Woodville consumed Sisemore’s time in recent months. The old homeplace was not far away. Ed and Frannie’s place was even closer. The marshal had questioned everyone in the neighborhood about Beatty’s death.
The postmaster could not tell Sisemore much. The robber wore a pillow case or hood over his head. “He pretended to have a gun in his pocket,” the postmaster explained. “I don’t believe he did, but I don’t take any chances. He took a few dollars and a handful of stamps.”
The postmaster’s description was vague—a young white man. “I couldn’t see his face, Marshal, but there was something familiar about him. I swear he’s been in here before.”
“Anybody new to the neighborhood?” Sisemore asked.
The postmaster thought a moment. “No, not that I can think of. Wait, there is one boy. Name’s Gowan or McGowan. Lives with the Gardner family. Brought in a letter to send home to Texas a few weeks ago.”
“How long has he been around?”
“Oh, just a couple of months. He came here because he knows the Freemans—they’re from Texas—and when he got a job working for the Gardners, he moved over to their place.”
Sisemore spent several days in the vicinity asking questions. He learned Sam McGowan spent much of his time with the Freeman boy. Based on the information he collected, Sisemore viewed McGowan as the likely suspect. Still, little evidence existed and the marshal continued to work.
***
A puffing train slumbered at the V. S. & P. depot, sending clouds of acrid smoke into the mild April sky. A massive crowed huddled around the tracks. Amid the gathering, a band played a lively marching tune and a feeling of excitement permeated the group. The arrival or departure of a train rarely stimulated such interest. At least not since the circus came to town. Scattered through the horde young men, some almost boys, wore dark blue uniforms. A weeping mother or a sobbing sweetheart clutched each one. Fathers offered a handshake or a slap on the back and words of encouragement. Their boys were going to war.
Climbing upon a coupler between two rail cars, a handsome man in the uniform of an army captain signaled for the band to stop.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began. “As commander of this company, I wish to extend my gratitude for your support on this solemn yet uplifting occasion. The twenty-one men who have volunteered from this community to serve with me on the battlefield are among the best drilled soldiers in the state.”
Applause interrupted Captain Emmett Kidd. When the ovation subsided, Kidd continued. “They will join men from throughout the state. There is not one who would shirk his duty to his country. They are brave and gallant and they face this task for your sake. The faith you show in us by gathering here today will sustain us in the difficult days to come.”
A cheer rose from the crowd as Kidd scrambled down from the train. He was shaking hands with well-wishers when John Sisemore walked up.
“Mighty fine speech, Captain. Seems like you’re taking good boys with you, leaving the bad apples behind for me to handle.”
“Sorry about that,” replied Kidd with a grin. “I know there are a few you would like to see go to Cuba and not return.”
“Sure would make my job easier,” Sisemore admitted. Then with a smile he added, “Of course if I sent them all off with you, I would be without a job.”
Both men laughed and suddenly fell silent. Sisemore looked about as mothers reached for one more hug and beaus presented their beloveds with a farewell, and perhaps final, kiss. There was young James Huey, and Winfrey May’s boy, and the son of the late Chief Lott. Sisemore had urged young Lott to remain home with his mother, now that his father was dead. Lott was committed to the cause, however, and no amount of lecturing would change his mind.
Sisemore said, “Kidd, take care of those boys. Ruston’s gonna need’em some day.”
“I will certainly do my best, Marshal. We all take comfort in knowing you will look out for our families in our absence.”
Kidd turned and barked out an order. The young men hustled into columns amid the cheers and shouts of the crowd. The band struck up a new tune as the troops began their long march to New Orleans.
As Sisemore departed the depot, Winfrey May dropped in step beside him. “Pity they have to march all that ways,” May said. “On the train, they could be in New Orleans in a matter of hours rather than days.”
Sisemore nodded. “I think the Army is in a confused state right now, with war just declared and all. I guess nobody figured these soldiers needed to be resting up before battle rather than walking their feet off.”
“John,” May continued, “I have to tell you, I’ve never seen so much excitement in town. With the boys going off to war and our first fair coming up this fall, there’s plenty for folks to talk about. Myself and the rest of the committee believe this fair will be the event of the decade.”
Sisemore had detected a change in May in the months since his resignation. The former chief seemed untroubled and much more comfortable in his present endeavors.
“I’m sure it will,” Sisemore politely agreed. “I understand the fair is not the only event folks are talking about.”
“You mean the trial? I’m sorry you for your predicament but the town supports you, John. Most folks figured Frank would go too far one day. He finally bit off more than he could chew. You did what you had to do.”
“Tell that to C. B. Roberts,” Sisemore said, grimly.
“The district attorney is not a fool, John. He has to appear impartial and try to appease everyone. He may have an indictment, but I can’t believe he’ll go to trial.”
“I hope not,” admitted Sisemore. “I can handle it, but this affair is killing Nora.”
“Tell her not to worry, John. Before you know it, all this will blow over. Everyone will forget in time.”
