Neither Fear Nor Favor: Deputy United States Marshal John Tom Sisemore

by Wesley Harris

  Cook grumbled something about he should have run when he had the chance. Now nothing could be done with that shotgun pointed at them.

  Sisemore pulled two pairs of handcuffs from his coat pockets and threw them on the ground near the moonshiners.

  “Put those on, gentlemen, and we’ll take a little trip.”

  “What about me, Marshal?” Cook said with a grimaced face. “My shoulder’s bad hurt.”

  “It doesn’t look too bad from here, Wood. You shouldn’t be sleeping in the woods. You put those handcuffs on and I’ll think about bandaging it up so it don’t bleed too much.”

  After the outlaws were secured in handcuffs, Sisemore directed them to a buckboard sitting near the still. Cook sat in the wagon and Horton retrieved a pair of horses picketed nearby. The young moonshiner led the two to the wagon and hitched them up, not without some difficulty caused by the handcuffs.

  When the wagon was ready, Sisemore told Horton to drive. While Horton climbed up and took the reins, Sisemore backed over to the still and propped the shotgun against a tree.

  “Don’t get any ideas just because I’m puttin’ this shotgun down,” he warned. “I’m gonna chop up this still but it's gettin’ daylight and I can pick you off with this pistol if you try something.”

  The men did not move. Sisemore picked up an ax used to cut firewood and swung it hard at the still. When the apparatus was damaged beyond repair, he moved to the barrels of distilled liquor. With deft blows he split each one, filling the air with a pungent odor. One of the men moaned as if the ax had struck him.

  The journey back to Ruston was slow and arduous. Wood Cook constantly complained about his wound. The older of the two moonshiners stopped whining only when he wanted to make some snide comment about lawmen to irritate the marshal. The talk did not bother Sisemore. Relief flowed from the success of the mission. He had neither killed nor been killed.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Shreveport Herald

  December 30, 1896

  UTTERLY DESTITUTE

  The Ruston drouth relief committee have made a partial report showing the utter destitude of 2,000 people and 2,184 who will be out of bread and meat before the middle of January, and dependent upon credit.

  Many worthy people would buy corn if they could borrow the means to do so and every day the committees have petitions for corn on a credit, saying that they do not wish to beg for it or obtain it for nothing, but want to promise to pay for it.

  December 1896

  John Sisemore rose from his seat on the depot platform as the V. S. & P. pulled into the station. Others were lining up to board when the conductor appeared.

  “There will be a slight delay, ladies and gentlemen; we have two cars to uncouple and leave here.”

  Some grumbled until they learned the contents of the cars. Corn filled one, meal another one. Station workers unloaded fifteen boxes of meat. It would slake the hunger of many famished farmers.

  Sisemore settled in a seat moments before the train finally pulled out headed east. When Sisemore reached Monroe, he found the Deputy Collector of Internal Revenue in his office. The federal officers greeted each other warmly.

  “Calvert, I need someone to go to Columbia with me. Can you get away for a day or two?”

  “Sorry, John. I have court tomorrow. But I think I can find someone if you don’t mind if he’s a little green.”

  Sisemore looked at him skeptically. “How green?” he asked.

  “He’s a youngster, but he’s got promise.”

  While an assistant went to find Sisemore’s one-man posse, the two officers talked of the drought. In a few minutes, a young man soon entered, and Calvert introduced him.

  “John, this is Matt Wood. Matt, meet John Sisemore. He’s a Deputy U.S. Marshal.”

  “Pleased to meet you.” Wood shook Sisemore’s hand vigorously. “Mr. Calvert has spoken of you. And of course, I’ve read about you in the papers.”

  “Well, don’t believe everything you read,” responded Sisemore, a bit of sarcasm in his voice. His tone seemed friendlier when he said, “Come to think of it, don’t believe Calvert, either.”

  ***

  On their way to Columbia on two of Calvert’s horses, Wood asked about their mission.

  “After a man named Lish Williams,” Sisemore said. “Big moonshiner up in Union Parish. He broke jail in March and been on the run ever since.”

