by Edward Gates
“I can’t do that. They have a right to assemble and talk about whatever they want.”
Max’s face reddened. He placed his fists on the table and half stood leaning toward Charlie. “I don’t give a damn if they have the right to assemble or not. I don’t want trouble! And there won’t be any if nobody is there.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I’m sending the Mitchells there to… kinda discourage people from entering. I just want you to be there so folks can see the law is there to back up the Mitchell brothers.”
Charlie’s heart rose in throat. So much for no trouble, he thought. “The Mitchell brothers? They can’t do that, Max. That’s begging for trouble.”
“John and Warren don’t start trouble! Ever! They stop trouble. You remember that. Sheriff Hart seems to have forgotten that.” Max stood and finished his drink in one gulp. “Be at the cotton warehouse tonight around six. Make sure folks see you there.”
“I still don’t get what I’m supposed to do there,” Charlie said, looking up at Max.
“You do nothing. You keep peace between people and the Mitchells, is all. And try and stay out of the way of those boys.” Max walked out of the saloon leaving him sitting alone.
Charlie was seething inside. He hated being ordered about like a servant. Deep memories surfaced of his father treating him in a similar fashion. Along with the recollections came his anxiety, something he hadn’t experienced in months. He began to sweat and take quick, shallow breaths.
“Get a hold of yourself. You can beat this,” he mumbled to himself. He closed his eyes and took deep breaths, letting the air out slowly. In his anger he tried to think of ways to end Max Weatherby’s reign of dominance once and for all. Calmness slowly crept back into his being. As his anxiety subsided he began to think a little clearer. He wondered how history recorded Max Weatherby and his dynasty. He resolved to check on that later tonight.
Charlie finally left the saloon and walked back to the sheriff’s office. He was sure there would be trouble with the Mitchell brothers that he would have to deal with.
Sheriff Hart looked up when he entered. “How was your visit with Max?”
“I feel like I’m being pulled into something from where there is no escape,” Charlie answered. “I don’t think I’m going to like being ordered about.”
“What’s he want you to do?”
“Did you know anything about an abolitionist holding a meeting at the cotton warehouse tonight?”
Sheriff Hart nodded. “Yeah, I heard some talk about it earlier today. Why?”
“Max wants me to be there. He’s afraid there might be trouble, so he wants that meeting shut down before it starts. He’s sending over the Mitchell brothers to try and keep people from attending. I can just imagine how they might discourage folks.”
The sheriff shook his head. “This doesn’t sound good. What’s your role in all this?”
“He said for me to do nothing. Just keep the peace. But I got the feeling he wants me there to protect John and Warren Mitchell.”
“Uh-huh! If you’re just standing there while the Mitchell brothers are pushing people around, it’s gonna look like you’re siding with them. Max doesn’t want to stop trouble. He wants to start some.”
“Why?” Charlie asked. “Why would he want to start trouble?”
“If there’s a riot Max can blame it on the anti-slavery folks. Make ‘em look like trouble-makers.” Sheriff Hart pulled two shotguns from the rack and stuffed a few shells into his pockets. He handed one of the shotguns to his new deputy.
Charlie didn’t understand the sheriff’s rationale. He couldn’t see how a riot would benefit Max. The sheriff continued with an explanation. “Do you know how Max makes his money? I mean real money, the bulk of his money?”
Charlie shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess with his shipping business and the real estate he owns. Or maybe running guns to the Confederate army?”
The sheriff smiled and nodded. “Yeah, those things do make him a pretty good profit. He don’t make a lot from the guns. I believe he feels it’s his civic duty. He also owns a couple of houses down on The Row and most likely the ladies that work there. But that’s not where he makes his wealth. No, Max makes his fortune on trading slaves.”
Charlie sat down hard and stared at the sheriff in disbelief. “Trading slaves?”
“Yep. Max will do anything to protect his interests. This war ain’t about state’s rights or a Southern way of life, or cotton, or anything else. It’s about money.” The sheriff leaned back in his chair. “Trading slaves is the biggest money-spinning product in the South.”
