Moonshine, Coal, and Hope

by Richard Allen Evans

  Cat shook his head.

  “You’re a doctor. You took an oath to heal and you’ve honored your word. If Milner lives or dies, it’s because of the choices he made. You also did what you needed to do as a man. You don’t need to feel guilt about anything.”

  “Well, one thing is certain. The Milner family is finished after this,” John said.

  “Yeah, I’d say that ought to do it,” Cat said.

  ***

  Two days later Bob sat at his desk in the newsroom of the Courier. Cotton walked over and sat down on the edge of the desk. He looked at the front page. “Manhunt for cop killer,” read the main headline.

  A smaller headline “Crystal Springs school teacher found dead,” went ignored.

  “How long do you think it will it take to find him?” Cotton asked.

  “As long as it takes. If he’s still in the state hidin’ out somewhere and the cops’ll turn over every rock until they find him,” Bob said.

  “I heard Joe’s free on a five hundred thousand dollar bond,” Cotton said.

  “Yeah but the law is keepin’ a close eye on him,” Bob said. “I doubt he’ll try to make a run for it.”

  “I don’t why he wouldn’t try. He’s on his way to federal prison,” Cotton said.

  “But he’s not facin’ the electric chair like Lee is either. From what I understand, Joe is likely lookin’ at pullin’ ten years, maybe less with good behavior. No, I think he’ll stay put,” Bob said.

  “But he’ll be a convicted felon — no citizenship rights and a black mark on his name the rest of his life. And you wonder how much of the family fortune will be left by the time he gets out,” Cotton said.

  “A lot less,” Bob said as he typed away.

  “What are you workin’ on?” Cotton asked.

  “A profile of the special prosecutor,” Bob said. “Young guy from New York named Tom Dewey.”

  “Never heard of him,” Cotton said.

  “I think he knows what he’s doin’. He’s already better than Luttrell,” Bob said.

  “That ain’t sayin’ much,” Cotton said.

  The candlestick telephone on his desk rang.

  “Fulton,” Bob said. “Hi John. What’s goin’ on?”

  Cotton looked at Bob and mouthed the question, “Do you want me to go?” Bob shook his head.

  “Yeah. Thanks for lettin’ me know. I hope so. I’ll try and get down there this weekend. See you then,” he said as replaced the earpiece on the handle.

  “Jeff Milner died this mornin’,” Bob said.

  “No surprise considerin’,” Cotton said.

  “I reckon not. But it ain’t over until they catch Lee,” Bob said.

  ***

  Ed stepped into the elevator car and Hill followed him. After the wire door closed Hill nodded and the car went toward the darkness of the mineshaft in the hills of western Fuson County.

  The mine was abandoned in 1915. It was located on property owned by Ed and kept well hidden. It served as a warehouse of sorts.

  Lit by kerosene lanterns, six men armed with pump 12 gauge shotguns guarded the large room. Ed and Hill stepped off the elevator and walked about fifty feet straight back and turned left to a well—lit office area with a desk. Ed sat on the desk.

  “Let’s see your surprise,” he said.

  “Willie, go get ‘em,” Hill said. In a couple of minutes the young man came back carrying two Thompson submachine guns. He handed one to Hill and one to Ed.

  “They’re .45 caliber and we’ve got a hundred—round drum in each each of our guns,” Hill said.

  “How many we got?” Ed asked.

  “Right now, we have twenty but our friends in Chicago have promised us more,” Hill said.

  Ed nodded as he hefted the Thompson and checked its weight.

  “How much?” He asked.

  “We got’em at two hundred each. They threw in the drums at no charge. Al also tossed in ten more Model 1911s at no charge,” Hill said.

  “Good. I’d feel better if Lucy had one of her own,” Ed said.

  “We also know who hit our convoy on Fonde Mountain,” Hill said.

  “I know they were freelancers. The Milners didn’t have that kind of professional muscle — at least not that number on hand,” Ed said as he handed his Thompson back to Willie.

  “It’s bunch out of Pennsylvania; strike breakers mostly. The Milner’s like to keep them close by just in case they need them. They call them the Keystone Group,” Hill said.

