Connie came running out of the barn and headed toward his mother. “He ain’t in the barn, Ma. I’ll go look in the corn field. Maybe he’s over there.”
“He ain’t in the sty or the coop, Ma,” shouted Anthie, coming up behind him. “I’m gonna see if he’s at Uncle George’s.”
“What would he be doin’ over there?” yelled Wes. “Don’t waste your time doin’ that. Did anyone look in the house? Anthie, you get back here!”
But Anthie was already running up the lane toward the road. He slowed when he got to the bridge, not wanting to slip on the wet timber. He looked to his right at first, checking to see if his brother was coming from the west, then he turned left and started running down the muddy road. When he got near the fence line that separated their farm from Uncle George’s, he spotted a glass jar in the mud. The frog pond, the one I showed him last year, he thought, sliding to a stop. Anthie turned toward the ditch, walked to the edge and looked down into the water.
“Ma! Ma, come quick. I found him!”
John Stanley was lying on his back against the slope of the ditch. He’d slipped into the water up to his shoulders. Anthie lay down on the road and reached into the water, pulling his brother up by the collar of his shirt. Once he had a good grip on him, Anthie got up onto his knees and pulled his brother out of the ditch and onto the road. The boy was unconscious, and Anthie could see blood on the back of his head. He stood up and lifted his brother into his arms.
“Ma! He’s hurt bad! His head’s bleedin’!” he shouted again, carrying his brother’s limp body back toward the lane. Anthie walked slowly, gently talking to his brother. “Everythin’s gonna be all right. You’ll be okay. Ma’ll take care of you.”
Zora got to the end of the lane just as Anthie turned into the farm. She stopped him just long enough to touch her youngest son’s face and to see that he was breathing and then said, “Be careful with him, Anthie. Let’s get him into the house.”
Zora walked alongside Anthie while he carried his injured brother in his arms. She prayed as she held onto John Stanley’s muddy foot. Lord, take care of my boy. Don’t let him die. I trust you, Lord, don’t let him die. As Anthie slogged on through the mud, she saw Connie running in from the field. He hurried up the lane toward them, clearly out of breath.
“Where’d you find him? Is he all right?”
Zora interrupted his questions and said, “I don’t know how bad he’s hurt, son, but I want you to listen to me. Are you listenin’?”
“Yes, Ma.”
“You go get the mule and ride into town as fast as you can, you hear? I want you to go to the doctor’s house. You tell him that your brother fell and hit his head. Tell him that he’s bleedin’ and breathin’ but he’s not awake. You get him to come out to the farm and don’t leave there until he says he’s comin’. Do you understand?”
“I understand, Ma.”
“Then you get goin’ and be careful.”
Connie raced to the barn and ran inside. As Anthie and Zora reached the well, Wes stepped off the porch and stumbled toward them. He stretched out his arms and said, “Gimme my boy.”
Before Zora could reply, Anthie said defiantly, his voice powerful, “No, Pa, I won’t.”
Wes took another step toward them, glaring at Anthie through his whiskey-red eyes. “Don’t you talk to me that way, boy. I’ll whup you if you don’t do what I tell you.”
“Wes, you stand back. Anthie, take your brother in and put him on my bed, you hear? Do it now, son.”
“Stop right there,” Wes growled. “Give me my boy!”
Zora stepped between her husband and her son. She quietly told Anthie to get moving and then turned to Wes.
“Now you listen to me, Wesley Wilson. Your son is hurt bad, and he needs a doctor. He don’t need a drunken pa to carry him. You get out of my way, or so help me I’ll knock you down myself.”
Wes started to say more, but turned away, knowing that Zora was mad enough to do what she said. He staggered back to the porch, picked up the shotgun and sat down. He watched Connie ride the mule to the road and turn toward town. Zora stared down at him and shook her head. She started up the steps, but then stopped and looked at him again. This time, though, her face was softer. She leaned in and saw a rumor of fear.