“Not everyone, Scott. There’s always someone who remembers.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Special to the Times.
Ruston, July 11-Hon. G. W. Lomax spent today in town. He is in the sawmill business and is figuring on a large lumber mill to furnish the Industrial School for improvements this summer.
The enrollment of teachers at the Chautauqua has reached 145 and more are coming in daily. The interest in the class work proves more intense. All sections of the state are represented.
As we stroll through the grounds and visit the class recitations the systematic work and general interest are visible everywhere. Yonder by sparkling shadow lea sits Prof. Woodward’s class leisurely engaged in sketching that rustic bridge. How diligently they work and what a delightful place to work. The great beech trees spread out their giant arms and protect us from the warm sun, the cool breezes minister to our comfort day and night, and the inspiration of poetic nature stimulates to study and improvement. Some idea of the interest may be gotten from the sight of the hall of philosophy. As we write, it is filled to overflowing. A number of people are standing on the outside looking in through the window rather than miss the exercise. This is the Shakespeare class in charge of Dr. C. Alphonso Smith.
Tomorrow evening representatives from the leading women’s clubs of the state will conduct a program here. Dr. Smith will deliver three more lectures to teachers during the week. On Saturday July 16 at 12 o’clock Bob Taylor will deliver his wittiest and best lecture.
Louisiana State University day celebration on Friday night will be, as last year, dignified and interesting, especially to friends of the university.
Prof. Woodward’s lecture on “The Graphic Artist” Saturday at 8 o’clock p.m. promises to show us many educational values of drawing.
While all regret that the illness of General Gordon prevents his meeting his appointment, all are looking forward with great expectation to the lecture by Governor Taylor. Special trains and reduced rates indicate that this will be the big day of the present season.
Summer 1898
The first Saturday in July, not unlike most summer days in Ruston, dawned hot and humid, despite new
spaper reports of the pleasant weather under the huge trees on the Chautauqua grounds. The streets hummed with visitors arriving for the new Chautauqua season.
John Tom Sisemore rode to Redwine again in response to a message from Mrs. Berry Gardner’s house.
Gardner met Sisemore on her front porch. “Someone came in the house while we were away and stole thirty dollars paper money,” she moaned.
“Show me where you kept it.”
Gardner walked over to a large trunk. “I keep my valuables in here. We got home late yesterday evening and for some reason, I looked in the trunk and all of it was gone. That was hard earned money, Mr. Sisemore; I pray dearly you can get it back.”
Sisemore looked at her. “Did Sam know the money was there?”
“It’s possible,” she said, slowly. “I try to be careful, but I guess he could have seen me. But he was at the baseball game out at the Grigsby’s.”
“Where is he now?”
“Well, I don’t know. He hasn’t been around much since we got home last night.” Her expression changed when she realized the significance of her statement. “Mr. Sisemore, you think he’s out spending my money?”
“Could be, Mrs. Gardner. Let me see if I can find him.”
Tears filled her eyes. “I trusted him. We treated him like one of the family.”
Sisemore could not find Sam McGowan, but he tracked down the youth’s friend Freeman. Before long the confession flowed freely.
“Sam planned it all,” whimpered Freeman. “He left the back door unlocked and told me where to find the money. He went to that baseball game while I did it so no one would suspect him.”
“Where is the money?” Sisemore asked.
“After the game, Sam took twenty dollars. I buried ten at home. It’s with some stamps from the post office. My daddy’s gonna kill me,” wailed the young man.
“If you don’t kill him first,” observed Sisemore. “He’s well thought of in this neighborhood. You’ve hurt him like no punch ever could.”
After digging up the money, Sisemore searched for McGowan, finding him back at the Gardner’s mending a fence.
“I’ve got Freeman locked up,” Sisemore informed him. “He told all. Where’s the money?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Marshal,” McGowan responded, his face a mask of defiance.
“Come on in the barn,” ordered Sisemore. “I’m going to search you.”
McGowan walked reluctantly into the barn. “Whatever Freeman said, it’s a lie. Mrs. Gardner knows I wouldn’t steal from her.” He unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it to the lawman.
“Take off your shoes, Sam.” McGowan kicked off a shoe and a wad of bills landed in the straw.
“That’s my money.”
Sisemore picked it up. “How much you want to bet there’s twenty dollars here?”
“So?”
Sisemore threw back the shirt. “Get dressed. We’re going to Ruston.”
McGowan continued to maintain his innocence all the way to town. Sisemore locked him in the jail and headed towards home. He had barely gotten out of the building when a young boy came running up.
“Mr. Sisemore, there’s a terrible fight up by the well.”
Probably two drunks, Sisemore thought, as he mounted his horse and urged it across the depot grounds towards the town well.
Two men were rolling in the dust, first one on top, then the other. Their suits were filthy and torn. Both were scarred and bloody. A huge crowd had gathered.
Sisemore dismounted and walked to the well. He scooped a bucket of water out of the horse trough and drenched the two men.
