“Are you sure?” The words rushed from Wes’s throat and his face turned red.
Mark feared the worst. “Hey fellas, pass me that jug,” he said, feeling the heavy tension in the wagon. “I need another drink before I get to the turn.” Mark felt helpless. This has gone too far, he thought.
Wes continued to stare at Art, but his cousin just gazed at the trees. Mark made the turn onto Boydsville Road and flicked the reins along the flanks of the horse. The wagon’s steel wheels created a pounding noise as they bounced in the ruts left over from yesterday’s rain. The harsh light of the sun behind the steel gray clouds was still well above the tree line as they rode toward the west. Mark slowed the horse when they neared the next turn.
“Pull up, Mark,” Art said and waited for the wagon to slow down. He pointed over to one of the farmhouses and turned to Wes. “See that big red bay tied to the fence? Ain’t that the one Jones rides, Wes? I wonder what he’s doin’ at Alderdice’s farm?”
“I don’t know if that’s his horse,” said Wes, his voice hard. “You think there’s only one red bay in Western Kentucky?”
“That’s his horse, all right,” said Art, ignoring Wes’s tone. “There ain’t no red bay that tall in these parts.”
“Even if it does belong to Jones, what’s that got to do with me?”
“I don’t know, Wes. You tell me. We all know that he’s been to your place, ’cause you told us so. You been sayin’ that you didn’t make a deal with him. But Jones has been tellin’ everybody that he made one with you.” Art waited, his heart pounding. The question came hard and fast to his lips, “How much did he offer you, Wes?”
“If he offered me a price, and I ain’t sayin’ he did, it ain’t none of your damn business.”
Art’s body shook, his voice scratchy. “I thought we were friends and told each other everythin’.”
“So did I, Art.” Wes glared at his cousin. “Have you told me everythin’ about the Night Riders?”
Mark whipped the horse’s rear with the reins, throwing both men off balance. I gotta get them to the store and try to calm ’em down before they get into a fight. He kept the wagon going and didn’t look back. The empty jug rolled around, bouncing off the sideboards, sounding like a bomb each time it hit. Both men sitting in the back of the wagon held on tight, unable to speak.
When the he reached the road that headed back into Lynnville, Mark turned the horse east and kept the wagon moving all the way into town. The sun was going down behind them as he pulled up to the front porch and set the brake. Before Mark could say anything, he heard his name called from the other side of the road. He looked over at the hotel and saw Jon McCuen and Joe Paige, two of his better customers, walking toward the store.
“Evenin’, Mark,” said Paige. “You gonna open up for business? I need to get a few things, and they can’t wait ’til tomorrow mornin’.”
Mark knew this wasn’t a good time for business and that he needed to get Art and Wes calmed down. He looked back and watched as they climbed out of the wagon, each staggering and carrying an empty liquor jug. “Let’s all go inside,” Mark said, unlocking the door and walking into the store. “I can put on a fresh pot of coffee. What do you say?”
The two farmers smiled and grunted their agreement, but Wes and Art didn’t say a word, still seething from the words that had passed between them.
While Mark fixed the coffee and set the pot on the woodstove, Art wandered down the side aisles to the back of the store, and Wes stayed up front by the window. The two farmers headed to the middle of the building and pawed around in a box of hardware. Mark shoved some wood into the stove, not taking his eyes off Wes and Art.
“Are you findin’ what you need?” Mark asked, wanting the visitors to leave. “If not, I’ve got more in the back.”
“Looks like you got what I need,” said Paige. “Been wantin’ to fix that gate on my pigsty, and these hinges oughta do the trick.”
Suddenly, Mark wasn’t in a hurry for the visitors to leave. If he could keep them around and get enough coffee into Wes and Art, maybe it would help diffuse the tension between the two good friends. Mark knew he was the only one sober enough to help them both.
“Why don’t you fellas stay for a minute and have some coffee?”
The visitors obliged and joined Mark by the woodstove.
