—a circular letter from a U.S. Marshal to his deputies
Summer 1895
The sheriff rocked back lazily in his chair and aimed at a brass spittoon near the corner of his desk. John Tom Sisemore stood in the doorway.
“Good morning, Sheriff.”
“Mornin’.” He spat. “What can I do for you?”
“My name is Sisemore. I’m a Deputy United States Marshal.”
The sheriff spoke curtly. “Like I said, what can I do for you?”
“Well, I’m new to this job and thought I should pay you a courtesy call if I'm going to be working this area.”
The sheriff spat again, loudly this time. Rocking back in his chair, he propped his boots on the corner of his desk. “Well, you’ve taken your time gettin’ here,” he said, with a nasty sarcasm in his voice. “From what I hear, half the country already knows about John Tom Sisemore. And I think you have been making arrests in my parish without consulting me.”
Sisemore moved into the office, keeping a respectful distance from the sheriff's desk. “I’m sorry, Sheriff, but those were situations where I had to act quickly. I just did not have time to speak to you beforehand.”
The sheriff grunted. “You federal revenuers are all alike. You don't give a hill of beans for the repercussions of what you do. The folks around here think you revenuers are here to rob hard-working people of their money. I’m supposed to be the law in this parish.”
“Sheriff, I’m not a revenuer. I work for the United States Marshal and the federal court. I’m just here to enforce the law.”
“I’ve been reading about you. I see those articles in the Shreveport paper. We’re not as far back in the woods as you think.”
“Sheriff, I’m just trying to do my job the best I can. I’m here to ask for your help.”
The sheriff laughed. “From what I read in the newspapers, you don’t need any help. They say you’re all the law this state needs. Well, I’m the law in this parish. Listen, Sisemore, I got all the trouble I need. I don’t need you in my parish trying to lock up some dirt-poor farmer trying to make a little money to feed his kids by cooking up a little ’shine in the woods.” The sheriff twisted in his chair and spat again, missing the spittoon and splattering tobacco on Sisemore’s boots.
Sisemore stared with hard eyes at the sheriff. “Good day, Sheriff,” he said and turned and walked out.
The words of Marshal Martin in a meeting a month before echoed in Sisemore's mind as he rode out of town.“John, you are not going to be met with open arms everywhere you go. Some sheriffs are not too cooperative with us.”
Martin had explained the moonshiner’s hard feelings toward federal authorities often did not extend to the local sheriff. And often, sheriffs did not take too kindly to others enforcing the law in their parishes.
“The sheriff could be a friend or even a relative of the people you’re after,” Martin explained. “They all have roots in the community. He’s one of them in that sense.”
Sisemore realized within a month on the job that some moonshiners worked at the pleasure of the local sheriff. The sheriffs might condone or simply ignore the law violations. There were several reasons for dealing with such matters in a discreet way. The sheriffs often had grown up with those making illegal whiskey. They had been friends since childhood. Besides, a sheriff had to run for office and any man locked up was not willing to vote for his jailer in elections to come.
Mostly, the sheriffs ignored the small-time operators who worked stills to supplement the earnings from their farms. Sisemore was not greatly concerned about those farmers, either. He knew the life of the farm. The men he wanted to get were the bigger operators who engaged in moonshining, cattle rustling, robbery, and other illegal activities as if they were genuine business ventures.
Martin had also kidded him over the many newspaper reports of his exploits. “I knew you would make a name for yourself, but not anything like this. I was telling Alex your name is in the paper more than mine and all my deputies put together.”
“I assure you, Marshal,” Sisemore explained, “I’m not trying to get my name in the paper.”
Martin laughed and said, “I know, John. If it was anyone else I might think differently. But you are making more arrests than anyone else right now, and everything I read is very positive. I can’t complain.”
***
Sisemore readjusted his gun belt and shifted in his saddle as he rode. His personal weapon of choice, a Winchester 12-gauge Model 1887 shotgun, was secured to the saddle. It held four shells of buckshot. The racking of a shell into the chamber of a shotgun was a sound no man could miss—or mistake. When the shotgun talked, people listened. Sisemore was not a verbose man, and he liked how the weapon could speak for him.