“Look at me, Wes.” She waited until his blurry eyes met hers. “This ain’t your fault, any more than the other troubles are. But you need to be a father and take care of your family. You need to be a man right now, not a drunk.” She searched his eyes, looking for something. Then she said, “Connie’s goin’ for the doctor, and I’m gonna go check on John Stanley. You do whatever you need to do, but you’d better sober up quick.”
She walked up the steps and into the house. Wes didn’t move, couldn’t move. He was paralyzed by Zora’s words. He sat on the porch, looking out into his muddy yard and wondered what else could go wrong in his life.
Still holding the shotgun, he broke the gun open and removed the shells, putting them into his damp shirt pocket. His face was hot and his head was pounding. It hurt from the whiskey and too much thinking. He felt a wrenching, burning pain in his stomach. He set the gun down, got up and walked quickly to the outhouse. His steps were unsteady on the wet ground, and just as he reached the door of the outhouse, he slipped in the mud and went down on his knees and began heaving up the sour contents of his stomach. Gagging and coughing, he slapped at the muddy ground, taking out his anger on something that he couldn’t hurt. He tried to spit out the ugly, burning taste in his mouth and then struggled to his feet, opened the door of the outhouse and stepped inside.
Chapter 11
Friday, May 11
The rain clouds finally gave way to the bright sun. By Friday evening, all but the largest puddles on the roads had disappeared, and the mud had turned to a hard, dry crust that would become the dust spreading far and wide in the days that followed. Some of the water-damaged crops in the fields would recover, much to the relief of the farmers. Yet, their other losses would add to an already-difficult situation.
Late that night, a band of nearly twenty armed and masked horsemen rode hard toward the farm of a man they’d heard had agreed to sell his crop to the Tobacco Trust. The night was cool, and the bright moon lit the road. When the column reached the turnoff a mile from the farm, the leader slowed his horse and signaled a stop. The men remained quiet as he rode back along the line of horses.
“Light up your torches, and remember, no talkin’ and no names.” He repeated the instructions to every pair of Riders and watched as the light from the flames reflected off the water in the ditches along the road. “Don’t do anythin’ unless I give the order. Make sure your masks are on tight and that your guns are loaded.” The nods and whispers of the men let him know that they understood and were ready. Hearing only the noise of the crickets and the hard breathing of the horses, he looked up at the moon and then back at his men. He raised his arm and signaled them forward.
It was well after midnight when they turned down the lane to the farm. They quietly surrounded the house and placed guards at the barn and other outbuildings. When he was certain that his Riders were in position, the leader rode his horse up to the porch until he was within a few yards of the door. Looking around to assure himself that everyone was in position, he took a rock out of his coat pocket and threw it at the door. The crash of it hitting the dry wood shattered the tranquil stillness of the night.
“Come out of the house, hillbilly!” he shouted. “Get on out here!” For a few moments, silence filled the air as the leader took out another rock and threw it at the window next to the door. The glass exploded and he yelled again. “Get on out here and make it quick!”
From his horse, he saw the light of a candle through the shards of glass. He watched as the flickering light was carried toward the front door.
“Who’s out there? What do you want?” The voice sou
nded strong, but a little frightened.
“I’ll be the one askin’ the questions,” yelled the raider. “Open your door and come outside.” He threw his last rock at the door and shouted again, “Do it now.”
The door opened slowly inward, and a tall, barefoot man in his nightshirt stepped out onto the porch. He held a small pistol in his right hand, but kept it at his side. He looked at the mounted men, saw that they were armed, and with as much resolve as he could, he said, “You all need to get off my land. This is my farm, and we don’t want any trouble.”
“You’re already in trouble, and you better drop that gun or I’ll shoot you where you stand.”
