Where Ol' Sam Sutley Got His On Halloween

I discovered this Halloween story while looking for content for this countdown. It probably hasn't been read too many times since it was published in the Toledo Blade during the1955 Halloween season. Written by Ira Brock and it's a clever faux Halloween folktale. To make it easier to read, below is the transcription. 

Where Ol' Sam Sutley Got His On Halloween

Story By IRA BROCK (Blade Staff Writer)
Illustration By WALT BUCHANAN (Blade Staff Artist)

IF YOU spot a witch or black thing with cloven feet tomorrow night, ask about the Sycamore where Sam Sutley got his on Halloween.

You also might ask how old Sam has fared since he snorted at the Devil and tried to rip out his horns, while bitter sulphur flames dragged him.

Of course, today, hardly anybody believes that witches gather at midnight on Halloween to scribble their names in blood—all in homage to the Devil.

Old Sam didn't believe in a black-robed Halloween, either. Big and boisterous, and built like a grizzly, old Sam roared defiance at the Devil every Halloween.

A LOT of folks around Possum Ridge, Ky., said old Sam acted that way to throw suspicion from himself. They were the ones who believed that old Sam really was the Devil.

He sure acted like Satan. He was the swillingest, cheatingest, low-down scoun-agon who ever drifted into that section of rural Kentucky. He rode into Possum Ridge on a sweaty roan gelding. It was Halloween, 1877. The first life he saw in the town was a black cat which slithered into the dirt street.

Old Sam pulled a gun from his overalls and shot the cat dead. Right in front of the general store. Soon, customers, loafers, and management poured from the store.

SOMEBODY demanded to know why the stranger had shot the cat. Old Sam said because it was black. Always did, he added, Hated black cats.

"They're bad luck," he declared, his button-sized eyes, blacker than the fur on the dead cat, challenging the questioners to doubt him.

"Well, uh," stammered Mose Bottomley, proprietor of the general store, "that cat was gonna more or less be the star in the Halloween party at the school tonight."

"That's okay, Mose," spoke up Ike Willoughby. "I'll ride out to the farm and bring in maw's black cat for the party."

Ike set off on his brown mare. In a couple of hours he was returning to town, maw's black cat curled around the saddle horn. Sound asleep.

AS IKE swung the mare around a big sycamore smack in the middle of the road, a pistol shot rang out. Ike looked around. Didn't see anybody.

But when he tied the mare in front of the store and lifted the cat from the saddle, it was limp. At his feet it fell. It had been shot, too.

Everybody knew that old Sam had killed that cat, too. And that one belonged to Mollie Stringer, widow of a local hero, and a second cousin to Ike Willoughby.

The town had a flat-out shooter. But nobody did anything. For one thing, there were no witnesses. For another, the big and belligerent Sam Sutley defied the town.

Lack of a black cat ruined the school festivities. And Old Sam got drunk in the local saloon. He beat heck out of three farmers, shot a fourth in the hand.

HIS DRUNKEN roars about black cats being the witches' meetin' out by the road echoed all the way to the schoolhouse. They chilled the young folks' laughter and the party broke up early.

It was the same for the next three Halloweens—with old Sam getting drunk, shooting at witches, kicking dogs, throwing rocks and raising a ruckus in general.

Between Halloweens, old Sam stayed just as drunk and mean as ever, but sobered up only long enough to work for some farmer to get enough money for more drinking and fighting.

And in those years, too, 29 black cats were ambushed and shot down throughout the county at night and found dead next morning.

On Halloween No. 4 for old Sam, though, the folks decided it was time something was done about Sam Sutley. They made plans.

THAT NIGHT, about 9 o'clock, Ike Willoughby side-saddled out to the big sycamore.

"Didja hear about the witches' meetin' out by the sycamore at midnight?" Ike whispered. "Been told it'll be a dilly. Real sorcerin' thing."

Old Sam bellowed damnation to all witches and the Devil. He slammed a huge hand on the bar. Said he'd see about the goldanged meetin'.

Clouds steamed from the road and the pumpkin-rid land around the sycamore at midnight like a gigantic witch cauldron boiling for the festival.

Ike lay low behind a mulberry bush. At his side was an old bearskin. Black. He also had a long rope. Said he'd play the Devil once Mose had old Sam lassoed and tied to the tree.

In about two minutes and half a minute, the bulky silhouette of Old Sam staggered through the blackness towards the tree. He reached the sycamore fore the quietness.

A VOICE of death and sassiness that no mortal on Halloween cackled diabolically. An unseen something tripped old Sam. He rolled against the sycamore.

Quickly, old Sam straightened up. Was on his feet! A form of the night, astride a tobacco stick—a broom stick!, was etched in the darkness of the sycamore.

"Whoeah!" Old Sam straight-like a hoisted shadow. Up into the spiderish branches of the tree. Until he was no more. The night was still. Sulphur fumes hit at Ike's nostrils.

"Mose!" Ike breathed nervously. "Where are you Mose?"

No reply.

Ike shot from behind the mulberry bush. He shook cramped legs and lit out for town. He finally halted when he saw a light at Mose Bottomley's.

"By damn, Mose," Ike puffed after the storekeeper had answered bangings on his side door. "Whyn't you wait for me? That sure was something out there."

"NEVER SAW nothin' like that there, I'm tellin' you, Mose. How in tarnation, though, did you lift old Sam up in the sycamore that way?"

Mose's sleep-glazed eyes widened.

"Ike," he said, "I never done no liftin' of nobody in no tree. Maw wouldn't let me go after I told her how you'uns was goin' to scare the overalls off Old Sam."

Well, it never was explained who or what did what to old Sam Sutley at the sycamore that Halloween. Ike knew it wasn't him! That it wasn't Mose.

Theories were offered. But nobody believed them—that old Sam got scared silly, climbed the tree; scooted down it and ran away in the darkness.

Ever since, horses have shied nervously whenever near the Sycamore where Sam Sutley got his on Halloween.

Black cats, of which there have been plenty since that Halloween, still go to the sycamore and meow gaily.

This legend notwithstanding, everybody knows there never were witches.

Maybe on some Halloween, though, a witch will disclose if there is a tobacco stick or a broom stick on which old Sam Sutley was ridden away.

Maybe this Halloween. Who knows?

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Did you enjoy that lost tale of Halloween hokum?  As you can see the copy of the original newspaper included an illustration by Walt Buchanan but unfortunately in the original transfer process we've lost the details so you'll have to use your imagination to fill in the blanks.