The Rock Hole

by Reavis Z. Wortham

  He also knew the struggle his dad suffered to keep the Negro population safe so many years ago.

  On a moonlit night in 1934, One-Arm George stood in the shadows as six heavily armed white lawmen waited in the dirt front yard of an illegal juke joint on the colored side of the tracks.

  Sheriff Delbert Poole and his men watched the customers through an open window. Music filled the yard, and he recognized the song called Red River Blues. It had recently gained popularity on the colored side of the tracks. “I’ve had enough shit out of you niggers! And I’m tired of coming over here. Y’all send out that feller who brought the young white gal in here tonight!”

  George, a deacon in the Mt. Holiness Baptist Church, recognized some of his own neighbors in the crowd milling uncertainly inside.

  Poole had beaten him there by mere minutes after he heard an underage white girl from the north side of town was in the after-hours juke joint with a black man. George sighed when the young girl bolted through the door and around the building to disappear into the shadows. “Oh.”

  “Naw, that ain’t enough! I done missed my supper, so I want the dumb sonofabitch that brought her down here in the first place. Send him out and the rest of you can go on home.” Poole motioned for his men to spread out.

  “You’ll kill him,” a voice called from the interior.

  “We won’t kill him. We’re just gonna teach him right from wrong!” The deputies snickered. “Send him out right now!” Poole held his men back with one hand and fired his pistol through the upper part of the open window. Women screamed. A shot echoed from the back of the house. Poole knew this man would try the back door first, so he had a deputy waiting out back. “Butch!”

  “Nawsir, he run back in!”

  Before Poole could respond, a backlit shape rushed out of the front door, firing a handgun toward the lawmen. The yard instantly flickered with flashes as Poole’s men opened up on the running shadow. The gunfire lasted for more than thirty seconds and when it ended, the man lay dead in the yard while several others inside the honky-tonk writhed on the floor from the deputies’ missed shots.

  “Dear god,” One-Arm George whispered over the screaming coming from the nearby building. He dared not rush forward, because he’d only be another colored target in the heat of the moment. He waited while Poole idly toed the fallen man.

  “Now then, y’all remember this night and who y’are. I don’t intend to come back over here again for such nonsense.” Satisfied, Poole motioned for his men to climb into their cars and with barely a backward glance, they left the carnage behind.

  George waited until they were gone before finally stepping out to help the wounded. By the time they’d tended to the living and removed the dead, he’d come to a conclusion. Someone had to take control.

  George had an idea to calm the fears of the white population and gain control of the increasing number of incidents occurring on his side of the tracks. Allowing the people in their community to do as they wished only invited trouble from the suspicious white side of town.

  The shooting electrified both sides of the tracks and for the next few days tensions ran high as every male in town, black or white, carried a gun…just in case.

  Late one night a week later, after slipping down dirt back alleys and staying to the side streets in the white part of town, One-Arm George appeared at Sheriff Poole’s back door, historically the appropriate place for business with a Negro man, but a dangerous place to be after dark.

  The angry sounds of an argument met George in the unfenced back yard. He hesitated on the stoop until the sound of an open-handed slap echoed sharply through an open window and made his decision for him. A woman sobbed softly, and then became silent. George knocked on the screen door and then backed several steps away so the light spilling from the frame house could light him clearly.

  A full thirty seconds passed before the door cracked open. Not recognizing the visitor, Poole almost shot the black man for standing there so late at night, until he recognized George by his pinned-up sleeve. Poole held a revolver beside his leg, but didn’t lower the hammer.

  “Sheriff, it’s me, George Washington. Can I speak to ya for a minute please suh?”

  “George, what the hell are you doing in my back yard this time of night? Have you lost your damned mind? You know better. You ain’t got no business in this part of town. The first white man with a pistol in his belt is liable to shoot you.”

  One-Arm George stared at the ground. “Yessir. Sheriff, I don’t mean nothin’ by being here. I come to see if you’d let me help you.”

