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

by Wesley Harris

“Why is it silly?” Sisemore protested.

  “Do you take care of them? Do Nora and the children want for love or the necessities of life?”

  “We have a nice home and I love them, but the job takes so much of me, I neglect them. Not to mention I went and got Ed killed.”

  “Nobody in this family believes that,” she said in a sharp tone. Then, more softly, “John, I married your father because he was a good man. God knows it wasn’t for his looks, with that crooked Cherokee nose of his—thank the Lord none of my children inherited that nose—he’s a good man, John, and you took after him in that respect. Being an Indian, many folks expect him to act in a certain way. I guess they think all Indians are savages or something.”

  “Well, Maw, I guess he does act like an Indian.”

  Mary looked at him curiously. “What do you mean?”

  “He’s sixty years old, wears his hair down to his shoulders, and he’s out traipsing in the woods in the rain.”

  They both laughed. “Son, maybe you’re right. I guess he’s more Indian than I want to think. But the point I wanted to make is Nora loves you for who you are, just like the way I love your father.”

  They grew silent for awhile, Sisemore staring in his coffee cup. Finally, his mother spoke again.

  “John, just look at the life you have given your family. Remember what it was like growing up? So many mouths to feed and you and your brothers having to work like mules? How many acres of cotton have your kids picked? None. How many wagons of firewood have they chopped? Nary a one.” She grabbed John’s hands in hers. “You have given them a wonderful life,” she argued. “Be thankful you have them, but they should thank the Lord they have you.”

  “But I go for days without seeing them. I come home sometimes and it seems they have grown a foot while I was away. I just took out a life insurance policy, but I’m afraid if I tell Nora, she’ll worry even more.”

  “What do you want to do, open up a store so you can be home by the fire every night? That’s not you, John. No more than it’s your father. Nora may not have married a lawman, but she married a farmer. She knew the hours were long and the wages low. Look where she is now. She lives in a big house in town, buys her food in a store, and can sit around drinking tea with the finery. You ain’t gypped them, son, they are doing quite well in my mind.”

  “I don’t think she is drinking tea with the finery yet,” Sisemore quipped.

  “You know what I mean. If you’re so worried about getting shot or something, just remember your Chief Lott. Nobody shot him, but he’s gone just the same. When the Lord calls your name, it’s time to go, whether you’re ready or not. More coffee?”

  “No, thanks. I need to be getting back. Dark’ll come early today.”

  “Take care of them, John, like your father and I tried to take care of you and your brothers and your sister.”

  Sisemore found bitter disappointment at his father’s absence. It was a strange feeling, one he had never experienced. His father had always been there for him, even though they rarely spoke on serious matters. He mounted his horse and scanned the nearby woods, hoping to see his father emerge from the trees.

  Suddenly he realized J. V. and the kids, and Nora too, felt this way all the time. He dug his heels into the flanks of the old mare to hurry her home.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Ruston Leader

  November 24, 1897

  Ruston is a fine town. We love her people, and are proud of what she has done to build up education, music, and morality. Therefore we rejoice at the signing of the contract that secures the extension of the Arkansas Southern Railway from Junction City through Ruston.

  J. T. Sisemore is still kept busy measuring up the moonshine fruit.

  Winter 1897

  The miserable, ceaseless November rains continued into December, transforming the wide Ruston streets into seas of mud. Storekeepers hovered at their doors to encourage customers to wipe their muddy feet.

  When Mayor Pea Colvin had asked him to be chief, Sisemore turned him down. He simply refused to give up his job as a Deputy U.S. Marshal and he saw no way to do both jobs. He drew a salary as a federal marshal and a town policeman, so he lacked financial incentive to take it.

  Still, with Fred Price as the newly elected mayor, there was a temptation to accept the job. He knew the family felt neglected when he was away. The boys did almost all the daily chores with the milk cow and chickens. J. V. seemed remote after Sisemore begged off some joint projects in order to pursue desperadoes. Hardy had just turned one year old. His negligible time with the baby embarrassed him.

