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

by Wesley Harris

  New police chief. New mayor. Things might get interesting.

  The man seated by Sisemore nudged and him and spoke. “We’re just about there.”

  Rising from his seat, the man caught the eye of the conductor dozing in the rear of the car. The conductor acknowledged the man's nod and hurried forward.

  “Just ahead. Can we slow down and look for a good spot to get off?”

  “Certainly, Mr. Calvert,” replied the conductor, who rushed off.

  A federal agent much like Sisemore, Calvert spent considerable time chasing moonshiners. Calvert, Sisemore, and four other men gathered up weapons, bedrolls, and provisions. It was a cool Sunday evening in March and the Pullman car was virtually empty.

  The train stopped a few miles east of Ruston. The men climbed down. “What’s with all those empty cattle cars?” asked one of Calvert’s deputies, pointing to the rear of the train.

  “Headed to Ruston,” answered Sisemore. “It’s either eat’em or ship’em to Texas. They’ll starve if they stay in Lincoln Parish.” The men disappeared into the woods as the train pulled away.

  They walked about three miles before locating the still. It was unattended.

  “John, you take Matt and cover this approach,” suggested Calvert. “I’ll take the others and fan out to the north. There’s several trails over that way.”

  Dry leaves crackled underfoot as Sisemore and Wood moved into position to watch the still. Sisemore rubbed his chin as he examined the thirsty landscape around him. A gully washer would be nice when this endeavor wrapped up.

  Sisemore pointed at a huge hickory tree surrounded by smaller huckleberry bushes. “We’ll sit up against that tree behind the bushes,” he informed his young partner. “You might as well get comfortable. We may be here awhile.”

  They shifted from time to time as muscles ached. Darkness approached. Sisemore spoke in low tones to the others.

  “Well, no one’s coming before dark. We’re in for a night of it. Might as well settle in.”

  The long hours gave John Tom time to reflect on many things. Like his talk last week with J. V. For a child of nine, he certainly spoke his mind. Must get it from his mother, Sisemore mused.

  “Why can’t you spend more time at home?” J. V. had demanded.

  “Do you know what an oath is?” his father responded.

  “You mean when you swear at someone?”

  “You do it to show how important something is to you. I promised the government—I took an oath—that I would enforce the law. I can’t do that job sitting at home. I know it’s hard on you and your mother...Lord knows why she puts up with it. But she knows I have to do what I have to do.”

  That was Friday and now it was Sunday and he had missed church again. Nora would sit there with the children like a widow woman. The preacher had probably forgotten what her husband looked like.

  A noise brought Sisemore back and he saw Matt shifting uncomfortably. “Matt, you have a girl?”

  “Yessir, Marshal. We hope to be married this summer.”

  “Take good care of her, son.”

  The two men sat silently for an hour before Matt spoke quietly.

  “Marshal, how is it that you’re so good at finding stills?”

  “You must have sources, Matt. You could search the countryside for years and never find a still if you don’t have an idea where to look. That’s where your sources come in. You have to talk to people—find out what you can and go from there.”

  “Where, exactly, do you go ‘from there’?” asked Matt.

  “Once you know who you’re dealin’ with, you determine the most likely place of operation. He has to have water—near a spring is best—lots of wood to heat the mash." Sisemore nodded towards the still. “And as you can tell from the stench, it has to be off the beaten trail.”

  “Why don’t they just pay the tax?” wondered Matt out loud.

  “Well, there’s still hard feelings in the South about the federal government telling people what they can and can’t do. So part of it is resistance. Some are simply unwilling to pay the tax. But remember this, Matt,” continued Sisemore, with a serious look on his face. “A man with the inclination to break the law may not stop at making moonshine. Be careful.”

  Matt pondered the warning for a few moments. “Is that all there is to it? To finding the stills, I mean.”

  Sisemore chuckled. “Well, I guess it is a bit more involved. Like I said, sources are the key. Who’s buying large amounts of corn with no stock to feed it to...who’s been collecting up glass jars. Who has more money than usual?”