  “What can you do for me? Are you alone?” Poole peered suspiciously into the darkness beyond the splash of light spilling from the open doorway.

  “Yessir. I needed to talk for a minute.”

  Still not sure he wasn’t being set up for a killing, Poole looked side to side and then stepped outside to talk. There was no thought of inviting George into the house. Behind him, George saw Poole’s pretty wife standing ramrod straight at the kitchen table, tears running down her cheeks.

  George knew Martha as the daughter of Chisum’s well-known funeral home director, who hired one of George’s cousins as a housekeeper. Martha married Poole against her daddy’s wishes, and George once overheard the man complaining about the marriage and Poole’s abuse of his young wife.

  A fat baby sat on the wood floor at her feet, playing with a metal stew pot. Martha picked up the child and turned her back to the men outside, burying her face against the tiny body.

  “What do you want?” In his undershirt, Poole kept the pistol beside his leg, always suspicious of people, and even more so in his own dark backyard.

  One-Arm George nervously looked at the ground and then talked to the backlit shadow before him. “Sheriff, I’m not here to speak about what happened ’t’other night at that ol’ joint. That sorry fool carryin’ on with that young gal shouldn’t have messed with your men, but I think I have a way to stop such foolishness in our part of town, if you’ll let me.”

  Poole didn’t really care one way or the other, but One-Arm George’s presence in his neighborhood was something special. With his free hand, he scratched his opposite arm pit. “I’m listening.”

  “We ain’t got no real full-time colored law on our side, Sheriff, and because of that, y’all have to come down every now and then. We’ve been kindly taking care of our business for the most part, but if you’ll let me keep an eye on things, we’ll keep our own trouble to ourselves. That way I can promise none of my people will cause problems in your part of town either, and if they do, I’ll find out what happened and we’ll deal with it amongst ourselves.”

  Sheriff Poole thought about getting mad. Who was this nigger who came to his house in the middle of the night to talk propositions? He could shoot him right there in his backyard without explanation. But then it occurred to him it was a perfect setup. He could point to fewer instances of trouble if George could maintain order on his side of the tracks, and the white voters would guarantee him another term come election time, feeling safer with the coloreds under control. If not, Poole could arrest George for disturbing the peace.

  Poole would win either way.

  “I’ll tell you what, George. Let’s try it for a couple of months and see if you make any difference. But if it don’t, I’ll bring my deputies back in and clean up for you.”

  One-Arm George’s eyes flashed at the implications he’d already considered, but he stood quiet. It didn’t do any good to make the White Law mad, especially when standing in the Sheriff’s backyard after dark.

  “Can I take care of things?”

  “I done told you, yeah.”

  “My way, Sheriff?”

  Poole stared at him for a moment, knowing what the man was asking. “As long as nothing gets on me.”

  “It won’t. And if you do hear anything, instead of coming right over, please wait one more day. I might have to do a little sniffing around if we have trouble, but it’ll get do
ne. I intend to start Friday night.”

  Poole nodded without another word, mentally dismissing George and pondering the long-range significance of the encounter. Without another word, George left and Poole went inside to finish his argument.

  For the remainder of the week George passed the word that the white law no longer dealt with their problems; he would. He also announced a weekend midnight curfew for the next two months until everyone got used to the new rules.

  At midnight on Friday, One-Arm George tucked a worn .44 revolver under the nub of his left arm and locked the front door to the Baptist church. Juke joints lined a significant portion of M Street, so George took his first Walk directly down the middle of the cracked and potholed blacktop leading north to the stately homes across the tracks.

  Stars in the clear sky twinkled over raucous laughter. Loud music floated through the screen doors and windows of the weathered buildings. Stopping on the warm blacktop, he waited alone in front of the first joint, staring at the door. It didn’t take long for someone to look out and notice him.

