Neither Fear Nor Favor: Deputy United States Marshal John Tom Sisemore
Page 1
NEITHER FEAR NOR FAVOR
Deputy United States Marshal
John Tom Sisemore
Wesley Harris
RoughEdge Publications
Copyright © 1999 by Wesley Harris
Second Edition © 2018
Cover design: C. J. Darlington, Mountainview Books, LLC
Printed in the United States of America
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without permission in writing from the author except for brief excerpts for use in reviews.
Library of Congress Catalog No. 99-0921277
ISBN: 0-9666889-1-0
Additional copies of this book may be ordered from:
RoughEdge Publications
P. O. Box 30
Ruston, Louisiana 71273-0030
campruston@gmail.com
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Author Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Epilogue
Sources
Notes
About the Author
John Sisemore has been a terror to the moonshiners and blind tigers of this section and has always discharged his duty with neither fear nor favor.
Shreveport Times
Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour.
I Peter 5:8
NEITHER FEAR NOR FAVOR
This is the true story of one man’s battle against lawlessness in the north Louisiana hill country of the late 1890’s. John Tom Sisemore was born in Alabama on April 7, 1862, while thousands lay dead or dying on the battlefield at Shiloh, Tennessee. His Indian father William Green Sisemore and his mother Mary Davis were wed in their native Georgia sometime around 1860 and later moved to Alabama. The Sisemores moved to Louisiana between 1868 and 1870 to seek opportunities in the lean years after the Civil War. They were among the many families who left Georgia and Alabama and established farms in north central Louisiana.
I hesitated to write this story in this format. My original intent was to record Sisemore’s career in a highly factual document much like the thousands of police reports I prepared as a law enforcement officer. To novelize history is not my preferred writing style. However, my fifteen-year study of this man, his town, and the events surrounding him convinced me the story deserved more than a technical recitation of facts. History should be as vivid and exciting as the events of today. I hope the story as I have written it transports its readers back to the tempestuous days of the turn of the century.
Discovering details to mold a readable story one hundred years after the fact is all but impossible. I took small liberties in expanding on the known historical accounts to maintain continuity between documented events. Where I fictionalized, I sought to do so plausibly with the intent of creating threads that weave naturally among the historical parts of the story. Every person named here actually existed, and every major event described occurred. Nothing has been added to contradict the known facts, and every effort was taken to insure historical accuracy. For the purists, and I am one myself, the chapter notes will clearly delineate the documented facts from those of my imagination.
Wesley Harris
CHAPTER ONE
The votes have been counted. The decision has been made by a large majority--that for the next twelve months all persons of whatever class or occupation are prohibited from selling in any quantity all alcoholic or vinous spirits. Remember this is clothed with the strong arm of the law, the voice of the people, from which there can be no appeal, because it is from the people and by the people. We hear it said, that prohibition is a farce, because it does not prohibit and that it should not exist. The law should be upheld and executed and when we fail to do this, we fail to do our whole duty. —Robert Russ
May 1896
Robert Russ stood in the dusty street surveying his town. It was a fine town. He had created it from nothing when the railroad arrived some years earlier. Now there were stores and stables and little cottages and massive Victorian homes huddled around the railroad tracks, the town’s lifeline to the rest of the world.
The little town was growing by leaps and bounds, Russ realized as he watched the passing traffic. Saturday shoppers crowded the sidewalks. Wagons and farmers just in from the fields jammed the street. Nestled in the rolling hills of north Louisiana, the town had attracted newcomers from communities bypassed by the railroad. Those towns were dying, while Russ Town, or Ruston, grew.
Russ surveyed the town with pride. Groups of farmers and businessmen were huddled in typical Saturday conversations. “Bryan will beat McKinley, sure as the world is round,” he heard one man declare. The Presidential election was big news. Rumor was William Jennings Bryan was planning to speak at the Chautauqua during the summer. What a boon for Ruston if a Presidential candidate came to town.
As Russ walked, he heard bits of other conversations.
“Looks like a good crop this year, if the weather holds out.”
“You really think we need a new courthouse? I say wait ten or twelve years.”
“Son, no dogs allowed in here. Take’em outside.”
Ruston was a boomtown of sorts with businesses and homes springing up with the daily migration of newcomers. Unlike the typical gold rush town, which appeared overnight with a mass of tents and hastily erected shacks, this community was being built as if its residents planned to stay a very long time. Robert Russ was proud of his creation.
Ruston owed its existence to the railroad. Russ had closed some shrewd business deals with the Vicksburg, Shreveport, and Pacific Railroad leaving him with a nice profit. But Ruston was more than a business transaction to its founder. It was a vision of new beginnings. It was an infant Russ perceived not only as his creation, but his responsibility. His family extended beyond the thirteen children bore by his wife to an entire community.
