Virgil stood back-aways, almost in the street, his hands in his pockets. Bud Blackwell seemed to be doing the talking. When he turned from the door Virgil Worthman walked on across the street. Bud was following him, but when he got into the middle of the street--
there was no traffic at that moment--he turned to the car again and yelled something. The car door came open and the man started to get out, reaching into his coat with his right hand. That was when Bud Blackwell shot him, as the man was half out of the car.
Bud fired three or four times and then ran across the street. Lowell didn't see where he went. The next moment there were cars in the street and people out on the sidewalk wanting to know what had happened and some of them pointing toward the car. The short guy came out of the hotel right past Lowell Holbrook. He stuck his head in the car, leaning over the man who'd been shot, then pushed him over and got in behind the wheel and drove away.
Mr. Baylor went into the hotel to call the doctor. The doctor said no one had been brought in with a gunshot wound, but he would let Mr. Baylor know if they did. Mr. Baylor told Lowell Holbrook not to talk about the incident until he had made an official statement. ,Then Mr. Baylor went home; he sat down in his easy chair with the crocheted doilies on the arms and drank four ounces of Son Martin whiskey while his wife fixed him a nice supper.
He didn't want to have to go out to the Blackwells.
He didn't want to have to talk to Frank Long.
He wanted to go to bed.
His wife told him he looked like he was coming down with something. If he didn't rest it would knock him flat and he wouldn't be any good to anybody. So Mr. Baylor didn't go out to Blackwell's or look for Frank Long. It was too late this evening and tomorrow was a Day of Rest. He'd do it Monday.
Sunday afternoon, June 21, a delegation of neighbors and moonshiners came out to talk to Son Martin.
They all arrived at the same time, two old cars and two pickup trucks nosing cautiously up out of the hollow and rolling into the yard, careful of the foxhounds dodging in front of the wheels. The men got out of the cars--wearing their Sunday overalls and coats and shirts buttoned at the neck--and assembled in a straggling group, looking toward the house but holding back. None of them seemed in a hurry to walk up to the porch or get a step ahead of the others.
Son counted fourteen men; no women or children present, men and grown boys:. Worthmans and Stampers and their kin, Mr. McClendon and some other people Son didn't know very well. Virgil Worthman was next to his dad. No Blackwells though--thank God for small favors. Son moved to the kitchen table and replaced his pistol in the drawer. Aaron had leaned the 12-gauge against the wall by the stove. He said, "You have more company in a week your daddy had in ten years."
When Son walked out on the porch they nodded to him and Mr. Worthman explained they had stopped by on their way home from church service.
"Now just the men go?" Son asked him.
No, they'd had a meeting after the service and these here fellows had agreed to come out and speak with him.
Son waited.
"We understand you're still making whiskey," Mr. Worthman said.
"Some."
"Then they haven't closed you down." "Not yet."
"Well, they've closed the rest of us down; all but the Blackwells and we understand they're next."
"I'm sorry to hear it."
Virgil Worthman said, "You don't look sorry to me. You look like a man that don't care what happens to his neighbors."
Son didn't pay any attention to Virgil. He said to Mr. Worthman, "If there's something I can do, to get you started again, I'll be glad to help."
"There's only one thing you can do for us," Mr. Worthman said, "You know what that is.55
"Give them my whiskey."
"The hundred and fifty barrels. It's the only way they'll leave us alone."
"It's that easy, uh?"
"I'm not saying it's easy. I'm saying how it is. If we build new stills they'll bust them again." "Then hide the stills."
"Now you're making it sound easy," Mr. Worthman said. "Like if they don't find anything they'll go away. These federal people mean business. The aren't going till they get what they want."
"You think they're federal people?" "They say they are."
"I say I was, would that make me one?"
Virgil Worthman was squinting up at him. "Who do you say they are, they're not federal?"
"Bootleggers," Son answered. "Gangsters hired to do a job on us."
"Your friend too?"
"I don't know about Frank Long, if he's real or not."
"Say it's true," Mr. Worthman said. "What do you do about it, call the law for help?"
