Wes turned and headed for the house, and Jones followed, leading the horse behind him. He was pleased that Wilson was talking to him and very relieved when he didn’t see a pistol in the man’s belt. Wes pointed to the post, and Jones wrapped the reins around it once.
“Have a seat, Mr. Jones,” said Wes, pointing to the bench. Wes leaned against the post, looking at his visitor. As much as he could, Wes wanted to control the direction of the conversation. He needed to find out what Jones knew about the Association and the Night Riders without telling him any more than he had to. Even though Jones used fancy words and rode a fine horse didn’t mean he was smart or honest. In fact, in this part of the country, they might mean just the opposite.
“Mr. Jones, I’m interested in hearin’ what you have to say, but before we start I have a few questions.” Wes paused, expecting some kind of response. Getting only a nod from Jones, he continued, “First, have you gotten anyone in the county to sell you his tobacco?”
Jones looked directly into Wes’s face. Although he believed that most of these farmers were uneducated, maybe even stupid, he also knew that some of them were not. He had to be careful with his answers if he wanted to draw Wilson in, get him to trust him and make the deal. He cleared his throat before he spoke.
“I have to tell you, sir, that it is not my normal practice to violate confidences. When I make a deal with an experienced farmer such as you, I keep that business between us.” Jones told this lie as easily as he’d done scores of times before. “I’m sure you understand that. But I can tell you there have been a number of your fellow citizens who’ve heard what I have to say and who have indicated to me that they are very interested in my offer.”
“I’m not askin’ for names,” said Wes. “Just tell me if you’ve made a deal with anyone.”
Jones paused, trying to come up with an answer that would satisfy Wilson.
When Wes realized he wasn’t going to get the answer he wanted, he said, “Let me ask my question another way. When you met with my ‘fellow citizens,’ as you called ’em, did they all want to hear what you had to say?” Wes tried to keep his voice calm. He didn’t want Jones to leave before answering the rest of his questions.
Jones told his next lie even more easily than the first. “Mr. Wilson, everyone has been interested in hearing what I have to say. These are desperate times, and men want to be paid well for the product they’ve toiled to produce. I’ve been welcomed openly by the farmers of this county, and I’ve offered prices that are above the current market. Although no one has signed a contract, many of my clients have indicated that they would do so shortly.”
Wes had his answer—no one had signed a contract.
As Jones spoke, Wes watched his eyes. Just like John Stanley had said, the man’s eyes didn’t match what his mouth was saying. He was lying. Wes guessed that some of his neighbors likely kicked Jones off of their farms after hearing his pitch. Others probably didn’t even speak to him.
“That’s very interestin’, Mr. Jones. Have you heard any talk about the Planters’ Protective Association?”
Once again, Jones tried to appear sincere as he thought about how to answer the question.
“Well, sir, there was a lot of talk about that sort of thing over in Christian County last year, and there have been rumors of an association up in Mayfield. I can’t say I’ve heard any such thing going on in this district. Why do you ask?”
“I was just interested, that’s all. Let me ask you another question. Did anyone say anythin’ about Night Riders?” Wes knew that the question was a bold one. He’d wanted to catch Jones off guard, hoping he wouldn’t have time to make up another lie.
Jones was surprised and knew he’d been backed into a corner. He had to be careful with his response since he didn’t know if Wilson was afraid of the raiders or was one of them himself. His best chance, he thought, was to tell a half-truth. “I heard that there had been a raid of sorts near Cuba last week. But as far as I know, Graves County hasn’t experienced any of the unfortunate events like they’ve seen east of here.”
“You told my boy that you had an offer I might find interestin’.”
Glad that the conversation had turned in his favor, Jones put on his best smile and rose from the bench. He clutched the lapels of his coat and began pacing back and forth in front of Wes. To Wes, he looked like a preacher building up to the powerful part of his sermon. When he finally spoke, he even sounded like a preacher.
“Mr. Wilson, as I said earlier, you have a fine crop of tobacco. It’s probably the finest I’ve seen in my few days in Lynnville. And, even though we are months ahead of harvest and curing, my company has authorized me to offer an above-market price in advance of delivery.”
Wes knew that his crop looked good, but he also knew that everyone’s crop, just a week in the field, looked good. With every word Jones spoke, Wes trusted him less.
“Now, I know you are probably wondering why we would offer such a good price. Back when I was farming, I would have wondered the same thing. But there is logic behind our decision. We think that it is sound business to secure product early in the season. That way, we can be assured we’ll have tobacco to meet our needs. We believe that the American Tobacco Company produces the finest finished tobacco products in the country, and it’s all because we buy good cured tobacco from farmers such as you.”
Wes wondered how long this speech would go on. He had heard the same chatter every year he’d been farming on his own, and his father had told him similar stories about his farming days. Wes was curious, though, about the actual price.
“In any case, today I am prepared to offer you nine cents per pound for your entire crop upon delivery to our warehouse in Hopkinsville.” Jones stopped his pacing, folded his arms across his chest and waited for Wes to respond. He knew that the price he offered was probably higher than any Wes had ever seen. He expected Wes to immediately agree to the offer and was surprised and disappointed when he didn’t.