  “Why don’t you just wire the sheriff to pick him up?”

  “It may not be that easy,” replied Sisemore. “About a year ago, old Lish wounded the town marshal in Junction City while resisting arrest. Lish was shot nine times himself. He’s a rough one and he’ll do just about anything not to go back to jail. He’s a real daredevil.”

  Wood pondered this information for many miles before speaking again. The conversation turned to less vexing matters.

  Sisemore liked Matt Wood. The young man was bright and eager to learn. Calvert described him as brave, but without the recklessness of many young, enthusiastic lawmen. His comments proved he was well read and mature beyond his years.

  They made a few stops in a neighborhood outside Columbia before Sisemore found what he believed was the right farm. From the edge of the woods, Sisemore watched the farmhouse and barn for several minutes without detecting any activity.

  “Matt, I’m going to circle around and come up to the back door. When you see me come out of the woods, you ride up to that barn. No further. Stay around the corner of the barn so you'll have some cover if the shooting starts.”

  Matt nodded and Sisemore rode off. A few minutes later, Sisemore rode up near the house and dismounted with his shotgun.

  The young deputy spurred his horse and quickly reached the barn. He could no longer see Sisemore and assumed he was approaching the back door.

  ***

  A noise in the barn startled Wood. He looked anxiously at the house but still could not see Sisemore. After a moment’s indecision, he dismounted and circled around to the back of the barn.

  A man walked out of the barn with a wooden box and loaded it in a wagon.

  “Howdy, mister. What are you doing back here?” inquired Wood as he examined the man and the wagon with probing eyes. The man looked uneasy and nervous when he glanced down at Wood’s badge.

  “I...I’m not doing anything,” the stranger stammered.

  “What’s in the wagon?”

  “The wagon? Oh, that’s not my wagon, officer. A man asked me to watch it for him.”

  The man was becoming more jittery and uneasy. He glanced around as if he was looking for someone. Moving closer to the wagon, but keeping his distance from the stranger, Wood lifted a piece of canvas, exposing dozens of jars of moonshine.

  Color drained from the stranger’s face. Wood reached for his pistol. No time to take any chances. Then an expression of relief spread over the man’s face as he glanced over the deputy’s shoulder. A shiver ran down Wood’s spine as he realized the stranger’s accomplice must be behind him.

  Matt froze as he heard the click of a cocking pistol and felt cold steel against his neck.

  “Not so fast, lawman. Just drop that pistol.”

  Matt dropped his gun and remained still.

  “Don’t turn around.”

  Wood felt foolish. He knew better than to concentrate all his attention on the first man. He should have guarded for the approach of others.

  “He’s seen the whiskey, Lish,” said the first man. “What are we gonna do?”

  “Well, I reckon we can’t just let him go now, can we? He’ll be hot on our trail before we get out of the parish good.”

  Matt trembled slightly and Lish Williams laughed. “I think the lawman is scared. I don’t think he wants to die.”

  Williams moved his gun and pushed Matt to the ground. “Why don’t you go for your gun? I’m sure you’re very fast.”

  Matt considered picking up his pistol. To call for help would mean instant death. The gun was about two feet away and m
ight provide his only chance. Maybe he could grab up the gun and roll out of the way of Lish’s first shot and return fire. He might die if he did nothing.

  Lish Williams laughed again and taunted Matt. “Come on, lawman, you scared? Pick it up.”

  Wood glimpsed some movement nearby. Then he recognized Sisemore but was careful not to betray him as the first man’s face had almost warned him of Williams.

  Matt hung his head as if he had no desire to fight, hoping to cause the wanted man to relax. Suddenly and without warning, Sisemore ran up behind Williams, swinging his shotgun at the man’s head. Williams went down with a thud and Matt grabbed up his pistol and covered the other man.

  The man screamed, raising his hands high in the air. “Don’t shoot, I ain’t armed.”

  The two officers shackled the man with handcuffs and loaded the now unconscious Williams in the wagon. Matt Wood then climbed up on the wagon while Sisemore retrieved their horses.

