Neither Fear Nor Favor: Deputy United States Marshal John Tom Sisemore

by Wesley Harris

  When he returned to the kitchen, the tantalizing odors suddenly made him hungry.

  “Supper will be ready soon, John,” Nora informed him as she stirred one of the huge pots. Despite the rigors of country life, she was as slender and attractive as the day they had married a decade earlier. She had wed John just short of her twenty-second birthday. He had been twenty-three. The meager life of the farm had made an earlier marriage impractical.

  “Did everything go all right?”

  “Fine, no problems at all. It turned out even better than we expected.”

  John and Nora often talked about his work but always in generalities. Too many details caused Nora to worry. Many of their conversations occurred in the kitchen as Nora cooked or cleaned and John polished his boots or oiled his guns.

  Nora continued to stir the pot. “The children and I went into town with your pa today. Picked up a few things.” She hesitated a moment before adding, “I had a talk with Mr. Russ today.”

  “Oh? What did he have to say?”

  “John, he’s concerned about the problems the town is having enforcing the law. He didn’t say that in so many words, but I could tell by the questions he asked. He wanted to know how busy you were and how I felt about you being away so often. He asked that you ride in and see him tomorrow after church.”

  “Nora, I hope neither of you have thoughts of me giving up my job as a U. S. Marshal to catch drunks or break up fights in Ruston. There are some problems there, but the most serious originate with those outlaws out in the hills. I can do Ruston more good by going after them.” Another thought came to mind. “Does this have anything to do with moving to town?”

  “No. I just said it would be nice. We’re happy here. But I wish you were home more, John. Sometimes I wonder if the children even know they have a father.”

  Sisemore did not respond, but he knew what his wife had said was true. He did not spend enough time with his family. But he had to feed them and clothe them, and that took money. Not only was he doing a job that excited him more than anything he had ever done, but his family was better clothed and fed than ever.

  “I’ll go talk to him tomorrow, just to see what’s on his mind.”

  “I have other news, too,” she added slyly.

  Sisemore was curious. “Alright, what does that mean?”

  “What it means,” she said, still stirring the pot with her back to him, “is we’re going to have a baby.”

  “Do you mean it, Nora?” he asked with a noticeable excitement in his voice. “Do you really?”

  She laid down the spoon and turned as he approached. “I wouldn’t joke about having babies,” she said with a smile. They embraced and held each other until the pots boiled over.

  “How long have you known? Have you told the children?”

  “Not long. And no, I have not told the children. I thought their father should be the first to know, but you haven’t exactly been around.”

  Sisemore hung his head. “I’d like to be around more. But you know what this job is like. They don’t come turn themselves in, you know.”

  “Well, I wanted to be sure, anyway.”

  “I’m very happy, Nora.”

  “Good, now get those filthy clothes changed and you can sit at my table and have some supper.”

  ***

  The following afternoon Sisemore rode to Ruston. The stores were closed, and the town was quiet. Sisemore nodded to an occasional buggy as families journeyed down Trenton Street on perfunctory Sunday outings.

  In deference to north Louisianans who abandoned their homes to move to Ruston, the north-south streets were named after local towns—Trenton, Vienna, Bonner, Sparta, Monroe. The east-west avenues were named after states, but only those south of the Mason-Dixon line—Virginia, Carolina, Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana. The main east-west thoroughfare bisecting the depot grounds was aptly named Railroad Avenue. The focal point of most of the town’s activity was Block “A,” bounded by Trenton on the west, Mississippi to the north, Vienna Street on the east, and the railroad to the south. Any special event of consequence was held on the broad dirt expanse that ran between Trenton and Vienna along the tracks.

  Sisemore crossed the depot grounds and headed north. The south side of Block “A,” which faced the tracks, was referred to as Brick Row. It was the only full block of brick structures in the town. Brick Row was anchored at each end by general merchandise stores—Gullatt’s at the west end and Kidd and Lewis at the opposite end. Numerous other shops and tradesmen were sandwiched in between. Oak trees, evidence of the forest Ruston had replaced, still grew in the street in front of Gullatt’s.

  Sisemore’s route took him up Trenton Street and past the Methodist church, its steeple towering above all other structures in the town. Within ten minutes, Sisemore rode up leisurely to Russ’s home. Russ lived in a giant log cabin just beyond a wooded thicket north of town. He lived simply and resisted the urge to build a modern house in town where most of the businessmen resided. Anybody who was somebody had to live on Trenton Street or Vienna Street where their houses were sure to be seen and admired.

  Russ was on the front porch reading the Ruston Leader, one of the town’s weekly newspapers. Its competitor, the Progressive Age, lay at his feet. He folded the paper and laid it aside as Sisemore approached.

  “Good afternoon, John Tom. It’s good to see you again.”

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Russ. How are you?”

  “Fine, just fine, John. I saw the whole family in town yesterday. Everyone seems to be doing very well. Those kids of yours are growing like weeds.”

  “They are doing that, Mr. Russ.”

  “I was just telling Pea Colvin yesterday how pleased I am with the work you are doing. You have been a great help to the Ruston officers. And I know how much of their success is due to your leadership.”