“Let me get this straight,” said Wes, intrigued by the offer. “Even though last year’s best price was six cents and most of us got somethin’ around four cents, you want to pay me nine cents a pound.”
Jones nodded, smiling smugly.
Already knowing what Jones’s response would be, Wes asked, “Why would your company do this?”
“As I mentioned a moment ago, we must secure a portion of our anticipated needs well in advance of our production schedule. That way, we are assured of meeting our customers’ demands. What you must understand, Mr. Wilson, is that this is a very, very short-time offer. I’m prepared to discuss this same price with a few other farmers in the area. The first one of you who signs a contract will get nine cents a pound. The others might still get an above-market price, but that depends on what the buyers in other parts of the region have done.” Jones paused, waiting for Wes to react, but Wes was staring at Jones’s face, particularly his eyes. Jones began to grow uncomfortable, so he turned away and added, “If you’ll sign a contract with me today, I will guarantee you a price of nine cents.”
“I’ll tell you what, Mr. Jones. I’ll have to think about this before I can agree. You’ve made an interestin’ offer, but it’s gonna rain hard tonight, and I need to get out in that field and help my boys finish up. I appreciate your offer, but I’d like to think on this until next week.”
“Although I certainly understand your need to consider all of the issues,” Jones said, “you must understand that by next week the offer could be off the table. Others may not be as cautious as you are. Furthermore, at any time my company may instruct me to reduce the price. I believe this is a good offer and that you’d be wise to take it while you can. That way, you will know how much your tobacco will bring after delivery. Then you can enjoy the fruits of your labor and provide your family with the finer things I know you want them to have.”
“I understand what you’re sa
yin’, but I still need to think about it. Why don’t you come see me next week? If you don’t show up, I’ll know you’ve made a deal with someone else. Now I’ve got to get back to work.” Wes stepped down into the yard. Jones followed him and, not wanting to give up, tried one more time.
“I will certainly keep you in mind, Mr. Wilson. However, if I am able to secure a contract with someone else, I’ll likely not have time to come back and deal with you. Once the contract has been signed, most of the county will know about the price, and I will be busy making additional deals. I’m sure that you understand this. I appreciate your time and hope you will truly consider my offer.”
Jones untied the reins from the porch post and mounted his horse. He was disappointed that Wilson hadn’t agreed to sell his tobacco, but thought that after a few days of thinking about it he’d come around and make a decision in the company’s favor. At least he hoped he would. As he rode up the lane and turned onto the road, he looked back and saw that Wilson was already headed back into his field. When he saw the growling dog headed his way, Jones nudged the horse’s flanks and took off down the road as the first light drops of rain began to fall.
* * *
When Wes reached the boys, he saw that John Stanley had fallen back a full row. Connie and Anthie were within a yard of one another and had barely slowed down. The rain was falling in a fine mist and as welcome as it was, he hoped the downpour would hold off until they could finish chopping the rows. If they could keep going for another two hours and the rain stayed light, the entire field would get a good watering, and there would be little runoff. He picked up his hoe where he’d dropped it and got to work.
While he chopped, Wes thought about Jones and his offer. He began calculating how much money he’d get at nine cents a pound. The first total was so high he had to try again and then a third time to be sure of the numbers. Any way he figured it, he should end up with nearly three hundred dollars, and that was twice what he’d earned the previous year. Three hundred dollars would take care of his mortgage for the year, buy seed for next year’s tobacco, corn and wheat and maybe even leave enough to finally get a horse.
But there were some problems that came with the nine cents a pound, and these troubled Wes. The first was Edwin T. Jones. Wes didn’t like him. The man was shifty and a liar. His fancy clothes and words weren’t enough to convince Wes that he was anything but a crook. Then there was the problem that taking such a price would create with the Association and, more importantly, the threat of the Night Riders. What bothered him was that taking the nine cents would likely turn his friends and his family against him. He’d end up with three hundred dollars, but no one would ever talk to him, sell to him, or trade with him. He’d have no choice but to sell his farm and move out of the county. He didn’t want to do that, so, at least for the moment, he couldn’t take Jones’s offer no matter how good it sounded. He tried to keep his mind clear by focusing on the hoe, the dirt and catching up to his sons.
Over the next hour or so, the rain changed from a fog-like mist to steady rain. The wet dirt began to stick to the hoes and made it harder for them to keep their footing. By the time his older sons reached the last rows of the tobacco field, they were sliding more than chopping. John Stanley could barely hold onto the hoe, but he hadn’t quit, and Wes, although he was stronger than his sons, was tired and ready to call it a day.
As the steady rain became a downpour, Wes finished his last row and then moved over to help John Stanley finish the one he was on. Anthie and Connie were sprawled out on the grass next to the trees. The rain was coming down so hard that all of them were soaked. What pleased Wes more than the finished task was that the boys were still laughing and that he could see the bright smiles that broke out on their muddy faces.
“We finished it, Pa!” yelled John Stanley.
“Yes we did, son. We surely did.” Wes smiled at each of them.
“What do you say we get outta this rain and get somethin’ to eat?”
