Summer Blossom, one of the few Cherokee women left in the territory, looked as splendid as the mountains at dawn hunched over the barrel, her sack dress pulled up over her ass. Martin couldn’t understand half of what she’d been screaming as he fucked her ripe, juicy cunt; his Cherokee wasn’t that good and was getting rustier by the day, now that most of the tribes had been herded West. However, her smile and the fact she lowered her fingers to scoop up his creamy cum, playing in it before she raised her hand to her mouth to suck his juices off, was a universal language that he understood.

He went to draw up his breeches, fine cotton from further south, but she stopped him.

“Clean it?” she asked. Martin nodded, smiling. He watched as she took his large manhood into her mouth, sucking and licking it clean. The woman loved cum, and he considered himself a gentleman, so he obliged.

“Here’s your shine,” Martin smiled out, handing her a corked, clay jug, “plus an extra one for being my favorite customer. Say, 'hello,' to your husband for me.” Whistling, he grabbed the reins of Daniel, his mule, and continued strolling toward town.

Martin Stone led a good life, and he knew it, although he was certain that once he hit his big score, he’d live the easy life. From Anderson to Hawkins and all over the Appalachian foothills, he played his violin, called a fiddle in the region, traded goods that he picked up in the mountains and forests or got from the Cherokee, and sold his whiskey, which was called "Shine" in the mountains. But, there was a vein of silver in the cave on his land; he felt it in his bones. That’s why he staked his claim on the edge of Devil’s Valley.

But, it was Sunday, and the birds were singing, the trees were blooming, and it hadn’t rained, recently, so his new, buckskin boots wouldn’t get muddy. Martin was headed into town to play his music. He’d make his usual, weekly stops at a few of the outlying farms, a farmer’s daughter or wife waiting for him with a wet snatch, eat their food, and take their money. Then, he’d show up at Father McCleary’s sermon with just enough time to give Mrs. McCleary a hard, stiff boning and play his fiddle for the townspeople after mass.

In the Eastern Tennessee territory, now a state for almost fifty years, the modern world of the nineteenth century didn’t intrude upon the serene solace of the mountain folk, the hillbillies. Hillbilly wasn’t an accurate term, though. That’s what the Yanks called the locals.

The Dutch, from Germany, had begun settling in the North, moving down the Appalachians and bringing their culture and woodworking skills along with them. The Indians, mostly Cherokee, had welcomed the settlers with open arms, at least back then, and the two cultures intermingled. Migrants from Africa and England added to the stew, but it was the Irish, always named Mick-something, devotees of King William, known to his subjects as King Billy, who became the namesake. They were known in the old world as "Billies," and settling in the hills added the prefix. As they carved out a living in the hills of the wilderness, the term, Hillbillies, stuck.

Rounding a bend in the road, which was a broad, dirt path with wagon wheel tracks, Martin mused over the pending railroad. The Tennessee and Chattanooga railroads had been planning an East-to-West rail for over five years. If that ever happened, then a new trade route would run right across the state, bringing the modern world and prosperity along with it. Martin, however, liked things just the way they were. If the tension brewing between the northern and southern parts of this new country, barely sixty years old, didn’t come to a head, he’d hang his hat here for good.

As his stroll into town took him over a small hill, the O’Reily farm came into view. Gwendolyn, Mrs. O’Reily, was outside, and her newborn baby, the reason she would not be attending church this lovely morning, was nowhere in sight. More well-to-do than most, Mrs. O’Reily’s dress was of calico, not rough home-spun like most. She was on her back in a very unladylike position that caused Martin’s manhood to stir. Her mouth was over one of their cow's teats, probably trying to start the milking.

“Top o’ the morning to you, Gwendolyn,” he said, tipping his foppish hat.

Gwen was pure Irish, with pale skin, freckles, large bosoms, and fiery hair to go with personality and passion. She stopped trying to suck-start the milking and gazed at Martin through her spread legs.

“Come ‘ere, Master Stone,” she laughed. “I’m hungry for cream. Wanna trade for some cloth? I hears that you be a’havin’ some real cotton.”

Not waiting for an answer, the married beauty rolled out from under the livestock, got on all fours, and pulled up her skirt. Mrs. O’Reily liked it hard and savage from behind, but her husband only did missionary and was a “dead squirrel” according to Gwendolyn.

It wasn’t Martin’s fault, as he reckoned, that the women’s husbands or suitors didn’t give them what they needed. From his point of view, he was doing them all a favor. It didn’t make him a bad person to provide the additional service along with his other ones; of course, that didn’t exactly make him a good soul, either.

Ten minutes later, Gwendolyn O’Reily had drunk the cream she craved, and Martin once more put his cock away, thankful that it was a little over an hour before he reached town. Today’s sermon was on the dangers of adultery; if Father McCleary only knew. His wife, Chastity, knew that Martin could play her body even better than he played his fiddle, saying, “Chastity is my name, not my oath,” when they first met.

Hours later, after introducing Emily White, a direct descendant of James White, to the joys of oral sex behind the church, then being waylaid by Chastity, who couldn’t get the hoops of her skirt removed fast enough, Martin was headed home. His belly was full from after-church food, and his balls were drained.

