The Mountain Fork is a spring-fed river that runs through Eastern Oklahoma, with several sets of rapids along its course. The view along it is spectacular, the mountains and hills covered in greenery.
But there are some dark events associated with it, belying the beauty of the countryside. On the lower Mountain Fork, below Cooper Creek, the stream has a fork. This is where the shades congregate to promote their mischief.
If the call is made just right, it’s said, you can even visit with Old Scratch himself and ask for a favor. But everything comes with a price. And sometimes the cost is just too much.
When the lantern is swung just right during a summer storm, and if the shadows are aligned, the Dark One will arrive to grant a wish, if you have the courage to make the request.
This is all common knowledge to the people who dwell in the territory. There have been a few who have screwed up the courage to summon Beelzebub to fulfill their desire. It always seems to end darkly for those hearty souls, though.
The Old Man never seems to quite play fair. There’s always a clause, a catch, if you will. You have to, as the saying goes, give the Devil his due.
Guster Alfonso Jones was a young man with great expectations for his life. His father was a sharecropper in far Southeast Oklahoma and a pious man. But young Gus wanted more than to till the soil.
Gus, while staying with his grandma in New Boston, had heard “Texas” Alexander singing the blues. But it was the guitar man that caught his attention. That man was something else. He made that old flattop sound just like two instruments at the same time. Almost like a piano played with both hands.
Upon his return to Oklahoma, he vowed to become the best guitar player in the world. Or at least in the South. He scrimped and saved for two years until he could afford a beat-up old acoustic guitar. It was a well-used Martin Style 21.
Two years later, when Gus was seventeen, he realized he may never master the instrument. Every time he played, it still sounded like a barn cat in heat. His family, though polite, winced when he laid hands on the device.
The revelation that he would never be a performer veritably crushed the boy. His hopes and dreams were linked to the weathered object of wood and steel. He finally made a life altering decision.
He had heard the fables associated with the fork in the river, told around fires and on dark nights. Like most folks, he didn’t doubt any of it. He also understood that there were dangers connected to any interaction had with The Man.
Gus screwed up his courage and began preparations for the foray into the darkness. In July of 1938 he was finally equipped for the journey. He had a pack with cornbread, flour, fishhooks and line, and some coal oil. In a towsack he had two live chickens. The guitar was slung across his back, and he carried a lantern.
The walk upriver took nearly three days. As he followed the water North, he became more confident in his arrangements for the encounter.
He had been camped at the forks for three days. He had caught a few fish and eaten one of the chickens. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Tonight would be the occasion, he was sure. He prepared the lantern and lit it for the final time. He butchered the chicken, knowing it would be useful the next day.
At midnight the rumblings were right above him, the stars having vanished from the void. Lightning flashed brilliantly and shadows began scurrying about. He raised the brightness of the lantern into the air and began slowly waving it side to side.
There was a horrific crash as a bolt of lightning struck the ground on the far side of the river. When his vision returned, he spied a figure wading toward him.
When the body came into focus, he grunted in surprise. It was a stately, elderly looking white gentleman dressed in a white suit with a black string tie. He had a grey pointed bit of beard on his chin. A pencil-thin mustache graced the upper lip.
Gus looked down, examining the man’s pant legs, seeing that they were dry after crossing the water. He glanced lower, noting hooves where feet should have been.
He raised his eyes back to the face, his surprise obvious on his countenance. The fellow across from him smiled, purring softly, “Did my lower extremities shock you, my boy?”
Guster Alfonso Jones just shook his head. He finally smiled, saying, “I thought you would look a lot more like me. But you’re a white man.” Satan, looking a little confused himself, replied, “Of course I’m white. I don’t understand why everyone is so surprised by this.”
The parody of a Southern gentleman began speaking again, “I’m assuming you’re here to learn to play that confounded contraption you’ve been toting around for two years.” Gus bobbed his head in assent.
Reaching down and scratching his right hoof, he continued speaking, “There’re a couple of formalities to take care of before anything can happen here. After all, businesses can’t be run haphazardly. The first thing is to get the contract out of the way.”
Rummaging inside his coat, he produced a thin sheaf of papers.
The older man passed the paperwork to the boy for his perusal. The boy read slowly, almost purposely prolonging the task. The other individual began tapping a hoof against a stone with impatience.