Russ invoked visions of an Old Testament patriarch with a fine graying beard his grandchildren loved to touch. He walked with a commanding gait with his head held high. More than once his deep set, piercing eyes and stern face had frightened a child new to Ruston. The fear would last only until the child saw the eventual kind smile and heard the friendly words that were shared with all.
Russ insured certain necessities were available for the citizens by donating land for schools, churches, and a cemetery. The grammar school was top notch as far as Russ was concerned. A stanch Christian, he was thankful for the considerable number of churches. The cemetery, on the next hill to the west, was owned by the town which sold plots at prices that kept poor men in the country graveyards.
Other civic services were initiated as needs arose and means
of funding were discovered. Recently, a fine pair of matched grays was purchased by the Town Council to pull the fire wagon. The streets were oiled frequently by inmates to keep down the dust. Rough plank crosswalks connected one block to the next, requiring business patrons to detour only occasionally around the sea of mud that formed after each rain.
The Chautauqua drew guests from across the country to hear great orators. It had become one of the premier sites for obtaining a bit of culture and education and relaxation during scorching Louisiana summers.
It could be the perfect town with a bit more work. The schools were good, and there was even a small college to train teachers and other professionals. The community leaders thought only of the well-being of the people instead of scheming to take advantage of their positions of trust. Even the streets had been laid out in perfect symmetry.
Yes, the town was developing quite nicely. Russ could see new construction in every direction, but with the continuing growth came unanticipated problems. The trains brought in the bad along with the good. Crime was not rampant, but there was enough to cause concern. From the beginning, community leaders made efforts to guarantee Ruston would be a quiet, clean place to raise a family. Laws were enacted, and officers employed to enforce those laws.
Russ believed most of the problems of misconduct had their roots in drunkenness and the foolishness that usually accompanied overindulgence. The brawls and shootings always seemed to involve those who drank too much. Church and civic leaders had just completed a campaign to end the sale of intoxicating liquors in and around Ruston. The effort had been successful with the good citizens outvoting the whiskey element to forbid the sale of alcoholic beverages.
Russ hoped the drunkenness and disorderly conduct could be contained so that Ruston might continue to promote its reputation as a peace-loving town. Attempts to maintain law and order were plagued by a constant turnover in the small police force, however. Many men anxious to tackle the job soon found it was more than they could handle. In the past six years, over a half dozen had been appointed Police Chief, or Town Marshal, as some called him. Some soon turned in their badges—others were asked to surrender them. The policemen positions were refilled regularly with farmers, shopkeepers, and others seeking means to better support their families. Each started with good intentions, but the best of men are often naive to the ways of evil beings and their crimes of darkness.
Russ glanced down the street to the courthouse. The high sheriff had enough to worry about with Vienna and other communities in the parish. Russ himself had served as sheriff years ago, and he knew it was a big job. The Wire Road, the alternative to rail travel across north Louisiana, bisected the parish east to west. As its use declined with the coming of the trains, it became more popular with those wishing to avoid the law.
A woman carrying a bundle of parcels came up the street, herding a small army of children in front of her. It was remarkable, Russ believed, that women could look after so many kids along with their other housekeeping duties. His own wife had handled most of the responsibility of supervising the upbringing of their thirteen children. He admired his wife, just as he did the woman moving in his direction. He admired the woman almost as much as he respected her husband.
Now there was a man who could stand up to the lawless element. He had already proved he was a tough man, a strong man who respected the law and expected others to do the same. Just the kind of man Ruston needed. He could handle the job.
Russ quickly crossed the street to greet the woman.
CHAPTER TWO
Ruston, La. 5-8-96
Dear Mollie,
Nothing of much importance has transpired since your departure for Monroe except the arrest of Frank Mullins today under two charges. One by the United States Marshal Sisemore for selling whiskey without license and the other by the Town for keeping a blind tiger. The Mayor fined him fifty dollars and ordered him to move it out of town in forty-eight hours of they would make a raid on it at once. Sisemore threw a double barrel shot gun in Frank’s face and made him throw up his hands and arrested him while Winfield searched him for firearms. I saw if from the Post Office and expected to see trouble but there was none. They had the drop on him. It all happened just as the train left this morning.
I am afraid he will kill some good men yet when his house is searched for I have no idea that he will leave without raising a fuss. But the people seem determined to make him dry up his blind tiger. Charly Lewis deserves a great deal of credit and I am proud to see him take the bull by the horns. All he needs is for the good people to stand up to him and render the proper assistance.