“Well, Daniel,” he said to his beast of burden, “we’ll check the still, relax until sunset, and then chip away at our mine. Tonight’s the night, I can feel it in my bones.”

Despite his northern upbringing and aversion to a hard day’s work, Martin had a sweet spot in his heart for the majesty of the wood-covered mountains. His tiny cabin wasn’t his favorite spot on his land; it was the flat rock overlooking the valley. Instead of following through, he walked onto the rock, taking in the view of Devil's Valley, whooped as his Cherokee friends did, then pulled out his fiddle and played to the wilderness.

The sunset painted the sky in amber, pink, red, and purple hues as he played for music’s sake. It was paradise and Martin knew it. The women of Knox played at being upright and modest, but they were harlots once you cracked their code. The vernacular accent held a lot of drawn-out vowels and truncated inflection. If their "A’s" sounded more like a passionate moan, Martin knew they would be more than happy to roll around with him, a handsome, strapping young man whose vitality should be legendary. It looked like no mining would be done that evening.

Then, as dusk darkened the land and the animals began singing along with his music, Martin saw something quite unusual. A woman, definitely not dressed for social acceptance, was walking down the trail into the valley. He stopped playing and stared. For the first time, Martin Stone’s heart throbbed within his muscular chest.

She had to be a Mountain Witch, but Martin thought that he knew them all. The witches were welcome in any community, unlike the superstitious Yanks up north that shunned them. Their Granny Magic was renowned for curing ailments, birthing, and even tending to crops and cattle. Running through the list of all the Mountain Witches he’d known, pausing to also count the ones he’d lain with, he concluded that he didn’t know this one. That had to change; she was mesmerizing.

“Wait, miss,” he cried out, scrambling to catch up to her.

Stumbling a bit in the dark, Martin ran down the path, her figure coming into focus as he drew near. From his lofty perch, she seemed stunning; the closer he got to her, the more bewitching she seemed. He had to sample this one; it was a moral imperative.

At first, Martin thought she was Cherokee. She had that lithe build and was definitely not dressed like a local. Furs for a skirt, an exposed belly, and the tiniest of leather tops would have her in the stocks if she showed up in any civilized town dressed like that. She wore a ritual headdress, all curled sheep horns, feathers, and bird skulls. However, her hair was long, straight, and as red as the sunset.

Despite the day’s activities, Martin’s cock hardened just from watching her walk. She was showing more skin than he’d ever seen a woman show, not even the whores up in New York. Then, she turned to face him, and Martin knew love or at least its lusty counterpart.

Her eyes were a light green, like spring moss, and her face was painted in black Cherokee war paint. A broad, black band ran across her eyes, a smaller vertical strip went up the middle of her chin to her lower lip. Although covered in dirt, she smelled of fresh flowers and honey, and there was something about her that seemed natural, primal, and sexual.

She stopped, eyeing him up as if he were prey.

“Good e’ning, ma’am,” Martin began. “I’m Mart…”

“Martin Stone, the fiddler,” she interrupted. “You have a claim hereabouts, and be thy dirty secret in the hills.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Ain’t no secret you be fixin’ to bed every woman in the county. Not to those with eyes, at least. Been seeking you.”

“Really?” Martin couldn’t tell if she wanted some loving, but at least she didn’t beat around the bush.

“Snakes,” she smiled. “I give you snakes if you give me yours. I need your prowess to fuel me ritual.”

Confused, he stammered, “I don’t have any snakes, only a mule…” His voice trailed as comprehension grew.

Without a word, the woman untied the leather thong holding her fur skirt onto her hips. It fell away, revealing her fire-red pubes and glistening cunt. Her expression was aggressive and predatory, and she yanked his Sunday best finery down to his ankles, pushing him onto the dirt of the path.

“But, but, I don’t even know your name.” It didn’t really matter to Martin what her name was, but he was trying to at least act like a gentleman.

“Agatha,” she growled, straddling him.

Her moist cunt enveloped his well-used manhood, and she impaled herself on his shaft, moaning out some guttural phrases in an archaic tongue Martin had never heard. Not going slowly, she used him, more brutally and harder than he used his harem of farm wives. Martin was in love.

“Play for me, bring the snakes forward.” There was something about her that compelled Martin to obey. He reached around, fumbling for his violin, grasping it, and then playing a raucous tune in time with her humping him.

“Stone be ye cock and name,” she laughed. “Fuck me, fill me with power.”

Agatha the witch chanted in that strange tongue, then did something Martin had never seen. While she plummeted down on his cock and raised up, violently, only to slam down again, she reached to her fiery down and massaged her sex while she fucked him.

She howled into the night, her green eyes growing dark in the moonlight. The fiddler felt her cunt walls contracting around him, milking his seed from deep within his core, and drawing it out. Shocked, he saw a dozen or more rattlesnakes arrayed around them, swaying back and forth to the rhythm of their fornication.

“Yes, release. Fill me with your gifts.” The exotic woman’s voice trailed off into moans and grunts. Her body convulsed, and she screamed in a powerful, orgasmic release.

As if under a spell, he felt a powerful orgasm erupt from his cock and then shoot through his entire body. It happened without warning and took him by surprise.