After an hour or so, Gus looked up and stared at Mephistopheles, shaking his head. The hooved one, in frustration, spoke, “Well, what in the heck is wrong with it?” Guster said simply, “Too danged long. Bunch of gibberish.”
Annoyed, the old Devil sighed. He then snapped his fingers and the air smelled of sulfur. Impatiently, he told Mr. Jones, “Read the thing again.” Sarcastically, he continued, “Maybe it is to your satisfaction now.”
Gus cast his eyes downward and studied the now only two-page document. It took only thirty minutes this time, but the hoof tapping began after two minutes.
Gus looked at the other and spoke almost with disdain, “You sure do try to make stuff complicated. All of them therefores and forthwith, party of the first part, that’s all unnecessary words. I don’t think you can fix all this mess.”
The other’s vanity was bruised, almost as much as his hooves from the rock tapping. With a grimace, he spoke again, “You tell me what it should say. I’ll make it to your satisfaction, and we can wash our hands of this whole waste of time.”
Gus began speaking, narrating a simple agreement plan. When he stopped talking, Lucifer had a studious expression. After a minute, he assented, “That is a little simple for my taste. But I am obviously of a superior intellect. I believe we have a bargain, my slow friend.”
The devil snapped his fingers again and the noxious odor permeated the air. Only four lines were present on the contract. Gus nodded his approval.
Old Scratch had a look of pleasure, knowing that the tiresome ordeal was almost concluded. He rubbed his hands together in anticipation. When he spoke, it was almost gleefully, “The blood of the sacrifice has gotta be used to sign it.”
Gus assented readily enough, removing a Barlow knife from his pocket. He swiped it across his palm and clenched the fist. Bright red blood dripped from his fingertips. With his index finger he made an X at the bottom of the page. The Devil raised an eyebrow questioningly, then shrugged his shoulders.
Guster pointed to the guitar in a manner that said, now the dividends. The Caucasian figure seemed impatient as he clapped his hands together three times. He then grasped Gus’s biceps, holding them for a moment. He moved to the guitar and caressed the strings. The stench was even more overpowering now.
The old devil looked perturbed as he looked toward the sky. He almost lost his cool as he said, “Dang it all to Hades. It’s almost daylight. You dawdled around all night and now I’m running late. I’ve also worked up an appetite fooling with you. Let me have that chicken, boy.”
Gus Jones walked to the cypress and pulled the headless chicken from the string where it had been hanging. He handed it over to the malevolent creature. Satan passed his hands over the dead bird and when he removed them it was a platter of perfect, crispy fried chicken. He licked his lips in anticipation as he picked up the plate.
The old man waded back into the river cackling. Gus watched him climb the far bank and fade into the bushes. The irritating laughter continued for another five minutes.
Gus traded his name and became Alfonso Jones. By 1939 he had a small following. Alan Lomax even recorded ten sides that same year. “Busted in Waco”, “Denver City Blues”, and “The Biscuits is Risin’” were all popular songs.
By 1940 Alfonso Jones was known all over the South as a heckuva bluesman. He had earned enough to be comfortable in a financial way. He was a little uneasy in other ways, though.
Alfonso never drank, contrary to the culture of a troubadour at the time. He traveled constantly and saved money for a future he wasn’t completely sure existed. He also did something that was uncalled for and frowned upon by his peers, he attended church every Sunday morning like clockwork. It was rarely the same House he worshipped in. But he was hedging his bets and living right.
Late in 1939 he had met a young lady in Hodge, Louisiana. Fannie Mae Marshall was a good, God-fearing young lady, and was as smitten as he was. One year later they welcomed Louisa Jones into the family.
Alfonso continued to tour around five states, becoming even more popular. But he spent plenty of time at home, as the second child proved.
In January of 1948 the family moved to Clarksville, Texas and purchased a grocery store. Jones’ Grocery was profitable immediately. He loved his daughter dearly, and little Bobby followed him around constantly. Bobby began playing drums at five years old, often accompanying his father as Alfonso played locally.
The change was sudden, and it happened on July First of 1948. Alfonso Jones carried his old Martin to the shed and hung it on the wall, never to be strummed again. He knew the day was coming soon. He did all he could to prepare for the upcoming meeting.
On the fifteenth of July Alfonso woke up early, dressing in a crisp new suit of black. His shoes were shined to a mirror finish. He placed the hat on his head at a jaunty angle. When he looked at himself, he was pleased with the picture.
