“You’re all right, parson,” he said. “Luck to you in your new parish. If you travel this way again you may depend upon our protection.”
I continued my journey and took up the pastorate at Pierce City. But I never saw the James brothers again.
Gallantry is a legendary trait of numerous other bandits who had their hideouts in the backhill country. The period from 1871 to 1896 was marked by a reign of terror in that part of the Indian Territory, now eastern Oklahoma. Desperadoes flocked to this region and the federal court at Fort Smith became a world-famous tribunal for ferreting out crime. Not all the bad men and women of that period possessed the chivalry of the James gang. Belle Starr had a keen mind that she used to advantage in her romantic but sordid world. Once she broke jail by eloping with the jailer. But she was not noted for her gallantry.
Most of the famous bushwhackers who had been tutored by the infamous Quantrill were cruel killers without quake of conscience. Judge Isaac C. Parker handled 13,490 criminal cases during his twenty-one years as judge of the United States Court at Fort Smith. This court has a record of trying 28,000 criminals and suspects in twenty-five years. It was hell on the border, without mincing words.
Henry Starr was an exception to the rule of hardened banditry. He was killed while attempting to rob the People’s National Bank at Harrison, Arkansas, in 1921. It is said that he would not commit murder to accomplish a robbery and that his code of honor kept him from harming innocent persons.1 Once he was asked by a United States marshal why he followed a life of crime. He replied, “I wish I could find out. I have known men who craved liquor, drugs, and tobacco. I must have excitement. I crave it and it preys upon me until I just slip out and get into devilment of some sort.”
Bully of the Town
Kingston, in Madison County, Arkansas, is the ideal village of the hills. I lived there six years, from 1924 to 1930, teaching school and dabbling in regional journalism. I have never found a community more to my liking. The majority of the people are old-line Ozarkers of a class that would complement any community in the nation, urban or rural. The pastoral life of the neighborhood may be compared with Acadia, as pictured by Longfellow in Evangeline. Charles J. Finger once said that the village might be set down in the midlands of England without any linguistic confusion. The people have Elizabethan grace both in speech and mannerisms. Their self-reliance is worthy of comment. Although hit hard by drought and depression in recent years, they have remained economically independent. Such a peaceful people seldom feels the teeth of the law and they fail to provide law enforcement machinery, so that, like the Acadians of old, they are sometimes the victims of strange interludes of outlawry. The rakings of the hills are not blind to opportunities afforded them. When the Kingston bank was held up a few years ago, the robbers quietly walked out of town, taking the cashier with them. I once witnessed a small feud break into a free-for-all fight on the public square with a dozen men participating. There was no one in authority to make arrests, and pandemonium resulted.
This condition of laxness prevailed during my residence in the village. The sheriff ’s office at the county seat was twenty miles away and phone connections were inadequate. A killing might take place and a getaway be made, with officers trailing far behind. As a rule the community life moved along in regular order from day to day. Of course, drunks were conspicuous on the town square, profanity was freely indulged in, and young men would let off steam by racing their horses through the village, whooping, and firing pistols into the air. But the townspeople tolerated these things with salutary patience. Occasionally there was an exception. Everyone remembers the time a young hillsman took possession of the village and held absolute dictatorship until removed from the scene at the points of a pistol and two shotguns.
One Sunday morning just as the sun peeped over Bradshaw Mountain, a young man on horseback rode into the village square. It was an ideal spring morning and the redbud tree in front of the hotel was a riot of color. The young man rode leisurely, singing as he rode “Show Me the Bully of the Town.” In the middle of the little square stood the town pump with its broken handle. The bully, looking for the town bully, rode up to the pump, dismounted and hitched his horse, still singing the ditty in a loud voice. It was discovered later that the gay young blade had attended a Saturday night dance in a nearby settlement and had imbibed an excessive amount of corn liquor. After breaking up the dance in the early hours of the morning, he decided to ride into Kingston and take charge of the town. So, with plenty of volume to advertise his prowess, he sang his challenge to all who might hear, at the same time polishing a large horse pistol with a pocket handkerchief.
