It was very dark at the time, and of course there was no trace of the assassin. Mrs. Beatty says she saw a portion of the gun barrel as it was poked through the doorway and when the flash came.
Mr. Beatty was the brother-in-law of Deputy United States Marshal John T. Sisemore, and that gentleman, who resides within half a mile of where the tragedy occurred, was at once notified of the affair and went to the house of his sister.
The assassin got in the space between the shed and dining room and it was from his vantage ground, concealed by the darkness, that the bloody deed was committed. The tragedy has caused much excitement in and around Ruston. Beatty had no known enemies and so the mystery attending his terrible taking off has not been solved.
Had it not been for the fact that he was accompanied home by Mr. Turpin it is believed that he would have been killed before he reached his dwelling.
September-October 1896
As John Sisemore trudged up to the front steps of his parent’s home, the others who had scoured the woods with him all night lingered behind outside. Tired and dirty and soaked from rains during the manhunt.
Sisemore’s sister and her children were inside, having fled their own house, fearful more terror would come if they remained on the premises.
It was his own fault, Sisemore decided. He had convinced Ed to help him get Frank Mullins. There was no doubt in his mind Mullins was responsible. He had only been out of jail a few days and knew another trial awaited him. A trial that could send him back to a cell.
Sisemore’s father sat still and silent at the kitchen table. Too old and slow to aid in the chase, too much of a man to be of any comfort to Frannie and the children. He did not look up when John Tom walked by, laying his shotgun on the table.
Frannie, still wearing the blood-stained dress, was curled on one of the beds, whimpering. The children were piled up beside her, finding solace in deep sleep.
Sisemore stood beside the bed. He wanted so much to say the right thing to his sister. To do something to make things better.
“John,” his mother whispered from a rocking chair in a dark corner.
He looked up. Mary Sisemore shook her head, telling him not to disturb Frannie.
Sisemore looked at his widowed sister for a long time as she lay whimpering helplessly. He hated what he saw.
Sisemore returned to chasing moonshiners the next day. With no clues remaining to identify the killer, he did the only thing left to do. Harass the criminal element with a renewed vengeance until someone talked. Later in the day, when he arrested Jesse Holloway and the two Sullivan boys for running a still, he grilled them all the way to the federal judge in Monroe. Soon the arrests of J. T. Winn, David King, and Eli Sno followed, but John Sisemore was no closer to locking up Ed Beatty’s killer.
***
Robert Russ folded his newspaper and dropped it to his lap. He laid his glasses on the small table beside his chair and closed his eyes. The news in recent weeks seemed grim, much of it about his own town and parish.
Although he did not know Ed Beatty, he knew the Sisemore family. The idea Frank Mullins could be involved in the murder chilled him. Mullins walked the streets of Ruston every day. The continued confrontations between Mullins and the law brought thoughts of even more serious encounters ahead.
Russ returned to his paper.
Negroes Near Ruston Ordered to Leave the Parish
Special to the Times.
Ruston, La., Oct. 9 - Judge Barksdale was occupied the greater part of this week in hearing a preliminary trial of Mitch and John Wright and a young man by the name of Giles, accused of killing a negro, Allen West in the Fifth ward of this parish. Mitch Wright was remanded to jail without bail and the other two were released.
A spirit of lawlessness seems to have possession of some of the people of the Fifth ward, as since this trial the negroes of several plantations have been visited under cover of night and notified to get out of the country. It is stated that at a mass meeting held in the ward a few weeks ago that some speech were made that were very bitter against the negroes. Most of the negroes are trying to get out of that section.
The police jury was in session here last Monday and with other business passed an ordinance appropriating $250 for the arrest and conviction of the assassin of Ed Beatty. They also appointed S. P. Colvin, F. T. Slaton and B. F. Thompson as a committee to secure a pair of bloodhounds for this parish. They passed a resolution requesting the president of the police jury to ask the governor to reply to a communication sent him some time ago in regard to the destitution in this parish.