He had read stories in the pulp magazines about lawmen using their revolvers to shoot guns out of villains’ hands at twenty-five yards. He couldn’t do it at twenty-five feet. Maybe at ten. Either the stories were outrageous half-truths or outright lies, or Sisemore was a lousy pistol shot. After observing some fellow marshals and federal revenuers at work, he decided the stories were fabrications of some imaginative writer. He shot as good as the lawmen working with him and was especially adept with the shotgun. Many hours of rabbit hunting as a boy had proved that.
Sisemore was trying to visit all the parish sheriffs and town marshals as his duties permitted. He hoped to enlist their help if possible. Most were cooperative and welcomed his assistance. Like his brief skirmish with the last sheriff, he believed some of his visits had only served to warn the moonshiners there was a new federal lawman in the area.
The hostilities harbored by the moonshiners and bootleggers for the federal government and particularly for revenuers were immense. Washington estimated millions of dollars in tax revenue were lost every year because of illegal, untaxed moonshine. The moonshiners perceived the federal lawmen as tax collectors who were interfering with their way of life—a way of life many were willing to defend.
Riding the countryside was part of the job Sisemore enjoyed. He was never much on staying indoors, taking after his father. In his mind, Ruston shopkeepers like Lewis, Holland, and the Gullatts led rather depressing lives. Thompson was a little different. He traveled and did so much work at the Chautauqua grounds, he was not as cooped up as the others.
The road put Sisemore where he wanted to be, and he put the hostile sheriff out of his mind. Sisemore rode his big mare, amazed at how he was working and enjoying himself at the same time. It was a long journey back to the farm of his youth and the field work he so often abhorred. This was more like hunting, a pleasurable experience.
Riding the roads, Sisemore found, was the ideal working environment and an effective means of uncovering illegal activity as well. Many outlaws had no experience with lawmen actively working to expose crimes such as moonshining or cattle rustling. Often the law did not make a move until some citizen raised a little cane. Sisemore did not wait for complaints. Rather than reacting to crime, he aggressively pursued it.
Sisemore was feared but also respected for his unique ability in tracking down offenders. Many times, after Sisemore made an arrest, some acquaintance of the jailed man would be accused of supplying the deputy marshal with information. How else could Sisemore know so much about their activities? While Sisemore used informants like most lawmen, usually it was his skills of deduction, his persistence, and perhaps, to a lesser degree, the Indian in his blood that produced such amazing results.
Sisemore was becoming a driven, consumed man. He perceived himself as a warrior in battle. A vigilant warrior, watching for evil. Although cautious in some respects, he displayed recklessness occasionally and an insensitivity to fear always. The toughness recognized by his boss evolved into an intolerance for crime. His philosophy of law enforcement was simple. Crime was the weapon of the enemy. His duty was to fight the battles and win the war.
The deputy marshal never tired in seeking out his adversary. The enemy was not huma
n; it was the wickedness within man that he fought. The longer he dealt with evil and evil men, the more he felt compelled to act.
Sisemore smiled to himself as he again recalled Martin's jokes about the newspapers. The reporters closely followed Sisemore’s exploits. His work was news and that kind of news sold papers. Hardly a week went by that Sisemore was not mentioned in the Ruston Leader or the competing Progressive Age. He appeared regularly in Shreveport’s Times and Herald. Often the stories were filled with exciting details as if the reporter had accompanied Sisemore on his raids. That was hardly the case, since the Marshal rarely took other lawmen with him, much less a bungling newspaperman. The writer obtained the bare facts from the deputy marshal or an informed source and create a melodramatic tale of intrigue using his own imagination.
Although the news stories were often sensational and incredible, they did not compare to the fascinating and often dangerous adventures of the man they sought to describe. One news reporter accurately wrote, “Mr. Sisemore has made it exceedingly risky for the moonshiner to run his business in North Louisiana. He is a terror to the whiskey element and all outlaws in general.” It was no wonder the civic leaders of Ruston wanted such a man to protect their families.
