Gaskins the Bear Hunter and the Ozarks Howler Meet at Last

Bear Hunting Folklore: Gaskins at the White Elephant

John Gaskins had been to the White Elephant before but not on business. John went because he had an enormous appetite and because Aunt Min would have Lizzie cook him up a big plate of barbeque bear brisket and barbeque bear beans and pile on a mound of potato salad. Then a busty barmaid in a dirndl would bring John a stein of frothy "Black Bear" beer, brewed in Fort Smith and sold in the finest Ozarks establishments. John Gaskins was feted thus because he had but one purpose on this earth: hunting and killing bears, and such a man might come in handy. He hunted bears every chance he got. He mostly shot the bears with his black powder shotgun from a safe distance, but sometimes when he was feeling frisky, he would jump from a tree onto the back of a bear and take out his pistol and shoot the bear point blank through the top of its head. Other times he would sniff out a bear's den, and he would hide behind a rock outcropping and watch until the bear waddled out. Then John Gaskins would crawl into the cave and keep his muzzle loader by his side, and he would wait till the bear came back and blocked the sunlight coming through the hole. Invariably, the bear would sniff and sniff good and maybe growl, but it was already too late for the bear. John Gaskins would take his old muzzle loader and ram it straight into the bear's gullet and keep shoving until the trigger guard was plumb against the bear's lower jaw, and before the bear could shake his head and knock John against the walls of the cave, John would pull the trigger and blow the bear's guts out through its asshole. You might ask the very reasonable question, what did John do next? How did he push a three hundred pound dead bear back out of the den, so he could crawl out? John never told anyone how he did it, and no one ever found out.

But it's also reasonable to ask, how did we know that John Gaskins did, in fact, blow a bear's guts through its asshole, shove the dead bear out of the entrance to its den, and crawl out? Well, we took his word for it because John Gaskins was an honest man. If he said he'd killed two hundred bears, why, then, that's what he did. If he said he'd killed an equal number of panthers and mountain lions, we'd say to him, "Damn, John. That's a lot of panthers and mountain lions." If he said he killed all those animals to make the woods safe for brush arbor revivals and the reading of Holy Scripture, we said, "Okay." John Gaskins was that good a bear killer as well as an effective if occasionally unreliable storyteller.

Oil Springs Missouri Folklore: The She-Bear and the Doxies

So, when he told the story of the two doxies menaced by a bear down by the Oil Spring and how he went down with a pail, ostensibly to fetch water at the behest of Aunt Min, but really to kill a she-bear and how the she-bear tried to seize his shotgun by clenching the barrel in her teeth, but John managed to hang on to the gun, so when she gave a serious shake of her head, John pulled the trigger right before the whip and snap of centrifugal force flung him into the woods, and he was able to get off a lucky shoot through the broadside of the bear, which made the bear very angry but also slowed her down considerably, so that John was able to get on his feet and pick up a pretty big chunk of rock whereupon he limped over to the bear and clobbered her on the top of her noggin and the she-bear just fell backwards—flop—onto the ground. So, John just stood there panting and hitching his trousers when he had a good idea that a souvenir might serve him well, so he cut off the bear's left ear and grabbed the mangled shotgun from her mouth and went up to the White Elephant to show the ear to Aunt Min. She was so tickled with his success and so distressed by the state of his shotgun and so relieved for the sake of her girls that she rang a little bell and the two doxies came to the parlor where she told the girls to give poor Mr. Gaskins a steam bath and an oil massage and to tend to any needs that might arise. While the girls were doing as they were told, John Gaskins began feeling much, much better, but that's when a terrible howling arose in the Oil Springs valley, and John sat upright and said, "Shit, girls! That was the howl of the Howler!"