"All right, if you were standing over here," Son asked, "what would you do? If you banked your future whiskey --knowing you could sell it for enough to buy good land or a business somewhere--what would you do?"
Mr. McClendon spoke up. "I'd look to see what it was doing to my neighbors," he said, "to people aren't even making moonshine but are suffering because of it."
"Everybody is certainly ready with advice,"
Son said. "Come on, Mr. Worthman, what would you do?"
"I'd give them the whiskey, Son."
"Mr. Stamper, what would you do?
"I've seen them," Arley Stamper said. "I tend to agree with you thinking they're bootleggers." "You'd give it to them."
"Yes, I would."
"Well, I'm not going to," Son told them. "They can try and take it, but I'm not giving it. You can come to me like it's all my fault, I'm still not going to give it to them. You want my advice--if I was standing where you are--I'd decide if I wanted to run a whiskey still or not run it and then I'd do one or the other. But, Jesus, I wouldn't go crying to anybody about it."
They stared up at him solemnly. Arley Stamper turned and walked through the group and the others began to follow him, walking over to the cars and pickup trucks.
"Son," Mr. Worthman said, "you don't have a family. That's the difference."
Son went into the house. He stood at the screen door until the cars were out of the yard and he could hear the hounds chasing them down the road.
"You didn't have to talk to them that way," Aaron said.
The yard was still, dust hanging in the sunlight. "What would you do?" Son asked?
"I don't know," Aaron answered. "But I wouldn't have talked to them that way. They your friends."
Son turned away from the door. "We'll see," was all he said.
The doctor called Mr. Baylor early Sunday morning: a man with a gunshot wound had been brought to him late last night. The bullet had entered his side beneath his left arm, smashed a rib and tore a hole in his back coming out. If the man went to bed and didn't move, he would probably be all right. But the one who'd brought him in said, wrap him up good, Doc, because he's going to Louisville tonight. The doctor said the man couldn't be moved, but this little fellow insisted his friend wanted to go to Louisville to see his own doctor. Mr. Baylor asked him if he had the man's name and address. The doctor said yes, but he believed it wasn't his right name. No, neither of them said they were federal agents.
The editor-publisher of the Marlett Tribune called up later to find out what was this about a shooting in front of the hotel? Who had been shot? Was it true Bud Blackwell had done it? Mr. Baylor said he had not finished questioning people and for the editor-publisher to hold his horses and call tomorrow or the next day.
You can't hide or run away, Mr. Baylor told his wife, and started to put his pants on. But his wife pushed him back in the bed and said she would have his son and grandsons come over and tie him to the bed if she had to. Mr. Baylor said well, he wouldn't mind seeing his grandsons--weren't those boys the captains though?
Monday morning Mr. Baylor slept till seven-thirty, then got dressed and ate a good breakfast. He'd had all day yesterday and last night to decide what he was going to do. The first thing would be to see Frank Long and ask him some questions about these federal agen
ts he had working for him. What district were they from? Where were they staying? How come they didn't arrest anybody? What happened to the man who'd been shot? If Frank Long's answers sounded fishy, then by God he'd call Frankfort and find out what the hell was going on.
Before Mr. Baylor left the house E. J. Royce called him. They'd just got word the Blackwell place had been raided during the night. Mr. Baylor swore and told E. J. to pick him up. They'd better get out there.
Chapter Nine.
Monday morning Dr. Taulbee and Dual Meaders were out in the Caswell barn looking over the whiskey that had been taken in the raids: mostly quart and half-gallon fruit jars and a few gallon jugs of moonshine with Coca-Cola labels.
"Not too bad for the work put in," Dr. Taulbee said. "What'd you get last night?"
"Just the few cases there," Dual answered. "They came shooting, we had to get out of there."
Dr. Taulbee frowned. "They drove you off?"
"Like they was waiting for us. We got to the still and commenced to smash it, and they let go from the bushes."
"Wasn't anybody hit?"