  “How many?” Ed asked.

  “Near as we can tell, eleven. They’re the heart of the group anyway. Seems like they always find some locals to sign on with them,” Hill said.

  “Where are they?” Ed asked.

  “Near Pruden. Stayin’ in company housin’,” Hill said.

  “Just waitin’ to hit strikin’ miners,” Ed said.

  “That’s about what I figure too,” Hill said.

  Ed nodded and pondered the situation.

  “Where do you want to hit them?” Hill asked.

  “The Baldwin Mine outside of Jellico is talkin’ about a strike. They’ll head that way and so will we. We’ll get them before they get to the mine,” Ed said.

  “How hard?” Hill asked.

  “I don’t want one of them to walk away. We need to send a message: You mess with us, you disappear,” Ed said.

  “Mr. Elkins, can I help too?” Willie asked.

  Ed smiled softly.

  “I reckon you’ve earned the right. Know how to use that thing?” He asked as he nodded to the Thompson.

  “Yes sir. As good as anyone else around here and better than most,” the young man said.

  “Good. Clean out the snakes boys. Kentucky is ours. Let ‘em know they ain’t welcome here,” Ed said.

  “We got people out looking for Lee James Milner too,” Hill said.

  “Put out the word. I want him before the law gets him and I want him alive,” Ed said as Hill nodded.

  “Reward?” Hill asked.

  “Ten thousand but only — and I mean only — if he’s brought to me alive,” Ed said.

  “You got it,” Hill said as he pulled a map from a nearby filing cabinet and spread it out on the desk. “In the meantime, I’ll put a crew together and we’ll set up right here for the Keystone Group,” he said tapping the map. “I know this part of Fuson County. We can nail them, push their vehicles into the river, and be back here before anybody knows they’re missin’.”

  Ed looked at Hill again.

  “Remember what I said: Clean them out.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Lee stood near a wooden building which adjoined an open field outside of Somerset, Ky. He held a rather large suitcase.

  A man wearing khaki coveralls stepped outside the building and looked at him.

  “I can get you into Mexico but it won’t be cheap,” he said.

  “How much?” Lee asked.

  “Five hundred plus the cost of fuel,” the man said nervously.

  “Tell me Sammy, how long have you been flying?” Lee asked.

  “I learned to fly during the war but it was over before I got to see action. Since then, I’ve been flying for the postal service, doing some crop dusting... and making a few...deliveries for folks,” Sammy said.

  “Smuggling,” Lee said.

  “That’s a real ugly word. And it’s highly illegal,” Sammy said.

  Lee studied the lanky man in front of him. His black hair was thinning in the back and the attempt to cover the bare spot with a few strands slicked by hair tonic didn’t quite get the job done. Sammy’s face was as thin as the rest of his body with pronounced cheek bones and a large hawk—like nose. His eyes were narrow slits and his face was wind burned.

  “How safe is your aero plane?” Lee asked.

  “It’ll do,” Sammy assured him.

  “Two hundred now, the balance when we land in Mexico,” Lee said.

  Sammy considered the offer.

  “Cash mone
y,” Lee said.

  “You ready to leave now?” Sammy asked.

  “Sooner the better,” Lee said as he held out a pair of one hundred dollar bills.

  “Let me get ‘er started. We’ll fly to a little airstrip outside of Paducah and refuel. From there we’ll head into Arkansas and refuel before we fly over Texas,” Sammy said.

  “How long will it take?” Lee asked.

  “We get won’t to Mexico until sometime tomorrow. We’ll have to bed down at another little airstrip I know in Southern Arkansas,” Sammy said.

  “You fly there much?” Lee asked.

  “Every now and then. You speak the language?” Sammy asked.

  “Not a word but I am fluent in cash,” Lee said.

  “You’ll fit right in,” Sammy noted.

  ***

  Bob sat in the federal courthouse in Lexington watching Joe Milner as he awaited the judge to return to the courtroom to hand down his sentence. A day earlier the jury returned with a guilty verdict on multiple counts of bribery and obstruction of justice after a trial the lasted four days.

