The Devil Hour

There is a reason why Sam Clemens is glaring while holding a royal flush on a banner that hangs outside the Virginia City saloon that bears his nom de plume, which began in the early Spring of 1864, shortly after one in the morning during a friendly game of poker.

“Sorry, gents, I’m calling it a night,” A. J. Simmons, Speaker of the Nevada Territory Legislature, said, “It’s nearing the Devil Hour, and besides I have a lot of work to do tomorrow.”

Simmons scraped together the small winnings he had amassed during the poker game, stood up, pocketed the money, and headed out the front door and into the dark.

“Think I’ll do the same,” said state legislator William H. Clagett, “Like they say, never play cards after two o’clock because it’s the Devils game.”

He did the same as Simmons and staggered to the door, exiting into nighttime. That left Sam Clemens and three other nabobs at the table still playing.

Three more drinks, a quick hand of poker, and an hour later, Clemens folded. He stretched and yawned, then quietly picked up the few coins he had left and walked to the backdoor of the saloon.

“Your’e headed the wrong way, Sam,” one of the men still at the table shouted.

“Not if I want to fool those two Fallen Angels,” he laughed.

Outside, the air was chilled even though the spring runoff had started. Somewhere in the distance, Clemens could hear the water streaming from Sun Mountain through the mud-laced streets as he headed for his room at the International Hotel.

Behind him, he heard the sound of a footfall.

“Right on schedule,” he chuckled, “Those two scallywags thinking they’re going put the fright in me.”

Clemens slowed, hoping to allow them to catch up to him, but they slowed too. Then he quickened his pace and soon found they hurried theirs as well.

Trying not to get his only pair of spats wet, he skipped over the nearly four-foot wide gash of water, the heel of his left foot touching the edge of the flow. There, Clemens turned around, planning to catch Simmons and Clagett sneaking up on him.

Now that he was no longer walking, he could hear more clearly what he had missed minutes before. It was not the sound of men in boots or even spats but the clatter of goat hooves on rocks.

Clemens’s blood ran cold, and the hairs on his neck rose as a chill raced up his spine. As he started to turn, he saw a figure looming out of the darkness and come to a standstill on the far side of the stream he had jumped a minute or two before.

“You know I can’t cross water,” the gruff voice growled. “So you got lucky this…”

Clemens did not wait for the figure to finish speaking as he dashed up C Street and into the hotel lobby.

Later that morning, he posted a short letter home to his mother, detailing his experience and promising he would never play cards again after two in the morning.