  Sisemore walked the town. On Vienna Street two men argued as the spun tangled wire off a spool in front of the Southern Bell Telephone Company exchange. Nearly every building, tree, and pole accommodated a host of wires.

  Skirting the sloppy streets, Sisemore used the alleys as much as possible. Not receiving the same use as the streets, the alleys remained in tolerable condition. One of these alleys ran from Mississippi Avenue to Railroad Avenue. From the north end of the alley, Sisemore could see the back door of Frank Mullins’s place.

  A wagon driven by a stranger turned off Mississippi into the alley and Sisemore jumped into a doorway to conceal himself. The wagon traveled the length of the alley and stopped. A second man, Frank Mullins himself, stepped out into the alley from his studio.

  The unloaded two large wooden boxes and disappeared inside. Sisemore moved down the alley as the man returned to his wagon and drove away, unaware of the marshal’s surveillance.

  Sisemore tried the door. Locked. He banged on it with his fist. “Frank, open up. I know you’re in there.”

  No response came. Maybe Mullins left out the front door on Railroad Avenue after the boxes were delivered. The marshal hurried to the end of the alley and around into the street.

  His heart raced now and people gave him odd looks as stopped to catch his breath. He stepped up on the boardwalk and scanned the area for Mullins as he approached the studio.

  Again, no response came to his knocks. Sisemore drew his pistol, stepped back and kicked the door open, sending splinters flying through the room. A woman on the sidewalk grabbed up her children and scurried away.

  The marshal paused, expecting gunfire that did not come. He crept inside and checked the adjoining room. Empty except for miscellaneous photographic equipment and the two boxes. Sisemore used a stick of firewood to break open the lids of the containers; both contained dozens of empty glass jars.

  Satisfied, Sisemore left in search of Frank Mullins. His search ended on Trenton Street near McMurrain’s store. Frank talked with one of his comrades, Ned Ballance.

  “Step aside, Ned. Frank, are you armed?”

  “Why don’t you come find out?” Mullins taunted with a grin. “Or just shoot me like you did before.”

  A wagon came around a corner and Mullins used the distraction as an opportunity to flee. Sisemore fired twice before giving pursuit. Ballance trailed behind. Mullins sprinted up Trenton Street, angling toward Ben Smith’s livery stable.

  ***

  Entering the stable, Mullins hoped a cautious entry by Sisemore would allow time for an escape out the back door. He pulled a Colt .44 revolver out of his waistband and jammed it into a coat pocket. He gave the huge back door a furious push; it would not budge. He swiveled to look for another way out and saw Sisemore’s silhouette in the front door.

  “Drop the gun, Frank.”

  Mullins held his moustached upper lip between clenched teeth as he considered the situation. “Why, John? So you can shoot an unarmed man? That's what you really want to do, isn’t it? Just kill me.”

  Sisemore stood frozen, his pistol unwavering, his eyes cold. Ned Ballance ran up and stopped about ten paces behind the marshal.

  “I’m giving up, John. Ned’s standing behind you. You can’t shoot me with a witness here.” Mullins reached gingerly into his pocket and slowly pulled out the revolver with his thumb and forefinger, tossing it into a
pile of hay.

  “Come on, Frank,” Sisemore ordered, motioning with his gun for Mullins to step to him. Sisemore retrieved the gun and marched Mullins to the jail.

  “Ned’s my witness, John. You tried to kill me for no reason. You saw’em, Ned. He pulled his gun on me for no reason and started firing.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Special to the Times.

  Ruston, La., Jan. 22 - District court adjourned this evening until Monday morning. The grand jury is still in session and they say it will be some time next week before they can complete their labors. They have found considerable trouble in getting witnesses on account of the swollen streams. The week’s work of the court resulted in two convictions by jury and two pleading guilty. About eight cases were tried by jury. T. F. Mullins, who was tried in two cases before the district court by jury during the week, was today arraigned before Mayor Price charged with running a blind tiger, and was fined $75. He made no defense beyond paying the fine.

