Larry Jack arrives home from the Korean War with a divorce and no prospects for a future he now assumes will be lonely. As luck would have it, however, with his discharge paper still in hand, Larry Jack is offered the job of a lifetime as a revenuer in his homeland of Arkansas County, Arkansas. He is placed in charge of investigating bootleggers and possible drug dealers in the region-and even though he's a native, he does not receive the warmest of welcomes. Larry Jack's Arkansas is a bit wild; there are vicious feuds, rough-and-tumble fighting in the honky-tonks, and shootouts on the town square. Despite their personal differences, though, the people of the bayou have one thing in common: distaste for authority figures, which makes his job difficult. His life gets even more interesting when he encounters an old flame by the name of Mary Ann. Meanwhile, it soon becomes apparent in his investigation that Larry Jack isn't just dealing with local crooks. A crime syndicate is behind the drug-dealing, and in order to convict Larry Jack will have to risk his own life against not only guns but also water moccasins, alligators, and bears. With Mary Ann at his side, he might be able to navigate the bayou, but how will he bring these criminals to justice without ending up with a bullet in the back?

ARKANSAS COUNTY MOONSHINE WARS

By T. Leon Doyle

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2012 T. Leon Doyle
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4759-5172-1

Chapter One

While I was in doubt about my future, the U. S. Treasure Department was in search of a man with certain backwoods qualifications and had served as 'Ranger; and they were screening soldiers with service records and training comparable to mine, who were in line to be discharged in the near future. In addition to being a solid choice on the first two counts, I had another most important qualification, Arkansas County Arkansas, one of the three southern areas that supplied most all of the untaxed bootlegged moonshine in North America, was my home.

However, I knew nothing about this until after I had a honorable discharge from the armed services of my country in my hand; and while I was collecting my combat pay, mustering out pay, pay for my unused days of leave and the final accounting of pay that I had missed while my pay records were lost, I was asked to report to General Gilkerson's office. I had no idea who General Gilkerson was; but I already had my discharge and I didn't think that he could take it back. However, there was no reason not to respect him, and after stepping up in front of his desk I saluted, then, "Sergeant Doyle reporting as requested," I announced.

After returning my salute, "Agent Crawford has requested a meeting with you," the general said, with his waving hand indicating that I should look to the left.

Of course I did as the General indicated, and saw him standing in the shadows, then with a questioning look on my face I would let him say something first. "I am agent Crawford, and I would like to talk with you for a few minutes if I may," he said while holding out his hand.

"Yes sir," I agreed, then shook hands with him.

"Let's get out of the general's way," he said, heading toward a different door from the one which I had come in through, and after waiting for me to pass he closed the door behind himself. "We can sit here," he said, pulling a chair back from a conference table.

I followed his lead, and after we were both seated, "We are in the process of hiring some government agents, and we believe that you are qualified," he said.

"What kind of agents?" I asked

"Treasury Agents, or T-Men they are sometime called," Agent Crawford answered.

'Ha-ha-ha-ha," I laughed. "You mean Revenuers. Sure I know about them," I replied.

"I figured that you did. I know that you are from Arkansas County, Arkansas, and revenuers aren't strangers in that part of this country. That is one of the reasons that we are interested in you," Agent Crawford said.

"Well I know some people that run moonshine stills; but I never did and I don't reckon that I ever will. Is there something unusual going on down there?" I asked.

"Yes! But first I have to swear you in, and ask a couple of questions before I am allowed to discuss it with you," he said.

"Yes sir?" I agreed, while making a question out of my answer.

"Are you interested in becoming a T-man," he asked.

"Yes sir, but I would like to know about the pay, and will the job be permanent in Arkansas?" I asked.

"I don't know exactly how much you will be paid. But it is well above the averages in Arkansas County. And yes, that is exactly where we want you to go," Agent Crawford said.

I chuckled with my mouth closed and, "I swore that if I ever got out of the service that I would never re-enlist. However, it seems kind 'da like that's what I'm doing. But let's give her a try and see if it works out," I replied, then raised my right hand and swore to an oath that was almost identical to the one that I sworn to when I entered the service.

The turn of events in such a short period of time had me feeling like I imagined a cat, which had been dropped upside down from a tall building, felt. However, I quickly righted myself, went by home with an arm full of books for me to become acquainted with before heading for Washington DC. In Washington we quickly came to terms, and I was a T-Man before the first day was done. Then I was introduced to Agent Earl James, the task force leader that I was assigned to. After we shook hands, and got comfortable in a couple of chairs, "Do you prefer to be called Larry or Jack?" Agent James asked.

"I don't know one without the other, so if you want an answer, you had better call me both of 'em," I replied

"OK Larry Jack, that's sounds good to me, and I am Earl," agent James said. Then, "How well do you know Arkansas County?" he asked. "Hum-hum-hum-hum," I chuckled with my mouth shut and a big smile on my face, "Most of it, about as well as I know the back of my hand. But there are some places that I reckon only the ones that are living there really know what's going on, and if you go poking around you're liable to get shot," I answered.

