by Bob Knapp
Behind Fowlkes, books filled a wall of shelves to the ceiling. Because the house had stood empty and protected by the Preservation Society, the books had remained untouched for nearly a century and a half since their original owner, Jonathan Devilbiss Mills, for whom Mills Valley had been named, had used them. A large antique desk stood across the room, its back facing a window adorned by heavy maroon curtains nine feet in length. Polished oak flooring edged an oriental rug.
Fowlkes leaned back in the chair, slowly spun around and stared at the ceiling. On the chair's second trip, he sat up and stopped, facing the wall of books. He focused on a dark volume directly in front of him, its title in gold, obscured by age. He could read “Code”, but that was all. Although Fowlkes was forbidden by the preservation society to use the books, he pulled the book from the shelf. Too bad for the Mills Valley Preservation Society, the West Virginia Historical Society and Fowlkes house's nomination as a National Historical Landmark. He shrugged. They needn't know he had examined the book. The pages had become brown and brittle. He read, “Madison City, West Virginia Locale Code, 1863—1890.” Fowlkes thumbed to the center of the book where his hand rested on 13-2-5. Ownership of firearms. Authority to confiscate. He read a bit, then fell asleep with a smile on his face.
19
Dirt Poor Scare Tactics
Terrance Fowlkes was agitated. He shuffled papers at his desk for ten minutes and allowed his deputy, John Brady, to squirm in the seat across from him.
If the new Interstate 68 extension was completed before his casino was built, there would be no access road to the casino from the highway, and that would end it—all he’d own was the Jug and a miserable piece of woods. No contractor would set foot on it until it was zoned—the devil knows he had tried. The council and town had to stop dragging their feet. But things were going to happen. He guaranteed it. These small-town hicks were going to regret their pigheadedness.
And he despised Brady. Hounding Brady about his arrests had become his hobby. Brady had been a deputy—and would always be a deputy.
When old Sheriff Billy Fuller had passed away, Brady had figured he would become the Madison County Sheriff. So did the folks in Madison. After all, Brady had been a deputy for thirty-three years, and the county's only deputy for the first five of those. But Terrance Fowlkes didn't let that interfere with his aspirations. The election for sheriff had been a slugfest, and Fowlkes didn't lose fights. He wasn't going to lose the fight for his casino, either.
Brady finally broke the silence. “Why’d you want to see me, Sheriff?” He spoke kindly in spite of the sheriff’s attempt to debase him.
“Have you been arresting the people in the valleys that refuse to register and license their guns?” Fowlkes growled. And don't support my zoning. “Just because they're back in the woods doesn't mean we can tolerate lawbreakers, now, can we?”
Brady brushed his gray cowcatcher mustache with his fingertips. “I talk to ‘em when I see ‘em.”
“That's not good enough, Deputy, and you know it. I’ll help you out and let old Judge Newsome know you went out on an arrest this afternoon.” He paused. “Tom Jenkins.”
“Tom Jenkins!” Brady shot up straight in his seat. “That poor man has nothing. Can't afford the registration fee or the gun permit. Never done anything wrong his whole life.”
“Can’t say the same for you, now, can we? That’s our little secret—so far.” Fowlkes looked into the deputy's eyes to make sure Brady understood. “But that’s the point. Jenkins's a poor, God-fearing man.” A sneer crossed Fowlkes’ lips. He had been determined to hurt Jenkins ever since his little speech opposing the casino at the town hall. “His arrest will scare the pea-wadding out of the rest of those hillbillies. Get him, and they know we'll come after them.” He looked at Brady's belly hanging over his belt. “And get rid of that gut!”
* * *
Brady slowly drove his tan car up the winding creek bed, which served as a road to Lost Cow Ridge. The badge on the pocket of his plaid shirt completed his official identification. The Stetson, motorcycle boots, pearl handled Colt .45 and long mustache were his unofficial uniform. He had quietly refused to wear the uniform that Fowlkes had provided and would not exchange his revolver for a Smith and Wesson pistol like the other deputies carried. His clothes and short legs, along with the evidence of too many free beers as Millie's Café's favorite customer—rather, Millie's favorite customer—made him recognizable from afar anywhere in the county.
