The sun felt warm on the boys’ faces as they rode down the logging trail through the woods. It was that time of year when the air was cold in the morning and warm in the afternoon. Kurt rode a tall Tennessee Walker and was constantly giving his two friends grief about keeping up. “If you two rode a real horse, instead of those stubby-legged quarters, you could keep up,” he teased. Tom and George looked at one another and nodded, their heels tapping their horses’ sides until they were in a dead sprint and then blew by Kurt as he was ducking under tree branches. They pulled the reins to a gentle stop a hundred yards ahead of Kurt. Tom hollered back, “It doesn’t do me any good to ride a horse that is going to get my head taken off in the woods if I need to run ’em.” The boys all chortled as young teenage boys do when picking on one another.
Kurt responded back, “What is there to run from, anyhow?” George gave a hearty laugh. “Maybe the Hillbilly Beast?” Tom mocked.
“The Hillbilly Beast is a damn myth made up by moonshiners to keep people outta the woods,” answered an indignant Kurt.
“Hey, how bout we go camping tonight?” George thought out loud to the group. “We can go right there, in that little clear spot not too far from the river. See if the Hillbilly Beast shows up,” Tom joked.
“Okay, I’ll let Mister Cook know on our way out,” said George as he rolled his eyes.
The boys’ families didn’t own much property. Between the three of them, they probably worked tobacco for every person in a 30-mile radius, and any other farm chores that folks needed young backs and legs to do. So, there were about 2,000 acres of mostly wooded hills and hollers that the boys were allowed to hunt, fish, ride horses, and camp, as long as they let an adult know they would be in the area.
It was a good time for camping in those foothills during October, the nights were cool and the days comfortable. It made sitting around a campfire enjoyable, laughing and telling tall tales.
The boys went back home, quickly packed, and hurried back. The river was only a twenty-minute ride by horseback, but it was an hour-long walk on foot. They trudged up a steep hill until they were at the top and could see most of the holler before them. They headed into the woods along the same logging trail and back to the river. The sun was getting low, and the twilight air was brisk, so they set about gathering wood and prepping their camp. The boys put up their tents and built a fire, and they were having a good time. They told stories, with each trying to scare the other as dusk came and went, and night slowly fell.
Soon, the fire’s flames were low, and the boys were tired. Then, they heard a sound behind them in the darkness. In a hushed tone, Kurt asked, “What was that, sounded kinda big?”
Kurt first, and then George, carefully reached for their rifles. Tom muttered, “It’s probably just a coyote. We don’t need to worry.”
“Why you whisperin’ if it’s just a darn coyote,” Kurt snapped back.
George, having his senses about him, put two more logs on the fire. “Y’all settle down, when the logs catch, we’ll see better,” he quietly cautioned his friends.
A large branch cracked, followed by a heavy thump, whatever it was, it was just outside their line of sight. Tom finally pulled out his rifle and gave a tense glance at George. The boys gripped their rifles tighter, their hearts pounding.
“It surely ain’t no cougar or coyote,” Kurt breathed. His hands shook as he loaded his bolt-action rifle. The boys could hear their horses snorting and pawing at the ground, something had them spooked.
“Maybe it’s a bear?” George asked. “When did y’all see a durn bear out here last!” Kurt was nervous. More nervous with each worried second.
“Well, it sure as hell ain’t little, whatever it is. But we got a fire, and we got these rifles,” George replied. He gave a reassuring look to Kurt. All of them were frightened but they wouldn’t admit it. Not now, not ever.
Within the underbrush surrounding them, they could make out occasional noises – twigs snapping, faint growling in the near distance, and something stalking in the darkness, along with the uneasy rustling of newly fallen leaves. It was obvious that whatever was out there, it was circling around their camp.
It was at that moment that George’s logs caught and provided much needed light. The boys had lived two lifetimes already, and the sudden emergence of that fiery brightness startled them. But, the fire hadn’t just alarmed the boys, but something else was disturbed in the holler.
There it stood, now clear as day with the help of the growing campfire. It was huge, hairy, and barrel-chested. It was more beast than man, but still man-like in outline. Its eyes were smoldering and wolfish. Its arms were monstrous and muscular and paired with edged, dark claws. It stood on two legs and towered over the fear-stricken boys. It slowly grinned to reveal a sharp set of stained teeth. Its breathing was now heavy and eager, and the boys could see its puffing breath in the cold, moonlit night.
It leered at each of the three boys, licked its lips, and took one step toward the firelight.
Tom was thunderstruck at the sight of the monster; he was crouched by the fire in an almost catatonic trance. Desperately fumbling with his rifle and handicapped by shattered nerves, Kurt knew he couldn’t get off a shot before the creature bounced on them. George simply shut his eyes and repeated a prayer his momma had taught him when he was little.
The Hillbilly Beast took another step forward. That’s when Kurt screamed out in hopeless terror.
Then, just as unnatural as the hulking monster in front of them, a peculiar gust of wind, seemingly coming off the nearby river, blew straight through the camp – causing the fire’s protective light to waver back and forth.
The wind quickly settled, and the fire’s light held.
In the blink of an eye, and as quickly as it appeared in the light, the monster was gone with the wind. The beast’s presence was still felt by the boys. They sat paralyzed in disbelief and wonderment; they were unable to move, not even sure if they were breathing. It could have been minutes, or it could have been hours. No one knew.
They looked at one another and then nodded in silent agreement. Without words, they knew full well that they had seen the Hillbilly Beast, yet something else had happened. Something on the wind, in the fire, or in George’s hushed prayer had saved them.
Regardless, this was something more than just an old moonshiner’s tale.
Teach a man to fight, he can win a battle.
Teach a man to write, he can win a nation.