  “Good night,” George called. The music stopped and through the windows George watched the patron’s reactions. “Good night,” he called again.

  “Go home, grandpaw!” Laughter followed floated cross the yard.

  George quietly stood his ground.

  Feeling brave, a drunk with a giggling woman hanging on his shoulder staggered outside and stopped in a cone of light on the dried grass bordering the street. “You don’t know what you’re messin’ with, buddy.” He turned back to wink at his friends inside. His girlfriend giggled at his bravado. The rowdy, well lubricated crowd took the cue and hooted their encouragement.

  “I don’t believe I’m scared of an old preacher toting just one arm.”

  When he turned back around One-Arm George had quickly closed the distance between them and the man was looking into the deep horizontal well of George’s cocked .44. The barrel, less than two inches from his sweating forehead, was unwavering. The suddenly sober man clearly saw the blunt tips of the huge bullets in their chambers and knew another waited at the bottom of the black barrel.

  “You don’t know who you messin’ with brother. I said, ‘Good night’.”

  He swallowed, shocked suddenly sober. “Deacon, I believe I’ll go on home now.”

  “That’ll be jus’ fine. Good night and God bless.”

  Moments later the joint was empty and the partygoers hurried down the broken sidewalk. A number of the club’s patrons rushed ahead to pass the word among the other joints. One-Arm George meant business.

  The remainder of George’s slow walk was uneventful. He offered a pleasant good night to everyone he passed. Vehicles crept past, passengers gaping through the windows, awed by the lone one-armed Deacon with the big .44. Soon the street was quiet, and George made his way northward toward two sets of headlights parked on the road.

  Sheriff Poole waited beside his dark blue Model A parked across the railroad tracks. Four deputies leaned against another car in the darkness, smoking and watching One-Arm George’s slow progress. At least two colored drivers intended to cross the tracks ahead of George, but they made abrupt turns when they saw the waiting lawmen.

  George’s walk finally brought him to the tracks. He stopped with one foot on the rail, looking into an entirely different culture. He noticed the long shadows of pump shotguns leaning against the car and realized the bulky looking weapon cradled in Poole’s arms was a drum-fed Thompson machine gun.

  A shadow lay at their feet, moving weakly and moaning. It was the man George recognized from his encounter less than half an hour before.

  “Evening, Sheriff.”

  “Hidy, George. Nice night for a walk.”

  George couldn’t see Poole’s eyes in the shadow of his fedora hat brim. “Yessir. Needed to make sure everyone was down and quiet for the night. I’ll be walkin’ about this time on Friday and Satiddy nights, and probably around ten during the week.”

  “That’s real good.” The sheriff took a deep drag on a hand-rolled cigarette, and the cherry brightened quickly. “Thissun was being argumentative this evenin’.”

  Someone snickered.

  “He’s hard-headed.” George knew better than to say anything else. Despite their earlier exchange, he felt bad for the man at Poole’s feet, beaten for simply crossing a set of railroad tracks at night.

  Relaxing, Poole leaned the Thompson against the car and slipped one hand into his pocket of his khakis. “Is that a pistol under your nub there?”

  “Yessir. Can’t never tell when you’ll run across a bad dog out this time of night.”

  “That’s a fact. You think you’d shoot it off here in town, if you saw a bad dog?”

  “Only if it tried to bite me, Sheriff.”

  “Hope I don’t have to come over there after any dogs.”

  “I ’spect you won’t, now.”

  Poole finished his smoke and crushed the butt under his shoe. He motioned for the men to get in their car. Without another word they collected their firearms, slammed the doors, and drove off. Alone and expressionless, Poole looked down and ground his heel on the unconscious man’s fingers. George felt his ears burn, but hid the anger flushing his face.

  “You might want to get your trash off the road, and remember what I told you.”

  “Yessir.”

  Poole climbed into his car without another word, shifted into gear, and drove slowly down the street.