Brady recalled how one night, after the café had closed, Fowlkes had walked in on Millie and him in an embarrassing position. In their hasty passion, they had left the door unlocked. Fowlkes had smiled, turned on his heel and had driven off. Today, six months later, that sleazebag Fowlkes used it to blackmail him.
* * *
Leaves littered the roadway. A cloud of dust and swirling leaves followed the patrol car, then passed it as the car stopped at a small clearing bare of vegetation. A frame house covered with tarpaper sat near the ridge at the back of the clearing. Rooms had been added to the house in stair-step fashion to accommodate the Jenkins family’s growth. Although Tom Jenkins had quit high school, his unique intelligence was on display at this homestead.
Brady sat for a long moment, the edges of his mouth turned down, staring at the ramshackle building. A wisp of smoke rose from the stovepipe protruding through the roof.
He didn’t know if he could go through with this. Arrest—for failure to register a gun? It wasn't right. He told himself that he had sworn to uphold the law. Or was it all about “the little secret” that Fowlkes held over his head? He took a deep breath and swung open the car door.
A screen door burst open and two little girls came pouring into the cold, with bare feet and no coats, their hair jangling, as they sped toward his car.
“Uncle John! Uncle John! Uncle John is here!”
Brady sighed. These tykes didn’t make this job any easier. Reaching over to the passenger seat, he picked up a paper sack from which he extracted two of a dozen pretzel sticks and handed one to each child. They each gave him a hug. No sign of Tom’s hound, Tater. He missed the dog's greeting.
“Come on in, John. I’ll get Tom.” With that, Ann Jenkins rang the large dinner bell attached to the porch post. She was a large-boned woman with high cheekbones. “It’ll take him a bit to get here. I’ll set on some coffee.” Annie never accepted a “no.” Guests always got a cup of coffee. Brady sat at the table as Annie poured water from a pitcher into a dented aluminum percolator, added the coffee and set the pot next to several pans already heating on the wood stove.
At one time, Ann could have had any number of fellas who were from families that were much better off, but Tom had been her one and only.
Tom Jenkins entered the door. “Hey there, Johnny. Good to see you!” Tom wore a patch over the socket where his left eye had been. He was no bigger than his wife, but when he gripped Brady’s shoulder, it felt as if the shoulder had been squeezed in a vice. A man who works at hard labor from sunup to sunset, and even longer, gets like that.
“What brings you up here?” Tom asked. He ran his thumb under the strap of his pinstriped overalls to square them up on his shoulders. The overalls hung on him as though they had once belonged to a larger man.
The deputy rose to his feet, causing Tom to appear small. “No use putting it off.” He looked between his boots at the worn linoleum floor while fumbling with his hat, which lay on the kitchen table's checkered oilcloth. “I sure hate this more’n anything.”
“Can’t be that bad, Johnny.”
Brady couldn’t pull his eyes from the floor. “I’m sorry, but I got a warrant here for your arrest.”
“What? Must be a mistake! There ain’t no reason to arrest me.” Tom’s good eye shot darts at the deputy.
Brady raised his voice. “If you had registered your guns at the Madison Courthouse, like I been telling you, I wouldn’t be here.” He looked up at Tom. Having said it, he felt justified, or at least
a little better. “Now, you got to hand over your guns.”
“Johnny, you know city hall ain’t got no business treating folks this way.” Tom called all governments “city hall.”
“Sheriff Fowlkes said the law says this is what we got to do. Been the law of the land for over a century. Fowlkes is pressing me. Says if we don’t, we’re asking for big-time trouble. Listen, give me your guns, and I’ll work it out some way so we can register them and I don’t have to arrest you.”
“I knew Fowlkes had his nose in this. Why you let him push you ‘round? Nothin’d happen if you'd stood up to him.”
“Please, Tom. We been good friends for years.”
Tom’s jaw jutted; the muscles on the sides of his jaws bulged; his eye squinted. “Don’t put this on me, Johnny. I got to have my guns. You know that. Here, let me show you.” His tone softened.
Brady was only too glad to let Tom lead him outside. It relieved some tension. He knew what he was going to be shown. Before, it had been a matter of pride. Now, it was to make a point.