“You wanna pay for the hinges now, Joe, or should I put ’em on your account?” He waited while the men sat down.
“It don’t really matter. Go ahead and put ’em in the ledger, I guess.” Paige sipped at the coffee and leaned the chair so it rested on its back legs. “What you fellas been doin’ this afternoon?”
“Mostly just rode around and talked,” Mark said.
“Judgin’ by the empty jugs, it looks like the three of you also had a drink or two,” said McCuen, smiling as he settled down in his chair and glanced at Wes. “Must’ve been some powerful talkin’ goin’ on.”
Wes looked back over his shoulder in the direction of the men seated by the stove. His eyes were dark and foreboding. Mark hoped Wes could control his temper long enough for the farmers to finish their coffee and head out.
“We mostly talked about family business,” Mark replied, and that ended the conversation. The two men grew quiet, and then Paige set the half-empty cup next to the stove and rose from his chair.
“I guess I’d better get on home,” he said, signaling to McCuen with his eyes.
“Me too, I suppose. I don’t wanna miss out on supper.”
McCuen got out of his chair, and the visitors went with Mark to the front door. He thanked them for their business and locked the door after they walked outside.
“I need to sit down,” Mark said as he slumped into one of the chairs by the stove. He buried his face in his sweaty hands, his energy drained by the nearly physical tension in the room.
Lost in thought, Art looked up from where he stood and saw Wes in the front of the store. Art had found the last derby hat on the shelf and was holding it by the brim. Glancing over at Mark, he said, “I gotta get home. Mollie’s probably wonderin’ where I am.” Rolling his neck to work out the kinks, he put the hat on the top of the shelf and staggered toward the door, only stopping when Wes spoke up.
“We’re not done here, Art.” Wes’s words were mushy.
“I said I need to get home. I’m leavin’ now.”
“Not yet, you ain’t,” said Wes. “There’s somethin’ I need to find out. Somethin’ you need to tell me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Wes,” said Art. He reached for the door handle, but Wes grabbed his arm.
“Hold it. I wanna know why you lied to me.”
Art shook Wes’s hand off and stepped away, looking to Mark for help. “When did I lie to you?” But Art knew the answer, and it pained him to ask the question. He burped up sour whiskey and spit it onto the floor.
“You lied to me about Charley Randall,” Wes yelled. “You knew that he was a Night Rider, and you didn’t tell me. You hired him and J.D., and you knew all the time that they was Night Riders and are gonna raid my farm.” Wes held onto the edge of the counter, trying to steady himself.
“You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Wes,” he said, staggering away from his cousin. “Whoever told you they’re Night Riders is a liar.”
“It was Anthie who told me, and my son don’t lie to me.” Wes’s rage was growing, and he felt the throbbing behind his eyes.
“Well maybe he didn’t lie. Maybe he’s just wrong.” Art paused, his own lie growing beyond his control. “It don’t matter, Wes. What matters is that you’ve been lyin’ all along about makin’ a deal with Jones. Mark and I know that you met with him. We both stood up for you and told the Association that you would never make a deal with the Trust. But now you’ve made us look like damn fools.” Beads of moisture flew from his mo
uth.
“I ain’t lyin’ to you,” Wes yelled. “I did not make a deal with Jones.” He turned away from his cousin and walked a few steps down the center aisle of the store. He took the pistol out of his pocket, looked at Mark and set it on the top of the counter. Swaying a little, Wes spun around and leaned against the counter, staring at Art, his bloodshot eyes glaring, his jaws rigid.
“Wait a minute, you two,” pleaded Mark as he rose from his chair. “You fellas need to calm down a little. There ain’t no reason for you to be fightin’.”
“We ain’t fightin’, Mark. We’re just speakin’ our minds, ain’t we, Wes. Your brother thinks he’s always right and that the rest of us are stupid.” Art’s voice was thick, his words unclear. He stood up as straight as he could and looked directly at Wes. “Well, you ain’t right this time, Wes, ’cause the Night Riders are gonna raid your farm.”