  Much later, Matt spoke again. “How long do you think we will have to wait?”

  “No telling,” Sisemore answered. “This is Calvert’s deal and I don’t think his source had many details. The old Wire Road is not too far north of here. I expect when they haul supplies in here, they come by way of the Wire Road. If they are on foot, they may come that way or the way we came.”

  “I never heard of the Wire Road,” responded Matt.

  “Well, I guess it’s called different things by different people. It stretched across Louisiana into Texas long before the railroad. Some say it began as a trail for Spanish explorers.”

  “Why is it called the Wire Road?”

  “It’s named after the telegraph wires that once ran along it. The stagecoach lines used it, too. Then the railroad came. The stagecoaches stopped running and the freight lines went out of business. It’s not much more than another dusty trail in most places now.”

  “Funny I never heard it called that,” mused Matt. “I know the road you’re talking about. My uncle used to drive for a freight company.”

  “Used to be a dangerous place to travel, I hear,” continued Sisemore. “Some say Jesse James committed robberies along the Wire Road.”

  “Really!” exclaimed the excited young deputy.

  “Keep your voice down,” Sisemore admonished in a mild rebuke. “Who knows if it’s true? He’s long dead, anyway.” Sisemore adjusted his position to settle down in the leaves, pulling his coat closer to shut out the cold. “Time to settle in for the night. We’ve talked enough.”

  ***

  The wait through the night was a long and tedious one. The thin bedrolls were hardly adequate against the cold. Although it was doubtful anyone would appear during the night, a fire was out of the question.

  Monday morning marked the first significant conversation between Sisemore and his young disciple.

  “I spent a lot of time thinking about what happened in Columbia,” Wood admitted. “I was scared.”

  “You had reason to be,” Sisemore assured him. “I was scared, too.”

  “You?”

  “Matt, I can’t count all the times I’ve been scared. It’s not a reflection on your manhood or your courage. The trick is to keep your wits about you and do what you have to do to survive. You did that.”

  “I’m ashamed to admit it, but I felt like a coward or a fool or both. I almost quit.”

  Sisemore scanned the woods carefully before responding. “Lotta men have quit for less. A coward woulda stayed home. A fool coulda got us both killed. Matt, this job is not about who’s the bravest or the strongest. It’s about having the right kind of feeling in your heart. If you’re in it for the wrong reason or there’s not enough of that feeling in your heart, get out.” Sisemore smiled at him. “But if that feeling is there, and I think it is, stick with it or you’ll forever regret it.”

  No one appeared until noon, when a man approached on one of the trails. He went to the still and looked around for a few moments. Sisemore and Matt and the other lawmen shifted slightly to bring their guns to bear on the camp.

  Sisemore glanced over to the large oak tree concealing Calvert. Calvert shook his head. It was not the target he was expecting. Calvert held up a hand, signifying not to act. The man soon walked off, disappearing into the trees and the officers relaxed again.

  Monday night was also as uncomfortable as Sun
day. Sisemore’s thoughts drifted to Frank Mullins. Twelve months of incarceration had not changed Frank’s ways. He was out and back in business. He was making very little effort to disguise his endeavors. And now, Ed Beatty was dead, murdered before his little babies. Sisemore’s hands tightened into fists as he considered his own actions may have led to his brother-in-law’s death.

  ***

  Tuesday morning a crash echoed through the woods, startling the lawmen. A flicker of clothing appeared through the trees. A tall, lanky black man stumbled into view carrying a copper still worm. Limbs broke and leaves crackled as the man fought his way through the brush. His path led straight toward Sisemore and Wood.

  Matt Wood shifted uneasily. The newcomer looked up and his eyes widened with fear and surprise.

  Sisemore sprang up, his shotgun leveled at the moonshiner’s stomach. “Stop right there.”

  The eyes seemed ready to pop as the man focused on the shotgun in the hands of a white man. He hesitated only a moment and then dropped the worm and dashed back into the woods.