"That's about what we figured," Earl replied.

Then Earl dived right into the business at hand, and, "Since organized crime's main access to illegal whiskey, which is in McNairy County in Tennessee, on Bear Mountain in Mississippi, and around Cherokee Alabama, is in danger, we have intelligence that makes us believe that they are planning to move their operations to Arkansas County, Arkansas," he explained.

"Of course I know that some of the 'good-ole-boys' would be making moonshine over there, but that's about all I know about it," I replied.

Earl chuckled, "Well you pegged it, whether you know it or not. The 'Hill-Billy-Mafia' is what they are calling it, trying to make us believe that it is a local thing. However we know that the international mafia is calling the shots and supplying the 'dirty-money'. It has been decided to run a sting operation and shut them down once-and—for all in Arkansas County, and we need a man to look after all things down there."

* * *

I left Washington with an allowance to buy a pickup, a motor boat, a canoe, and the needed fire arms and explosives to do the job.

In Arkansas County, I let everybody know that I had returned, and was a revenuer on the hunt. "If you insist on making moonshine, then I insist on catching you, so you had better watch out and close them stills down," I warned. Of course that was part of my cover. Wrecking a few moonshine stills that were scattered around Arkansas County was my job. However being the point-man on a sting operation was my assignment.

I knew that it would take me about a week to get settled in, and if my warning hadn't been heeded by then, I would take appropriate action. Friend and foe alike, they would be held accountable for their actions. First I needed transportation, other than this rented car. After shopping in Dewitt, I finally purchased a camouflaged four wheel drive ford F-150 pickup, with a rack up over the cab that would carry a small canoe, in Stuttgart.

With my transportation settled, I needed to check out of the motel and find a place to live, and I already had a place in mind. A fishing camp, which was located on the bank of White River in the Crocketts Bluff Area, and belonged to a good friend of mine who had left the area while I was gone. "Sure! I never get back there anymore so just move in, and if I do make it back again I'll just come and visit you," he said.

After I had the electricity turned on, I move in. Then at Mack's Sport Center I purchased a modest size but fast running motorboat, a canoe that would ride on top of my pickup, a 351 model 07 rifle, a long barreled 44 magnum pistol and holster rig, with ammo storage loops around the belt; and a Jim Bowie hunting knife, with a 12 inch blade and a scabbard that would hang from the left side of my holster belt. On my way back to the cabin I stopped off at Porter's and purchased a ¼ case of dynamite, which I would use to blow up the moonshine stills that I found.

With everything in place, it was time to start with my search. First, by using the five pages of maps and my knowledge from the past, I reacquainted myself with the part of Arkansas County that I knew so well; and become acquainted with the parts that I wasn't quite so familiar with.

Since I was more acquainted with the north end of the county, I decided that I should start in the south end, down below Gillett and Tichnor, in the Nady/Bayou La Fourche area; there had always been at least one illegal whiskey operation going on down there. Before going to bed I slid the camo canoe, with a few sticks of dynamite in a protective lead container secured inside, upon the rack which was on top of the pickup; I wanted to be ready to leave in the morning as soon as I got up.

* * *

The alarm shattered the 4 AM stillness, and while I was pulling on my camo clothing I made a pot of coffee and put the biscuits in the oven. Of course, I had my first cup of coffee and a couple of ham and biscuits before going outside. Then with my pistol, Bowie knife and ammo belt rig in a safe place on the seat beside me, my rifle in the rack above the seat back, a sack of food, and a thermos of water and one of coffee, I left the cabin well before daylight. By sunup I was floating on Bayou La Fourche, hunting the still that I figured would be somewhere backed-up to the bayou.

With the help of my nose I found it, only by smell would I have known that the moonshine-still was there. Cautiously hugging the bank, under the cover of the overhanging tree limbs and using the paddle as a pole, I shoved the canoe forward until I could hear them talking. Then I could see them, and there were two, leaning against trees with rifles in their hands. I knew that they had no idea that anyone was within miles of them, especially not slipping upon them in a canoe. Folks with good sense didn't do that sort of thing; not down here in these bottoms.

A few more feet, then I was close enough, and with a sort piece of fuse sticking in a stick of dynamite, I tossed the explosive into the fire under the wood fired pot. I had hardly folded up in the protection of the canoe before the loud explosion sent parts of the pot, burning sticks and pieces of trees flying through the air.

Of course I was ready for a shooting war if it came to that. However, while watching them all I did was laugh. At first they looked at each other with an accusing look on their faces, as if each one blamed the other for blowing up their still. Then slowly they approached the spot where the still had been, and cautiously poked around with a stick to see if it would blow up again. Finally they decided that they had better get the hell out of there before something else happened and they left, running as fast as they could, while dodging through the trees.

On the way out I stopped in Gillett, and after introducing myself to the Town Marshal, I told him what had happened. While I was there I got the idea that he knew the still was down there; but would let it be as long it was for local consumption. However, I was putting him on notice that I was here to stop that sort of thing.

