Polecat's Revenge

by Dave Rhodes

Up in Cache Valley at High Creek Canyon

I traded for a saw mill to make custom shingles.

We had a good crew and all worked hard

Cuttin' the cedar and splittin' the logs.

The boys slept in an old cabin

With three double bunks that weren't too bad,

And a fireplace at one end opposite the door,

It was cozy enough to be thankful for.

A scotchman named Johnny always made his bed

On the lower bunk next to the fire.

Late one night during the snorin' and snortin'

Johnny lays awake watching the flames.

Jist as he's gitten ready to slip away

He sees a little polecat sneakin' round the place

Pickin' up scraps from the supper before,

Then slips back out through a hole in the floor.

Now Johnny takes pity on the hungry skunk,

Every night he leaves a treat underneath the bunk.

One time its biscut and bacon, next maybe some beans, or ham,

Why, the little critter was in skunk heaven, eatin' pretty good . . . on the lam.

It wern't very long till these two

Developed a kinda' friendship pact.

Johnny would provide the chow

And the skunk would let him stroke his back!

About this "relationship" Johnny kept quiet

With the boys makin' fun an' all,

But it was a welcome di-ver-tise-ment

From the cuttin', the splittin' and the haul.

Whenever there was company and the cabin crowded,

And likely on the floor a new bed roll,

Johnny took precautions his friend not be discovered,

A little treat in first and then a shingle over the hole.

It was one of those nights, (extra hands at camp),

Johnny hits his bunk early and starts to snore

Not knowin' he forgot to cover up the hole,

And with two strangers bedded on the floor!

. . . Feet to the fire.

The harth settles down to a bed of coals

Squeakin', poppin' and bright orange,

As the polecat makes his entrance

For his regular feeding and affection.

He begs for a handout at Johnny's bunk

But Johnny is long gone . . . sawing trees.

The little varmit heads for the rest of the cabin

Lightly creeping over the legs of a guest on the floor

. . . Not lightly enough.

'Cause the half awake dreamer comes to his senses

Not knowing what's on him and fearing the worst

Pulls his knees to his chest in a natural reaction

And fires! . . . both legs at once!

Before the polecat knew what had hit him

He'd traveled the exact distance from foot to flame

And was sizzlin' in the fireplace,

'Bout ready to spon-ta-ne-ous combust!

Now, at this split second two things happend:

First,

Johnny wakes up and sees his pet

About to become a well-done tragedy.

He screams a curse at the human catapolt

Arousing the cabin in a kinda drowsy uproar.

And second,

The skunk makes a decision, (knowing his life has ended),

To leave these boys something to remember him by.

And the boys, startled, but dazed from sleeping,

Have no grasp of what is about to occur.

Well, the polecat puffs up, (aided a little by the heat),

And in an orange-blue, fiery explosion

Lets go of every ounce of his God-given aroma

. . . Then, promptly goes up in flames.

In an instant the cabin was filled

From window to door and raftor to floor

With the distinct essence of skunk

. . . And just a hint of barbecue.

Well, then it was . . .

Union suits, and hats and boots,

A cart-wheelin out the door.

Several boys was actually trampled

And just left layin' there on the floor.

Finally, they all got piled out into the rain

And was a cursin' and groanin',

A pee-yewin' and a who-eein',

And a holdin' their noses in pain.

After a while the boys came to their senses

And, though it was a struggle, put up a half-tent shelter

. . . Which was moved three times during the night

. . . . Further away from the cabin.

The rain made the situation worse,

It seemed to magnify the stench,

There was some of the boys that smelled like skunk

And others that did'nt . . . but all had to indure it.

A more miserable night was never spent in the Wasatch mountains.

A few days later, (when we could get close),

We hosed down the cabin and new white wash.

Though we tried our best to make it so

It was just too bad to call home.

Years later, never used, that old cabin still stood

As a monument to the polecat who wanted to be remembered.

And when riding by . . . the story of the skunk we'd often tell,

And always remark: "the only thing holdin' it up is the smell!"