It was not long until the newly arrived bully had a customer. A high school youth who lived in the country had spent the night with relatives in their apartment over the garage. Seeing the fellow stop at the pump, he decided to go down and chat with him. So he ambled down the stairs at the end of the building to greet the visitor. He could hardly believe his eyes when he found himself looking down the barrel of a mammoth pistol.
“I’m the bully of the town,” said the outlaw. “Get back up them steps in a hurry.” The youth needed no second instruction. It was a little early to start the day’s loafing anyway.
The second intruder into the bully’s domain was the town druggist. The merchant had started to his store on the northeast corner of the square and had reached the front door before the outlaw noticed him. Immediately the gun took the direction of the drugstore and the druggist was ordered to shake the dust from the cuffs of his trousers. The merchant was fumbling with his keys when the order came and he first thought it was meant as a joke. A second order and a look at the gun convinced him that the man really meant business. He had the correct key in his hand, but to save his life he could not find the keyhole. He quickly retired to the rear of the building to watch developments through a knothole in the board fence.
By this time, people were moving freely about the village and the outlaw was as busy as a chicken in a bread tray, clearing the square of intruders. The commands were received with surprise and frequently taken as a joke. But the young man at the pump made it plain that he was not to be misunderstood. One look at the large pistol he handled so recklessly gave sufficient cause for immediate retreat. At times the outlaw would issue his challenge in song, “Show me the bully of the town.” He was enjoying the situation immensely.
After an hour of this unconventional procedure, word had spread throughout the neighborhood that an outlaw had taken possession of the town square and would let no one pass. The nearest officer was a deputy sheriff who lived three or four miles out in the hills. He was hastily called and permitted to view the situation from a side door of the garage. A plan of attack was quickly outlined and agreed upon. Two citizens were deputized to assist in making the arrest. The deputy was to step into the open, gun in hand, and ask him to surrender. The two deputized citizens were to walk in at right angles with pointed shotguns. They would get their man, dead or alive.
The deputy was a man who never knew fear. He stepped from the garage with the gun leveled at the bully’s heart and gave his order. But it had no effect. Instead, the outlaw leveled his gun at the deputy and waited developments. The men approaching at right angles kept shouting at the man to drop his gun, threatening to blow his brains out if he pulled the trigger. But the outlaw sat tight. The deputy moved steadily toward his antagonist with his trigger finger crooked for quick action. It was a tense moment and anything might happen. The line tightened like a hangman’s noose as the three men closed in at the same time. The bully handed over his gun and submitted to arrest.
An immediate trial was held at the home of the justice of the peace. The defendant pleaded not guilty, claiming he meant no harm, but “just wanted to have a little fun.” He was fined one hundred dollars and costs. Not having any cash with him, he requested that the deputy ride with him to his home in the hills and get the money. He did so, collecting the fine. As they rode over the mou
ntain toward the setting sun, the bully’s voice rose in song, “Show me the bully of the town.”
CHAPTER XIV
Lore and Legend
The Fighting Parson
The fighting parson is a legendary figure who still stalks the hills after two generations have been laid under the sod. His courageous spirit continues to chill the wayward and warm the righteous. A record of the hill country would be incomplete without a glimpse of Brother Smithers and his hard-shell philosophy. Loma Ball told me the story of his arrival in the hills, which I repeat here with her special permission.
Ed Sinkler was the bully of the neighborhood. He was tall and muscular, with deep-set black eyes and dark curly hair which, because of infrequent combings, was bushy and unruly. He was known throughout the community as a good and willing fighter. Nobody had ever seen him fight, nor had anybody ever known anybody who had seen him in action, but the idea persisted that he could, and would, whip any man who happened to incur his displeasure.
Ed was a garrulous fellow, given to boasting, and he advertised the fact that he could hold a kicking mule with his bare hands, that he had once twisted the barrel off a rifle gun, and that he could draw nails out of a board with his teeth. Despite lack of proof of these claims, belief in them grew. Ed Sinkler’s prodigious strength became a byword in the community. A man was “as strong as Ed Sinkler” or could “lift as much as Ed Sinkler.”
