Pretty Boy Floyd: Folklore & Legend

The Life and Times of Charles Arthur Floyd

One afternoon when Charley and his big brother, Bradley, were tending their father's still, they noticed that a stud horse was having a difficult time breeding with a young mare in a nearby pasture. Charley watched for a few minutes and came up with a clever solution. He reached into the bottom of the choc barrel, whistled the mare to him, and slapped a handful of the mash on the skittish horse's rear end. In an instant, the frustrated stallion mounted the ripe mare and, with the help of the lubricant, drove it home as smooth as satin. The sight of the big stallion snorting over the filly made Charley grin, and Bradley saw to it that the story of his brother helping the horses get together spread faster than heat lightning.

Charley Floyd's taste for wild beer, along with his ingenuity at playing Cupid with a pair of amorous horses, created a nickname for the farm boy that some people, mostly his running buddies, called him from his early teens until his death.

The Life and Times of Charles Arthur Floyd

One stormy night not long after the Floyds moved to Akins, Ruth and her sister Ruby found themselves on foot after they had attended a party at a friend's house and were trying to make it home in a driving rainstorm. Thunder crashed around them and the roads turned into rivers of mud. The only way the young women could see was when long streaks of lightning tore through the black sky. Ruth and Ruby knew better than to seek refuge under one of the swaying trees, but they also realized their chances of being struck by lightning were just as good as if they stayed out in the open. Although they were as acquainted with the county's back roads as well as anyone, the young women were not as familiar with the shortcuts near their new home. The intensity of the storm only made the situation worse.

Family legend had it that suddenly, out of the night, a figure on horseback appeared. It was Charley. There before them was none other than their little brother riding bareback through the torrential rain. His woolen cap was pulled down over his face and he was grasping the horse's thick mane. Before the girls could cry out, Charley had pulled up the horse next to them.

"Grab hold of the tail," Charley yelled. "Grab hold of it, and don't let go for anything!"

Ruth and Ruby did as they were ordered. Both girls clutched the horse's tail, and Charley led them through the pelting rain down the flooded road. Soon they spied the oil lamps burning in the windows of their home. There on the porch was Mamie in a patched sweater, with a shawl over her head, waiting for her children like a silent angel.

The Life and Times of Charles Arthur Floyd

Choc showed his true grit just before he ended his schooling when three local boys in their late teens approached the schoolhouse in a wagon. The ringleader of the trio had a bellyfull of moonshine and was intent on calling on the young woman teacher. He was a mean drunk, and his two friends did their best to keep him from causing a disruption. He was big and strong, though, and they finally went along with him. When the three of them burst through the door, the young woman scolded them in the most stern schoolmarm voice she could muster, but she was about their age. They only laughed and kept coming. Several of the bigger boys from the eighth grade got up and came to her rescue. They wrestled the invaders out the door and a fight commenced. Within minutes, the three rowdies had whipped the schoolboys and run them off. Before they could start to gloat, however, from out of nowhere came a compact cyclone with a Jack Dempsey punch.

It was Choc Floyd, and he was pissed off as anyone had seen him. His arms were in constant motion and he battled with the measured grace of a contender. Just a few well-placed licks and the scowl on his face were enough to cause the two sober boys to back off and watch with the others. Choc then turned his full attention to the drunk. His fists slammed into the big boy's nose, mouth, and jaw. Decades later, old men and women could still recall the ugly sound of bone and cartilage cracking as Choc punched and jabbed. Blood and spittle dripped from the drunk's chin and then Choc drove a fist into his stomach. That ended it. He beat the tough guy senseless in no time flat. When the fellow was lying on his back in the dust, Choc fetched some rope and he bound the big boy like a boar hog for market. With help from the two forlorn accomplices, Choc pitched him headfirst into the back of the wagon. He told the boys to never pull a stunt like that again, and he sent them on their way. It was a classic case of a ruffian getting his comeuppance. From that afternoon on, Choc Floyd was a hero for more than one farm youngster.

The Life and Times of Charles Arthur Floyd

It was at one of these brush-arbor revivals that Choc Floyd solidified his reputation as a mischief maker. One sweltering summer night after a whole day of preaching and soul saving, Choc and "Soap" Masterson and, more than likely, teenaged boys from the Green, Farmer, and Franks households decided they had had enough religion and would now have some fun. The boys slipped away from the crowd of true believers and went to the ring of wagons, where most of the next generation of Sequoyah County residents slumbered on the hay. As quite as Indians, Choc and the others gently lifted a baby from one of the wagons and then switched it with a baby sleeping in another wagon. They repeated this process again and again, being careful not to awaken the infants and cause them to cry. Within minutes, Choc and his friends had finished the exchanges and returned with full piety to the revival.

Soon the services broke up. Folks who lived nearby walked home, carrying their lanterns, while the other families rode in their wagons through the darkness to houses scattered across the hills. When they got inside and managed to get a lamp lighted, they immediately discovered the babies they had brought home were not their own. A collective scream erupted from mothers throughout that part of Cookson Hills when they found they had the wrong children. There were no telephones, so farmers tried to comfort their frantic wives while they coaxed their tired horses down the dirt roads to a neighbor's place in order to get their own baby back. By then, however, the other family had also recognized that a swap had been made, so they were already on the road, as well. Most of the emotional exchanges of infants took place between wagons on a darkened country road. Nobody got that much sleep that night.

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