  Spencer Petrie “Pea” Colvin was Ruston’s mayor. Anxious to move to Ruston when the railroad came, he had dismantled his huge house in Vienna and moved it to the new town. Standing over six feet tall with the body of an athlete, Pea Colvin had been a man to reckon with since war days.

  The embarrassed lawman mumbled his gratitude. “Thank you, sir. I just try to do the best I can,” Sisemore said, hoping Russ would get to the point.

  “Yes, I wish we had more men like you, John. Ruston is a town of hard workers, each with unique abilities. We are fortunate that everyone works together for the good of the community. Or most everybody, anyway. I tried to do my share to make sure this is a good town, but my humble efforts would be useless without the work of others. I can donate land for a school, but I can’t educate our children. We join together, or we fail, John.”

  “Yes sir, Mr. Russ.” John was impatient. He had some idea what was coming next. “Nora told me you wanted to see me about something.”

  “John, you know the problems we have with the police force. We can’t seem to find men who can handle the job. I have talked to Pea and the Town Council about the possibility of enlisting your assistance.”

  “But, Mr. Russ...” Sisemore protested.

  Russ raised his hand to stop him. “Let me finish, John. Scott May is my son-in-law, and he tries hard, but I’m afraid he doesn’t have the toughness you do. He’s older than you, I expect, but age cannot substitute for grit. How old are you, if I may ask?”

  “I turned thirty-four last month, but...”

  “Scott thinks highly of you. The two of you have worked well together. In fact, I think he owes you his life.”

  Sisemore said nothing, but images of a shootout flashed through his mind. He shuddered when he recalled a bullet splattering into a post inches from Scott May’s head.

  “You have told me before,” continued Russ, “you do not wish to leave your present position. What I propose is that the Town Council hire you as a policeman. We would not ask you to resign as a Deputy U. S. Marshal. Whenever you have federal business to take care of, you would be free to do so. The two jobs would not
interfere at all.”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Russ. I wouldn’t care to spread myself too thin.”

  “Certainly, John. It would be more of a part-time position. Helping out when you can. Not much different than what you’re doing now. You obviously see the need, arresting Frank Mullins here in town earlier this month.”

  “Let me think on it. I’ll need to telegraph Marshal Martin in Shreveport to see if he had any objections.”

  “Fine. Take your time. But we really need you.” Russ extended his hand. “Thanks for coming by.”

  The two men shook hands, and Russ returned to his newspaper. As Sisemore rode towards home, he thought about Russ’s proposal. If he could be both a U. S. Marshal and a town policeman, he might accept the offer. He could always submit his resignation to the Town Council if the arrangement did not work out. He resolved to stop by the telegraph office in the morning to send a message to Shreveport.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Shreveport Times

  August 18, 1895

  Jas M. Martin --

  Is the man you to see on this real estate line. He is “par excellence” in the business and can suit you, whether you be a purchaser or one desiring to sell real estate. City, suburban or farm and stock lands a specialty. If he don’t give you satisfaction an angel could not try. Officer at the U. S. Marshal’s office, U. S. customhouse and post office.

  1895

  John Sisemore had become a lawman almost by accident. While riding the train to Shreveport on a bitterly cold day early in 1895, Sisemore had met the new United States Marshal and made a decision that would change his life.

  Marshal James M. Martin was a big man, much larger than Sisemore. He was wide across the shoulders, thick through the neck, and built to tower above others. The wrinkles emanating from wary eyes and some gray in his closely trimmed hair revealed he was a couple of decades older than Sisemore. He wore a large silver star adorned with fancy engraving. It was as beautiful as any piece of jewelry Sisemore had ever seen. The badge was pinned to the Marshal’s shirt under his coat, as if he wanted it handy but not in plain view.

  The men talked of farming and politics as well as guns and outlaws as the train plodded along. Sisemore thought it was no wonder some called the V. S. & P. Railroad the “Very Slow & Pokey.” The Marshal was so interesting, however, that Sisemore ignored any discomfort the train ride may have caused.

  Martin had a way with words that reminded Sisemore of some politicians he had heard speak. Martin himself was a politician in a way. U. S. Marshals are appointed by the President and approved by the Senate, and some political influence was necessary in obtaining such a position. From the topics Martin discussed, Sisemore gathered the Marshal was also a savvy businessman and knew all the right people.

  Of their hours of conversation, Sisemore was enthralled most by the stories of moonshine raids and wanted criminals. He had little sympathy for law breakers, especially those who harmed others. Martin made the work sound exciting and colorful.

  “John, if you’re really interested in the work we’re doing, why don’t you come with me tonight on a little raid? We have located a small still over near the Texas border and the word is that one of the men there is wanted for shooting a man in Arkansas. I have a fugitive warrant on him.”

  Sisemore jumped at the opportunity and agreed to meet Martin at the courthouse later in the afternoon. When he arrived, he wondered about a gun. He had not brought one with him. Reading his mind, Martin asked, “Are you armed?”

  Sisemore shook his head and Martin retrieved a shotgun from a corner of the room. “Best weapon I know for this type of work.”