Many of our people are in truly a bad condition. The merchants can not afford to carry them further until another crop is made and many of them with families have absolutely nothing to carry them through the winter. Unless they get help from some source great suffering will result.
***
Sisemore found many of his stills in Ward Five. Russ wondered if the marshal might have informants in that area who provided information on West’s killing. Murder was the sheriff’s responsibility, but Sisemore could have lent a hand. Russ hoped the days when the White League terrorized black families had not returned.
Seeing the Beatty murder back in the paper surprised Russ a bit. Within days the reports had petered out when the reporters found nothing new to write.
CHAPTER NINE
Shreveport Herald
December 7, 1896
MOONSHINERS AND PRAYER. Dr. Morton, a Presbyterian evangelist, has been holding meetings at Ruston and other points in Lincoln parish. In the sparsely settled portions of Lincoln, as is well known, the moonshiner flourishes. Dr. Morton went out into the neighborhood where the moonshiners are supposed to be thickest, which led the Ruston Leader to hope for better results than even follow one of Captain Jim Martin’s periodical raids:
“Published reports show that Dr. Morton has made a wonderful record in Kentucky as an evangelist. In many places where the illicit distillery business was carried on to a very great degree in the mountain regions, they abandoned it altogether, and many who once thought it no harm to take the life of a revenue officer who was interfering with their business, are now God-loving and God-serving people.”
December 1896
John Sisemore fought Demon Rum with ferocity. He rose quietly just before dawn and slipped outside into the early winter chill. A heavy frost seemed freeze the landscape into a solid mass of crystals. A cloudy mist hung close to the ground Sisemore saddled his horse, mounted, and headed north to Ruston.
As he passed through Ruston, the town was just coming to life. Shopkeepers made signs of readying for business, sweeping sidewalks and rearranging window displays. A few waved as the marshal rode by. Sisemore did not stop, continuing north on the Vienna Road.
As he neared the former parish seat, Sisemore scanned the edge of the woods with care. The sun peeked through the morning mist and frosty pine needles sparkled like diamonds on green velvet. Only in the early morning did the ravages of months of drought seem negligible. With the light of day came the realization the brown pastures had turned to deserts. When spring arrived, many of the trees would not bear new foliage, their life juices gone, their branches brittle and dead.
Sisemore felt unusually good. The brisk air invigorated him. He interpreted the beautiful morning as an omen of good things to come. His job and the welfare of his family remained untouched by the effects of the monumental dry spell. Only the cloud of Ed’s death cast a somber shadow on Sisemore’s life. Frannie and the children coped as well as anyone could expect.
Sisemore often paid for information, but Little Jimmy never asked for anything, and Sisemore never insulted him by offering. Little Jimmy seemed to have his own reasons for helping although Sisemore had never discovered them.
Little Jimmy preferred a simple life in the hills to the northwest where many outlaws and moonshiners made their camps. A big, burly man, he had more than once frightened a youthful hunter who encountered him in the woods for the
first time. Little Jimmy was a quiet and harmless fellow unless riled. His taciturn nature led most outlaws and moonshiners to pay him no mind.
What remained of Vienna was almost in sight when Little Jimmy stepped out from behind a giant red oak, startling Sisemore’s horse. The marshal glanced up the road and then looked back toward Ruston. Seeing no one, he spurred the big mare into the woods and dismounted.
“Mornin’, Little Jimmy.”
“Mornin’, Marshal,” the big man replied in his usual quiet, respectful tone.
“What have you got for me?”
“I know where that still is you been looking for. It’s back in the woods off the Hico Road.”
“How do I get to it?”
“Go past the Greene place. Just after, take that road to the north toward Hico. Go about two miles to a fork in the road. Know where I'm talking about?”
Sisemore nodded.
“Take the left fork and you will come to a creek. Follow it back to the north and you'll find’em.”