They walked around to the back of the house where there were several outbuildings covered with the same tarpaper that covered the house. Behind this was a clearing on which stood willow sticks supporting horizontal poles about five feet from the ground. On the ground, centered beneath the poles, the earth was blackened with fire ash. Piled neatly against the wall of the nearest building was a stack of firewood, mostly walnut and oak.
“This here’s my drying rack for my game. Dry our meat for the winter. Trouble is, all summer we et every varmint that I got,” Tom said.
Brady grunted. He already felt bad enough. This wasn’t helping any. “Thinking of hunting, I miss Tater,” Brady said.
Tom seemed to ignore him and went on, “Usually we got a rack full. It's this dang drought, Johnny. C’mon, let me show you.” He led the deputy toward the back of the property where the ridge rose steeply, forming a bank. A wooden frame and door were set into the bank.
Tom opened the door. “Come on down.’ Tom led the way down several stone steps into a hole cut into the earth, where a damp cold met them. The low ceiling made it necessary for Brady to lower his head. They stood shivering for a number of seconds as their eyes adjusted to the darkness. The scent of mildew filled Brady's nostrils.
Gradually, Brady made out a chamber approximately four by eight feet, lined with rock. The overhead timbers reminded him that Tom Jenkins had once been trapped in a mine. He had lost his eye to a ramrod when the dynamite cap went off prematurely and the mine's ceiling collapsed.
Ann had sworn that she would leave Tom if he ever worked in a mine again. Unbeknownst to her, he had attempted to return, but McElroy Mines would not accept him because of his “handicap,” nor would they hire him for office work. At a minimum, they said, a high school education was required.
McElroy had proved itself not culpable, with the court agreeing the accident had been Tom's fault. McElroy had paid his medical expenses and a salary during his hospitalization, to be “fair.”
Wooden shelving lined each wall of the chamber. Several dozen mason jars filled with canned string beans, turnips and strawberry preserves were neatly arranged on the shelves.
“This here’s our root cellar,” Tom said. “That Mueller boy, Karl, he’s in the Army now, kept hanging around here mooning over my eldest, Maggie. Put him to work. Helped me build this.
“Temperature stays pretty even, year round. Use it for our pantry, too. Should have been full, but it ain’t. The dang drought.” Tom seemed about to add something, but stopped and swallowed. Dropping his voice he said, “Ate Tater two weeks ago. Kids think she run away. Been acryin' for her. Miss the ol' hound myself.”
Brady cast a questioning glance at him.
“We were desperate, John. She weren’t helping us any. Too old. Another mouth to feed.”
Brady turned away, then led him back out into a strong breeze. After the stuffy cellar, it was refreshing—cleared his eyes. “I still gotta have your guns, Tom.”
“What am I gonna do, Johnny?” He didn't wait for Brady to answer. “We ain’t takin’ no handouts from city hall.”
The two men stopped and faced each other. Brady could tell that Tom was seeking his eyes with his, but he couldn't look back.
Tom continued, “The way things are, I’ll be hunting long into the winter. I need to get us a few deer, at least. Planned on making a couple new jackets, too. I got to have my guns! They’s my livin'.”
The deputy did his best to put down his feelings. “Get me your guns, Tom. We can do this peacefully. Or I got a search warrant here, too.” He raised his head and looked squarely at Tom. “But in any case, we’re gonna do it.” Tom didn’t flinch.
There was no use dragging this out any longer. Brady turned and strode toward the house, his jaw set.
Tom stood looking. Then, desperate, overtook the taller man. He took a few quick steps to place himself facing the deputy as they reached the door.
“Ya can’t come in and ya can’t have my guns,” Tom said. He glared at the lawman. His eyes dropped to the .45 Colt jutting from the deputy’s holster. He balled his hands into two rock-hard clubs.
As far as Brady knew, Tom had never raised a hand in anger to any man, but reckoned Tom could level him with one punch to his jaw. But he knew Tom.
A long five seconds passed as they stared at each other. Without moving his eyes from Tom, Brady pulled a roll of papers from his rear pocket and shoved them at him.
