“I want each of you to get your chores done by the time I get back from Cousin Art’s. I don’t care when you start, just be finished before supper.”
He looked at Irene. “You find out what your ma wants done in the garden and you do it, hear?”
“Yes, Pa,” she whispered.
“When you’re done with that, you help John Stanley.”
Turning to John Stanley, he said, “I want you to chop all the weeds out of the ditch along the road. When you’re done, pile ’em up and burn ’em. I don’t want any of them weeds gettin’ into the tobacco.” He paused for only a moment and then turned to Connie.
“That sow’s been chewin’ on the boards like she’s tryin’ to dig her way out. Take some of that old lumber and patch it up good and tight. We gotta keep her from gettin’ out in your ma’s garden.”
Looking at the purple bruise on Anthie’s face, he said, “I want you to finish up what you started yesterday. Weed, worm and water those last rows.”
“I finished all of it last night, Pa.” Anthie stared at him, his jaw set and his eyes hard.
“Then I want you to go find a quiet spot and spend the day thinkin’ about what you saw on the road the other night. We’ll talk when I get back, and I want as much detail as you can remember.” Wes knew this would please Zora, and in return he’d learn more about the Night Riders.
He paused for a moment, “Now remember, all of you, get your chores done before I get back from Art’s. Do all of you understand what I want done today?” He looked hard at each one of them in turn and then kicked the mule in the flanks and rode out onto the road and away from the farm.
Irene looked up at the boys, expecting them to say something, and when they didn’t, she turned and skipped across the yard and went into the house. John Stanley grumbled something to himself as he followed his sister. Anthie didn’t move from his spot for a moment. Then he walked to the well to get a drink of water. Standing in front of the tub with the ladle to his lips, he seemed lost in thought. He finally took a sip of the water and hung the ladle on the hook.
When Anthie walked into the kitchen, John Stanley and Irene were sitting at the table, putting butter on biscuits. Mary Lula asked him if he wanted some. He shook his head and said, “Where’s Ma?”
“She’s in her room. If you go in there, be sure to knock on the door.”
Anthie walked to the back of the house, took off his hat and tapped gently on the door. “Ma, it’s Anthie,” he whispered. “Can I come in?”
“Wait just a moment, son.”
A minute or so passed before Zora opened the door and smiled at her son. “Come on in.”
Standing in front of his ma, Anthie realized he didn’t know what to say.
“Anthie, what is it?”
“It’s nothin’, Ma. I guess I just needed to tell you what Pa wants me to do today. I’m not sure why, but he asked me to think about what I saw on the road Sunday night.”
Zora stepped toward her son and hugged him tenderly. “Then you do exactly what he asked.”
“But why would he do that, Ma?”
“Your pa has lots on his mind. It’s important for him to know what you saw, and it’ll help him make some important decisions.”
“But why won’t he say he’s sorry? Why would he beat me and then give me an easy chore?” Anthie felt bad as soon as the question left his lips. “Never mind, Ma. I know you don’t know what Pa’s thinkin’. I’m goin’ down by the creek to think about what Pa wants. Sorry I interrupted you.”
“Don’t fret none about it, son. Just remember that your pa loves you.”
Without saying a word, Anthie turned and walked out of the room. He went back through the kitchen, past Mary Lula and the little kids and out the door. Putting his hat back on his head, he headed through the trees to the creek.
Chapter 5
Late 1905
The banging on the door of the old farmhouse reached through J.D. Hooper’s numb ears, tugging at dark dreams, forcing him to open his sleep-crusted eyes. The early morning sunlight shining through grimy windows burned through the narrow slits. Barely able to lift his head from the greasy pillow, he pushed himself up from the straw-filled mattress and lurched toward the door.
“Come on, Hooper, open the door.”
J.D. hawked and spit onto the floor, his head drumming pain, his mouth cotton dry. Cupping his hands over buzzing ears, he tried to block out the pounding and yelling, but it wouldn’t stop.
“What the hell,” he croaked, cringing as the racket stabbed at his brain. “Hold on, I’m comin’.” Halfway to the door, he tripped over an empty whiskey jug.
“Open the door, Hooper. This is the sheriff and we’ve got business.”
J.D. grabbed his shotgun from where it leaned against the wall. Clutching it by the barrel and using it like a crutch he staggered to the door and fumbled for the latch. He swung the door open and tried to focus on the two silhouetted figures standing on the porch. “What do you want?”
“J.D. Hooper,” said the sheriff, “I’m here to officially advise you that you are in default of your mortgage loan with the Henry County Bank.” Pointing to the bank president next to him, he continued. “As such, your farm is now in foreclosure and you are to be evicted immediately.”
“Evicted how? What do you mean evicted?”
“I’m here to ensure that you leave the property and take only your personal things.” The sheriff removed a watch from his pocket and said, “You have exactly five minutes, so you’d better get moving.”
J.D. lifted the shotgun up across his chest and put his thumb on the hammer and pointed it at the sheriff. “I ain’t leavin’ my farm, sheriff, and not you or any thievin’ banker can make me.” J.D. looked to his right at the banker and never saw the sheriff swing his pistol around and slam it against the side of his face. The shotgun slipped to the porch as J.D. slumped against the door.