“Yes,” they screamed in unison.

Then, before Martin could even recover, the strange Mountain Witch reached out, her hands quicker than his glazed-over eyes, and snatched three snakes by the neck. One by one, she grasped their fanged heads and bit into their necks, killing them. All the while, her hips were still humping and grinding on his spent cock.

“The snakes be for ye,” she said to him, her voice sing-song. “I be a’fixin to need more. We be a'meeting tomorrow under the moon on your yonder rock over the crick.”

With that, she left him lying there, covered in her sex juice and smiling. Martin had never known sex that good, and he’d had plenty. He never even made it to his cabin that night. Instead, he slumbered in the valley, not even concerned about the rattlesnakes, wolves, or bears.

The next morning, seeing easy money, Martin feasted on snake meat, skinning the reptiles, and sold the skins. Not knowing what to say, he told the commoners that his fiddling was so amazing that the snakes gathered on the rock on his land to hear him play. It was more than easy to just grab them and take the hides. He made a pretty penny off of them.

This went on, every few nights, for weeks. Agatha, the strange, primal witch, would visit him as he played his violin on his outcropping overlooking Devil’s Valley. She’d fuck him, suck him, and leave him drained. They sometimes chatted, and he discovered a little bit about her. She was raised in the tribes but was allowed to stay due to being half-white. In Knox, she was known as Spirit Agatha to those in town. When Granny Magic failed, they came to her. She could never be found unless she wanted, but even the elder witches, the ones Father McCleary himself condemned, did her bidding and followed her advice. Oddly, to Martin, she looked barely twenty years old. He didn’t mention anything, as he had a good thing going and didn’t want it to end.

To his surprise, Martin felt his vigor waning. Usually, he was awake before the sun, ready to scheme and plot his big break. The fact that his pick was rusting away in the cave mattered little to him; it was his plan. However, he found himself sleeping longer and longer, even missing his weekly Sunday visit to various homes en route to church.

On the night of the full moon, as Martin eagerly awaited Agatha’s arrival, he noted that the snakes were converging upon his rock without her. They preceded her, and there were at least four times as many snakes as usual. Then, he saw her approaching, half-hidden in shadow.

“Tonight, we raise all the energy,” she told him. This time, Agatha hadn’t even bothered to get dressed. She was nude, wearing only feathers and black stripes.

Forcefully, she grabbed his shaggy mane of hair and pulled his mouth into her slit. “Lick me, please lick me,” she commanded.

Having become quite adept at the art, Martin dove in, his tongue sliding up and down her wet lips, circling the little nub that husbands seem unable to ever find, and all but toppling her as she orgasmed on his face. Then, she lay back, her legs spread, fingers circling her sensitive nub, and her breasts heaved with her passion.

“Fuck me harder than you’ve done.” She was moaning in heat, and it made Martin’s cock longer and harder than it had ever been.

He positioned himself between her legs and gently, playfully ran it along her open slot, preparing to ease it in. Agatha didn’t want foreplay, she wanted him inside of her. Her legs wrapped around his waist and pulled him into her with such force that he couldn’t have resisted, even if he’d wanted to.

“Hard, fast, deep. Y’all need to be a’givin’ it to me like it’s your last fuckin’ ever.”

Consumed by maddening lust, Martin drove his cock into her wet depths and hammered away, feeling an orgasm well up inside him, so intense that his body felt as if it were being torn into pieces. He came so hard that he swore a piece of his soul shot out with his cum. When it was done, Martin lay there, playing the fiddle as she always requested, the snakes gently swaying to the rhythm.

“I think I love you, Agatha,” he told her. “I want to be with you, forever.”

“I know,” she replied. “The trees whisper it in the wind, the coyotes howl it at the moon. Ye can be if yer not ascared of a little death.”

“I’m Martin Stone, the future legend and millionaire. Nothing scares me.”

”Then, by the spirit of oak, ash, and thorn, so mote it be. Together, forever.”

Martin Stone was never seen alive, again. His neighbor, John Freeman, a well-to-do black farmer, which was quite common in the area, found his body on the flat outcropping of rock that overlooked Devil’s Valley. Drained of blood and spirit, Martin's skin was as white as a sheet, and his nude body was covered, from head to toe, with snake bites. The dropped fiddle leaned against a small rock near his body.

Martin Stone’s funeral was an all-county event, and his death was a mystery. People, especially women, their eyes red from tears and their mouths wailing, lamented his passing. As country folks are wont to do, the rigors of eking out a life on the frontier taking precedence, his mysterious death was all but forgotten. Martin's death became a fireside tale, cautioning against the dangers of sloth and promiscuity

Some say that it was a competing moonshiner, or a rival silver miner trying to jump his claim that did him in, but nobody knew. It was as if his stories about charming snakes were true. After all, Mountain magic exists. Perhaps, one fateful night, he played the wrong tune. What is known is that on certain nights, if one goes to Fiddler’s Rock, as it came to be known, one can hear the sweet, soulful sounds of a lone fiddler upon the breeze, the smell of “shine,” and the impassioned moans of a feral half-Cherokee witch.