Old Squire Greenup and the new preacher sat on the squire’s porch talking. The preacher was a shrewd-looking fellow in his middle thirties who wore his long-tailed black coat with self-conscious dignity. Ed Sinkler ambled up the road and stopped before the gate.
“Howdy, Squar,” he said.
“Evenin’, Ed. Won’t you come up an’ take a chur.” Ed came up and the squire introduced him to the new preacher.
“Reckon I ain’t got time t’ set, Squar,” said Ed, assuming a business-like tone. “I jist come down t’ see Brother Smithers hyar. I hearn as how he had driv up t’ see you’ens.”
“Anything private?” asked the squire. “If ’n ’tis, I’ll go in th’ house an’ let you fellers talk by yerselves.”
“Jist keep yer chur,” Ed assured him. “’Tain’t nothin’ private atall. Th’ chances air that hit’ll be knowed from hyar t’ yander ’fore nightfall anyhow.” He cleared his throat and turned to the preacher. “Hit’s come t’ my yurs, Brother Smithers, that you’ve been a-makin’ some slurrin’ remarks ’bout me, an’ I’ve come down t’ ast you ’bout it.”
Slowly the preacher rose to his feet. His face indicated no emotion. He was fully five inches taller than Ed, and when he straightened up his head rustled the strings of beans and dried apples that the squire’s wife had festooned from rafter to rafter. “I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ one way er ’nuther,” the preacher replied quietly. “Until I know whut I’ve been quoted as sayin’, I ain’t admittin’ nothin’ ner denyin’ nothin’.”
Ed struck an antagonistic pose. “I hearn that you said that ef I’d come into th’ meetin’house while meetin’ was goin’ on ’stead o’ settin’ outside with my arm ’round some gal, I’d be a more useful citizen t’ th’ community. Did you say that?”
“Do you do that, Brother Sinkler?” The preacher’s eyes twinkled.
“That ain’t th’ pint,” Ed insisted. “I ast you, did you say it?”
“You answer my question fust.”
“All right, I’ll answer you. ’Tain’t none o’ yer business. Preachin’s yer business, not mindin’ my courtin’ transactions. Take off yer coat an’ come out hyar in th’ road. We’ll settle this thing right now. Yer guilty, an’ I don’t want t’ mess up Mis Greenup’s flower beds a-thrashin’ you hyar in th’ yard.”
“Ed, Ed.” Squire Greenup pleaded for peace. “You ain’t goin’ t’ do nuthin’ rash, air ye? Ca’m yerselves, fellers, ca’m yerselves.” Neither of the men appeared to hear him and the little squire, his dignity insulted, drew himself up pompously. “Gentlemen,” he said in his best magisterial voice, “ef ye fight I’ll have t’ deal with you accordin’ t’ th’ law.”
By this time the preacher had removed his coat, loosened his collar, and rolled up his sleeves. His arms were sinewy, and his shirt, clinging damply to his body, disclosed ridges of fine, pliant muscles upon his shoulders and back.
“May I pray?” he asked quietly of his adversary.
“Pray ef ye want to. In fack, I’d advise it.”
The preacher knelt at the edge of the porch. “O Lord,” he prayed in a loud voice, “thou knowest that when I kilt Bill Thompson an’ Clate Jennings that I done it in self-defense. Thou knowest, too, Lord, that when I splattered th’ brains uv Kemp Staples all over his co’n patch that hit wus forced upon me. An’ now, O Lord, when I am jist on th’ verge o’ puttin’ this hyar poor wretch in his grave, I’m askin’ ye t’ have mercy on his soul. Amen.”
The preacher arose, took a long-bladed knife from his pocket and began whetting it on the sole of his shoe. Dismally, plaintively, his voice rose in song.
Hark from the tomb the doleful sound,
Mine ears attend th’ cry.