"Well, one boy was. I don't think too bad." "What about the one Saturday?" "Somebody's driving him to Louisville and is coming back with more men, like we talked about."
"Is he going to make it, the one was shot?" "I don't know. But we'll have these others anyway."
"Maybe you should go back to this Blackwell place tonight. Finish the job."
"I was thinking that," Dual said. "Or start on Son Martin and quit wasting our time." "You think you can bust him?"
"We go over there again I'll take care of him. Both of them."
"Both of who?"
"Him and his nigger."
"Do you think the nigger knows where the stuff's at?"
"That's what I'm going to find out next trip over there."
"It does seem like we're wasting some time," Dr. Taulbee said. He turned as the door opened and sunlight came into the enclosure. Frank Long stood in the doorway.
Dr. Taulbee said, "Hey, Frank, how you doing, boy?"
"We got something to talk about," Long said. "Well, fine." Dr. Taulbee moved toward him. "Speak up, don't be bashful."
"I want to talk to you alone."
"We're alone. It's only Dual here with us."
"He's what I want to talk about mainly."
"Then he should hear it, shouldn't he?"
"I'll say it to his face if you want," Long said. "He's messing up this deal, him and his gunmen."
"Frank, you said you wanted guns."
"I said it had to be done my way or the whole thing will come down on us. All right, they shot up a feed truck. They burned down a man's barn, wasn't even a stiller. They have a gun fight on the main street on Saturday afternoon--"
"You don't care for this business," Dual said, "what're you in it for?"
"Frank, when boys are carrying guns there's the chance they're going to go off," Dr. Taulbee said, like explaining it to a small child. "We know there's the chance somebody might get hurt, right?"
"And that somebody might get caught," Long said, "and start talking."
"Frank, we got that boy out of here was shot Saturday. He's home in bed."
"And the one last night," Long said. "Is he home in bed?"
"There's something I haven't heard about? Which one is that?"
"Boyd Caswell," Long said. "Have you seen him around here this morning?"
"Dual"--Dr. Taulbee turned to him--"what's he talking about?"
"You asked me was anybody hit, I said yes."
"What's he talking about!"
"Boyd Caswell got shot last night." "Where is he now?"
"I'm not sure exactly--"
"You left him there? Jesus, of all the people you leave Caswell?"
"I didn't know at the time." Dual was frowning; he'd never heard Dr. Taulbee speak loud to him before. "We got out of there once we seen they had position on us. I guess it wasn't till we was back we noticed Boyd wasn't along."
"You left him!"
"We didn't leave him. It was just he didn't come back with us."
Dr. Taulbee stared at Dual. Then he put his hands in his pants pockets and walked deeper into the dimness of the barn. He turned around and came back and said, with only a slight tight edge in his tone now, "Dual, you're going to have to go out and get that boy."
"He might be dead, all we know."
"Yes, he might be," Dr. Taulbee said. "Or, he might be sitting up in bed telling them we're not federal agents at all, but just some old boys from Louisville."
"Well, what could they do about that?" "They could tell the sheriff. They could do that, couldn't they?"
"I guess."
"Then the sheriff, he could pick up the telephone and call the state capitol, couldn't he do that?"
Dual nodded slowly, thinking about it. "I guess he could. Listen, I better get a couple of cars and go back out there."
Dr. Taulbee was his old self again, swatting Dual on the shoulder as he started past him. "Hey, Dual, now you're talking. Go get him, boy."
The old man, Mr. Caswell, was standing in the yard facing the barn. As they came out, his head raised to them, following their sound.
"Boyd?"
Dr. Taulbee and Dual walked past Mr. Caswell; they didn't seem to notice him. "Boyd, is that you?"
Frank Long hung back. He hesitated, then took the old man by the arm and walked him toward the house.
"I haven't seen Boyd all morning," the old man said. "The lazy som-bitch is supposed to give me my breakfast."
"Come on, we'll get you something. Nice dish of pone and milk."
"Lazy som-bitch, he's dead drunk, ain't he?" "He's all right," Long said. "They're gone to fetch him."