The farmer heard the clicking sound of weapons being cocked. He stared directly at the man who’d been doing the talking and leaned down, setting the handgun at his feet. From inside, he heard his wife trying to keep his frightened children quiet. Her words were soft, but they were having little effect. He turned to the open door and said, “Get to the back of the house. I’ll take care of this out here.” Not hearing any movement, he added, “Go on now, you get on back there.” He turned back to the Rider.
“What do you want?”
“We’re here to keep you from sellin’ your crop to the Trust. We know you’ve been talkin’ to ’em, and we know you’ve already made a deal.” He paused a moment to let the words sink in. “We ain’t gonna let that happen.”
The raider signaled to the two closest men, and they got down from their horses. They tossed the torches to the ground and grabbed the farmer by his arms then dragged him to the edge of his yard.
“Tie him to the tree,” said the leader.
“I ain’t done nothin’,” groaned the struggling farmer.
The raiders got his arms around a tree and tied his hands with a coarse rope. One of them held a thorn branch he’d brought along while the other used a knife to cut open the back of the farmer’s nightshirt. Whether from the cool air or the fear, he shivered and yanked at the bindings on his wrists. “What’re you gonna do?”
“We’re gonna make sure you don’t sell your crop,” whispered the man behind him. He signaled to the man with the branch, saying, “We’re gonna teach you a lesson, hillbilly. We’re gonna teach you not to turn against your neighbors.”
Without warning, the raider struck the farmer’s back with the stiff, thorny branch. The farmer cried out, and the man struck him again. From the house, the sound of the crying children was drowned by the screams of their mother. One of the mounted raiders rode to the porch to make sure the woman stayed inside. The raider with the branch struck a third time, and blood streamed down the naked man’s back. His cries of pain echoed off the walls of his house and barn.
“Are you gonna sell your tobacco to the Trust?” asked the leader.
The man with the thorn branch swung and hit the farmer again. He cried out, and his wife screamed from the house.
“Unless you tell us you’re not gonna sell, you won’t have a crop. If you don’t change your mind, we’ll destroy your tobacco in the field and maybe even burn your barn. Now, are you gonna sell to the Trust?”
The bound and bleeding man groaned and slumped down onto the ground, the tree bark ripping at his cheek. He clenched his teeth as a spasm of pain hit him, and then he moaned out a barely audible “No.”
The raider dropped the bloody branch and untied the farmer’s wrists. He and the other Night Rider lifted him from the ground and walked him back to his porch. The torn remains of the farmer’s nightshirt barely covered his nakedness as he struggled to stand on his own. The leader looked down at the frightened man and spoke again.
“Tell me again what you’re gonna do with your tobacco.”
The wounded farmer looked up toward the masked face of the raider. With as much dignity as he could gather, he said, “I ain’t gonna sell it to the Trust.”
“That’s what I thought you were gonna say. Now get on back inside and think about how lucky you are that we didn’t tear up your fields.”
The farmer bent over to pick up his pistol and groaned as he stood back up. Suddenly, one of the mounted raiders fired his shotgun toward the house. The noise of the blast frightened the horses as the lead tore through the belly of the surprised farmer. He slumped down and the pistol slipped from his hand as his blood spread across the porch. His wife ran out to him and covered his body with her own. The copper smell of his blood overcame her, and she began screaming.
“You killed him. You killed my husband. Why?” She watched the raiders as they scrambled around the yard in confusion. “Killers!” she shouted. “You cowards murdered my husband!” The woman watched the backs of the raiders as they rode hard out of the yard.
In the dark, the new widow slumped over her husband’s body and wept loudly. The crying children came slowly out of the open doorway and stood by their ma. They couldn’t understand what had just happened, but they’d soon discover that their lives had changed forever.
Chapter 12
Saturday Morning, May 12
As the sky began to brighten in the east, Mark Wilson stood on the front porch of his store, enjoying the cool air. Leaning on his broom, listening to the early morning sounds of the town, he was glad to have a few moments for himself. He could smell the coffee brewing on the stove inside and looked forward to the first taste of hot black liquid. Thursday’s rain and mud had turned into Friday’s dust, and he needed to finish sweeping his porch before the customers started showing up. Mark kicked at the last clumps of dirt on the lowest step and swept them off into the road. He turned to go back inside, but stopped when he heard a door slam somewhere.