“Here’s your warrants!” Brady growled. “You’re now under arrest. Anything you say from now on could be held against you in a court of law.” He was steely-eyed, disappointed that he had to arrest Tom. “Now get out of my way!” He shouldered the smaller man aside and walked into the house. He ought to handcuff Tom, but didn’t want to go that far, and hoped that he wouldn’t regret not doing it.
“Coffee’s ready, John,” Ann said. The deputy reached up over the door and took down Tom’s old .22 Marlin rifle as the door slammed shut behind him, leaving Tom glowering on the other side.
“What are you shooting, John?” Ann reasoned that there was some game outside.
“Sorry, Annie,” mumbled Brady. The tear in his eye blurred his vision as he walked through the kitchen, into their bedroom and past the cold, pot-bellied stove. Come nightfall, the stove would have the room roasting. Getting down on his knees next to the bed, he pulled from under it a Winchester 94 deer rifle, Tom’s favorite hunting arm. Tom had once said, “If it’ll stop a deer, it’ll stop a man.” Tom aimed to protect his family, too.
Tom had just one more firearm. The deputy walked past Ann while fixing his eyes on the door. He could see the shock on her face without looking at her. She ran to the door after him. “Oh!” she uttered and put her hand to her heart. Tom stood outside the door, pale and shaking.
“What’s wrong?” she yelled through the door at Brady, who was retrieving Tom’s Remington 12 gauge shotgun from the rack in the rear window of Tom's old Ford pickup truck. Cradling the three guns in his arms, the deputy carried them to his patrol car and locked them in its trunk. He stood there, taking a deep breath.
Brady still had no answer for Ann as he walked back to Tom. “Tom,” Brady repeated, “you are under arrest for possession of an unregistered firearm and for lacking a permit to use it.” He thought again about the handcuffs. “You can sit up front in the passenger seat.” He still regarded Tom as a trusted friend.
* * *
Annie Jenkins sprung into action as the deputy sheriff’s car disappeared into the dry creek bed. She yelled for their eldest, 17-year-old Magdela, and pulled the pickup keys from their hook by the door.
“Maggie, come here!” Maggie appeared with a rag in hand and wearing a headband. She had been cleaning the bedrooms with her thirteen-year-old sister, Esther. “I have to go down to Madison after your father. Don’t rightly know when I'll be back. You take care of the young-uns.”
The pickup, with its higher ground clearanc
e, easily caught up to the patrol car easing its way over the rough terrain of the stream bed. Ann's fear for Tom blotted out any awareness of the bouncing and rattling of her truck.
20
Judgment
Frederick Newsome had been the judge of Madison County before most of its current residents were born. The judge couldn’t remember when he was first elected, but some of the older folks reckoned it to be 59 years ago. He still had a full shock of long gray hair, which was parted down the middle and combed back and tied into a ponytail. Physically, he had weathered the years exceedingly well. He continued to garner votes from a community that couldn’t imagine anyone else in the courtroom. His thick, black-rimmed glasses made his blue eyes appear large and owlish. Defendants insisted that he read their minds.
Judge Frederick Newsome looked down at Tom standing in front of his bench.
Present were a few onlookers. Curious, they had followed Deputy Brady as he brought Tom into the courthouse trailed by a tearful Ann Jenkins.
Word moved fast. As the hearing proceeded, numerous persons slipped into the courtroom from outside. In Madison City there was always time to check on your neighbors. Besides, the courthouse provided warm relief from a blustery afternoon. But John Brady, standing at one side of the bench, mopped his brow. He hated this.
* * *
From the back of the courtroom Sheriff Fowlkes smiled while he watched the courtroom fill with people. They would learn that in this part of Mills Valley, the law was enforced. He was delighted to see Slim Gates, newspaper reporter for The Mills Valley View, seated on the next to the front seat. The Wheeling Register regularly scanned small town newspapers in the vicinity for possible stories.
“Mister Jenkins,” Judge Newsome said, “you knew that it is now illegal to own firearms of any sort, without registering them, and to hunt without a permit, here in Madison County. Yet you deliberately defied this law. The County gave you ample opportunity to obtain the licenses or submit your firearms.”