  Sisemore loosed a couple of blasts at the fleeing man, shooting low to wound in the legs. Matt Wood pulled his trigger once, then twice, and nothing happened. He frantically shoved fresh cartridges into his rifle, but by the time he put two shots into the brush, the moonshiner was gone.

  Others ran after the man but soon returned emptyhanded. “We lost him,” one of the deputies reported between gasps. “Didn’t see any blood, either.”

  Calvert cursed vehemently. “That beats all. We sit here for two nights and get nothing!”

  “Think you hit him?” Wood asked Sisemore.

  “I don’t know. Should have, but you never know. Sometimes the ones you miss are the close ones.” Sisemore motioned to Matt’s rifle. “What happened to you?”

  “Just stupid, I guess. I forgot to chamber a shell and when I did, it hung up somehow.”

  “It’s just as well. Calvert was looking for someone else. This fellar was probably sent ahead to make sure the site was clear and start up the fires. Had he not stumbled off the trail and right into us, we would have had’em.”

  “He sure hightailed it through that brush,” laughed Wood. “If you didn’t hit’em, he’s surely cut to pieces.”

  Satisfied that no one else would come to the camp, the posse went to work destroying it. The seventy-gallon copper still and the worm would be taken back to Monroe by Calvert. They relieved their frustrations through the destruction of nine mash tubs, fifteen gallons of mash, and ten gallons of low wines.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Special to the Times. Ruston, La. March 31--Blind tigers have always been of considerable trouble to Ruston but the fight is still being waged and if the officers get the support of the law-abiding element of this community there is no doubt about the final extermination of this nuisance.

  Mrs. Thedbalds, who has been at the Borden House the past six weeks with pneumonia, returned to her home at Monroe yesterday.

  April 1, 1897

  Chief Huey leaped with reluctance into the battle against the irrepressible Frank Mullins. While Huey made his rounds, a shopkeeper stopped him.

  “Marshal, I saw Ed Henry come out of Frank Mullins’s place last night carrying a bottle of whiskey. I know he’s got to be selling liquor in that place.”

  Armed with this information, in addition to what he already knew about Mullins, Huey sought out Mayor Lewis for a search warrant. Lewis issued the warrant and Huey gathered officers and citizens to help with the search.

  Huey banged on the door and a sleepy-eyed Frank Mullins appeared. “Frank, I have a search warrant for the place to look for liquor.”

  Mullins shook away his lethargy and snatched the warrant from Huey’s hands. He cursed under his breath. The posse swarmed into the small shop and launched an unorganized but flurried search.

  “Marshal, look here.” A search held up a wooden box. Huey peered inside at measuring devices, funnels, and empty bottles smelling of liquor. But no whiskey.

  Huey looked around. The only area remaining to be searched was a large safe. Huey looked at Mullins. “Frank, you’re going to have to open that safe so I can look inside.”

  “You may have a search warrant for the house, but it doesn’t say anything about looking in my safe,” Mullins replied defiantly.

  “Well, Frank, I think I can look anywhere inside the place.”

  “Well, you ain’t gonna look in this safe.”

  Huey hesitated. He debated with himself over his authority to force open the safe and search it. He thought the search would be so easy—merely find the whiskey and lock Frank up. Legal technicalities had not been much of a concern when he served as sheriff over twenty years earlier. Why did Sisemore have to be out of town?

  “Frank, I’m going back to consult the mayor about the safe. I’m leaving men here on the premises, so the search is still underway. See that you don’t leave or bother anything until I get back.”

  Huey gave orders to the other searchers. “Hold Mullins and don’t do anything until I get back.”

  Mullins yelled out into the street. “Someone get Mr. VanHook. Hurry!”

  ***

  A crowd accumulated outside, with men collecting in murmuring factions, the prohibition supporters strongly outnumbering their critics.

  “Get some horses!” someone yelled. “Let’s pull that safe out in the street!” Several men unhitched a team from a nearby wagon while another ran for a rope.

