(Transcribed by TurboScribe.ai. Go Unlimited to remove this message.) Night has fallen, and the moon is a
glowing golden orb in the black sky.
See how it shines on the dark back
roads of America, and on one road in
particular.
Come with us, and we'll take a walk
down the moonlit road, and listen to bone
-chilling tales told by some of the nation's
best storytellers.
Join us now, and simply step out, for
the night is waiting, and the moon is
full.
Hi, this is David Hurt, and the story
I'm going to tell you is called, The
Cow That Ate The Preacher.
Back in America's early days, some folks lived
so far out in the country, they didn't
even have a church to go to.
So, church would come to them in the
form of circuit riders.
Now, these were traveling preachers on horseback, riding
miles through unsettled and often dangerous land, spreading
the gospel of Jesus Christ far and wide.
Wesley Cartwright had received the calling when he
was a teenager.
He was a staunch Methodist, with no family
to speak of, just his trusted horse Pilgrim,
a rickety wooden wagon, and the good Lord
by his side.
Decades of traveling had turned him into a
gaunt, wild-looking man.
He had long, greasy hair tucked under a
weather-beaten hat, and a filthy beard caked
with road dust.
His muddy clothes, torn in spots, and several
sizes too big, practically fell off his body.
But worst of all were his boots.
The soles fallen off and offering little protection
from the rocks and the elements.
It was said you could smell Wesley riding
into town from miles away, but Wesley didn't
care.
God would provide whatever he needed.
Now, late one winter, in the mountains we
now know as the Arkansas Ozarks, a fierce
snowstorm blew in.
Wesley trudged onward, pulling his horse along steep,
treacherous roads, blanketed with several inches of snow.
As night fell, only his dim lantern provided
the faintest amount of light.
Wesley had faced bad weather before, but not
this far out and not this cold.
For the first time, hints of doubt wormed
into his brain.
Had the good Lord forgotten him?
Show me a sign, he thought.
Wesley then tripped over something in the road.
He thought it was a log, but something
made him turn around and examine it.
And as he lowered his lantern, his eyes
shot open, for there in the snow were
two black boots.
They looked nearly new, made of the finest
leather, and best of all, they were just
his size.
Problem was, they were still attached to legs.
Wesley saw there was a whole dead body
somewhere under that thick snow and ice, and
he was too exhausted to dig this poor
man out.
What could he do with a dead body
anyway?
I mean, in the spring thaw, someone would
certainly find him and give him a proper
burial.
But those boots!
The good Lord had produced a miracle, he
thought.
In fact, God was flat out ordering Wesley
to push on and spread the gospel.
Besides, the owner was long dead and wouldn't
be needing them fine boots anymore.
So, Wesley untied the laces and tried tugging
them off his legs.
He pulled again and again with a loud
grunt, but the boots were frozen solid in
their feet.
Wesley cried in exasperation.
Then he looked back at his wagon, and
an awful thought came into his mind.
In his tiny wagon, he only kept a
few things.
Food, his fiddle, religious books, and a tool
bag.
He pulled that tool bag out and found
a rusted hacksaw.
Convinced the good Lord intended for him to
have those boots no matter what, Wesley got
down on one knee and started sawing that
dead man's feet clean off, boots and all.
It was like sawing through a long frozen
slab of deer meat as the rusty blade
sliced through the frostbitten skin and bone.
But Wesley finally yanked them off.
The flesh too frozen to leave any blood
behind.
If he found a warm spot or a
rock overhang where he could build a fire,
he'd just thaw those feet and the boots
would slip right off.
He threw them into his wagon and pressed
onward.
Shortly after that, the good Lord produced a
second miracle.
For as Wesley rounded the bend, he spotted
a golden light in the valley below.
It was a hearth fire glowing in the
window of a simple farmhouse.
Wesley swore he could smell the aroma of
stew and turnips drifting up the mountain road.
It would be warm inside, and certainly any
God-fearing family would take him and Pilgrim
in for the night.