Within two hours, J.D. was arrested, taken to the judge’s house, charged and convicted with misdemeanor assault and sentenced to ninety days in the Henry County jail.
* * *
Charley Randall was miserable. He’d been in jail less than a week but felt like he was serving a life sentence. His cell was small, the mattress on the iron cot was lumpy and full of biting bugs, and the food gave him a bellyache. He gagged every time he used the foul-smelling bucket in the corner and had pretty much decided that things couldn’t get any worse. He was wrong.
The iron-barred door at the end of the cell block swung open and banged against the pitted brick wall. The crashing steel assaulted his ears and battered his brain. Over the jingling of the jailer’s keys, he heard a familiar voice, lifted his head and turned to look down the narrow passageway between the cells. That’s all I need, he thought.
“Quit pushin’ me, damn it. I ain’t no cow.”
“Got a neighbor for ya, Charley!” yelled the jailer. “I think he’s an old friend of yours.” He opened the cell across from Charley’s and nudged J.D. Hooper into the tiny space. “This, my good man, will be your home for a while. Get used to it and be nice, and you won’t have to stay any longer than ninety days.”
“Shut up and leave me alone,” said J.D. as he flipped the turned-up mattress onto the springs of the bed and sat on the edge. He looked across at Charley and shook his head, clearly annoyed that he was in jail.
“It looks like you been in some kinda fight. What’d you do, try to wrestle with a mule or somethin’?” said Charley.
“It wasn’t a mule. It was that damned sheriff. He whopped me on the jaw with the side of his pistol.”
“Why?”
“Because he didn’t think I shoulda been pointin’ my shotgun at his big belly.”
“Why’re you in here, Charley? It wouldn’t have anythin’ to do with that missin’ money down at the Baptist church, would it?”
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“That’s why I’m in here,” he said, “but I didn’t take no money from the church.” Charley sat up on the edge of the mattress, put his elbows on his knees and looked over at J.D. “I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.” He tried to stretch his back to get the kinks out of it and let out a groan. “I’m innocent, but the judge won’t let me tell my side of the story.”
“Didn’t you have no lawyer?”
“I can’t afford a lawyer, J.D. I ain’t had a coin in my hand since I lost my farm. I probably woulda been all right if Sally hadn’t divorced me.” He dropped his face into his hands and groaned again. “Damned woman didn’t know when to keep her mouth shut. I’ll bet she lied to the sheriff and told him I took the church money. It’d be just like her to do somethin’ like that. She got everythin’ I own except freedom, and now it looks like she’s taken care of that too.”
“How long you in for?”
“Until I can prove I’m innocent or after another eighty-five days, whichever comes first. Since I didn’t take the money, and I don’t have thirty-seven dollars and fifty-four cents, I guess I’ll be here for another three months.”
Charley stood up and walked the short distance to the front of the cell. He grasped onto the bars and rested his head between them. His head hurt and his eyes burned, but he looked across at J.D. and whispered, “I don’t think I can make it another week, let alone three months.”
“You can and you will,” said J.D., pausing to look toward the front of the cell block. “At least until we break out of here.” He grinned and watched as Charley opened his eyes. “What?” J.D. said. “Did you think I was gonna stay in here for three months?”
Charley pushed himself back from the bars, his brows furrowed. “What’re you talkin’ about?”
“I’m talkin’ about findin’ a way to get out of this jail. I ain’t gonna stay in here while that crooked banker is out there gettin’ rich off my farm.” J.D.’s voice grew louder, his grin shifting to a scowl.
“I dunno, J.D., if we…if you break outta jail, they’re gonna find you and send you to the state prison; and nobody gets outta there.”
J.D. turned away from Charley and flopped onto his bed. He pulled the flat, smelly pillow up under his head, closed his eyes and said, “Leave me alone. I got some plannin’ to do.” Then he pulled his hat down over his cut and bruised face.
Charley waited to see if J.D. was going to say anything else, but when he started snoring, Charley let go of the bars and sat on his own bunk. If I get involved with J.D., I’m gonna be in trouble forever, he thought. But if I can get through ninety days in here, I can leave this county and go someplace where no one knows me.
But Charley made it through the whole ninety days; they both did. In time they’d gotten used to the routine, the bad food, and the smell of the bucket. The jailer told his friends that the two of them were never going to stay out of trouble and that they’d probably end up in the state prison someday. At the end of December 1905, they walked out of the jail and stood on the boardwalk.
“Good-bye, J.D.,” said Charley as he stepped into the street.
“Where’re you goin’?”
“I’m gettin’ outta this town and this county before I get arrested again for somethin’ I didn’t do.” Charley hitched up his pants and hung the flour sack containing his worldly goods on his shoulder.
“Wait a minute, Charley,” said J.D. “I’ll go with you.”
Charley turned back to face him, confused by J.D.’s friendly tone. He couldn’t remember ever hearing the man say anything that nice. “You don’t even know where I’m goin’.”
“It don’t matter; I need to get out of this county too. We might as well go together. What do you say?”
