The afternoon lingered forever. Nora despised the inevitable darkness. She would refuse to sleep until John returned from his evening rounds. She moved around, straightening framed pictures on the walls, doilies on the dressers. The table was set for supper. When there was nothing left to do, she lay quietly beside her napping baby and listened. The neighborhood was quiet. She could hear muted sounds emanating from downtown. An occasional wagon lumbered past the house.
Tonight, it would be sounds that first alerted her to John’s fate. A gunshot, urgent voices, the slamming of the front gate, hurried footsteps to the front door—those were the dreaded sounds. She would silently rejoice when she heard the murmurs of John’s presence. The muted creak of a slowly opening front gate and leisurely steps on the porch. The front door quietly opening and closing. The dull thud as he dropped his boots on the stone hearth.
Then she could sleep.
***
“Pa?”
Sisemore looked up. His revolver lay in pieces on a small table. J. V. stood before him.
“Ma’s scared. Can’t you stop being a marshal for a while?”
“Did your mother tell you she was afraid?”
“No, but I can tell.”
Sisemore placed his arm around J. V. and pulled him into his lap. “J. V., don’t worry about your mother. She knows I got to do what I have to do. A few years back—when I first started marshaling—your ma and I came to an agreement. I have a job to do and I’m going to do it. When you do something halfway or start backing down...Well, you just don’t feel whole any more. I took an oath to do my duty but it’s more than that now. It’s my life, J. V. Can you understand that? It’s my life.”
J. V. nodded silently. Sisemore continued. “I think about you, Willie, Hardy, and the girls and Ma all the time. I’m not going to let you down. Come on, let’s get some supper.”
***
Sisemore returned safely from his nightly rounds. He peeked into each of the children’s rooms. Nora feigned sleep as her husband crawled into bed.
Sleep would not come. Sisemore tossed restlessly. Nora reached out, laying her small hand on his arm. They lay silently. There was an unexpected comfort in the stillness of the moment. Sisemore considered speaking about his conversation with Julius. Sleep overcame him before he made up his mind.
***
In the morning, Sisemore discovered his horses loitering in the street. The back gate had been opened during the night.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Thursday, November 17, 1898
John Sisemore sat near the fireplace bouncing Hardy on his knee. It was hard to believe the baby boy was nearly two years old. Sisemore treasured the evenings when he managed to be home and not in the woods somewhere.
The interval between supper and bedtime was the only period of the day the entire household was together. Willie helped his mother clear away the supper dishes while J. V. wrote furiously on a tablet of paper by the fire. The girls engaged in various activities on the floor nearby. The scene was not unlike that in many Ruston homes at that hour.
Sisemore glanced at the clock on the mantel. Time to walk one last round through the town before retiring for the evening. Placing Hardy on the floor, Sisemore said, “Papa must go to town.”
Sisemore lifted his gun belt from its peg behind the front door and strapped it about his waist. He left his shotgun hanging in its rack.
“Be back in half an hour,” he called to Nora as she carried the last of the dishes to the sink.
“Be careful,” she called matter-of-factly over her shoulder as she entered the kitchen with a load of dishes. Nora seemed preoccupied with matters of the home. If she possessed any anxiety over the incidents of the past few evenings, they were not reflected in her voice.
The girls ran to hug him. “Good night, Papa,” they wished him in unison.
“Good night, girls. Be sure to clean up those things before bed time.”
“We will,” Eula promised.
“Pa,” J. V. said urgently, offering a small envelope. “Can you mail this for us?”
“What is it?”
“It’s our letters to Santa Claus. Mother says we have to send it early, so he’ll have time to make our presents.”
“That’s right,” said Sisemore with a laugh as the other children gathered around. “It takes a while to make all those gifts.”
“Will you be sure to drop it at the post office tonight?” pleaded J. V.
“Santa Claus will have it before you know it,” Sisemore smiled. Slipping the letter in his shirt pocket, Sisemore said good night and left.
As he approached the street, he glanced back at the house to ensure none of the children were watching. He pulled out the letter, tearing open the envelope. He read a moment and laughed out loud.
A faint noise interrupted his amusement. He stopped reading and listened, stuffing the letter back in his pocket. The street was empty. Except for curls of smoke rising lazily from their chimneys, the neighboring houses appeared vacant.
The noise came again. Sisemore stopped in mid-stride, squinting at the pine thicket across the street and down the hill from the house. Holding his breath and straining his ears, he listened. Nothing. He had turned toward town when a noise came. He knew he had heard something. He took several more casual steps up the hill but began drifting across the street.
Once across the street, Sisemore paused and listened again. The noise was louder. He couldn’t quite make it out. Was it voices or the squeal of an animal? Lum Jackson had seen a couple of rabbits in the thicket last week and had asked to borrow the shotgun.
Sisemore resolved to satisfy his curiosity. Passing his house, he paused briefly, thinking of the shotgun inside.He could only see about ten feet into the thicket. Beyond that, all was black. The pines stood solemnly, dark against the sky. Stopping on the dusty street, Sisemore faced the woods and waited. A shrill noise came this time. Now it sounded more like an angry man’s yell.