Wes’s hands trembled as he pushed himself away from the counter. He took a step toward Art and yelled, “You know what your problem is, Art? You’re afraid. You’re afraid of bein’ a man and standin’ up for yourself. Maybe you oughta go home and sit with your sick wife. Maybe she’ll tell you what to do.”
“You son of a bitch,” slurred Art, as he reached into his pocket for his gun. Pulling it out, he aimed it straight at Wes. “I’ve had enough of your ugly mouth. You’re a dead man.”
“No, Art, no!” yelled Mark as he reached over and grabbed Wes’s gun from the counter, his hand shaking, his mind blurred. He aimed the pistol toward Art and pulled the trigger; several wild shots pierced the air, one ripping a huge hole in the center of Wes’s body. As he fell, a flood of dark red blood spread across the floor. In the confusion Art fired back, one bullet tearing through Mark’s heart, the other grazing the derby hat. The last two shots from Mark’s gun shredded Art’s chest.
In seconds, both guns were empty. All that remained was thick smoke, the acrid smell of gunpowder and the sound of the explosions as they bounced around the room. The windowpanes shook, and the echoes searched for a place to hide. There was no pride or arrogance in the lifeless bodies on the floor as the last of their heartbeats faded.
Soon, the air was as dead as the three friends.
Chapter 24
Monday, May 21
The headline on Monday’s paper read:
Triple Killing at Lynnville
Bloody Tragedy Occurred Sunday Evening in
Mark Wilson’s Store
Lynnville was a town in shock. No anvil-pounding sounds rang out from the blacksmith’s shop, no shoppers filled the boardwalks and, except for three wagons parked in front of Mark Wilson’s house, the roads were empty. From the hotel’s second floor, Edwin T. Jones shook his head in disappointment as he looked through the window of his room at the wagons and thought about the effects that last night’s shooting had on his business. He let go of the curtain and turned away to finish packing his bag.
Inside Mark’s home, the bodies of the three friends were laid out on makeshift wooden biers. They’d been cleaned and examined by the doctor and dressed for the final time by their wives. In a few hours, they would be placed in their coffins and carried to the cemeteries. Mark was going to be buried less than a mile from his store. The funerals for Wes and Art would take place later in the day about six miles southeast of town at the Beech Grove Cemetery. Zora and Mollie insisted that the two best friends be buried side by side.
* * *
A single mule pulled the wagon carrying Wes’s casket. Connie held the reins tightly in his hands while his ma sat silently, her Bible resting in her lap. In the wagon with Art’s casket, Anthie sat on the seat next to Mollie. Behind them, a long procession moved slowly up and down the hilly roads between the tall oaks and beeches and past field after field of fresh, green tobacco.
Leaving the wagons at the road, the two families followed their friends and the men carrying the caskets up the slight incline to the west. The fresh-turned red dirt of the two holes stood in stark contrast to the rich green grass on the crest of the small hill. Each of the holes was six feet deep and just ten feet apart.
The mourners stood quietly in the dappled shade, listening to the gently stirring crickets. There was no preacher in attendance. Instead, some of the folks shared fond memories of the two men. Zora stood in front of the graves, her arm around Mollie, as the pallbearers lowered the boxes into the ground. Each of the women was surrounded by her children. Mary Lula cradled Art’s youngest in her arms while Irene and Thressie held tightly to each other. Little Ruthie sat quietly in the grass, her rag doll squeezed to her chest.
Standing tall and silent, Zora looked around at each of her children, letting her eyes fill up with the beauty of them. When her gaze reached Anthie’s face, her heart quickened. She saw his sadness, his loneliness, the numbness in his features and the blankness in his eyes. She felt a deep longing to hold him and to tell him everything would be all right. He’s a good boy, and he’ll have some good days and some bad days ahead. Maybe tomorrow will be one of the good days, she thought, as a tear caressed her cheek.