  Joe looked pale and thin. He looked to have lost about twenty pounds and his face showed the strain of great worry. His face appeared to have aged ten years in recent months. His eyes held a stunned, distant look like those of so many combat veterans who returned from France in good physical condition but forever scarred emotionally.

  Bob couldn’t help but ask himself the question: Who wouldn’t be affected?

  Joe listened and nodded grimly as one of his attorneys said something in his ear. Joe’s mother, Alene, and his only sister, Janet Biddle and her husband Russell, were the only members of the Milner family in attendance. They chatted nervously and looked around the courtroom.

  With Lee in hiding, Biddle would likely assume control of what was left of Milner Coal — after the government collected hefty fines and cancelled once lucrative contracts. Since he was in the courtroom, Bob assumed Biddle had the favor of the Widow Milner. He didn’t know much about Biddle — a small, balding unassuming man — other than he worked as a middle management type in the main office.

  A door behind the bench swung open and the bailiff called out, “All rise!” U.S. District Judge Eugene W. Sherman assumed his place.

  “You may be seated,” he said as he gathered some papers in front of him.

  Bob watched the judge, a former Republican congressman appointed to the bench by Warren G. Harding in 1923. Sherman had a thick mane of snow-white hair that stuck up and out wildly above his ears. He wore black-rimmed glasses and had a craggy face that displayed the battle scars of stress from a life in politics.

  Sherman cleared his throat.

  “Will the defendant please rise?” He asked in a voice heavy with the twang of his native Prestonsburg.

  Joe and his team of three attorneys stood.

  “Joseph Milner, a jury of your peers has found you guilty on three counts of bribery of a federal official and three counts of obstruction of justice. The court is aware of your cooperation in the investigation of this matter and related federal investigations of other officials, federal and otherwise. However, leniency must be weighed with the seriousness of the charges against you. It is the considered opinion of this court a message must be sent to those who think money can buy them any privilege. I hereby sentence you to five years and a day on each bribery charge to be served concurrently. You are sentenced to two years on each obstruction charge, to be served concurrently with each other but consecutive with the prior charges for an effective sentence of seven years with no chance of parole. You are remanded to the custody of the U.S. Marshall until you can be transported to federal prison in Atlanta. Court adjourned,” he said as rapped the gavel and stood.

  Above the low murmur in the courtroom, Bob heard Mrs. Milner gasp as the Biddles sat quietly with their heads bowed. Joe turned and looked at his mother and tried to effect a brave smile. Though it didn’t seem possible minutes earlier, Joe looked even paler as he headed off into federal incarceration.

  Part of Bob wanted to bolt from the courtroom and rush to the office but he wanted to get some comments from the special prosecutor, a young New Yorker named Thomas Dewey.

  Joining the crush of reporters outside the courtroom, Bob was flanked by Cotton, who muscled his way into position to start taking pictures. Flash bulbs popped as the young attorney flashed a winning smile, which was highlighted by a dark pencil mustache.

  “The judge said it best in pronouncing sentence: Money cannot buy special privileges. This is the first of several convictions in connection to this case,” he said.

  “What about Lee Milner?” Bob asked.

  Dewey turned serious.

  “I assure you — and the citizens of Kentucky — the federal government will not rest until we locate Lee Milner and send him to the electric chair,” he said.

  “How is the search going for Milner?” Another reporter shouted.

  “We are using every resource available and considering the FBI is on the case, I am confident he will be in custody soon,” Dewey said with the smile returning.

  “Is it true investigators think he fled the country?” Bob asked.

  The smile disappeared again.

  “I cannot comment on the particulars an active investigation other than to say I have every confidence in the FBI,” he said.

  Bob tried to follow up with a question about the extent of Joe’s cooperation but Dewey ignored him. Finally, the feeding frenzy faded and Bob looked to Cotton.

  “We got all we’re gonna get, let’s get back to the paper,” he said.

  Cotton nodded.

  “Joe just got sentenced to federal prison. I figured you’d be happy,” he said as they walked out of the courthouse.

  “I won’t be happy until they catch Lee. Joe’s a small fish,” Bob said.