Sisemore moved slowly down the street toward the trees. Probably just a wild animal, but it deserved checking. More than once men had walked into the woods out from town to settle their quarrels in privacy.
Sisemore stepped off the street and into a ditch to cross over to the thicket. Now it was deathly quiet. Too quiet after all that noise. Sisemore felt a cold, chilling sensation run through his body. It was a feeling he often experienced when danger was near. He drew his pistol and slowed his pace.
A twig snapped in the pines twenty feet from Sisemore. He wheeled to the noise and saw movement. Orange flame leaped from the trees and Sisemore felt burning fire in his chest. The chill disappeared. He tried to shoot back but found himself on his back in the ditch staring into the darkening sky, nothing but dark sky. Another blast sounded from the thicket and then it was quiet.
***
Fred Price was making notes for an upcoming trial when he heard the thundering blasts. Laying down his pen, he calculated the direction and distance of the shots placed them near Sisemore’s house. A wave of panic overcame him. Secretly, Nora had informed him of the incidents of the past two nights.
Grabbing up a shotgun from a corner near the front door, Price headed out and down the hill. A small cloud of smoke hung in the air at the base of the hill. Price knew immediately what had happened. He broke into a run.
***
Nora dropped a handful of dirty dishes when she heard the gunfire. She froze and her heart seemed to stop for a moment.
“John Tom!” she whispered. Detouring around the children, she ran to the door but hesitated briefly before opening it for fear of what she might see. Taking a deep breath, she jerked open the door.
No one was in sight up the street toward town. Surely John should be in town by now and the shots came from below the house. She turned to the south and saw the cloud of smoke through the trees.
Nora convinced herself John was downtown and would come back shortly to investigate. She glanced back and saw a running figure. “That’
s not John, it’s Mayor Price,” she said to herself, believing the mayor must be coming to check on her. The children now congregated behind her.
As Price neared the house, he yelled, “Stay in the house, Nora. Stay in the house and lock the door.”
Confused, Nora stood still on the porch. What was happening? Soon other men came running by the house. The mayor shouted something and one man turned and raced away. She was tempted to go have a look but she knew John would disapprove when he arrived. Ladies had no business at the scene of a disturbance.
Where was John? He should have heard those shots. Nora strained to see her husband among those coming down the street but he did not appear to be among them. Then she noticed Mr. Thompson coming through the gate into the yard. His face was pale, his body stiff.
“What has happened, Mr. Thompson? Where’s John?”
“Let’s go in the house, Nora,” Thompson pleaded, attempting to take her arm.
“Has someone been shot? Please tell me what happened.”
Thompson swallowed hard. “It’s John. He’s been wounded. The others will be carrying him here in a moment.”
Eula screamed. Nora felt faint and Thompson had to catch her to keep her from falling. Supporting her as she walked, Thompson managed to get her in the house. She fell into a chair in the front room, feeling sick and numb all over.
The children, sensing something was terribly wrong with their mother, expressed their fear in cries, tears, and questions.
“Where’s Pa?” J. V. demanded. “Did you see my pa, Mr. Thompson?”
No answer came. More neighbors filled the house and J. V. was filled with panic.
When Mayor Price and the others arrived with Sisemore’s body on a hastily prepared litter, Nora seemed to regain some control. She directed the men to carry John into the bedroom and saw that they gently laid him on the bed. She asked about the doctor. “Someone’s gone to fetch’em,” a voice in the crowd responded.
Sisemore was conscious but weak from the loss of blood. His chest was now a huge gaping hole. Mrs. Price had now joined them and assisted Nora in tearing some bedsheets to help stop the bleeding.
Dr. Robert Brooks and his young apprentice, Dr. Henry Harper, lived only a block from the Sisemore home. They arrived together and immediately set to work. There was so much blood. The men frowned grimly at one another but continued to work.
***
Price knew that there were other matters to attend to immediately. He ordered several men to find positions where they could watch the woods. Another man was sent to find Deputy Tom Finley.
The doctors worked feverishly but after the bleeding was curtailed, they proclaimed sadly that there was little more they could do. Seating himself near the bed, Price urged Sisemore to tell him what happened.
Sisemore, in gasping breaths, briefly explained how he approached the woods to investigate the noises. He was unsure but he thought there had been at least two men in the woods.
“Who were they, John? Tell me who they were.”
“I did not see them, Mayor. I never saw them at all.”
“We all know who did it, Mayor,” one of the men in the now crowded house said. Others nodded their heads in agreement. “We know who had it in for John Tom. We can take care of ’em.”
“Wait,” said Price who turned to Sisemore again. “John, do you have any idea who did it?”
Sisemore struggled to speak. “I saw no one. I could not say.”
Price drew a deep breath, frustrated that the dying man could not tell who ambushed him. Sisemore could have named any outlaw who deserved the gallows, and based on that declaration, the condemned man would have hanged. Price knew Sisemore had some idea who had bushwhacked him. Sisemore would not name names and cause an innocent man to be arrested or, even worse, lynched.
Nora was sobbing softly now, holding one of Sisemore’s hands in hers. J. V. and John Willie stood nearby with tears streaming down their faces. The girls, who had been told Papa was sick, hung onto their mother’s skirts for dear life, unsure why an illness should bring so many people to their home.