Ben Smith came up sputtering. “Why did you do that, John?” he demanded. “You ruined a perfectly good fight.”
“Shouldn’t be making a spectacle of yourself, Ben,” Sisemore replied. “What are you fighting about, anyway?”
“Just a friendly matter over a horse,” Smith said, sounding a little more jovial than he looked.
“Who you fighting with? I don’t recognize your opponent.”
“Taylor. J. O. Taylor,” answered the other man. “This is no friendly fight.” He pointed at Ben Smith. “I demand you arrest this man.”
Smith looked at him fiercely. “He started it, John. You know I ain’t running from a fight, but he started it.”
“Well, neither of you should be fighting out in the street. I’m arresting both of you and we’ll let the judge sort it out.”
Sisemore’s decision satisfied Smith but the stranger complained loudly as the police chief made another trip to the jail.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Special to the Times.
August 18, Ruston, La. -- The grand jury completed its labors last Saturday and reported fourteen true bills and investigation of thirty-four complaints. They returned a bill against Deputy Marshal J. T. Sisemore, charging him with the murder of Frank Mullins. This was quite a surprise to a large number of our best citizens as at the preliminary trial before Judge Barksdale admitted Sisemore to bail, fixing his bond at $1500. Mr. Sisemore was arrested this morning and is now in jail awaiting trial. Court convenes here again in September, when the case will more than likely be tried. Mr. Sisemore has the sympathy and backing of almost the entire law-abiding citizens of this community, and will doubtless be exonerated when his case comes to trial.
Special to the Times.
September 3. Ruston, La. -- A dispatch from E. L. Holland to his family announced the death of his son, Lt. Holland of the first Louisiana regiment, yesterday evening. Mr. Holland will arrive tomorrow on the evening train with the remains of his son, who will be buried in Vienna. Sheriff E. Howard is seriously ill at his home here.
Late Summer 1898
Death emerged as a common theme in the dreary days of fading summer. Death is a daily event, inevitable as life, but the arrival of a coffin surprised the station attendants.
A somber crowd stood patiently at the depot as brakeman and station master approached a box car but did not open the door. Ezekial Holland, his head down, his shoulders sagging, stepped down from the Pullman and walked to the box car. He nodded and the brakeman heaved open the door, revealing the coffin. A large cardboard placard tacked to the wooden box read, “Don’t Open—Died with yellow fever.”
A group of young ladies, presumably from one of the local church choirs, mournfully serenaded the wooden box.
“On the field of battle, Just at the close of day,
Wounded and was dying, A youthful soldier lay ’neath the
Red, White, and Blue,
Hark! to the bugle, Forward the cry,
Onway to vict’ry with my last good-bye.”
Young Holland never reached the battlefield.
A few days later, Sheriff Howard died after a sudden illness, two weeks before his fifty-third birthday. John Tom Sisemore did not like funerals, but he could not miss this one. Standing in the cemetery, the one Mr. Russ had donated, Sisemore saw the marker for old Chief Lott. It was the first funeral Sisemore had attended since Lott passed away.
Howard had been helpful to Sisemore, although a very busy man himself. Considering his small contingent of deputies, Howard performed an admirable job for the parish. Rumors of death threats against Sisemore reached Howard and he passed on words of caution.
Sisemore’s sources also told him of the threats. Over six months had passed since he had killed Frank Mullins but the talk of revenge seemed hotter than ever. Although Sisemore put little stock in such prattle, the rumors seemed to be taking on a different character than those immediately after the shooting. He expected vengeful talk right after a lawman killed someone with family, but six or seven months after his shooting it seemed stronger than ever.
The marshal reflected on recent events. A couple of times recently, late in the evening, Sisemore imagined someone in the trees behind his house. When he inspected the premises, he had found nothing. Mad at himself for allowing the gossip to affect him, he vowed to ignore it.
At the rate Ruston was growing, the pine thicket fall to more construction. Trees would be cut and milled and perhaps used to for houses to stand in their stead. Across the street from Sisemore’s front door, Lum Jackson lived closer to downtown than any other black man. Sisemore suspected Lum’s tiny cabin would be sacrificed, too.
Sisemore owned a double lot, providing room for a small barn for the horses and milk cow. The overgrown garden embarrassed him, but the gleam of neglected vegetables through the weeds excused the neglect. In April, Sisemore had purchased some land on the Jackson Road near the old homeplace to raise a few horses and cattle. It was not far south of town and Sisemore could ride through the pine thicket to the main road from Ruston to points south and reach it easily.
Yellow fever threatened to delay the fall term of the Industrial Institute. The papers told of outbreaks in Baton Rouge, New Orleans, and most of the southern end of the state. Death was the subject of most conversations. Death from the war, death from yellow fever. The death of Frank Mullins.
The trial would start in September. Sisemore had consented to Fred Price’s request to acquire more help in preparing for trial. Price and his partner were joined by the law firm of Graham and Pearce.
Neither Fear Nor Favor: Deputy United States Marshal John Tom Sisemore Page 12