“I thought cotton was the foundation of the Southern economy,” Charlie interjected, remembering his history lessons in school.
“The cotton and textile industries are a good product. There’s costs and overheads with those businesses. Slave trade is the real base of the Southern economy. Trading slaves is almost pure profit. Everyone who’s involved adds in their cut and it gets tagged onto the price. Everybody wins… ‘cept maybe the slave.”
Charlie was surprised by his remarks -- not only by the revelation about the slave trade, but by the fact that the lawman knew all this. He set his shotgun on the desk. All of a sudden, the sheriff appeared a lot more intelligent and articulate than he’d given him credit for.
“How do you know all this? What did you do before you were a sheriff?”
Sheriff Hart sat down behind his desk and chuckled. “I owned a haberdashery here in town. Doesn’t exactly qualify me to be a lawman, does it?”
Charlie smiled. “Well, then, how did --”
“I moved here from Virginia a number of years ago. I was a law professor at Jefferson’s University of Virginia. That all got to be too much for me. I wanted a fresh start that didn’t involve law or teaching. When I came here, I needed a bankroll to set up a business and Max provided that. Business was good for a couple of years. Max and I were good partners. Then trouble started with the bushwhackers and Jayhawks. When the army pulled out, the business died. I still owe Max.”
Charlie shook his head. “Seems like everyone owes Max something.”
Sheriff Hart looked at his pocket watch, stood and picked up his shotgun. “I guess I’ll have to be at the warehouse as well.”
“Are you going there to help me?”
“No. I’m going there to keep those doors open. I want Deputy O’Shea with me. I think you met him.”
“Yep, I know Mike. He’s a good man.”
“When O’Shea gets here, tell him to meet me at the cotton warehouse.” The sheriff stopped in the doorway and turned back to him. “You’re going to have to make a choice tonight, Charlie. You’re either standing with the Mitchell brothers and Max, or you’re gonna side with me… and the law.” Sheriff Hart left.
52
Cotton Warehouse
When Sheriff Hart left for the warehouse, Charlie sat alone in the office and pondered his situation. He was getting more and more disenchanted with Max and his regime. On the other hand, he wasn’t all that fond of Sheriff Hart. His new boss was right about one thing, though: tonight he would have to take a stand. Whichever way he chose, he would come out on the short end. If he stood with Max and the Mitchell brothers he would always be under Max’s protection, but he’d alienate the sheriff, the deputies, the townspeople and, more importantly, his own conscience. If he sided with the sheriff… well, who knew what Max would do to him? Max could easily turn him over to the army as a deserter and be done with him. Or, Max could think up something worse. The only solution he kept coming up with was the time belt. Just get away from it all, and let history happen the way it was supposed to.
Michael O’Shea, one of the evening deputies, entered the sheriff’s office and interrupted his thoughts. Charlie knew that with the deputy’s arrival the time was nearing six o’clock.
“Do you have the time?”
The deputy checked his pocket watch. “It’s a half past five
.” He looked around. “Where’s George?”
“He’s at the cotton warehouse. He wants you to join him there right away.”
“Says you. Can ya tell me what for?”
Charlie smiled at his Irish accent. “There’s going to be trouble there tonight from a meeting of some abolitionist.”
“What kinda trouble, do ye think?”
“Max Weatherby wants to disrupt that meeting. He’s sending over the Mitchell boys and God knows who else to keep people from entering. George is going there to stop the Mitchells and keep the doors open.”
“Aye. Max is a bit of a bugger, he is. Those gorillas he’s got working for him are a handful, I can tell ye.”
Michael O’Shea was a short man, shaped like a barrel, and all muscle. He wore a gray, three-piece, pin-striped suit that seemed too tight everywhere, and a black bowler. The man was strong as a bull and not afraid of anything. He used to be a Pinkerton agent in Pennsylvania but quit the agency when he moved to Fort Smith with his family. He preferred to work close-in, so his weapons of choice were a ten-inch Bowie knife that he wore on his belt, and a short lead-filled nightstick that he kept neatly tucked up his sleeve. This time, however, he walked behind the desk and pulled a shotgun from the rack and shoved some shells into his suit coat pocket.
