Mullins stood up on the safe with his hands high in the air like a victorious prize fighter. Several whoops and cheers came from the crowd. Others grumbled as they returned to other pursuits. Mullins jumped down and Finley called upon some of the men to help transport the safe to the courthouse.
As Huey considered his next move, Mayor Lewis appeared. “I just heard what happened, but I think we’ve got enough to arrest Mullins anyway,” advised the youthful mayor. “Charge him with running a blind tiger and interfering with an officer in discharge of his duties, and I’ll hear the case tomorrow.”
Huey wished Sisemore was in town. John Tom was a good man to have around when it was necessary to take someone into custody. He motioned to several other men and they approached Mullins and VanHook. Mullins was laughing with several well-wishers.
“Frank, I’m arresting you for running a blind tiger and interfering with an officer. You’re going to have to come with me.” VanHook nodded to Mullins as if giving consent for him to accompany the officer.
Mullins faced Huey and spoke. “All I got to say is,” and then turning to the crowd boomed, “Who’s the April Fool?”
Most in the gathering laughed, including the prohibitionists.
***
Lewis held mayor’s court the next day. VanHook represented Mullins and attorneys Fred Price and J. B. Holstead served as the prosecutors for the town. An unusually large crowd was present. While a trial was a popular means of entertainment, such a minor transgression as selling alcohol rarely generated such interest. But Frank Mullins's antics in the street had stirred up the town, with elements present in the courtroom both supporting and opposing the defendant. Lewis heard the rather lengthy testimony and the argument of counsel before he spoke to the defendant. “I fine you $50 for operating a blind tiger.”
Mullins flared. “This ain’t justice. You never found any liquor. And a real judge says you can’t look in my safe. I’m being railroaded...” VanHook silenced his client and hurried him from the room. Most spectators seemed pleased at the outcome.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Ruston, La. April 14, 1897
To the Honorable Mayor and Councilmen
of the town of Ruston Louisiana.---
I hereby tender my resignation as marshal of Ruston to take effect from this date.
J. G. Huey
Shreveport Times. May 11, 1897. Marshal Lott is after the “tiger” and has struck a hot trail.
Ruston Leader. May 12, 1897. LOST. A diamond ring. Either in Ruston or in Junction City, or on the road between these towns. It was wrapped in blue paper and dropped from my pocket. The finder will be liberally rewarded if he will return same to
T. F. Mullins, Ruston, La.
Spring 1897
The Town Council received Huey’s resignation two weeks after the April Fools’ Day disaster in the street. The embarrassing ruckus. With the train in the station, word had spread up and down the line with rumors gun play had occurred.
According to the councilmen, the incident had given Frank Mullins a literal soapbox from which he inflicted more damage on Ruston’s reputation than the sale of whiskey ever could.
Part-time officer A.T. Lott took over as chief. He impressed Sisemore as more suited for the job than the elderly Huey, mostly because of his no-nonsense toughness. Sisemore had also taught him a few tricks when they worked together. Still, the 50-year old Lott himself had been in failing health for several years and was uncertain how long he could serve. Ruston certainly had a problem, Sisemore reflected. In the past six years, seven men had served as chief. No continuity in enforcing the law or any type of plan for ridding the town of lawbreakers was possible with that kind of record.
Sisemore rode the town slowly, greeting the citizens he passed, neither he nor the mare in any hurry. The incident with Huey and Frank Mullins showed him matters were more serious than he had imagined. Ruston needed a strong police chief. He hoped one would be found soon, for such a man could help in executing Sisemore’s own plans against the outlaws.
Sisemore liked Ruston, its downtown area like a big city, with buildings abutting up against one another for several blocks, but a brief walk of several hundred yards would take you over hills into woods so thick a man would never know civilization was near. Then, almost as quickly, the forest would give way to acres upon acres of cotton. If he had to live in a town, Ruston was as good as any. He liked having the peace and solitude of the woods so close. He figured the woods would be pushed back even more, considering the number of folks moving to town.
Sisemore had finally made the decision to move to Ruston. Nora was ecstatic. They bought a cottage and two lots on Trenton Street three blocks south of the railroad.
Nora loved her spotless house. She had been so thrilled to move into a house in town with big glass windows. Sisemore built a picket fence while Nora and the children painstakingly grubbed every weed and pulled every blade of grass to create a bare, hardpacked yard. John Tom had offered to turn out the milk cow to help, but Nora would have none of it. Cows belonged in pastures and barns, she protested, not in her front yard. Besides, the ridicule of the neighbors would be unbearable.
Sisemore laughed every time Nora mentioned the neighbors. Her worry about the impression she and her family made on the townspeople amused him.
“A wife and mother wants folks to think well of her husband and children and the job she does in caring for them,” she explained.
A group of ladies from the Baptist church had called and brought great pots of food, much to Nora’s delight. She managed to march the children to church every Sunday, even when Sisemore was away and unavailable to help.