  Attorney William VanHook, reached his client before Huey’s return. “Mr. VanHook, you’ve got to do something to get these folks out of my place. They want to break into my safe. They ain’t got no business being here.”

  VanHook got permission from Officer George Edmondson to speak with Mullins privately for a moment.

  “Have they found anything incriminating?” VanHook asked.

  Mullins nodded towards the wooden box. “There’s that, but they haven’t arrested me yet.”

  “Good,” said VanHook. “The judge is in town. I’ll try to get an injunction against opening the safe.” He hurried toward the courthouse.

  ***

  Huey stopped to catch his breath after relating the complications of the search to the mayor.

  “Mr. Huey, I think we have good grounds to believe there’s whiskey in that safe,” said Mayor Lewis. “Since it was not located it elsewhere on the premises indicates it’s probably in the safe. You may take this as a direct order—open the safe by whatever means is necessary.”

  “Yes sir,” replied Huey to the younger man and left. He was not as quick to return to the scene as he was to find the mayor. He might be held accountable for replacing a damaged safe should Mullins decide to sue him.

  Huey returned to the studio and found the safe sitting in the dusty street. All semblance of order had disappeared. Arguments had broken out. The horses, excited by the crowd, had jerked the huge safe out into the street, ripping the studio door off its hinges. No new evidence had been discovered inside the building.

  “The mayor has ordered me to open it, Mullins,” Huey reported, sounding more confident than he was. “Either open yourself or I’ll do it.”

  Mullins protested vigorously. “My lawyer has gone to see about stopping you from opening that safe. You’ll have to wait till he gets back.”

  Huey shook his head. “I’m not waiting for anybody; I’ve got orders to open the safe and I plan to do it.”

  “You’re going to regret this, Marshal.” Mullins shook his fist, his face red. “You can’t just tear up a man’s personal property.”

  Huey stood in the dusty street and surveyed the safe. To open it would take a good portion of gunpowder, and the explosion was certain to destroy the safe and most of the contents. He was still unsure but knew it had to be done.

  Huey sent a man to Gullatt’s for a keg of gunpowder and directed others to dig a hole for the keg directly under the safe. Otherwise, the explosion would blow out half the windows in town. Some of
the crowd jeered the effort and shouted encouragement to Mullins.

  Mullins cast a sideways glance at his monitors. They were watching the digging. He broke free, sprang forward, and climbed up on the safe. Huey, who was bent down working under the safe, was unaware of the move until Mullins’s feet dangled down before his face.

  “Now Frank, you’re going to have to get down from there or you’ll be blown to pieces.”

  “I’m not going anywhere. You need to wait ’til Mr. VanHook gets back.”

  Huey’s face tightened as his anger rose. The crowd swelled. Some cheered Mullins on. Others encouraged Huey to do his duty. “Blow it open!” they yelled.

  “You people get off the street!” Huey screamed. “I’m blowing this safe in a few minutes.” He turned to Mullins. “And by God, if you don’t get down, you’re going up with it.”

  Mullins laughed and stroked his pencil thin moustache. “Huey, you’re letting your mouth get the best of you. You ain’t gonna blow me up over a little liquor.” With haste, he added, “Even if I had any.”

  The crowd grew, watching Mullins’s antics and the hesitancy of the perplexed officer. A Shreveport-bound train pulled into the station and the audience increased.

  Mullins taunted Huey with snide remarks and foolish gestures. Then he pointed across the tracks toward the courthouse.

  “Marshal, you’re going to have to wait. Here comes Mr. VanHook and Tom Finley.”

  Huey spun around and saw the attorney and Deputy Sheriff Tom Finley trotting up the street. While VanHook approached Mullins, Finley called Huey over to one side and handed him some papers.

  “Chief Huey, this is an injunction from Judge Barksdale restraining you from opening the safe until a hearing is held. Sorry to be the one who has to do this.”

  Huey nodded his head in resignation while Finley walked over to Mullins. “Frank, you’re going to have to get down from there. I’ve got to take the safe to the sheriff’s office until the hearing is held.”