COLUMN: My Huckleberry Finn days: Nothing like the novel

Last week, I wrote about my days in the backwoods of the Tennessee River hills, moonshiners, rough honky-tonks and tough unshaven timber men. But there was another side that made those white lightning guys and lumberjacks look like kindergarten kiddies.

These were the Tennessee River catfishermen.

Lordy, they were both a mixed up combination of faithful friends and unpredictable terror.

My father had a small fishing cabin on the river. When he bought the property little did he know the river point and adjacent cove was the camping grounds of the notorious Mr. Outlaw.

Yep, that was his real name.

That was his territory for his river cat fishing crew. They were like nomads moving up and down the river in old boats to various camps.

If they took you wrong, you were simply burned out. They liked my dad… thank God!

We could hear the cat fisherman whooping and hollering some nights as the searing corn liquor worked its magic. There would be off-tuned guitars coupled with singing then the inevitable arguments.

As a youngster, I could see the campfires. If mother did not come to the cabin — which was often — I would go down to the water’s edge to be with them and watch them cleaning the day’s catch. The campsite stunk to high heaven with rotten bait and spoiled fish guts.

I particularly remember the smiles in the campfire light. The unshaven, bib overall guys had broken front teeth that were stained dark with tobacco juice. Beer cans and jars of corn liquor lay around the campfire.

If they liked you, one was never out of fish. They always shared … that’s where as a tender teen I drank my first moonshine and chewed a tobacco plug. I was sick for days on end, and my mother was unmerciful with my father when I got back to Memphis.

The most historic event of the cove was a warm night in June. I was on the porch and remember the yell.

“You cheat’n @#$%!”

The card game was becoming ungentlemanly. Father ordered me to bed. Then about ten o’clock, we were awoken by a loud knock on the cabin door.

There stood the notorious Mr. Outlaw. My poor father was aghast as I was. He was bloody. He motioned for my dad to come outside. He requested help and asked my father to take one of his boys to the hospital about 25 miles away in Savannah, Tenn.

Dad told me to stay in the cabin. He dressed and was out the door. I looked out the window and three or four guys were standing around a man who lay on the ground withering in pain.

I watched as they put the red-stained man in the back seat. One of the men jumped in the front seat and dad drove off.

The rest of the bad guys ran for their boats, started the motors, and zoomed off into the inky night. I went down to the rock ledge. Around the campfire were the cards and blood soaked rags.

They never returned to that campsite. But I finally learned years later that the cut-up man had lost a poker bet.

Unfortunately he was broke, but he was so sure of his hand that he bet his left — and he lost the hand. Mr. Outlaw enforced the riverman’s code. They held him down and he paid the bet the hard way. 

I never knew if the man survived or what became of Mr. Outlaw. He just vanished along with is crew and are now part of Tennessee River legend.

If it passes censorship, next week will be the last in the series. “The Bruton Branch Cathouse.”

Fair winds to ye matey.

Chick Huettel is a long-time Walton County resident, writer and artist. E-mail him care of The Sun at news@waltonsun.com