CHAPTER FIVE
Louisiana Chautauqua News - July 24, 1896.
Today opened with clouds and light occasional showers, which, doubtless, kept some of the friends of the free and unlimited coinage of silver at the ratio of 11 to 1, by independent action on the part of the United States, away from hearing their great light and leader, W. J. Bryan, in his two-hour lecture on “Bimetallism.” His lecture, though announced on yesterday to be an economic and scientific discourse, was strictly a repetition of many of his silver arguments as made in New Orleans, Memphis and other points.
Summer 1896
I’ve never heard McKinley speak,” said Ezekial Holland, “but he would have to be awful good to beat Bryan. You shoulda been there.”
William Andrew Jackson Lewis was rearranging items in a display case. “I’ve got a store to run,” he answered. “Besides, he’s a Democrat and McKinley is a Republican. That’s all I need to know.”
“You’re right about that,” Holland agreed. “We’ve had too many Republican Presidents since the war. Bryan might straighten out this country.”
“Colonel Prescott was in yesterday,” Lewis remarked. “He says the enrollment this fall will be much higher than last year’s. He thinks he will need more instructors.”
Colonel A. T. Prescott was the president of Ruston’s new college, the Louisiana Industrial Institute.
“I’ve heard some of his optimistic talk,” Holland said. “He thinks there’ll be a thousand students over there one day. Unlikely, I say.”
“Might happen,” said Lewis. “Nothing says every young person in the state has to go to a big city for an education.”
“Too bad Ruston College couldn’t stay open,” Holland observed. “It was nice to have a school providing young folks a religious education.”
“Well, hello, Mayor,” called Holland to a handsome man entering the store.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” answered Mayor Pea Colvin. “We just escorted Mr. Bryan to the train and I thought I would drop in.”
“Come on in, Pea,” greeted Lewis. “Tell us about that gunfire Saturday night.”
Colvin browsed through the glass display cases as he talked. “Not much to tell. Someone fired off four or five shots near the well. Scott says he can’t find anyone who saw anything.”
“Winfrey May couldn’t find his shoes each morning without Eugenia’s help,” Lewis observed. Chief Winfield Scott May’s wife was named Eugenia.
Colvin shot Lewis a dirty look. “Scott’s doing alright.”
Lewis grunted. “There’s still shootin’ around town. And liquor is still being sold in open defiance of the law. I got nothing against a drink now and then, but if I can’t sell it legal, then I won’t. But if I can’t, no one should.”
“Scott can’t go around kicking in doors,” said Colvin. “And you know he can’t be on the street around the clock.”
“Then hire some more officers. Where was that Sisemore fellar Saturday night?”
“Still in Monroe at the federal court. We knew his duties would take him out of town,” answered Colvin.
“Like I said, hire some more officers. If I get a bullet through my front window like Thompson did, I won’t be so accommodating.”
“What happened at Thompson’s?” Holland asked.
Colvin explained. “A couple of weeks ago, someone shot a hole in Ben’s display window. By luck, it didn’t break. He just plugged the hole.”
“All I can say is, it better not happen to one of those,” Lewis said, pointing at his front windows.
“I’ll talk to Scott. See what we can do.”
“Pea, you running for re-election this fall?” asked Holland.
“I think I’ve had enough. Business is really picking up and so is the competition’s. I don’t even have time to go hunting anymore. It’s time for someone to inherit these headaches.”
“Be a shame to see you go.”
Colvin laughed. “Well, it’s not like I’m going somewhere. I’ll still be involved around town.”
***
Down the street at the courthouse, John Sisemore knocked on the sheriff’s open door.
“Come on in, John.” Sheriff Eugene Howard rose from his desk and extended a huge hand. He was a big man and very popular among the citizens. Like many officeholders in Lincoln Parish, Howard was a veteran of the War. In 1862, he enlisted in the Fifth Louisiana Cavalry, one of the last Southern units to surrender. His wide and enthusiastic support was evidenced in his repeated re-election every four years since 1879.
