music video - Grandfather Jack Bell - miner of rare metals, newspaperman, lawman, and naturalist

Part of my genealogy experiments. Jack Bell, father's father, won and lost fortunes from Alaska down through Central America. His story is like something out of an old western. Stetson and 45.

My attention was called to one of the burros that had a shifted pack. Now there was a bit of cat's claw growing through the sand piles and windrows that always cover and uncover as the winds shift them about. When I left the lead of the animals there was no snake in sight. After two hours travel, I certainly killed no less than 20. After I tightened the cinches I walked around the animals to break trail. At my second step I heard the rattle weed. Years of desert life automatically directed my attention toward the peculiar noise. Just at that point a dirty brown streak darted at my shin. Like the fool I was, having examined many specimens in every possible manner, I watched him as he acted his chewing stunt. I had heavy laced, dry tanned half boots - the ordinary corduroy trousers, heavy woolen socks and heavy flannels. For perhaps 10 seconds he chewed. Then dropped to the ground, lashed his tail and spun his head and neck in every direction at once. He fairly trembled with rage.

Once I imagined I felt a light prick on my shin, but never gave it slight thought right then, as I never for a moment thought that it was possible for the snake to reach the skin. I had, at this time, a pair of dried fangs that I had taken from one of his kind on one of the deserts below, and I could not figure how this little one could penetrate so far. But he did, nevertheless. I killed him pronto. I made dry camp, stripped my leg and, sure enough, there was a red dot that had begun to swell. It was just about what a hypodermic needle would do. I was feeling a bit sick at the stomach. Then a pain shot through my whole body. I was scared. I had a long mush ahead to get out of the sand either way. The nearest ranch was on the 30-mile stretch that was before me. I was rattled for a minute, as I had witnessed several deaths from this same cause, and then I thought of the hypodermic outfit that I had in my shirt pocket - a little emergency case with an always-loaded syringe of permengate of potash. I shot the whole thing into where the tiny red puncture was. Then, believe me, I was sick for a couple of hours. While I was under the canvas, one of the burros backtrailed and I had two packs for one animal and, in travel, that made 50 pounds a load.

But I was really sick. I tied a small rope about my leg under the knee. But this was after I had dissolved another tablet and shot it into the little puncture. Of course, my leg began to swell, but that was as nothing to the molten hot lead that was in every vein and artery. I was getting more and more scared all the time, too. When the sun was straight up I was about all in, and that's the truth. Guess I went kinda out of my head, because I kinda came to myself just as the big red balloon was going down over the hog backs in the west. My leg was as big around as my body, my eyes did not seem to want to stay where I directed them. They wanted to turn right back up into my head.

Say, pardner, be careful of sidewinders if you ever have faith enough to take one of our trips into the big places down there. Well, I got through the night somehow, and there was that poor burro without any food, but I had some alkalied water and gave him a sip. I was getting shy, too. There I was getting short of water and strength, too, and my leg the size of a barrel.

It was a case of root, hog, or die with me. I guess I was the first one that had taken this "short cut" for a long time and, of course, when I was up against it, there was no show for anyone to show up.

I made up my mind to make a try in the morning. I couldn't leave my outfit there. I had to take it along 30 miles to a ranch, and anything might happen trying to get across. I started at gray day. God bless that little old jack. I hung on the side of the pack, and he seemed to sense, in an almost human way, that I was up against it. I dragged that bum prop all the way and landed at the ranch down on the Datil plains at midnight. John Coxe, who is a history in himself of the past 40 years down there in the Indian country, took care of me, and I needed it, too. The flesh sloughed away from my shin and, to this day, I have the scars where that hellish varmint struck through my boots.

The Lurking Death
Jack Bell
Nevada State Journal, May 20, 1923

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