  After turning the prisoners over to the parish jailer in Columbia, the two lawmen walked to a small restaurant. Matt sank into a battered chair and clutched his head with trembling hands, dazed and sick. He had heard of men becoming violently ill after realizing death was close at hand. The physical danger was over but Wood was just understanding the magnitude of his fear.

  “Marshal, I would be dead now if you hadn’t come along.”

  “Aw, he was probably bluffing, Matt,” Sisemore reassured him. “You could have talked your way out of it.”

  “That’s the problem. I’m a man of words; you’re a man of action. Sometimes words just aren’t enough. Sometimes you have to act first and talk later.”

  ***

  Back in Ruston, Sisemore sought out Winfrey May to learn the latest news.

  “John, if I resign will you consider becoming Chief if the Town Council asks you?”

  May’s question shocked him.

  “Scott, I’m not going to take your job because you’re not going to resign.”

  “This is not the first time I have considered this,” May admitted. “I’ve been thinking of resigning and maybe starting a business. And Eugenia has been worried sick since the gunfight with Frank Mullins.”

  “Why don’t you go home and sleep on it,” urged Sisemore. “You’ll probably feel different tomorrow.”

  May rose from the chair. “I’ll go home but my mind is made up. I’ve had enough. And the job is practically yours for the asking. See you tomorrow, John.”

  ***

  Mullins was much more than a thorn in their side, Sisemore realized. Repercussions from the previous shootings stained the town and its lawmen. Mullins continued to operate in open defiance of the law. The fines he paid in the mayor’s court were simply a cost of doing business.

  Sisemore faced other problems besides. Others engaged in moonshining and other criminal activities. A few decades earlier, the area had been only sparsely populated and crime rarely occurred. When fine, law-abiding citizens moved into previously uninhabited areas to raise families and build new lives, someone desiring to rob or molest them followed. Much like a pack of wolves, outlaws went where they could find meat. As the country grew, so followed the wolves.

  Although wolves usually attack the weak and unprotected, they will strike against superior foes when cornered. More than one threat had been directed against Sisemore for his diligent efforts to keep lawbreakers behind bars. Some had promised to get him when they were released from prison; others still at large realized their days were numbered unless Sisemore was eliminated.

  The marshal put little credence in the threats and rumors. They were just part of the job. The effect such talk had on his family grieved him. Nora worried when he was away for days at a time with no means to send word home. Nora never knew if her man was safe or dead.

  Nora worried enough when he was away from home, without the additional burden of death threats on her mind. The murder of Ed Beatty had shaken her badly. If they’re gunning down the witnesses, could her husband be next?

  Though he perceived the threats mostly as malicious gossip, Sisemore was uneasy. Ed’s death the moment Frank Mullins was released was no coincidence. Sisemore did not believe in coincidences.

  The two had crossed paths a few times on the street in the past two months. Neither spoke nor molested the other. A strange sensation overcame Sisemore each time he looked into Frank's dark, confusing eyes. Sometimes he saw wild, consuming fires in their cryptic depths. Other times, those eyes looked blank and expressionless. From afar, Mullins appeared to have a youthful face, almost that of a teenager. On closer observation, the hardened features and those eyes revealed Mullins anything but a child. He was lanky yet muscular with a barely perceptible moustache. His capricious emotions, speech, and actions were certainly not those of a youngster.

  Mullins was the type to let things boil up inside him and then decide to resolve matters himself. Until the brutal killing of Ed Beatty, no one would have believed Frank Mullins was a murderer. Perhaps he would never hang for that crime—he would make sure there were no witnesses when he performed such a deed—and he would never open his mouth to brag.

  Those thoughts haunted Sisemore. He tried to shrug them off. Shaken by his brother-in-law’s death, he vowed not to rest until the killer paid for his crime. The threats, he figured, were merely a ploy to encourage him to relax and ease his pressure on the bootleggers, moonshiners, and other desperadoes. No chance of that. Sisemore had a war to wage. If he had to meet his Maker, it might as well be on the field of battle doing the job he loved.