And he'd be happy to share the word
of God while slurping down a bowl of
that stew.
Wesley finally made it to the farmhouse door,
tied up his horse and knocked.
No one answered.
So Wesley peered through the window.
Through the laced curtains he could plainly see
an old farm couple enjoying their dinner by
the fire.
Maybe they were just hard of hearing, he
thought, so he pounded on the door even
louder.
This time he heard silverware clanging and thunderous
agitated footsteps approaching the door.
The door swung open and there stood a
portly old farmer, droplets of stew down the
front of his nightshirt.
His cheeks were flushed both with anger and
a hint of whiskey that Wesley detected with
his wrinkled nose.
But Wesley figured they'd have a chat about
that later.
Good evening, kind sir, Wesley began.
He doffed his torn hat, his dirty long
hair cascading down his back.
I mean you no harm.
I'm a simple man of God.
We are seeking shelter from the snow.
I have no money, but could I avail
you of a warm place to sleep?
The farmer's nose wrinkled at the smell of
him.
I don't want to talk to no more
preachers.
He spit it out.
You got a wagon there.
Go somewhere else and sleep.
But we will freeze to death out here,
sir, Wesley begged.
The farmer slammed the door right in his
face and returned to his dinner.
Stunned but desperate, Wesley grabbed his fiddle from
the wagon and pounded on the door again.
As it swung open, Wesley played a creaky
rendition of an old hymn, stomping his foot
on the porch.
I'd be happy to entertain you and your
wife with my trusted fiddle.
I know many songs from far and wide.
Now armed with a rifle, the farmer angrily
swatted the instrument from his hands.
I told you, I don't want you in
my house, preacher.
Now get off my land.
This time the farmer's wife came to the
door.
She glared silently at her husband, nearly retching
at the preacher's smell.
The farmer looked Wesley over with disgust, sighed,
and pointed to the rickety old barn across
the way.
All right, you can sleep in the barn
with old Bessie, if you'd like.
From the smell of you, that's where you
belong.
But when my wife milks her in the
morning, you'd best be gone.
Stifling his anger, the preacher nodded and dragged
Pilgrim toward the barn.
One more thing, preacher, yelled the farmer after
him.
Bessie is a fat old cow.
She'll eat just about anything.
You got anything important, keep it away from
her mouth.
Wesley trudged into the drafty barn and saw
Bessie lying in the corner, loudly chewing on
a clump of hay.
The farmer wasn't lying, he thought.
Bessie was about the fattest brown-spotted cow
he'd ever seen.
She fairly resembled her slovenly owner, he thought.
Now, now, chided the lord.
Despite the frigid temperatures, Bessie produced a lot
of body heat.
Here's yet another miracle, Wesley thought.
He took those frozen boots and feet, stuffed
them under the cow's warm belly.
Surely by morning they would have thawed and
he could pull them apart.
Before sunrise, Wesley carefully pulled the boots from
beneath the snoring cow.
Sure enough, they had thawed overnight.
He yanked them off the severed feet with
ease.
He sighed with pleasure at the boots' perfect
fit, support, and soft velvety leather.
But what to do with the dead man's
feet?
Well, the preacher had been up all night,
angrily tossing and turning in the freezing barn
at the farmer's lack of hospitality.
It certainly wasn't the Christian thing to do,
turning away a desperate man in the dead
of night, and a man of God, no
less.
Certainly the lord wouldn't mind if he played
a small trick on them as a lesson.
So, Wesley took those severed feet, put his
old boots on them, and slipped them right
up against Bessie's mouth.
He scurried into the hayloft, and he waited.
As the sun rose, the farmer's wife entered
with her milk pail.
She made her way over to Bessie.
And then she screamed, dropped the pail with
a loud clang, and she ran back to
the house crying, Wake up!
Wake up!
Bessie ate the preacher!
The cow!
The cow ate the preacher!
The farmer rushed down to the barn and
saw the gruesome sight for himself.