  ______________________________________

  To Eugene Howard

  Sheriff of the Parish of Lincoln or any of his legal Deputies.

  --Greetings:

  In the name of the State of Louisiana you are commanded to arrest and bring before the Third District Court of Louisiana, the body of J. T. Sisemore to answer to the indictment against him in cause numbered 1060 on Criminal Docket of said Court, entitled State of Louisiana vs. J. T. Sisemore charged with assault with a dangerous weapon.

  _______________________________________

  February 1898

  Those Spaniards got to pay, that’s all I got to say,” a storekeeper Sam Gullatt announced.

  “How do you know they had anything to do with sinking the Maine?” another man questioned. “Nothing’s been proven yet.”

  “You know good and well they did it,” the storekeeper replied. “Who else would plant a mine in the harbor,” he explained, and the argument about possible war with Spain continued.

  Ben Thompson interrupted. “Did you hear Marshal Sisemore arrested Frank Mullins again? Mullins was found not guilty in trial from his arrest in December, so the marshal turns right around and arrests him again Saturday night.”

  “Now how did he manage that?” another asked.

  “From what I hear, Mullins walked from the courthouse over to that place he calls a studio after the verdict. Sisemore came in right behind him, and said it was a blind tiger and arrested him.”

  “Did he find any evidence?”

  “Bunch of jugs of moonshine, I hear. Wednesday, Sisemore’s to take Mullins to Monroe.”

  “Why Monroe?” Gullatt asked .

  “That’s where the federal charge of ‘no revenue license’ is heard.”

  “It seems strange to tell a man he can’t sell whiskey, but if he does, he must have a license.”

  The talk turned back to Spain, Cuba, and the Maine.

  ***

  Out on the railroad grounds in front of the store, John Sisemore and newly elected mayor Fred Price talked. Pea Colvin walked out of Ruston State Bank and Price waved him over.

  “Fred, I don’t know how you did it,” said Colvin, “but I’m mighty glad you talked John into serving as chief of police. I never could.”

  Price chuckled. “It wasn’t easy, I assure you.”

  “What’s this about your indictment, John? I heard someone talking about it in the bank.”

  “John and I were just discussing it,” Price answered. “Frank Mullins was found not guilty in two trials last week. Poorly selected juries, I suppose. Mullins has been hollering John tried to kill him in December and I guess between that and the verdicts, enough members of the grand jury believed Frank to vote an indictment. I’m trying to convince John to let me represent him in the matter.”

  “Frank Mullins has plagued this town too long,” Colvin declared. “Who knows how many times he’s been arrested and he’s still causing problems. How many times have you locked him up, John?”

  “Several,” answered Sisemore. “Three times since November.”

  “I guess it doesn’t make any difference how many times he’s arrested if whiskey juries let him go,” Colvin complained.

  A series of noises some distance away stopped the conversation.

  “What was that?” Price asked.

  “Sounds like dogs hot on a trail,” Sisemore said.

  A riderless black horse came around a corner dragging a bloody fox hide with fifty or sixty dogs in pursuit. As the horse reached the railroad, it sprinted through the depot grounds and circled back. Shoppers dodged into stores to escape the onslaught of the hounds. The horse dashed by the three men in front of the bank and toward the Methodist church.

  Fred Price frowned and shook his hand. “What was all that?”

  Sisemore laughed. “I believe about half of those dogs are yours, Pea, and that’s one of Ben Smith’s race horses.”

  Colvin’s face reddened. Pea Colvin and Ben Smith were rivals in the livery stable business. Pea ran a large operation on Mississippi between Trenton and Vienna Streets. In addition to horses and wagons, Colvin kept a large pen of hunting dogs at the stable.