“I’m sorry it took so long to get by,” Sisemore apologized. “I got your message as I was leaving town Monday and I just got back in.”
Howard gestured at a chair and Sisemore sat. “Nothing urgent. I just wanted to remind you that Frank Mullins’s time is almost up. His sentence ends on September 23.”
“I knew it was coming up soon but I didn’t know what day.”
“Well, I didn’t think you would forget about him, but I thought a little notice might be in order.”
“I appreciate it, Sheriff. Let’s hope he can behave himself when he gets out, but I’m not counting on it.”
Howard nodded thoughtfully. “Don’t you have more charges pending against him?”
“Federal cases,” Sisemore said. “The commissioner held off, waiting for Frank to serve his time here. He may very well go back to jail.”
“I’ll have a talk with him the day before his release.” the sheriff said. “Maybe it will do some good. Maybe not. Just watch yourself, John.”
Howard rose from his chair. “Pass on the word to Scott May?”
“Sure, Sheriff. Thanks for the warning.”
As Sisemore walked out into the humid heat, his thoughts turned to Frank Mullins. Sisemore and Winfrey May, with help from Pea Colvin, engaged in a running gun battle with Mullins on President Washington's birthday in 1895. It had been a wild affair and it was miraculous no one was killed.
Purchasing a storefront on Railroad Avenue, Frank Mullins had proclaimed himself a portrait photographer. Sisemore knew of no one who had been photographed in Frank’s studio. It was ideally situated across from the depot. Although there was a camera set up and bottles of chemicals here and there, they were obvious props designed to thinly camouflage other endeavors. He sold copious quantities of liquor at wildly inflated prices. May arrested Mullins on several occasions to no avail. The illegal whiskey sales continued. Frank Mullins considered fines just a cost of operating his business.
Sisemore had entered the picture, arranging for an informant to purchase enough liquor from Mullins to put him away for a while. Sisemore could take charges to federal court with potentially greater penalties. As far as Frank Mullins knew, Ed Beatty was just another dirt farmer. Mul
lins did not hesitate to make the sale. Only later did he learn Beatty was married to Sisemore’s sister.
Sisemore had come from a large family with five brothers and one sister. He smiled to himself as he thought of Frannie and how she was always outnumbered by the boys. His big brother, Jessie, had always looked out for Frances. Now there was another man caring for her. Ed Beatty was a fine husband. He had not hesitated when Sisemore asked for help in making a case against Frank Mullins. Ed considered it his duty, brother-in-law or not.
The marshal decided to make a few circuits through town before heading home. He thought briefly about his discussions with Nora about moving to Ruston. If they moved, he would be home as soon as he completed his rounds.
As Sisemore had anticipated, he spent much of his time as a Ruston policeman dealing with troublemakers with concealed weapons, petty thieves, and drunks causing minor disturbances. Friday and Saturday nights were the busiest. That was when Ruston was packed with folks looking for some stimulating diversion. Some had toiled all week behind a plow and simply wanted to attend a performance at the Opera House. Others intended to create some mischief.
One directive from the Town Council to Chief May was to stop the shooting in the streets on weekend evenings. Although Ruston was dry and there were no saloons, some still managed to find liquor. Frank Mullins was not the sole supplier of illegal brew. After several drinks, the miscreants found it amusing to fire their guns up in the air or maybe into a store display window. There had been a few near misses. The more upstanding citizens of the town were furious their families could not enjoy a Saturday night at the Opera House or a stroll about town without worrying about being struck by a stray bullet.
May, along with Sisemore and two other part-time officers, watched the streets at night for rowdies and men carrying weapons. Drunks were quickly arrested and locked up before they caused any harm. While it was not illegal to carry firearms, those who did were often warned of the consequences if they used their guns in town. If a man was found with bootleg whiskey or a concealed gun, he ended up sharing a cell with the drunks.
Neither Fear Nor Favor: Deputy United States Marshal John Tom Sisemore Page 3