Poor Bessie kept snoring away, the preacher's feet
wobbling in her lips.
The couple ran back to the house and
locked the door.
Up in the hayloft, Wesley could barely stifle
his laughter.
He wasn't satisfied, no sir, no.
So he stayed in that barn until night
fell.
Then he took his fiddle, stood outside the
farmhouse in the blinding snow, and again played
a creaky rendition of that old hymn.
You remember these words next time a stranger
asks for help, he thought to himself.
The curtains parted, and the farm couple saw
a shadowy figure in the blizzard wailing away
on his fiddle.
It's the preacher's ghost, they screamed.
What have we done?
Lord, forgive us!
They flung open the door and they ran
screaming down the road, disappearing into the frozen
darkness.
They left the door wide open.
Wesley crept into their blissfully warm home and
straight into another miracle.
Oh, what had he done to deserve this?
For on the table was a steaming, savory
pot of stew and freshly baked bread with
fresh milk and jam.
The preacher lunged at the table and devoured
the meal, also taking a bowl out to
Pilgrim and to old Bessie, thanking her for
her service.
He then returned to the house, stretched out
on the couch, and in no time had
fallen into a heavenly sleep.
That is, until he was awakened in the
middle of the night with a pounding on
the door.
Now, who could be out there this time
of night?
So he staggered to the door and slowly
opened it.
Outside stood a pale, emaciated man in a
dark suit, small icicles forming on his beard,
a silver cross hanging around his neck.
He was a little shorter than Wesley, but
otherwise could be mistaken for his brother.
This stranger is a fellow man of God,
thought Wesley, and he wasn't going to treat
him like that mean, old farmer.
No, sir.
Come inside, my brother.
There's plenty of stew and a warm fire
where you can put your feet up.
The stranger stared at him for a moment,
then with a deep, menacing voice replied, I'd
be happy to put my feet up, and
then pointed to the ground, if I had
any.
Wesley looked down and saw the mangled stumps
where the man's feet once were.
The stranger then pulled a rusty hacksaw from
behind his back, his gaunt face stretching into
a demonic grin, and Wesley Cartwright was never
seen in those parts again.
Now that's my story, and I'm sticking to
it.
Now, you may be wondering, where did this
story come from?
Well, like many southern tales, it came over
with the settlers from across the sea, Ireland
to be exact.
Our story is a reimagining of an old
Irish folktale called The Cow That Ate the
Piper.
Instead of a preacher, the main character is
a piper traveling the Irish countryside looking for
shelter in a snowstorm.
He offers to play his pipes for an
agitated Irish farmer, and similar chaos ensues.
We just thought it was more believable for
a traveling preacher to be riding through Arkansas
than a bagpiper.
This is one of our favorite folktales, and
while we added some horror elements to it,
there are several great versions of the original
tale out there.
We have a link in the show notes
to another telling of the original story.
Our main character is based on a real
-life circuit rider, Lorenzo Dow.
It was said he placed a curse on
a Georgia frontier town after they showed similar
lack of hospitality.
Be sure to listen to our past episode,
Lorenzo Dow, for his story.
We hope you've enjoyed this story from the
Moonlit Road podcast.
Please tell your friends, family, and complete strangers
about us by rating and reviewing our podcast.
You can also find us on Facebook and
Twitter, now X, at TheMoonlitRoad.
Visit our website, themoonlitroad.com, for many more
stories not on the podcast.
This episode was adapted from folklore and produced
by Greg Dominey.
Your storyteller was me, David Hurt.
Audio production by Henry Howard.
Music was performed by Randall Franks, and you
can hear more of his work online at
randalfranks.com.
The Moonlit Road podcast is a production of
The Moonlit Road, LLC.
See you next time!
That concludes this walk down the Moonlit Road.
But you can always come back on your
own.
It will be here all year round, brimming
with captivating and spooky tales for the whole
family.
The stories are always chilling, and the moon
is always full.
On the Moonlit Road.
Mmm.