  ***

  A few days later, Sisemore continued his relentless pursuit of the moonshiners, hitting a still much closer to home. He took the V. S. & P. to Cheniere, a small station on the line between Ruston and Monroe. The still and its operators were just a short walk from the train depot.

  He told Winfrey May about the raid on his return to Ruston. “I’ve never been more surprised by what I found, Winfrey.”

  “What was that?”

  “The still was one I seized nearly two years earlier in a raid near Choudrant.”

  “No! How could that be?”

  “I placed it in a farmer’s barn for storage, and I guess I neglected to return and dispose of it after court.”

  “What did your prisoners say?”

  “Allen Hogan said nothing but Charles Crocker grinning like a possum when he described what happened. You should have heard old Crocker. He was laughing when he told me about it. ‘It was heavy, Marshal. Mighty heavy. We didn’t have no wagon to tote it in. But it was easier than buildin’ our own.’”

  “Before I walked them back to the station, I destroyed it for good this time. As well as 65-gallon still, 750 gallons of mash, and 10 gallons of white whiskey.”

  May chuckled. “I’m sure that distressed them to no end.”

  “I thought they were going to cry in front of the judge at the federal court.”

  May’s smile disappeared as he said, “John, I’ve made a decision you’re not going to like. I have decided not to seek another term as police chief. The Town Council will a replacement in January. It should be you, John. hope you will throw your hat in the ring.”

  “I hate to see you go, Winfrey. Nope. Not interested. Not interested at all.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Ruston Leader - January 11, 1897. James G. Huey has been appointed Chief of Police with the understanding if any question arose about his performance, he would resign.

  Shreveport Herald - January 20, 1897. United States Marshal James M. Martin informs the Herald that A. Malcombe was arrested at Knowles, in Lincoln parish, by Deputy United States Marshal Sisemore on the 18th, for violating the internal revenue laws. Mr. Malcombe has been selling liquor without a license.

  Shreveport Evening Journal

  February 4, 1897

  DROUTH SUFFERERS.

  Gather in Monroe Seeking the Necessaries of Life.

  Story of Distress Among the People of That Section.

&
nbsp; Monroe, La. - West Monroe seems to be the Mecca for the drought sufferers from Lincoln, Union, Jackson and portions of Winn, Caldwell, and Ouachita parishes. There were between 400 to 500 people in the town all wanting corn. One old negro from Lincoln said he had three head of work stock and they had not eaten any grain since last November. He was so persistent in his demands and impressed the distributor of free corn so forcibly that he was given fifteen bushels.

  Winter 1897

  Had the ’96 drought come late—when the grass had reached its potential—the conditions may have been a hardship rather than a disaster. Instead, stock starved, and children whimpered in hunger. Winter rains did little to help withered pastures and their dormant grass. With no growth until spring, stocked needed hay or grain to survive.

  Trainloads of food arrived, but plow stock needed corn. Ben Thompson had traveled the Midwest seeking corn at the direction of Governor Foster. Despite Thompson’s efforts, tearful farmers shipped nearly one thousand head of Lincoln Parish cattle to slaughterhouses in Texas and Kansas.

  Speculation continued about the new President’s intentions, especially regarding foreign affairs. William Jennings Bryan had carried Louisiana to no avail. McKinley occupied the White House—barely getting fifty percent of the national vote—to the dismay of most local residents.

  The Very Slow and Pokey lumbered along, its languid journey punctuated by stops on the line west of Monroe. First, West Monroe, Cheniere, Tremont, and then Choudrant. Sisemore was lost in contemplation as barren cotton fields and dry piney forests drifted by. James Huey had replaced Winfrey May as chief. The Town Council had its reservations, even though Huey had experience as a lieutenant in the War, Jackson Parish sheriff, and, like Winfrey May, two years as marshal of Vienna. Their arrangement provided for Huey’s dismissal at the drop of a hat.

  Sisemore considered the newly elected mayor. Yet to see his thirtieth birthday, Charles Kidd Lewis had shocked everyone with his win. Who would have thought someone of his youth could be elected? With every other businessman in Ruston named Kidd or Lewis, however, it should not have been surprising.