“Air ye comin’ with me?”
Charlie reluctantly nodded. “Yeah, I’m coming.” He stood and picked up the shotgun the sheriff handed him earlier. He grabbed a handful of shells and stuck them in his pocket. “I’m ready.”
The deputy almost sprinted out the door. Charlie followed, thinking that Michael appeared a little too anxious to get into a fight. Still unsure about which side to defend tonight, he decided to just roll with the situation and let fate take its course.
When they turned the corner onto Third Street, they saw a crowd in front of the warehouse being held back by John and Warren Mitchell. Each was armed with a wooden ax handle. Two other men whom Charlie had never seen before flanked the Mitchells, each with a handgun on his hip. One of the men also carried a shotgun similar to the sheriff’s.
The crowd was getting restless, hurling verbal attacks and expletives at the Mitchells. Charlie froze as he took in the scene, overwhelmed by the size of the mob. Fear of the confrontation made him sweat and tremble. He shook his head and took a step backwards.
Deputy O’Shea stopped and looked back at Charlie. “Come on, will ye! We have to get to this mob afore somethin’ happens.”
Charlie looked over the crowd. He didn’t see Sheriff Hart anywhere. Gripped with fear, he took another step back. “No. No, it’s no good. This isn’t good,” he mumbled to himself.
O’Shea grabbed Charlie by his vest and pulled him forward. “Come on, damn ye! Git that shogun at the ready an’ go!”
“Where’s Hart? I don’t see Hart,” Charlie said to the deputy, still stunned with fear.
“Forget Hart! We’ll find him later. Wake up and do your job, man!”
Charlie stared at Deputy O’Shea and saw the strength of a fearless man in his eyes. He took a deep breath and tried to absorb some of O’Shea’s strength and confidence. He knew he had to walk into this mob and take control. He feared it, but it was what he needed to do… not only for his job, but for his own personal convictions. He had to once and for all prove to himself that he could do this job and survive in this era without leaning on the sheriff, or Dave, or Ed… or even Max. He broke open the shotgun, slipped a shell into the barrel and snapped it closed. He nodded to the other deputy. “Okay. I’m okay now. Let’s go.”
The two walked side-by-side toward the mob. When they got close Charlie pointed his shotgun skyward and fired. Sheriff Hart was right. When you fire off a shotgun, you right away get everyone’s attention. The mob backed away, allowing Charlie and O’Shea a path to the Mitchell brothers. Charlie withdrew the spent shell and loaded a new one. They stood facing the Mitchells and the two armed strangers.
Deputy O’Shea raised his shotgun and pointed it at the stranger who held the shotgun. Charlie leveled his shotgun at the other armed stranger.
“Yer gonna want to be puttin’ that shotgun down!” the deputy hollered.
At first, the stranger didn’t move. Out of the corner of his eye Charlie saw him quickly raise his shotgun. The deputy’s gun roared. The stranger was chucked against the building and fell to the ground.
Charlie raised his shotgun and took aim at the other man and hollered, “Don’t! Don’t even try it!” The other stranger froze. “Keep your hand away from your gun and slowly unbuckle that belt and let it drop.” The stranger did as ordered and then raised his hands.
Charlie turned his gun toward the Mitchell brothers while Deputy O’Shea checked on the downed stranger.
“This fella’s dead.” He picked up the shotgun and examined it. “This is George’s shotgun!”
Charlie approached the Mitchell brothers. “You boys drop those sticks and back away from the doors.” They didn’t move. “Where’s Sheriff Hart?” They didn’t answer.
“Those two boys beat the devil out of your sheriff!” came a voice from the crowd.
Charlie turned and saw a tall thin man in a black suit and white shirt walk out of the crowd. Under his black, flat-crowned planter hat flowed shoulder-length white hair that complemented his long white beard. Charlie assumed this man to be the abolitionist. “This supposed to be your meeting?”