  The raid was successful, and during the ride back to Shreveport, Martin considered this new man he had met. Sisemore knew how to handle himself. He was cautious but showed no fear. He seemed to know about guns and horses. Sisemore had performed as well as the deputy marshals who had gone along.

  Martin did not know a great deal about Sisemore, but the Marshal fancied himself a good judge of character and hours of conversation on a train can tell you a lot about a man. Sisemore seemed intelligent with a good measure of common sense. He impressed the Marshal as an honest man or Martin never would have told him of the upcoming raid. There was also a toughness to Sisemore that indicated once he took a stand, he wouldn’t back down. A man with those qualities could succeed at most anything.

  Sisemore lived near Ruston, over seventy miles east of Shreveport. Martin needed a good man in the area. Ruston was ideally situated on the railroad in the center of north Louisiana. It was simply too far away for the deputies assigned to Shreveport to cover. And he needed someone to handle federal court in Monroe, thirty miles east of Ruston. Traveling the circuit for court sessions in Shreveport, Opelousas, Alexandria, and Monroe would wear a man down. It would be better to spread those duties between several men. More and more reports of moonshiners and outlaws moving to areas along the state’s borders with Texas and Arkansas had convinced Martin he would have to pay more attention to those areas.

  Martin reined his horse back and waited for Sisemore to catch up. After falling in beside Sisemore, the Marshal asked him what he thought about the raid.

  “Well, Marshal, those men seem to be pretty tough characters. I’m glad you were able to get them.”

  “John, how would you like to do this for a living? Be a Deputy U. S. Marshal, I mean.”

  “Me be a lawman?” Sisemore laughed with disbelief in his voice. He knew Martin was a man with influence that could possibly help him out, but he never expected the Marshal to offer him a job.

  “I need a good man over around Ruston. There are things going on over there that we just cannot handle from Shreveport. I think you can do the job.”

  “I don’t know what to say, Marshal. I could certainly use the money. Farming can be a very chancy venture sometimes. And I know something must be done about the gangs in the hills out from Ruston.”

  “The job’s yours if you want it, John.”

  The two men rode along side by side. Martin remained silent to give Sisemore a chance to think about the offer.

  “I’m real tempted to say yes, Marshal,” Sisemore finally replied. “I am interested, but Nora sure will be shocked when I come home a federal lawman.”

  “She’ll be proud of you, John,” Martin argued convincingly. “Give it a try. If it doesn’t work out, I can let you resign.”

  Sisemore stopped his horse and sat a moment. Then he reached out for Martin’s hand. “You’ve got a deal, Marshal.”

  Sisemore was sworn in at the United States Courthouse the next day. He stood tall and proud as he repeated the Marshal’s words. “I, John Tom Sisemore, do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute all lawful precepts directed to the Marshal of the Western District of Louisiana, under the authority of the laws of the United States, and true returns make, and in all things well and truly, and without malice or partiality, perform the duties of the office of Deputy United States Marshal, during my continuance in said office; and that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States, and I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office upon which I am about to enter, so help me God.”

  Sisemore inhaled deeply after the lengthy oath. Some of the words had been unfamiliar to him, but the new deputy marshal had no misunderstandings about his duty and responsibility to uphold the law.

  Martin pinned a small silver-colored shield on Sisemore’s coat. John Tom twisted the badge around to read the inscribed words, “Deputy U. S. Marshal.” He caressed it a moment and looked up.

  “I thought it would be a star like yours, Marshal.”

  “We don’t have an official badge as such, John. I have them made up as I need’em. Man right here in Shreveport made yours. ‘Course if you prefer a star, you’re free to have one made up yourself...”

  Sisemore shook his head as he polished the badge with his coat sleeve. “No, no, this
is fine.”

  Martin’s perennial smile was replaced by a somber face as he planted a hand on each of Sisemore’s broad shoulders and looked him straight in the eye.

  “John Tom, that badge can get awful heavy sometimes. There will be times you’ll wish you never let me pin it on you. ‘Course you will help a lot of grateful folks, but you’ll make more people hate you than you ever thought possible.

  “That badge won’t stop bullets either. But there has never been a United States Marshal nor deputy killed in this district and that’s a record I plan to keep a long time.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Sisemore laughed. “I’ve got too many kids at home to let something happen to me.”

  The smile came back to Martin’s face. “I know you will be careful, and I know you will do a good job. Well, that’s my little speech for new deputies. I’m sure you’re anxious to start for home.” Hands were shaken all around once more, and Sisemore thanked the Marshal again.

  When Sisemore was gone, Martin settled back in his leather chair and let his eyes catch the attention of Alex Bernstein, his senior deputy, and the other workers in the room.

  “Gentlemen, that man will make a name for himself very quickly among our outlaw population. Very quickly, indeed.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  As officers of the United States it is also meet and proper that you should make every reasonable effort to discover and bring to justice persons guilty of murder, assault with deadly weapons with intent to kill or maim, robbing the mail, stealing government property, resisting or obstructing the administration of justice, larceny, arson, bribery, or manslaughter.