Sisemore passed the Opera House where workers were posting signs about an upcoming performance. Ruston tried to be a sophisticated place what with the Chautauqua and a tiny college and all. The summer meetings at the Chautauqua Springs were very popular, attracting teachers and other seekers of culture and refinement from all over. Sisemore was glad a hotel had been built on the Chautauqua grounds. It tended to keep the visitors near their meeting place and away from town. They would usually arrive by train and hire a buggy or take Ben Smith’s Transfer the mile or so north to the hotel. It reduced the chances of some New Orleans gentleman and his wife having a run-in with one of the local country boys.
Such encounters were unlikely, but Sisemore viewed the possibility as another problem to cause him worry. The city fathers were rather particular about the impression Chautauqua guests formed of the community. Some very important national political and religious leaders had rested under the Chautauqua’s giant shade trees. There was talk of promoting the site as a tourist attraction after someone decided the spring water might possess some healing qualities.
William Jennings Bryan was scheduled for another summer visit after losing the Presidential election the previous fall. Bryan had carried Louisiana and Lincoln Parish and many were encouraging him to run again.
But despite Ruston’s pursuit of sophistication, the people, Sisemore thought, are naive. They will never understand the evil that lurks near their big houses and their churches and their little university. They don’t know what goes on in the alleys and back rooms and pine thickets. Sisemore did not blame the people for their ignorance. It was as if good folks simply could not imagine how bad bad folks could be.
***
Lott’s health faltered almost as soon as he took office and more duties fell on Sisemore and the other officers. Mostly on Sisemore, since a citizen with a problem went to the federal marshal, even when Chief Lott felt at his best. Sisemore enjoyed the local work, especially with the family living in town. Although it was not as exciting as chasing a wanted fugitive for days across half of the state, Ruston’s people seemed to need him. And there was always Frank Mullins.
A recent encounter had confirmed the people’s feelings. Sam Gullatt smiled when Sisemore walked in his store.
“John Tom,” Gullatt began, giving the marshal’s hand a furious sha
ke, “I want to thank you.”
“Thank me for what, Sam?”
“For doing your job, Marshal. Just doing your job. My boy was hanging around with some rough folks until you locked some of ’em up. I think you scared him. He won’t go around them at all now.”
“Well, it’s nice to be appreciated,” Sisemore said, shifting uncomfortably.
“I also want you to know this town wants law and order, Marshal. The vote to shut off the liquor was just the first step. We’re behind you and your work."
“Thank you again, Sam.”
“Marshal, we can’t afford to let outlaws and hoodlums hold back progress. Ruston needs to grow and to grow it must have more people. Families won’t move here if the town is going to be shot up every night. Personally, I think the town would support whatever measures are necessary to rid us of these outlaws. Some even feel you ought to hang some from a strong limb if you get a chance.”
Sisemore smiled. As he walked away, he finally replied, “Let’s hope nothing like that ever becomes necessary.”
***
The May Day picnic was billed as a gathering of veterans from the War. Nearly every family in town had an old soldier in its household. Most businesses had closed to allow their employees to participate.
Rambunctious boys and their motley dogs played tag through a patchwork of quilts spread under towering oaks. The women prepared for the meal while men huddled in groups, puffing their pipes and discussing politics. Many wore their uniforms although there was nothing uniform about their dress. The grays, butternuts, and pale blues of three decades past looked strangely incongruent among the bonnets, squealing children, and festive activities. No cannon, none of the smoke or noise of battle. The only gun visible was on the hip of John Sisemore.
Sisemore was listening to Fred Price expound on some vague political topic to a group of men. Price was a forty-nine-year-old attorney. While most Ruston families had roots in South Carolina, Georgia, or Alabama, Price was a Tennessean. After graduating from Louisiana State University, Price worked briefly as a professor. He became an attorney and ultimately found himself in Ruston.
“Are you going to run for mayor?” someone in the group asked.
“Joe, I’m certainly thinking about it,” Price replied. “Others have asked me the same question. I have to admit I’ve given it some serious thought.”
Price’s attention was caught suddenly by a man slipping furtively behind a tree several yards away. Reaching into his coat pocket, the man withdrew a pint jar and took a long drink. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he looked around to make sure he was not seen.
Price excused himself from the group and walked over to John Sisemore.
“Hello, Fred,” Sisemore said, shaking the lawyer’s hand.
“John, do you know that gentleman standing over by that tree?”
Sisemore turned and glanced over at the man. “Sure, that’s Will Ragan. Is there a problem?”
“He has a fruit jar of liquor in his coat pocket. I just thought you’d want to know. We certainly don’t need any trouble today to ruin this picnic.”
Sisemore nodded and walked up to Ragan. “Will, what’s in your pocket?”
Ragan wordlessly produced the jar. Sisemore sniffed its contents and poured it out.
“Where’d get it?” Sisemore asked.
Ragan shifted his feet nervously. “Aw, Mr. Sisemore, I could get in a heap of trouble if I told you that.”
“You’ll be in worse trouble if you don’t. Did you get it from someone here in town?”
Ragan nodded silently.
“Alright, you stay out of trouble the remainder of the day, and tell me where you got it, and no one will find out where I got my information.”
“I bought it from Frank Mullins. He’s doing a lively business over at his place today.”