Epilogue
In the days following the funeral, in a fallow field not far from Ol’ Man Smith’s place, a saddled red bay was spotted wandering by itself. Most everyone the sheriff and Cleary talked to agreed that the horse belonged to the tobacco buyer, Jones, but no one had seen the man since Saturday. When Cleary asked around town if anybody knew who Jones might have been with, he learned from the hotel clerk that J.D. and Charley had talked to the buyer. Unable to find either of the farmhands, Cleary put the horse up at the stable and decided to wait for Jones to claim the animal.
On Friday, Gertrude received a check for five thousand dollars from a life insurance company in Louisville. Unable to get over her husband’s death, she left the store closed for nearly a month. When some of the farmers asked about buying supplies, she tried to meet their needs, but could never keep the money straight. In the end, she sold the store, its contents, its debts and its accounts.
Not long after the shooting, in Princeton, Kentucky, two hundred Night Riders burned a warehouse full of Trust tobacco, completely destroying the building and all of its contents. A year later, a slightly larger group of Night Riders raided Hopkinsville, Kentucky, and torched three more tobacco warehouses. Over the next few years, Night Riders burned tobacco in other towns and other counties. By 1910, most of the violence had ceased, and the farmers began to receive reasonable prices for their tobacco. In 1911, the US Supreme Court determined that the American Tobacco Company had violated the Sherman Anti-Trust Act, and the Black Patch War came to an end.
A few months after his pa died, Connie married Maude Wilkins and stayed on the farm to help his ma. Years later, he finally gave up farming and opened a general store and gas station in Lynnville. Connie died in 1957.
Anthie and Sudie got married in the spring of 1907. After their first son died in infancy, they separated for four years. In 1912 they reunited and had six more sons, four of whom reached adulthood. Anthie never became a farmer. Instead, using a skill he had learned in the army, he became an itinerant barber, moving his growing family every few years through Tennessee, Oklahoma and Missouri and eventually ending up in Michigan. Both Anthie and Sudie died in the late 1960s in California.
Zora eventually married a Lynnville farmer and outlived him as well. She died in 1964 and was buried next to Wes in the Beech Grove Cemetery.
Author’s Note:
My father was a storyteller. On those occasions when he wasn’t out in the garage working on one of our old cars or starting another of his destined-to-remain-unfinished projects, my brothers, sisters and I would gather around our dad and ask him to tell us a story. We didn’t care that we had heard all of them before; we reveled in our familiarity with them and liked hearing about our father as a kid. One particular story became legendary because it was mysterious and, perhaps, because it was never embellished.
My father would only say that one of our ancestors had been killed in a shoot-out in the back of a saloon. He never told us who it was or where or when it happened. He left it to us to use our own imaginations to fill in those details. In time we outgrew our need for these stories, but never forgot them. Years after my father died, I began searching for answers to my questions about the legendary shoot-out.
In 2006, I wanted to see the place where my grandparents—Anthie and Sudie—had been born, so my wife, Mary, and I went to Lynnville. In the course of our time there, we met some elderly gentlemen in a gas station at the crossroads who said they had heard of a shoot-out that took place across the road in what was now a small market and café. Although they didn’t have any details—other than a brief comment that the three men had fought over a derby hat—they felt certain that an elderly woman in the rest home in Mayfield could provide more information. We met this woman and learned that her father had purchased the Wilson General Store from Mark Wilson’s widow. She thought we could find out more specific information at the Mayfield library. Later that day, we went to the library and began searching through old records. Another couple overheard us talking about the shoot-out, and the man, Bill Foy (whom I discovered was my fifth cousin), led me to the microfilm archives and showed me the front page of the Daily Messenger of May 21, 1906. The headline read, “A Triple Killing at Lynnville.” The story took up nearly half the page and provided the few details that were known about the mysterious deaths of my great-grandfather Wes his brother Mark and cousin Art.
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