Now Ed Sinkler was nothing if not resourceful. Living in comparative comfort for thirty years without having engaged in any gainful occupation had sharpened his wits to a remarkable degree. He burst out laughing loudly. The preacher, surprised, stopped whetting his knife. Ed laughed because he had a reputation at stake. To run would be ruinous to that reputation. To fight would be equally ruinous. He had to stand his ground and craftily he chose his course of action. Striding up to the porch he held out his hand. “Yer all right, parson,” he said. “I wus jist a-testin’ out yer mettle. When I hearn that you’d ariv ’mongst us I says t’ myself, ‘I’m goin’ down t’ see what kind o’ goods that feller’s made of fer no feller that ain’t got no backbone has got any business in these hyar parts.’”
By this time the preacher had recovered from his surprise. Wrath overcame him. “I want ye t’ know I made that thar remark you mentioned. What air ye goin’ t’ do ’bout it?”
“Nuthin’ atall, Brother Smithers. Surposin’ you did say it. I reckon th’ only way you could feel that way ’bout it is because you ain’t never done no sparkin’ settin’ outside a meetin’house. Ef you had ever tried it onct, you’d never say nary word agin it. Hit’s th’ most satisfactory courtin’ . . . ”
Abruptly the preacher donned his coat. Casually he pulled his chair up beside the one on which the squire had collapsed. “As I wus a-sayin’, Brother Greenup,” he said, as if no interruption had occurred, “thar’s baptizin’ by sprinklin’ an’ by pourin’, an’ thar’s baptizin’ by dippin’, but thar’s only one uv ’em that’s right.”
Treasure Trove
The fabled cities of gold which lured Coronado and his conquistadors into sunbaked deserts had no more romantic appeal to the Spanish imagination than the “lost mines” of the Ozarks to the treasure hunters of the present generation. All through the year picks are sunk into Ozark earth with fervid hope. The lure of hidden treasure creates a fantasy not easily erased from the minds of men.
I once traveled with a lone prospector into the backhills of Madison County, Arkansas, and viewed with my own eyes the intricate signs of Spanish occupation, and traced the green serpentine lines in the rock that were gold in the prospector’s eyes. I went, I saw, I concurred. But I returned with pockets as empty as the proverbial sack that will not stand upright.
We left the village of Kingston one fine morning “an hour by sun,” in quest of the mountain of gold. The compass of our fancy pointed to a range of ragged hills to the southward. “There’s gold over there,” said the prospector and, being a novice at gold hunting, I could only take his word for it. For three hours we rode in a jolt-wagon, crossing a turbulent stream a dozen times. Coming to the end of the wagon trail, we faced an untrod wilderness of hills and canyons. We abandoned the wagon and team and, footloose and free, followed what my companion called the Old Spanish Trail
to the legendary mine. For two or three miles I tagged the heels of the eager prospector through canyons, over ridges, into pocket-like valleys.
It was a glorious October day. The hills were sweethearts of the sun, flinging their red-gold tresses invitingly. Birds and other creatures of the wilderness sat mute to watch our invasion into their domain. The all-pervading presence of the day took hold of me and I forgot, for the moment, the lure of yellow gold and flashing jewels, and the jingle of Spanish pieces of eight. But my companion, schooled in mineral lore, heard nothing, felt nothing but the magnetic pull of the lavish wealth in the ragged pockets of the hills.
Arriving at the mine, I focused my Kodak upon the shaggy cliffs and numerous points of scenic and legendary interest pointed out to me. I heard the story, old as the hills themselves, of the smelter and the lost mine. Under a giant ledge of rock, I saw what appeared to be an ancient dumping ground. From all appearances, the canyon had been a busy workshop of man in the dim, distant past.
In the rock of the creek bed ran green lines which seemed to disappear into the walls of the canyon. To me, they were merely colored threads of nature’s tapestry in stone, but to the old prospector they were infallible lines of treasure trove. My companion admitted that he had not found the lost mine but felt that he was near it. Shining nuggets, handpicked from the canyon’s wall, were produced as evidence. A faded paper from his pocket showed the record of an assay made by a government mint.
With pick in hand and dreams of gold in pocket, I dug into a layer of soft rock where the green lines twisted themselves into hiding. I dug diligently for an hour, then panned the dirt in the water of the tumbling brook. But no glittering particles rewarded my efforts. I tried again but with the same negligible results. The gods of fortune refused to smile. Homeward we made our way with lagging footsteps.
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