bottom.
Ever since, folks claim at night you can still hear the creakin’ o’ timber and the hiss of old boilers, like ghostly snagboats tryin’ to pull the river clean.
Ever since, folks claim at night you can still hear the creakin’ o’ timber and the hiss of old boilers, like ghostly snagboats tryin’ to pull the river clean.
A “deadman,” in river talk, ain’t no ghost exactly — it’s a tree what’s gone under, root and limb, lurkin’ just below the surface, waitin’ to snag your canoe or drag you clean under.
The government boys used to send snagboats to haul them deadmen out, but this was way up past where the law dared go.
The government boys used to send snagboats to haul them deadmen out, but this was way up past where the law dared go.
The Night Buster Went Missin’
One autumn eve, with the rut in full swing, the woods was alive with elk buglin’ like banshees and coyotes laughin’ like sinners at a sermon.
Buster was runnin’ his still by lantern light, distillin’ his last run of the season. The creek was high and angry, swollen with rain.
Buster was runnin’ his still by lantern light, distillin’ his last run of the season. The creek was high and angry, swollen with rain.
Then came that groan — deep, thunderin’, like the earth itself was coughin’ up ghosts.
The ground near the still gave way, and the whole copper rig slid into the creek. Buster went after it, rope in hand, hollerin’ curses fit to peel bark.
The ground near the still gave way, and the whole copper rig slid into the creek. Buster went after it, rope in hand, hollerin’ curses fit to peel bark.
But the current was too mean, and that ol’ Deadman log rose up from the depths like it had a grudge. Took him and his still both, down into that black churnin’ water.
They never found him.
Years later, when the Legion went lookin’, they said they seen bubbles risin’ in that same bend — and smelled mash on the wind.
Years later, when the Legion went lookin’, they said they seen bubbles risin’ in that same bend — and smelled mash on the wind.
The Truth Behind the Tale
Now, some say that “Deadman” just means a sunken log, the kind riverboats used to fear.
Others’ll tell ya it’s a buried anchor log — what we mountain folk use when there ain’t no live trees left to hitch a skyline or winch line to.
Others’ll tell ya it’s a buried anchor log — what we mountain folk use when there ain’t no live trees left to hitch a skyline or winch line to.
And the “snag” — that’s a standin’ dead tree, left for the woodpeckers and raccoons to call home.
Ecology folks say them snags keep the woods alive long after the tree’s gone, feedin’ the dirt and shelterin’ critters.
Ecology folks say them snags keep the woods alive long after the tree’s gone, feedin’ the dirt and shelterin’ critters.
So maybe ol’ Buster Bahzellsword became part o’ that forest too — his bones anchorin’ the bank, his still feedin’ the soil, and his spirit bubblin’ up whenever the creek runs high.
Local sayin’ still goes:
“If ya hear the creek boilin’ on a calm night, don’t you go peekin’ — that’s just Buster runnin’ one last batch.”
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