“I’m leavin’ anyway, and if you’re walkin’ in the same direction I can’t stop you.”
“Okay,” said J.D., “but I’ve gotta make one stop at the farm to pick up some of my things. Headin’ west is as good as any other direction and my old place is on the way.” J.D. walked up to Charley and waited for a response.
“Might as well,” Charley said, turning west and kicking up dust in the road.
They walked out of town in silence for about an hour and turned off the main road toward J.D.’s farm.
“The place don’t look so good, J.D.”
“Course it don’t. There ain’t been anybody here for three months. It’s not like I could hire someone to take care of it.”
They walked up to the porch, and J.D. set his bag down. “You wait here a minute while I go take care of some business.”
Charley nodded and turned away, looking at the trashy yard and fallow fields. The barn door was hanging crooked, and there were large patches of weeds everywhere. He sat on the porch and wondered if his plan to let J.D. tag along was going to work out.
“Okay, let’s go,” said J.D. as he ran out the door.
Charley turned toward him and saw that the room behind the door was on fire. Smoke billowed through the window and the open door. “What’d you do that for?” he yelled.
“If I can’t have this farm,” J.D. shouted, “then nobody can.”
Charley stood up and watched the fire for a moment and turned to see J.D. running down the lane toward the road.
“You gonna stick around and wait for the sheriff?” yelled J.D. over his shoulder. “Or are you gonna get outta the county like me?”
Looking once more at the growing fire, Charley gripped his flour sack and ran after J.D.
* * *
When J.D. and Charley arrived outside of Lynnville, their jug was empty and so were their pockets. They’d walked for weeks, working when they could and eating when they could afford it. It didn’t take long before they stumbled across Ol’ Man Smith’s place and he took them in and gave them food. Soon after, they made a deal with him. He would give them a shack to live in if they’d keep him supplied with whiskey. All they needed now was work.
Most folks thought that they were from up in the Burley region around Henry County, and it was pretty clear to the Lynnville farmers that the two men knew plenty about tobacco. They made it through the winter doing odd jobs until one day they were approached by Art West about working for him. They were just about at the end of their money, so they started helping at his farm just in time for the three of them to get the seeds into the plant beds. They weren’t going to get rich working for Art, but they wouldn’t starve either. Art was pleased with their work and had even included them in the noon dinner on days they were working with him. Saving five or six meals a week allowed them to buy Ol’ Man Smith’s occasional jug. So now they had steady work. They’d also found a local farmer who had a still hidden back in his woods and who was more than happy to supply them with jugs of whiskey for the right price. Now they had enough money to eat and whiskey to drink. All they had to do was stay clear of the law.
Chapter 6
Tuesday, May 8
Art was chopping weeds in the ditch when he saw Wes riding up the road; he stopped and leaned on the handle of the hoe, waiting for his cousin to draw closer. Art wasn’t surprised that Wes was coming to see him; the cousins were best friends and often got together. Art looked up to Wes and trusted him. He was glad to have the opportunity to talk with Wes, since there were so many rumors going around about the Association and the Trust. Art smiled as his cousin climbed down off the mule, but the smile quickly faded when he saw the frown on his face. The two men shook hands and Wes said, “We need to talk.”
Glancing back to see that Charley and J.D. were still busy chopping weeds at the back of the tobacco field, Art pointed to the shade tree at the edge of the ditch and said, “Let’s sit where it’s cool and I can keep watch on the hired hands.”
Leading the mule, Wes followed Art, wondering how he’d start the conversation. He still didn’t know what Art’s position was on selling his crop,
and he had to be careful not to put himself on the wrong side of the one man he could trust. Art, always a patient man, waited for Wes to begin.
“I’m wonderin’ what to do with my crop this year,” Wes said. “The Tobacco Trust’s bought up all the little companies we used to deal with, and now they’ve got a monopoly. That don’t give us any choice of who to sell the crop to.”
Art nodded his head. “I hear what you’re sayin’, Wes. We all got the same problem. I heard that they’ll offer high prices to a few farmers at the beginnin’ to stir up interest, and then the price’ll keep goin’ down until the farmers left at the end’ll get less than it costs to grow their tobacco.” He paused and added, “Not everybody knows how they operate, though.”
“I sure don’t wanna be one of them farmers. I got a mortgage to pay, and I’d like to make enough this year to buy a horse and some other things for my family.” Wes rolled and lit a cigarette. “Another choice we have is to join the Association. I don’t know much about what they have to offer. You heard anythin’ about ’em?”
“I’ve been wonderin’ what to do myself,” said Art. “I’ve talked to a few fellas who’ve held back their crop with the Association. I’ve even been to a few meetin’s and I ain’t learned much so far. They don’t say much until you’ve joined up, but I think they want us all to stay together and to promise not sell our crops to the Trust. They say that if we do that, it’ll force the Trust to give everybody a fair price instead of just a few of us.” Art looked toward the farmhands, then back at Wes. “But like you, if I don’t sell my crop right away, I won’t make it. Somethin’ else I been thinkin’ about is that some of those farmers in the Association have big fields and lots of money and I don’t think they care much about the rest of us.”
Death in the Black Patch Page 6