“How much help do they have with them?”
“Yesterday, just the two you mentioned—Cook and Horton. There’s two or three fellas what come and go, hauling loads in and out.”
Sisemore scraped the carpet of leaves with the edge of his boot, revealing a bare patch of earth.“Can you make me a map, Jimmy, showing exactly where the camp is?”
Little Jimmy squatted and picked up a twig and scratched out the location of the camp in relation to creeks and other landmarks Sisemore knew.
Sisemore obliterated the map with a swipe of his boot as the informant rose to his feet.
“Have you heard anything on Ed Beatty?” the marshal asked.
Little Jimmy shook his head. “Ain’t nobody talking about that one. Almost like it didn’t happen.”
Sisemore nodded. “Thanks. I appreciate your help.” He climbed onto his horse. The big man nodded slightly, turned to go deeper into the woods, and then hesitated.
“Marshal, watch that Bob Horton. He swings a wide loop. You be careful with them.”
“I will, Jimmy. Thanks again.”
Jimmy dropped his head and vanished into the woods without another word or sound.
As Sisemore rode back to Ruston, he pondered on the new information. He was sure it was reliable because he knew Jimmy and he knew Horton and Cook. And he had information from other sources informing him this operation supplied much of the parish’s whiskey.
Sisemore considered Little Jimmy’s warning. He smiled. At least they’re not robbing banks and shooting lawmen. Sisemore had heard stories about scores of murders of fellow deputy marshals in the Indian Territory. Outlaws enjoyed the absence of sheriffs and town marshals. With Indians forced from their native lands added to the mix, the Marshals Service was discovering the tremendous cost of bringing law and order into untamed areas.
Here, at least, the Indians and their way of life had disappeared many years ago, maybe even centuries ago. Their arrowheads and chipping tools littered the cotton fields. Sisemore’s father was a full-blood Cherokee, making Sisemore half-Indian himself.
Sisemore recalled what Jimmy had said about Bob Horton. “He swings a wide loop.” The same phrase had been used to describe Frank Mullins. Mullins was a bad seed, making moonshine, shooting up towns, and bullying anyone who crossed his trail. His record of arrests would fill several pages. Now, he might even be a killer.
It had been a year since their last serious encounter. Sisemore knew Frank was already back in the business. Frank was reckless and willing to take chances. Mullins was thirty-five and a year older than Sisemore but sometimes he acted more like a youngster. One day he would do something foolish and someone would die.
The marshal returned to Ruston and spent the remainder of the morning patrolling the streets, greeting shopkeepers and customers as he walked. He hoped to give the impression that he had no plans, except to stay in town. Walking past Mullins’s shop, he tried to peek nonchalantly in the curtained window. It was dark and quiet inside.
***
Early in the afternoon, he slipped out of town again and began made his way to the location Little Jimmy had described.
Since Sisemore most often worked alone, planning and surprise were essential to a successful arrest. He mentally prepared himself for the encounter as he rode. Always equipped for such raids, his saddlebags contained several pairs of handcuffs, cartridges for his Colt revolver, and shells for his Winchester shotgun.
If he was to take the gang, surprise would be the key. If he could get the jump on them, they probably would not dare resist or run for fear of being shot. Those who did escape could be located later.
A simple plan worked best. Locate the moonshine still and then back off and find a place to camp for the night. Just before sunrise, while the men were still asleep, he would sneak up on the camp and surprise them in their blankets.
After several hours of traveling, Sisemore’s horse stopped, his ears pricked up, his nose high in the air. Sisemore himself smelled the air and detected the faint odor of wood smoke. Hiding the horse in some brush, he walked with exaggerated caution through the woods with the shotgun cradled in his arms.
The smoke grew stronger, and Sisemore soon discerned a more distinct odor he often detected around moonshine stills. He had found them. Sisemore returned to his horse and rode a mile or two away to set up his own camp for the night.