From Gillett to Dewitt was a short drive, and with only half of my day gone—I reckon that I can see what's happening in the northern part of the Big LaGrue Bottoms—I thought while chewing on some fish that I smoked yesterday, and sipping on a cup of coffee, which was still warm from being in my thermos.

Traveling north east on highway 1, I passed through St. Charles; then headed up into the White River Bottoms. While passing through Crocketts Bluff, I didn't go by the cabin, and headed west. I was anxious to re-explore the part of the Big LaGrue Bottoms, which had been my home for a lot of years.

Suddenly, I reckoned that the homecoming, which I had so eagerly looked forward to, had slipped upon me, and I had nobody to share it with. But what the hell! I had been wrestling with some big problems for a good while now, and I knew that I could handle this, even as a tear left a misty path down my cheek.

However, as usual, I took the highroad and with happy memories crowding out the melancholy I remembered this place so well! The rough country roads where my bare feet had excitedly rushed along while looking for any new and wonderful thing that Mother Nature had left for me to see, and in low gear, with the accelerator untouched, I let the pickup have it head, slow-rolling along. Close to the bayou, and with no place to cross except on a familiarly gravel road, I let the pickup crawl up the fill and onto the road. After passing the two room schoolhouse that I had attended, I crossed Bayou Big LaGrue on a bridge that I had crossed many times, and though it looked the same, I knew that within all reasoning the planking, and those awful cracks which I was scared to peep through, had been changed.

With the swamp on both sides of the road, I shifted gears and speeded up until I came to an access that wasn't a road, but my four-wheel drive pickup could easily use it for a road, and I was back off into the LaGrue Bottoms. Though I knew where most of the moonshine still had been; I wasn't really looking for any, merrily visiting my old stomping-grounds. However, the chances that someone was watching me were very good.

Suddenly, from out in the thick jungle growth I heard a warning growl, and something about it was familiarly. From the distant past I recognized that growl, as I could have recognized most all of the local animals from back then, if they were still around. "Aw Hell" I exclaimed and laughed—Willie Lee Whitefield—I remembered. I had gone to school with Willie Lee in that two roomed schoolhouse that I had just passed. As my mind drifted back, I remembered when I was in the second grade, so was Willie Lee, but he was twenty two year child living in a large sized, grown man's body.

Before I enlisted in the army I had run across Willie Lee several times when I was out in the Bottoms hunting, and I knew that he was living like and animal; and I reckoned with them most of the time. Then progressively he had turned himself into an animal, communicating by howling, barking and growling, whichever the situation called for, and after stopping the pickup, "YO HO Willie Lee," I called out.

I didn't know if Willie Lee would know me or not; but with a two barks and a friendly howl I knew that he did. Then with a shaking of the leaves, much closer to my pickup than I thought he was, and while wildly giggling and laughing he was gone. However, I could track him by the shaking of the jungle growth as he tore through it. Suddenly a strange premonition violated the hot afternoon, sending a chill the full length of my body. As plain as any nightmare that had ever scared me in the middle of the night, I knew that Willie Lee was headed for big trouble; and that I was the only one that could save him.

After leaving the bottoms I stopped by Freddy's for a bar-be-cue sandwich. Then a while before dark, and while setting out in the twilight, I watched the heavens miraculously changing from the fading sunlit blue skies into canopy that was filled with a pale moon, early bright stars, and the dim promise of a sky full to come; I was planning my day for tomorrow. I had already visited the more familiarly places, and in the morning I would go into the wild country which was in the most western part of the county, the Brewer Bottoms part of Bayou Meto jungle.

I left my cabin a while before sunrise, and after breakfast in the City Café, I left Stuttgart on the Pine Bluff highway. At Humphery I left the highway, and on a country road I went down into Brewer Bottoms. After finding nothing of interest, I came out of the wild country at Lodge Corner, on the Dewitt Highway. After about eight miles I turned off on a county line road, I had decided to explore the Little Bayou LaGrue Bottoms, which were mostly reservoirs that stored the much needed water for rice field irrigation.

Reaching the fork, where Bayou Little LaGrue merged with Big Bayou LaGrue, I glanced down at my watch, it was only the middle of the afternoon—I think that I will go back to the cabin and get a little fishing in—I thought.

Backtracking for a half of a mile, and after skirting Mays Bluff, I reached highway 165 and turned north, through Dewitt was the best route home. After passing through Dewitt, then Almyra, and at the Rich Branch Experiment Station I geared down and turned the corner. Then shifting back up through the gears I approached the Bayou Little LaGrue Bridge. In the middle of the bridge, and with my hand on the gearshift knob I saw her; setting in a chair with a fishing pole in her hands, and she looked so familiar that I down-shifted then stopped beside her.

Yes! It was who I thought it was! Not believing my eyes I stuck my head out through the window and, "My God above! Mary Ann, is that you, and what are you doing out here?" I asked.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from ARKANSAS COUNTY MOONSHINE WARSby T. Leon Doyle Copyright © 2012 by T. Leon Doyle. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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