Chapter 8
Wednesday Evening, May 9
The trees sheltering the road gave Jones some relief from the shower, but as the storm grew stronger, the heavy leaves dripped water as fast as the rain fell. The gray sky and the chilling breeze did nothing to cheer up the tobacco buyer. All of his preparation and eloquence had failed to convince Wilson to sell his crop. He tried to figure out where things had gone wrong, but couldn’t come up with any specific word or gesture that might have caused the discussion to turn in the wrong direction. Wilson was smart, he thought, smarter than nearly every other farmer he’d met in the district. His questions were direct and well thought out. That the man had controlled the entire encounter really annoyed him.
By the time Jones reached Lynnville, the rain had slowed to a mist, and the darkening sky loomed over the empty roads of the town. He rode his drenched horse directly to the stable, hoping to turn the job of caring for the bay over to the stable boy. But the boy wasn’t there. Disappointed, Jones found an empty stall, removed the horse’s tack and wiped her down with some rags he found on a bench along the wall. Taking a moment to straighten out his damp suit, he stepped outside. Jones knew that Mark Wilson’s store was a place where people would gather to visit with one another, talk about what was going on in their lives and, most importantly, talk about business. If there were people in the store, he might just be able to salvage success from what had been an otherwise miserable day.
The bell jingled over the door as Jones entered the building. He saw the proprietor standing behind the counter at the back and smiled when he noticed there were four men sitting around the potbellied stove. Jones wasted no time in implementing his idea.
“Mr. Wilson, how are you, sir?” Jones strode confidently toward the counter, nodding to the crowd around the stove. “Quite the storm we’re having, isn’t it?”
“Ah, Mr. Jones,” said Mark. “You seem pretty cheerful for a man who looks like he’s been swimming in his clothes.”
Jones heard no sarcasm in Wilson’s voice. Keeping a smile painted on his face, he spoke loud enough for the other men to hear.
“I am cheerful, sir, despite the soaking I received in my ride through the rainy countryside. I have had a great day of business and wanted to share my success with someone involved in commerce, someone who would understand it from a businessman’s point of view.” Jones paused for a moment, hoping he’d gotten Wilson’s attention with the flattery. “Today I met with a man who must be related to you in some fashion.”
“Who’d you meet?” asked Mark.
“I visited with a Mr. Wes Wilson a few miles south of here. Since you and he share the same name, I thought that the two of you might be related. Am I correct in my assumption?”
“Wes is my older brother.”
“Ah, great. Wonderful, actually. Then you’ll be doubly pleased to hear that your brother is considering selling his entire crop of dark-fired tobacco to me.” In a whisper meant to be heard by the men sitting around the stove, he added, “Nine cents per pound was simply too good a price to turn down.” Jones left the words hanging in the air as he clutched the lapels of his suit coat, assuming his preacher pose.
This is going to stir up all kinds of trouble for Wes, Mark thought as he came around the counter and walked up to the buyer. Gently taking him by the elbow, Mark led Jones toward the door. Then, loud enough for everyone to hear him, he said, “Well, Mr. Jones, what you say is very interesting. Yet, knowing my brother Wes as well as anyone does, I’m quite surprised that he’d make such a commitment so early in the season. Wes usually takes longer than anyone else in these parts to make up his mind.” Mark gently pushed Jones out the door onto the covered porch of the store. “Perhaps you misunderstood my brother’s words, perhaps not. In any case, our custom in Lynnville is to keep such discussions confidential. I’ll be sure to let Wes know that you’ve shared this information with me. I’m sure he’ll be interested to know
what you’ve said.”
Jones wasn’t pleased that he’d been ushered out of the store and even less so that Wilson had taken him away from his audience. But, he’d gotten the word out about the price he was offering and expected that by the next morning he’d be besieged by farmers wanting to sell their tobacco. Another great idea put into action, he thought as he walked across the road to the hotel.
Mark turned around and went back inside. He knew that at least three of the farmers sitting at the stove were members of the Association and that they would be troubled by the buyer’s words. As he walked behind the counter, he brought out a jug of whiskey. “There’s a man in love with his own voice,” he said smiling. “He also seems to have a very active imagination if he thinks Wes would sell without thinking the whole thing over. I guess I’ll have to talk to Wes and get the real story. Any of you fellas like a drink?”
The others seemed eager to talk about different things, but Mark kept steering the conversation back towards Jones. He needed to convince these men that Jones had been lying. Filling glasses with whiskey for each of the men, he leaned in toward them and did his best to clear Wes’s name. Warmed by the liquor and the stove, the men seemed to agree with Mark about Jones and soon their words became muffled by the driving rain on the roof of the store.
* * *
Throughout that afternoon, as he’d worked beside J.D. and Charley, all Art could think about was the new information about the raid and the fact that his two farmhands were Night Riders. At first, he wanted to fire them, hoping they’d leave the county for good. But the more he thought about it, he realized that getting rid of them could be dangerous for him and his family, since he didn’t know if they’d make him the next target instead of his cousin. He also decided that even though he’d tell Wes what he’d heard, he wouldn’t tell him where he heard it. I gotta get this field weeded and then I can get rid of them two, and nobody will know.
Death in the Black Patch Page 10