The girls clung to John for their very lives, but he said, "Do not fear, bonny lasses, for the time has come for me to confront and defeat the wildest beast of the hills, God willing. But there's no real rush. Now, where were we?" And the girls resumed their experienced ministrations, and John told them where it hurt, and the girls labored with assiduity to restore him to full health and good humor while the creature in the valley kept up a steady howling and the girls whimpered, but John Gaskins kept saying, "Now don't you worry. There's no real rush. I'm here to protect you young ladies. Now, where were we? Ah, yes, I was showing you where it hurts."

"Again?" asked Abigail. "It seems to hurt there a lot."

"What can I say?" asked John Gaskins.

Adelaide said, "I'll take care of it this time."

All the while, the Ozarks Howler howled in the valley below.

Ozark Cryptid Stories: The Confrontation

At long last, John Gaskins was depleted, and in the full comfort and confidence of his restored and now well-regulated biorhythms, he took a rifle from over the mantle and said, "Thankee, girls, for your kind attentions, but now I must rid these hills of the Ozarks Howler." The girls began to wail and cry, but John said, "There, there. I'll be fine. Did I ever tell you that I've killed over two hundred bears?"

Abigail said, "Oh, do be careful, Mr. Gaskins," while the other girl, Adelaide, dropped to her knees and begged him not to go. But John Gaskins was resolute, so down the hill he went, whistling as he walked.

By now the sun was setting over the western ridge, and shadows shrouded the Oil Springs valley, but John Gaskins was not perturbed. He was free of perturbation and agitation and any other -ation you can think of. The girls had taken care of all that. Meanwhile, the Howler was still howling, and when John peered between the twilight trees, he saw something dark standing over the corpse of the bear. Then he saw the glint of green eyes. John crept more carefully now and squatted behind an outcropping and peeked over to see the monster, the Howler, with her terrible jaws gaping and sending forth the howl of a thousand inarticulate beings. John raised his rifle to sight in on the beast when she suddenly turned to face him. And then the Howler began to sing, "Why do you destroy all living things, the ancient men and beasts who came before you? What fury drives you?"

And John replied in his pleasant, gruff voice, "Because it was given to man in the Book of Genesis to subdue the earth and to command the animals."

The Howler sang, "But as a steward not a tyrant! You are not god of these hills. Look at what you have done to my beloved sister, Gurlanthia. Her blood flows into the spring."

John Gaskins said, "You have misplaced your loyalties, sister." He pulled the hammer back and placed a cap on the nipple. "You'n'me are gonna sort this out . . . right now."

The Howler's Curse: An Ozark Mountain Legend

But even as John was preparing the fatal shot, the Howler heard the click of the hammer locking, and she ceased her singing and vanished like a vapor. The explosion from the rifle echoed down the long valley, but the bullet ripped through empty leaves and sunk in the trunk of a tree on the far side of the spring. The smoke from the powder lingered for a while but then like the Howler dissipated in the dank air of the valley.

John Gaskins stood from behind the outcropping and surveyed the spring. The dead bear still lay on the bank of the spring but there was no Howler, and in his folly, he supposed he had rid the Ozarks of her terrifying presence. He persisted in his detestation of bears but was cursed from that point on with bad aim. Every shot went awry, and John had to satisfy his diminishing appetite with chicken and catfish and the herbs of the field. The doxy girls no longer tended to his hurts, and, sad to say, they mocked him in his dotage.

Regarding the Howler, some old-timers say they have heard a spirit crying out in protest for the senseless killing of all inarticulate things, a spirit who will re-constellate her terrifying attributes in monstrous proportions in the Last Days and reclaim her rule over the woods and hills and freshly flowing springs. She will subjugate golf courses, bike trails, resorts, hydroelectric dams, and shopping centers—all will succumb to her wild will—and the wind and water will once again sparkle cool and clean, and the fields will be peopled with oaks. Asphalt will dissolve to red clay, and the thoughtless tossers of trash will burn like chaff. In the meantime, all who hear her wailing lamentation are blessed beyond measure, reassured by the knowledge that her ancient power is not yet dead. So, the legend of the Howler—the true legend, that is—lives on in the Ozarks.