It would not be easy to capture several armed men without a fight. The profit from moonshining often led men often to deadly extremes to protect their livelihood. Sisemore knew one old man who had set up bear traps around his still to discourage prowlers. And more often than not, those involved in moonshining entangled themselves in other criminal acts. If the men knew the deputy marshal at all, however, they knew he would either take them in or someone would die during the attempt.
Sisemore removed a bedroll from his saddle and draped it over his shoulders. It would be a long night. Nora was probably bathing the baby about now. Thomas Hardy Sisemore had been born healthy and happy. Her sister Mabel had assisted in the delivery and in the past Nora had done likewise for her. It was good to have family when your husband was away half the time.
Sisemore camped without a fire that night and slept leaning against a tree trunk, the shotgun across his lap.
CHAPTER TEN
Shreveport Herald - December 11, 1896. B. F. Thompson of Ruston just returned from a trip with a committee of Governor Foster to find corn for the drouth sufferers.
Shreveport Herald - December 15, 1896. The V. S. & P. train was loaded down with preachers and conference visitors when it returned from the Methodist conference in Ruston last night.
And they say that there is not a chicken left within fifteen miles of Ruston.
The general verdict was that the church accommodations in Ruston were too small for conference purposes. The next session will be held at Crowley, La.
December 1896
Sisemore needed no assistance getting up before dawn. He had spent a restless night, waking to every sound in the forest. Waking about an hour before sunrise, he chanced a fire and made some coffee. The lingering scent of the moonshiners’ own campfire would mask the small. The coffee would provide the alertness he needed to approach the still.
After two cups, Sisemore saddled his horse and weaved his through the trees. A thick carpet of decaying leaves muffled the mare’s steps. When he was about a hundred yards away, he tied the horse to a tree, retrieved the handcuffs from his saddlebag, and crept on light feet to the edge of the camp.
The campfire was only a bed of coals. No one stirred. Sisemore maneuvered without a sound to an oak tree large enough to provide some cover.
A deafening blast filled the air as Sisemore fired his shotgun into the treetops. A man struggled to throw off his blanket. Sisemore quickly followed the discharge with a yell.
“Federal marshals! Get your hands where we can see’em.” The blanketed figure stopped flailing and scanned the woods for hi
s assailant. The air was clouded with Burnt powder and the morning mist clouded the air with only a hint of daylight in the sky. Unable to see anyone or determine the strength of the lawmen, the outlaw raised his hands in surrender.
Sisemore yelled, “Keep your hands up and don’t make any sudden moves. I don’t want this shotgun to accidentally go off.” Sisemore studied the sleepy face of the man in the reflection of the dying fire and the morning light. He recognized Horton.
A loud snap startled Sisemore as a limb broke in the trees on the other side of the camp. He crouched low into deeper shadows and aimed the shotgun towards the noise.
“You in the trees! This is a federal marshal. Come on out.”
Sisemore fired another blast and flame and smoke streaked through the trees. Horton moved and Sisemore swung the shotgun toward him. Horton froze.
The smoky air caused the unseen man to cough. “Don’t shoot, Marshal. I give up. I’ll come out if you won’t shoot.”
“Come on out, Wood,” Sisemore answered.
Wood Cook walked into the clearing, one hand in the air, the other clutching a bleeding shoulder. When Sisemore could tell the man was unarmed, he also stepped out of the trees.
“John Tom Sisemore,” Horton sneered with a slight grin. “I should have known it was you.”
“Hello, Bob.” He turned to Cook and pointed at the wound with the shotgun. “What happened to you?”
“I dove into some briars,” whined Cook. “I thought you were trying to kill me.” Cook looked around. “Why don’t the other deputies come out. We ain’t gonna try nothing now.”
Bob Horton laughed. “This here Deputy U.S. Marshal is all by hisself. Them federal men don’t think they need no help.”
Neither Fear Nor Favor: Deputy United States Marshal John Tom Sisemore Page 5