He looked down the empty street and saw the constable making his way past the glowing furnace of the blacksmith shop, heading in his direction. Mark stood in the doorway, wondering what had motivated Dan Cleary to be out on the streets of Lynnville before sunrise. He waited until the large man reached the porch before greeting him.
“Mornin’, Deputy. You’re up awful early. Got time for a cup of coffee?”
“I sure am and I sure do,” Cleary said after a moment. Frowning, he added, “But don’t call me deputy. You know the sheriff don’t like it.”
“Well, come on inside anyway, Deputy.” Mark intentionally used the title. “The coffee’s about ready.” He led Cleary into the store. “Have a seat and grab yourself a cup and pour one for me, while I put away my broom. That rain made a mess of everything, but it’s what the farmers needed.”
As Mark joined the constable at the stove, he noticed that Dan hadn’t touched the coffeepot. Instead, he was staring out the window as though lost in thought. Mark filled Cleary’s cup, and the two said nothing as they sipped at the hot liquid. Mark knew better than to rush Cleary, knowing that the large man always took his time before speaking.
Cleary peered over the top of his cup at Mark, the steam from the coffee billowing around the brim of his hat. He took another sip and carefully placed the cup on the table next to the stove. Mark watched as he pulled the handkerchief from his back pocket and dabbed at his puffy lips.
“What’s on your mind this mornin’, Dan?”
“I got a call from the sheriff.”
“And what did the lawman from Mayfield have to tell you that’s so important he called early on a Saturday?”
Cleary was a little afraid of answering the storekeeper. He wasn’t certain how the local farmers would respond to the news he had to share. The frank expression on Mark’s face moved him to speak.
“The sheriff called to tell me there was a Night Rider raid last night. He said they killed a farmer. Shot him in the belly and killed him on his front porch in front of his wife and children.”
Mark’s gut clenched like he’d been kicked in the belly. “Was it—” He nearly said his brother’s name. “Was it anybody we know?”
Cleary shook his head.
Mark’s relie
f that the dead man wasn’t Wes flooded through his chest. But he cared about his neighbors, and the thought of one of them being killed bothered him. He stood, almost throwing his questions at Cleary. “C’mon, Dan, where’d the raid happen? What else did the sheriff say?”
“He said he got a call from...that it happened over in Christian County. He said that the dead man’s wife told him they showed up sometime after midnight and that the raiders whipped her husband before they shot him.”
“The Night Riders murdered a farmer?” Mark’s voice was soft, almost a whisper. “God help that poor woman and her children,” he said. “But Christian County’s over fifty miles from here. I hope we don’t have any problems like that here in Lynnville.” Mark couldn’t stop thinking about Wes.
“The sheriff said he heard there might be trouble down here, that some tobacco buyer was sayin’ he’d made a big deal in our district. He told me to keep my eyes and ears open and to let him know if there was any talk about raids.” Dan sipped at his coffee and leaned back in the chair.
“So what else did he tell you? And have you heard anything about raids?” Mark demanded. He sat down and looked squarely into Cleary’s eyes. This time when he spoke, he kept his voice steady.
“Dan,” he paused, trying to calm down, “have you heard anything about raids around here?” He watched Cleary’s face and saw his hesitation. He knew that the man had something more to say.
“I heard there was gonna be a raid, but that it got called off. I didn’t hear any names, and I told the sheriff that I didn’t know about any tobacco deals bein’ made.”
“So all you know is some poor farmer in Christian County got killed last night and that the sheriff is worried about trouble down here, right?”
“Yep, that’s it. I thought you oughta know, since a lot of folks come into your store. Maybe you could listen to what they say, and if you hear about any raids, you could let me know.”
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