The man nodded. “I’m Reverend Holloway. A few men carried the sheriff over to the doctor’s house.” He pointed down the street in the general direction of Doc Levine’s house. “What are you going to do about this, deputy? These men are infringing on our rights to --”
“Be careful, Reverend,” Charlie said, not letting him finish his sentence. “If you hadn’t come here in the first place, none of this would be happening. I could hold you to blame as well, so don’t push your luck.”
The man’s eyes widened with surprise as Charlie turned away from him and back to the Mitchells. He raised his shotgun and pointed it at them. “You boys go ahead and drop those clubs. Now!” The Mitchell boys looked at each other and then reluctantly dropped the ax handles.
Just then Max walked through the crowd. “Hold on a minute, Charlie. What do you think you’re doing here?”
Charlie swung the shotgun around and pointed it at Max, who froze with widened eyes. “Stay out of this, Max!”
“Are you out of your mind?” Max shouted.
“This don’t concern you. So back off.”
“What do you mean this don’t concern me? I put…”
“Max! Shut up!” With the shotgun still pointing at Max, Charlie walked over to him and got close enough to where their conversation couldn’t be heard by anyone. Even in the darkening dusk Charlie could see the redness in Max’s angry face.
“Max, what the hell are you doing here? If you say anything else, you’ll be incriminating yourself in front of all these people. These fellas are going to jail tonight for attempted murder of the sheriff. You don’t want to be a part of this. If you keep shooting off your mouth, I’m gonna have to bring you in as an accessory.”
Furious, Max stared at Charlie. He turned and saw the crowd looking at him and turned back to glare at the new deputy. But Charlie was not about to back down. All Max could do was point his finger in Charlie’s face. Through clenched teeth Max spat out, “Don’t you ever point a gun at me again. Ever!” He slapped Charlie’s shotgun barrel away, turned on his heel and stormed out though the crowd, pushing people out of his way as he went.
Charlie cracked a smile as a new rush of confidence flowed through him. He had just faced down the great Max Weatherby. And he did it in front of a large crowd of townspeople. He felt good. Later he would worry about the repercussions; but right now he savored his moment of triumph.
He turned back to see the other deputy holding all three men at bay with his shotgun. He smiled at O’Shea, who gave a nod of approval and smiled back.
“Gentlemen. You three
are under arrest for inciting a riot and the attempted murder of Sheriff George Hart. Deputy O’Shea here is going to march you back to our office now and lock you up. I guarantee that if any one of you makes a move that he doesn’t like, he will open up that shotgun on you.”
“Let’s begin the walk, lads, shall we?” The three prisoners walked slowly through a parting crowd at the point of O’Shea’s gun.
Charlie turned to the crowd. “It would be wise for all of you to go back to your homes now. I think we all had enough excitement for one evening.” He pointed to a couple of men. “You two fellas get that man’s body over to Doc Levine’s.” They obeyed right away.
“Just a minute, Deputy,” the abolitionist said as he stepped toward him. “We are supposed to have a meeting here. I thank you for taking care of the trouble for us. Now that the obstacles to the Lord’s work have been removed, we should be able to continue with our gathering.”
“How long are you planning to be in town, Reverend?”
“I’m figuring on leaving for Little Rock in the morning.”
“I suggest you leave tonight. In fact, I suggest you leave right now. I’m cancelling your meeting. Your meeting has caused me enough trouble as it is and I don’t want any more tonight. If you stay here in town I can’t guarantee your safety. So I suggest you go.” Charlie turned back to the crowd. “That’s it, folks! Go on back home. There’s no meeting tonight.” The murmuring crowd began to disperse.
Charlie picked up the stranger’s gun belt and the two ax handles. When he turned to go back to his office, the reverend confronted him.
“You’re wrong, Deputy. We could have accomplished a lot of good here tonight.”
“Good? Are you crazy? What good? I have a sheriff who’s beat half to death, a man dead and three men in jail for attempted murder. All because you wanted to come here and have a meeting.” Charlie stared at the reverend, who appeared to be searching for something to say. “What are you expecting to accomplish here, anyway? You think with all your ranting and a few words from that book you’re going to change people’s minds?”