"See, we knew they were coming," Mr. Blackwell explained, "because of what they done over at McClendon's Friday night."
Mr. Baylor and E. J. Royce followed Mr. Blackwell out to the still, located in a limestone cave, and back to the yard while he described how they had beat off the revenuers. You bet they were ready for them. Right after supper the women and small children had been sent over to Raymond's place to be out of the way. They cleared the house, set Bud out by the road as a lookout, while the rest of them--Mr. Blackwell's three younger sons, his three brothers, and an uncle who'd come over to help out--hid in the rocks by the cave. Along came Bud soon after dark to say the revenuers were turning up the road. Well, they waited and fired everything they had and chased them through the pines and back to their cars, then fired at the cars until they were out of sight down the road. Probably some of them had been shot; though there was only one they had been sure of hitting, because they had him and he was bleeding all over the ground back of the house.
Boyd Caswell was lying in the shade of a beech tree, a neckerchief loose around his neck and the front of his shirt and overalls stained with blood. He was the one who'd been leading them to the stills, Boyd Caswell, who'd probably drunk more of their whiskey than any man in the country. Well, he wasn't going to be drinking any more.
Mr. Baylor said to E. J. Royce, "Bring the car up here." When Mr. Blackwell asked him what he planned to do, Mr. Baylor said, "Take the man to the doctor, what in hell you think I'm going to do?"
Bud Blackwell said, "Hey, now wait a second. We pumped five rounds in the son of a bitch to kill him, now let him die."
"And you pumped a round into another man Saturday," Mr. Baylor said, glaring at Bud Blackwell, "which you are coming to my office to tell me about. But right now just get the hell out of my way."
They got Boyd Caswell into the car, across the back seat, though he didn't open his eyes and Mr. Baylor didn't hold much hope for him. He glared at Bud again and told Mr. Blackwell to see that his son came in or he would swear out a warrant for his arrest on a charge of murder. With E. J. Royce at the wheel they drove away, taking it slow out of the yard so as not to jounce Boyd Caswell and start him bleeding all over the car.
As soon as Dual Meaders saw the car approa
ching them, still way down the road, he knew it was coming from the Blackwell place. This lonely stretch, a pair of ruts winding through the backwoods, didn't lead anywhere else; so the car had to be coming from there. If they were Blackwells they'd even up the score for last night. If it wasn't Blackwells they'd look and see who it was.
This was a good spot to take them, with trees and scrub falling away to one side and a steep bank on the other. Two cars could pass here, but barely. Though no cars were going to be passing right now. Dual braked, easing over to the right shoulder, then swung the wheel sharp to the left and came to a stop angle-parked across the road as the oncoming car started blowing its horn, the driver leaning on it and not letting up. Dual had three men with him. They didn't ask what was going on. They kept their eyes on the car ahead of them and got out. One of them went back to the car behind, that was carrying four men, and now they all came up on both sides of the road, a couple of them moving around behind the blocked car.
When the horn stopped blowing there wasn't a sound until, further down the road, crickets started up in the dusty weeds along the ditch.
"Take a look," Dual said. He stood in front of the car, two faces staring at him through the windshield.
The man who approached on the driver's side paused with his hand on the door and motioned to Dual. "In the back," he said.
Dual walked over and looked in at Boyd Caswell. He studied a moment, making sure he was still breathing, then shook his head and began to smile. Walking back to the front of the car he was still smiling; he couldn't help it and didn't care who saw his teeth.
But now the old man with the glasses was getting out the passenger side, holding the door open in front of him and pointing to the gold-lettered inscription, tapping his finger hard on the door sill.
"You see these words?" Mr. Baylor said. "If you can't read, it says Sheriff's Department, Broke-Leg County."
"I can read," Dual said. "You better get back inside, papa."
"You better show me your identification, then get your cars the hell out of our way. We got a prisoner needs a doctor's attention."
"He ain't going to make it," Dual said.
"You going to get out of my way?"
"I'll tell you what. You can give him to us and we'll take care of him."