  George waited until the coupe disappeared around the corner and hurried down the street to send someone to fetch what was left of the drunk.

  Each night thereafter, no matter the weather, George made his Walk, and word got around that he meant business with the .44. Some say it barked once or twice in the dark, but when Sheriff Poole or his deputies dropped by for a half-hearted investigation, no one knew what happened.

  One-Arm George’s popularity grew within the black population until he became a local legend. But when talk of electing a black sheriff to handle things in the south part of town arose shortly before Japan surrendered, George was found beaten to death one morning in the damp weeds beside the railroad tracks. The investigation into the murder lasted long enough for Sheriff Poole to look down at the body and grunt.

  “Looks like someone killed another nigger.” He closed the case by going home to eat breakfast alone, since his wife had taken their son and left.

  Through the years young John Washington watched his father and realized how much respect came with his work. When O.C. Rains returned to Chisum after the war, he appointed John to One-Arm George’s position, and an uncomfortable peace reigned, with a cautious nod from Sheriff Poole, who kept a close watch on Washington and his people across the tracks.

  Chapter Seven

  It had been a month since Grandpa and Big John broke up the still down in Plum Thicket, and he couldn’t stop smiling. A photographer followed the highway patrol officer when he got the call about Doak’s still, and The Chisum News wrote an article about the arrests. They ran the big picture on the front page of Grandpa, the deputies, and the steaming remains of the still.

  Stacked in front of them, six hand-tooled saddles they found under a tarp proved the bootleggers had been doing a little side business in stolen goods. All in all, Judge Rains said his constables and deputies had done a good job and promised to end whiskey making in Lamar County.

  The animal case was still up in the air, though there hadn’t been another incident since the arrest. I heard Grandpa say that didn’t mean anything, because there could have been things done they hadn’t discovered. The woods are thick in the river bottoms, and a lot more could be going on in there than Grandpa knew.

  It rained during the night, so the field was too wet to work. He was up early the next morning, shaking me out of bed.

  “Get up, Top. Let’s go to the feed store in Hugo.”

  I liked the old wooden store, because it smelled of sweet feed. It was also a chance to go to Oklahoma, t
hough we could get nuggets or chicken scratch in other places if we wanted. Uncle Neal Box kept feed in the storeroom built onto the back of his store. Grandpa bought a sack or two from time to time, as much to support Uncle Neal as anything else, but he loaded the truck down to the springs when we went to Hugo.

  Chisum had a feed store, too, but Grandpa Ned hadn’t traded there since right after the war. The owner Ed Fergus overcharged Grandpa one time for salt blocks, ringing up the sale with the higher price of a mineral block. When Grandpa brought it to his attention the next weekend, Ed argued that Grandpa had bought salt. They disagreed for only a minute when Grandpa lost his temper and told Ed that he knew the difference between a salt block and a mineral block and Hell would freeze over before he ever set foot in his store again.

  Hell was apparently still fairly warm that morning when we crossed the bridge over Sanders Creek. It wandered through bottomland groves of pecan, oak, walnut, and sycamores, and past shaggy fencerows divided by a patchwork quilt of pastures and fields.

  Grandpa suddenly braked the truck and pulled over on the shoulder as we got to the other side. “Did you see that?”

  “What?”

  “That coyote hanging back there on the fence.”

  I stuck my head out the open window. “He’s a big one.”

  “You stay here.” Grandpa put the truck in neutral and got out.

  I watched him step across the wet ditch. Grandpa stood between me and the coyote and talked to himself for a while. He flipped the body off the wire, stuck something in his pocket, and walked back to the truck. He didn’t say a word as we drove on down the two-lane highway.

  By ten o’clock we turned onto the highway at Arthur City and crossed the bridge into Oklahoma. The river below was thick with silt from the night’s runoff. Sometimes it’s so low you can walk all day on sandbars. Other times it’s full to the banks and threatens to spill over the Texas side to flood Lamar County.