—letter from Robert Russ to his daughter Mollie
May 1896
The lone man led his horse out of the unattended livery stable. Long shadows inched across the street as he mounted the huge gray mare. The man seemed big himself. His keen, searching eyes scanned the vacant street. Deputy United States Marshal John Tom Sisemore was hot, dusty, and worn out.
He made his way down Ruston’s main street, detouring around the passenger train that had only moments before brought him closer to home.
The old man who worked the stable in the evening had not appeared, much to Sisemore’s relief. He was in no mood for desultory conversation. Five miles still lay ahead and only a few hours of daylight remained.
His trip had been long and tiresome but very productive. Chasing down stills was rough, dirty work.
Sisemore allowed the mare to stop at a watering trough, then reined her away, pointing her south and towards home. The mare resisted slightly, content to remain at the livery stable than travel the last few miles to her own barn. The livery was her second home anyway—when Sisemore rode the rails to one assignment or another, the mare remained in the livery next to the tracks.
The remaining miles passed quickly as the mare hastened her step, sensing home and rest were near. Sisemore could hear children playing behind the house as he rode up to the front porch and dismounted.
He glanced down at his filthy clothes. Nora would be tempted to refuse him admittance into her spotless house. Using his battered hat, he knocked some of the grime from his clothes. With his hand, he wiped a thin layer of dust off his drooping moustache.
The boards of the porch creaked beneath him, reminding Sisemore of Nora’s plea to move to town. They really did not farm anymore, just a garden and some stock. Now with a modest but steady income as a federal marshal, Sisemore could let Nora enjoy some of the luxuries of city life most farmers could not afford. He could easily afford a nice but unassuming home in Ruston.
Sisemore was ambivalent to the idea and had yet to give Nora an answer. Living in town would be more convenient and comfortable, but the seclusion of the farm was attractive. Sisemore tried to be friendly but the marshal was not a socialite. He often found himself being too suspicious of others. Many of his intimate contacts had not been with community leaders or prominent citizens but with outlaws. He preferred to speak with an informant in a dark alley about the newest moonshine operation than to converse with a banker in front of the drug store about this year’s cotton crop.
Still, the thought of city life was not bad. The train and the courthouse would be near. Nora could enjoy the company of other women and some of the finer things in life. The children would be thrilled. A trip to town every week or two was as exciting to them as any carnival.
Sisemore let himself in and found his wife hovering over two heavy iron pots simmering on the stove. The curls of her mousy hair had straightened in the kitchen heat. She tried to push them up with the back of her hand—a mechanical motion that revealed to Sisemore his wife’s fatigue. He tiptoed up behind her, kissing her lightly on the neck.
“John Tom Sisemore!” she exclaimed. “How dare you come in my kitchen dressed like that!”
“Well, I couldn’t very well leave my clothes on the front porch, now could I?”
Nora shook her head at him, then smiled and kissed him.
“The least
you can do is hang that shirt out back.”
Sisemore started for the back door and nearly tripped over an obstacle that had appeared from nowhere.
“Whoa, little girl. I nearly got you,” Sisemore declared as he grabbed up the baby of the family. Barely two years old, Loy Sisemore liked to hide underneath her mother’s apron. The father lifted his daughter high in the air several times to the child’s delight and returning her to the floor, patted her on the head.
Sisemore stepped out the back door and was greeted by more youngsters of various shapes and sizes. The oldest was Julius. Preferred to be called J. V., he was eight and sprouting up like a cornstalk. It was obvious he would tower over his father before he reached manhood. John Willie was six, and the older girl, Eula, was four.
“Look, Pa!” Eula exclaimed. “Mother showed us how to make necklaces.” The tiny girl ran up to her father displaying a beaming, but grimy face and strings of sweet gum balls.
Sisemore hugged her. “They’re very nice. I wish I had such pretty jewelry.”
“Take mine,” Eula insisted. “I can make another.”
“No, no,” laughed Sisemore. “I wouldn’t want to take yours, Eula. It will look much better on you.” He turned to his oldest son. “Any problems with the milking or the animals?”
“No, Pa,” J. V. responded proudly. “Willie helped, too.”
“Good. Your mother needs help when I’m away. Monday, how ‘bout I back to town and buy some candy at Ryan’s?” The children jumped and cheered and hugged their father.
After spending a few moments with them, Sisemore peeled off his dinghy shirt, revealing the firm muscles of a man who had spent many childhood days on the farm and in the fields. He washed himself briefly at the well, sat on the back step and pulled off his boots, revealing tiny feet. Without his horse and shirt and boots, the man no longer seemed big, yet thick and solid. The way he carried himself gave the impression he was much larger. A storekeeper in town had called him the “shortest six-foot fellar I ever saw.”