  Smith’s smaller but rapidly growing business was within eyeshot at the corner of Mississippi and Trenton. While Pea was a staunch law and order man, Ben was a hustler who found many of his friends on the wrong side of the law.

  Price gestured at the menagerie up the street. “There’s why I ran for mayor. Ruston doesn’t need disturbances like this. What are you laughing about, John?”

  “Oh, nothing,” said Sisemore, trying to suppress his laughter. “Did you see Pea’s face when he realized his dogs are chasing Ben’s horse? And listen how indignant you sound. Listen, I think they’re coming around again.”

  The dogs soon rounded the corner again, charging after the hide. Several men across the street were digging in their pockets. They were obviously betting on which dog would catch the hide.

  “John, can’t you stop this?” Price pleaded.

  “Fred, just let it run its course. You’ll make more folks mad than happy if it stops now.”

  “Well, I don’t have to stand out here and watch it. Come see me when you get back from Monroe so we can talk about this Mullins affair.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  February 26, 1898

  A cold mist cleared the streets of Ruston early for a Saturday night. Families congregated around roaring fires rather than face the prospect of foul weather outside.

  Occasional lightning pierced the sky, creating bizarre shadows on the walls of the downtown buildings. The first thunderstorm of the year came early, quite unusual for a February.

  Mayor Fred Price remained at home with his family. On Saturday nights, they usually went to the Opera House or took a walk downtown. The mayor liked to be seen even if the next election was ten months away. Besides, by walking the streets at night, he displayed his confidence in his law officers’ abilities to keep peace and order.

  The Sisemore family was at home also, with one exception. The new police chief stalked the back alleys and dark places behind the downtown businesses. He preferred to watch the out of the way areas and let the part-time police officers work the open streets.

  Sisemore walked the streets every night when not away on federal business. He would find a dark corner, lean against a wall, and think and relax and work at the same time. A man standing still could hear noises for blocks someone walking or on a horse would miss.

  Remaining in the dark kept his eyes adjusted to the night. He could stand in the shadows watching the streets for hours. The strategy provided the privacy of the deserted dark places, yet within sight and earshot of varied activities.

  The lawman selected his lookout posts with care. The town wore a different face each night what troublemakers were around and what events were being held. He explored the little town like a prospector searching the hills for gold. His familiarity with the streets and alleys and doorways gave him an advantage. In
the dark, he could see without being seen. Hunt without being hunted.

  Tonight, the entire town was black. Since it was Saturday night, Officer George Edmondson was also on duty. Some troublemakers rode in earlier seeking diversion; they wouldn’t let the night end without some mischief.

  Frank Mullins had been out earlier in the evening. The two had only stared at one another. That smoldering fire was visible in Mullins’s eyes again. A newcomer unaware of the events of the last few months would hardly know of the escalating animosity between the two men. Neither talked of the other, even among friends. Still, the mysterious, silent conflict between the lawman and outlaw had led to gossip among others.

  Frank spent much of his time in Ruston, staying days at a time at the Duty House, Mrs. Sherwood’s boarding house. During lengthy absences, Sisemore suspected Mullins returned to a yet undetected still.

  It was very dark. A chilling dampness filled the air, and the occasional lightning and thunderclaps only intensified the dismal, and foreboding, atmosphere permeating the town. Compared to most Saturday nights, the streets were virtually deserted, although dim lights shone in several stores.

  Sisemore walked slowly behind a row of black buildings, his shotgun hanging from his right hand. A shrill yell echoed through the streets, followed by four or five pistol shots. Sisemore brought his shotgun up to his hip. The shots seemed to come from the vicinity of the Opera House. A stealthy Sisemore worked his way in that direction.

  ***

  Bonner Street was black. The man moved under a shed within the light of a hanging lantern. He pumped empty shells onto the ground and reloaded his revolver.

  ***

  Sitting in front of a glowing fire, Fred Price jerked up with a start from his seat before a glowing fire at the sound of the shots. He wasted no time locating his shotgun and some extra shells and scrambled out the door.