As he turned from the looking glass, he heard a knock at the front door. The phrase from a song ran through his mind, “When the Devil comes calling.”
He heard the murmurs of his wife’s voice when she answered the door. Fannie came to fetch him, a worried look on her face as she said, “There’s some old white guy askin’ for you. He says y’all have some business to attend to.” Her tone was almost questioning.
Alfonso nodded and leaned in to kiss her cheek. He said cheerfully, “This shouldn’t take too long. Open up the store for me this morning, if you don’t mind. When I get there, I’ll get the smoker going for the crowd at supper. I love you, my dear.”
Fannie watched him as he walked toward the front door. He was high stepping. She just hoped he wasn’t thinking about running off to play music again.
The figure on the porch looked the same as he had ten years earlier. Well, almost the same. He had boots on, and you couldn’t see the hooves. His expression was puzzled when Alfonso met him with a smile and shook his hand.
Scratch spoke, “Let’s take a walk down the road to that place where we can get a drink. I usually treat you folks to one drink at the end of our deal. Besides, I’m awful thirsty. It gets mighty warm in my house.”
Alfonso happily strolled beside the benefactor that had made it possible for him to be a moderately wealthy man. He even whistled a little tune as he strolled beside the old Devil. The white man glanced at him, obviously perplexed.
When the two ambled into the roadhouse, heads turned and whispering began. At the bar two glasses of beer were placed in front of them. After a long gulp of the sweet nectar, Beelzebub said jovially, “It’s always a bad idea to talk business with a parched throat.”
Alfonso’s first beer was choked down. The only white face there ordered two more and said to Alfonso, “Consider it a bonus, my friend.” The bartender had drifted away, realizing this was some kind of music business.
The Devil began speaking, “I hope you’re satisfied with the last ten years. Did it go as you expected?” Alfonso responded, “It wasn’t too bad. I played music, have a family, got a little money stashed away. Not bad, all things considered.”
Old Scratch looked pleased and smiled as he waved the bartender over for two more beers. When the frothy glasses were on the bar, he commented to Alfonso, “You’re the first person in over five hundred years to not put up a fuss about things. Most folks don’t understand the phrase, ‘You’ve got to give the Devil his due.’ Obviously, you’re one of the rare honest men. A deal’s a deal, I always say. Sure, some people say I use trickery sometimes. But all’s fair in love and war. And business is war, make no mistake about that, my friend.”
He glanced at Alfonso to make sure he was paying attention to the soliloquy. Alfonso nodded, so he resumed, “I could teach the human race a great deal about honesty and abiding by agreements. The sin part is already ingrained in them. I’ve just about quenched my thirst here. As much as I would like to expound on the world at large, we have a transaction to complete.”
Alfonso shook his head, and said with assurance, “Our deal’s been done for ten years now. There’s no transaction left to make, boss man.”
Looking confused, the old demon said, “I’ve got the contract with your mark on it. Signed and sealed with my mark. What kind of nonsense are you trying to pull, fella?”
With confidence, Alfonso Jones lapsed into his own monologue, “Ten years ago, on the bank of that river, you shortened that paper down. Then you said it had to be signed in the blood of the sacrifice. I remember it well. I put an X on there in chicken blood. You took that chicken that very same night. We don’t have any more business to conduct, fella.”
Scratch produced the mentioned document and stared at it. He raised it to his mouth and licked the bottom of it. He grimaced and said in a whiny voice, “That is chicken blood. You tricked me. You know that wasn’t what was agreed to. You kept me there for hours and took advantage of a tired old man. I would think deception would be above you. Surely you have enough moral character to honor the stated terms of the agreement.”
Alfonso shook his head and smiled, saying, “In your own words, a deal is a deal. Why don’t we just part ways since this transaction was concluded a decade ago?”
The Devil blustered for a while, then complained even longer. He finally tried to offer Alfonso a brand-new deal, promising fame and unmeasurable wealth. Alfonso refused everything that was on the table.
Beelzebub looked like a beaten old man. He finally reached out and the two shook hands. The old Devil said quietly, “I hope we can just keep this among us and not blab about it all over the place. After all, I do have a certain reputation to uphold. And I would be ruined if even one person knew about this thing.”
Alfonso nodded, winked at him, and walked away.