Price motioned the others out of the bedroom. One by one they drifted out, leaving only the family and the doctors.
Sisemore’s breathing was labored and irregular. Nora was still tightly holding John Tom’s hand when something clinging oddly to the inside of his open shirt caught her attention. Absently, Nora picked it up. It was paper, stained with blood. She looked closer and saw more hanging from the inside of the shredded shirt pocket. She reached in the pocket and retrieved a tattered piece of paper.
It read, “Dear Santa Claus...”
***
The mayor and the others stood vigil in the front yard. The crowd continued to grow with the passing hours. The men watching the woods and the trails leaving the area had seen no one. They did not expect to find anyone. The roads and trails crisscrossing the area south of town provided for an easy escape. A suggestion had been made to obtain some bloodhounds. Telegrams were sent out requesting dogs be brought to Ruston, sparing no expense.
The hours passed. The crowd grew as the search became hopeless in the darkness. The only option was to stand vigil in the yard on South Trenton Street.
***
Dr. Brooks finally came out onto the front porch. He looked tired and beaten down. He stood a moment, gathering his thoughts before speaking.
“Gentlemen, John Sisemore is dead.” He could think of nothing else to say.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Special to the Times.
Ruston, La., Nov. 17 -- Marshal John Tom Sisemore was waylaid near his residence to-night about six o’clock. He had just walked from his house and his wife thought he had started to town as usual when a few seconds later she was startled by the report of two shots. A pine thicket is near the place of killing and Deputy Sheriff Finley discovered tracks leading into the thicket. The authorities have wired in every direction for blood hounds with instructions to bring them regardless of cost. Marshal Sisemore for the past few years has been a terror to the moonshiners and blind tigers of this section and has always discharged his duty with neither fear nor favor. It is the general opinion that his fearless course is the direct cause of his assassination. He leaves a widow and several little children.
Friday, November 18, 1898
United States Marshal James Martin stared out the train window at the passing scenery, oblivious to the passengers including his senior deputy, Alex Bernstein, who sat across from him. Martin had demanded the train travel nonstop from Shreveport to Ruston. The railroad was upset; travelers were furious. Martin wanted to be in Ruston the instant he heard of the shooting.
The jarring motion of the train failed to interrupt Martin’s thoughts about Sisemore. Martin had strong feelings for his dead deputy. The moment he received the telegram from Mayor Price, he left for Ruston without even packing a bag. He commandeered the train, ordering it to proceed immediately.
From the day he swore Sisemore in, Martin knew there would be repercussions. Sisemore would clean out the outlaws or die trying. He had been a daring risk taker, but it took boldness to do what a U.S. Marshal had to do. Any timidity or indecision could lead to an early grave. And risks had to be taken to get the job done. Sisemore took risks, not chances. A risk is carefully weighed, calculated based on experience and intelligence. Sisemore could make those decisions better than anyone Martin had ever seen.
Martin remembered what Sisemore once said about his family. He had too many children to feed to let himself get killed. Who would take care of them now? Martin felt sorry for the family but he knew Sisemore had been very well liked in Ruston. And Mrs. Sisemore still had a number of relatives she could turn to for help. Martin’s jaw tightened as he considered his responsibility in getting the killers. It had to be more than one. One man couldn’t take John Tom Sisemore.
Tom Finley met the train and provided the two federal men with a buggy for the brief ride to the scene of the shooting. As he rode th
rough town, Martin noted the streets were practically vacant. The stores and shops, and even the bank, appeared closed. Occasionally, the riders would pass a silent group of somber bodies, clad in black, with expressions of shock and disbelief across their faces. There was little talk. It was as if they gathered hoping someone would run up and announce they were dreaming and yesterday was just a nightmare.
Martin asked the deputy to guide him to the Sisemore home. The Marshal had never experienced the death of one of his men since the war against the Yankees. He was unsure exactly what he would say to the widow, but he knew he must say something. He must express his condolences and insure Mrs. Sisemore he would do everything possible to find her husband’s killers.
Ushered into the Sisemore house, Martin found Nora seated inside. Removing his hat, the Marshal approached, words finding difficulty reaching his lips. It was Nora who spoke first.
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Martin.” There was no weakness in her voice. “John spoke very highly of you. He was quite an admirer of yours.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Sisemore. I was quite an admirer of your husband. He was a good man, and a good lawman.”
“Please sit down, Marshal. I know you have had a tiring trip.”
Martin slipped into a nearby chair. “I can only stay a moment, Mrs. Sisemore. I wanted to stop and offer my deepest sympathies and go directly to the...scene.” Martin stammered and stopped.
“Of my husband’s murder?” Nora finished and the Marshal nodded. “The words do not drive me to hysterics. Not yet anyway. It may come later. Or it may be that the months and months of worrying about John Tom have shielded me from the reality of all this. It at least prepared me for the possibility. I knew it could happen one day.”
Nora fell silent and Martin hunted for words of comfort. He had never had trouble finding words before.
Neither Fear Nor Favor: Deputy United States Marshal John Tom Sisemore Page 19