Sisemore’s face hardened and his eyes narrowed. He dismissed Ragan with another warning.
Sisemore found Nora unloading a basket of food onto their blanket. “Nora, I got to tend to some business. Be back soon.”
“Oh, John, I thought we could all eat together.”
“I’ll eat. I have to go take care of something.”
Sisemore walked toward Frank Mullins’s studio, stepped into the doorway of a closed shop, and waited.Soon he heard a door open and close and then footsteps on the boardwalk.
“Charlie,” Sisemore called as a man passed by.
Charlie Walker turned quickly, a startled look on his face.
“Marshal, you scared me.”
“Where you coming from, Charlie?”
“I...I...was just walking over to the picnic.”
“Now, Charlie, I didn’t ask where you were going. I asked where you’re coming from.”
“From home.”
Sisemore shook his head like a father reprimanding his son. “Charlie, what do I look like? I know where you just came from. Hand it over."
Walker hung his head and reached in his back pocket and pulled out a small bottle of whiskey.
“Consider yourself a witness, Charlie. Anybody else in there, besides Frank?” Walker shook his head.
“Okay, get about your business.”
Sisemore stepped softly as he neared the door. He listened for a moment and then opened the door and walked inside. He looked around and saw no one and for a moment thought the shop was vacant. Then he heard a gurgling sound and stepped silently into a back room to find Frank Mullins filling bottles from a large jug.
“How’s business?”
Mullins spun around, knocking over several bottles. He did not speak.
“Put the jug down and let’s go.”
Sisemore marched Mullins to the jail without another word exchanged between the two.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Special to the Times. Ruston, Oct. 1. Marshal John Sisemore, accompanied by Albert Warren and S. P. Colvin, searched the store of Mr. Puckett today. For some time, suspicion has pointed to the Puckett business as a “blind tiger.” Marshal Sisemore found several bottles branded Schlitz Fizz and several bottles not branded that had the appearance of beer. Puckett displayed license from Uncle Sam as a retail liquor in Ruston and the supposition is that he would not pay for the privilege if he did not use it.
A negro house was also searched for liquor by R. M. Hardy and George Edmondson but nothing suspicious was found.
Puckett will be tried before Mayor Price Monday morning, when experts will judge the contents of the captured bottles.
The “tiger” business cannot prosper in Ruston as long as Sisemore is marshal.
Fall 1897
Ruston buried Chief Lott on a cold and rainy November day. After his lengthy illness, his death surprised no one.
Sisemore stood back under a massive red oak tree away from the mourners. The sun had peeked through protesting clouds several times during the day but withdrew shyly. Now it was raining again, pouring rain, shading the cemetery in hazy gray. The steady drone of the falling rain, pounding into the earth, drowned out the preacher’s comforting words.
Some had already asked Sisemore again to be police chief, especially with an approaching election. Sisemore had virtually been chief for months, anyway.
When the service ended, Sisemore walked to his horse without speaking to the others braving the rain. He did not look forward to traveling muddy roads and fording swollen creeks crawling over their banks. Sisemore did not push the mare and made his way slowly out of town.
Swirling breezes gently stripped threadbare leaves from their perches to float lazily past horse and rider on the deserted road. Liquid crystals clung valiantly to glistening branches before diving into shimmering pools below. The pungent odor of decaying vegetation mingled with the freshness of the rain.
Sisemore was deep in thought as he rode. He usually avoided daydreaming when traveling since a preoccupied man is a danger to himself. He recalled growing up in the woods. He loved the forest—the fragrance of cedar trees, the scent of b
looming honeysuckle, but mostly the solitude. As a young boy, he had hurried through his chores and then headed for the woods to seek out a hickory or chinquapin tree for its nuts or a huckleberry bush laden with fruit. He knew the woods and its secrets by heart.
He finally turned off the main road, worked his way through a huge orchard, and within minutes, a large farmhouse came into view. Smoke curled from the chimney and pressed low to the ground, shrouding the house in a dull, dingy veil. Within minutes, he pulled a chair up near the cookstove with his mother Mary.
The tone of the conversation soon turned serious.
“We buried Chief Lott today,” said Sisemore. “He was only fifty years old. He was the police chief in Ruston,” he reminded her.
“Poor day for a funeral,” his mother observed.
“I never known a preacher to be so brief. I guess he knew the family had suffered enough without standing out in the rain.”
“Did you like him?”
“Who, the preacher?”
“No, son, Mr. Lott. Did you like him?”
Sisemore exhaled audibly. “He was a good man and a hard worker. I saw his marker before I left. It was sitting over by a tree to be set in place later after the grave settles, I suppose. It said, ‘His many virtues form the noblest monument to his memory.’ I ain’t much on virtues, but I imagine he had more than most men.”
“I know something’s eatin’ at you, John. I ain’t said nothing, because I figured you would get around to it, but at this rate you’ll still be settin’ here Sunday week.”
“Maw, you think I’m doing right by my family, being a lawman and all?”
“Now that’s a silly question.”
Neither Fear Nor Favor: Deputy United States Marshal John Tom Sisemore Page 8