  “You don’t trust the dashing Mr. Dewey?” Cotton asked.

  “Not nary a bit. He’s just usin’ this investigation for his own career. They ain’t no closer to catchin’ Lee today than they were the day he killed them three lawmen,” Bob said.

  “If Lee got to Mexico like your source said, think he’ll come back? I mean he’s livin’ free down there — if he’s there— don’t make any sense for him to set foot in this country again,” Cotton as they walked up the sidewalk.

  “He’ll be back. He lives for revenge and he hates Ed Elkins,” Bob said.

  “He ain’t real fond of you either,” Cotton said.

  Bob chuckled.

  “Thanks for remindin’ me,” he said.

  ***

  Five black Dodge sedans roared toward Jellico, Tennessee as the last remnants of an early spring snow fought to not to melt. The lead car swerved around one of the many potholes. Roughly thirty feet in front of the lead car, a large tree fell across the road. The driver stomped the brakes and the Dodge skidded to a halt just inches from the giant oak.

  The four cars following also stopped abruptly. Men piled out of each car with shotguns and pistols at the ready. Hill gave the signal.

  “Now!” He yelled as ten men with Thompsons opened fire. Ten men on the other side of the road, led by young Willie, opened up with their Thompsons.

  The strike breakers went down quickly with the exception of one man with a shotgun, reclined against a car. Blood poured from his left leg and arm. He tried to work the pump action with his right hand while cupping the stock under his left arm. Blood covered the weapon as his right hand slid down the stock, making him unable to chamber a shell. The firing stopped as Willie stood and walked toward him.

  He recognized the gunman. They met once before on the side of Fonde Mountain. The last time they met it was Willie scrambling to get away from the gunfire. The bleeding man tossed the shotgun aside and reached for the revolver in his shoulder holster.

  Willie continued at a steady pace. His expression was blank. The man struggled to draw the weapon and his eyes widened.

  “You’re just a punk kid,” he said
.

  Willie calmly raised the Thompson and fired a burst into in the man’s chest. The wounded man tried to speak but only blood came from his mouth. Willie fired again.

  The Elkins men converged on the bodies.

  “Make sure they’re dead and put ‘em in the cars. Shove the cars down the bluff into the river,” Hill said.

  Willie stood staring at the man he just killed.

  Hill patted him on the back.

  “You did what needed doin’. I think we’re gonna start callin’ you Willie the Kid,” he said.

  ***

  John carried his infant daughter Virginia (known as Ginny to the family) while Rachel walked beside him. They were on their way to services at First Baptist Church in Crystal Springs. It was a beautiful early summer day.

  “It’s already getting hot,” Rachel said.

  “Well it’s summer honey, it’s supposed to be hot — ain’t that right Ginny?” John said with a chuckle.

  “No, I mean this mornin’. I’m havin’ a hard time breathin’,” she said.

  John stopped walking, reached out, and took her arm.

  “Look at me,” he said. Rachel looked pale and she was sweating profusely. John felt her forehead.

  “Let’s go home. I want to take your temperature. You’re comin’ down with somethin’,” he said.

  “I don’t think it’s much. Let’s just go on to church,” she said.

  “No, I want to take care if this now. We don’t need Ginny gettin’ sick or takin’ the chance on infectin’ the congregation,” John said.

  They turned and started the short trip back to their house. John kept a close eye on her. She looked exhausted and struggled for air. He purposely avoided asking her any questions until they got home so she would be rested enough to speak comfortably.

  By the time they reached the porch Rachel was gasping for air.

  “I...don’t...gasp...know...gasp...what’s wrong...gasp...with me,” she said.

  “Just sit down here in your rocker and rest a minute. Don’t talk, just catch your breath. Let me see if I can catch Cat and Victoria before they head to church,” he said as he carried the baby into the house and picked up the phone.

  Luckily, Victoria was running late that morning. She and Cat made it over to the Fulton home in less than ten minutes. Cat got out of his black Ford carrying his bag. He hurried to keep up with Victoria. She stepped onto the porch and reached for the baby.