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Ep. 7 - The Secret Still · True Tales of The Secret Service

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Chapter seven, The secret Still July first, nineteen nineteen, said Bill Quinn,
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as he appropriately reached for a bottle containing a very soft drink. By
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no means marked the beginning of the government's troubles in connection with the illicit manufacture
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of liquor. Of course, there's been a whole lot in the papers since
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the Thirst of July about people having private stills in their cellars, making drinks
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with a kick out of grape juice and a piece of yeast, and all
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that sort of thing. One Concern in Pittsburgh, I understand, has also
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noted a tremendous and absolutely abnormal increase in the demand for its hot water heating
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plants, the copper coils of which make an ideal substitute for a still.
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But I doubt very much if there is going to be a real movement in
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the direction of the private manufacture of alcohol beverages. The Internal Revenue Department is
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too infernally watchful and its agents too efficient for much of that to get by.
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When you get right down to it, there's no section in the country
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where the art of making liquor flourishes to such an extent as it does in
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Eastern Tennessee. In western North Carolina moonshine, there is not only a recognized
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article of trade, but its manufacture is looked upon as an inalienable right.
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It's tough sledding for any revenue officer who isn't mighty quick on the trigger,
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and even then, as Jimmy Reynolds discovered a few years back, they're likely
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to get him unless he mixes brains with his shooting ability. Reynolds continued,
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Quinn, easing his injured leg into a more comfortable position, was as valuable
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a man as any whose name ever appeared in the government blue book. He's
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left the bureau now and settled down to a life of comparative ease as assistant
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district attorney of some middle western city. I've forgotten which one, But there
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was a good reason for his not caring to remain in the east. The
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climate west of the Mississippi is far more healthy for Jimmy these days. At
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the time of the Stiles case, jim was about twenty nine, straight as
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an arrow, and with a bull dog tenacity that just wouldn't permit of his
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letting go of a problem until the solution was filed in the official pigeon holes
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which answer to the names of archives. It was this trait which led Chambers,
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then Commissioner of Internal Revenue, to send for him after receipt of a
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message that two of his best men, Douglas and would I think their names
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were, had been brought back to me Tennessee with bullet holes neatly drilled through
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their hearts. Jim said the Commissioner, this case has gone just far enough.
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It's one thing for the mountaineers of Tennessee to make moonshine whiskey and defy
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the laws of the United States. But when they deliberately murder two of my
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best men and pin a rudely scribbled note to beware this country on the front
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of their shirts, that's going entirely too far. I'm going to clean out
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that nest of illicit stills if it takes the rest of my natural life,
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and every man in the bureau more than that, I'll demand help from the
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War Department if necessary. By gad, I'll teach them, and the inkwell
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on the Commissioner's desk leaped into the air as Chambers's fist registered determination. Reynolds
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reached for a fresh cigar from the apply that. I always reposed in the
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upper drawer of the Commissioner's desk and waited until it was well lighted before he
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replied. All well and good chief, he commented, But how would the
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army help you any You could turn fifty thousand men in uniform loose in those
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mountains, and the odds are they wouldn't locate the bunch year after fire.
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Isn't the weapon to fight those mountaineers with. They're too wise. What you
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need is brains. Possibly you can supply that deficiency, retorted the commissioner,
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a little nettled. Oh, I didn't mean that you personally needed the brains,
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laughed Reynolds. The pronoun was used figuratively and collectively at that. I
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would like to have a whirl at the case. If you've got nothing better
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for me to do. There isn't anything better for anyone to do at the
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present time, Chambers interrupted, That's why I sent for you. We know
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that whiskey is being privately distilled in large quantities somewhere in the mountains, not
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far from Maymead. Right there, our information ends. Our men have tried
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all sorts of dodges to land the crowd behind the Stills. But the only
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thing they've been able to learn is that a man named Stiles is one of
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the ruling spirits. His cabin is well up in the mountains, and it
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was while they were prospecting round that part of the country that Douglas and Wood
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were shot. Now, what's your idea of handling the case? The first
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thing that I want, Chief is to be allowed to work on this absolutely
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alone, and that not a soul in bureau or out of it is to
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know what I'm doing. Easy enough to arrange that, assented the Commissioner.
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But there isn't any but Reynolds cut in. You've tried putting a number of
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men to work on this and they've failed. Now try letting one handle it.
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For the past two years, I've had a plane in the back of
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my head that I've been waiting the right opportunity to use. So far as
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I can see, it's fool proof, and I'm willing to take all the
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responsibility in connection with it. Care to outline it, inquired Chambers. Not
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right at the moment, was Reynold's reply, because it would seem too wild
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and scatter brained. I don't mind telling you, though, that for the
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next six weeks. My address will be in care of the warden of the
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Penitentiary of Morgantown, West Virginia, if you wish to reach me Morgantown,
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echoed the commissioner. What Heaven's name are you're going to do there? Lay
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the stage setting for the first act? Smiled Jimmy. Likewise, collect what
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authors referred to as local color material that's essential to what I trust will be
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the happy ending of this drama, happy at least from the government's point of
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view. But while you know that I'm at Morgantown, I don't want anyone
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else to know it, And I'd much prefer that you didn't communicate with me
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there unless it's absolutely necessary. All Right, I won't. You're handling the
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case from now on alone entirely, if you wish it, Yes, Chief,
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I do wish it. I can promise you one of two things within
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the next three months. Either you'll have all the evidence you want about the
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secret still and the men behind it, or well you know where to ship
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my remains. With that and a quick handshake, he was gone. During
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the weeks that followed, people repeatedly asked the commissioner, what's become of Jimmy
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Reynolds. Haven't seen him round here for a month of Sundays, But the
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Commissioner would assume an air of blank ignorance, mutter something about he's out of
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town somewhere, and rapidly changed the subject. About six weeks or so later,
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a buzzard, which was flapping its lazy way across the mountains which divide
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Tennessee from North Carolina, saw far below a strange sight a man, haggard
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and forlorn, his face covered with a half inch of stubble, his cheeks
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sunken, his clothing torn by brambles and bleached by the sun and rain until
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it was almost impossible to tell its original texture. Stumbled along with his eyes
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fixed always on the crest of a hill some distance off. It was as
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if he were making a last desperate effort to reach his goal before the sun
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went down. Had the buzzard been so minded, his keen eyes might have
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noted the fact that the man's clothes were marked by horizontal stripes, while his
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head was covered with hair the same length all over as if he had been
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shaved recently, and the unkempt thatch had sprouted during the last ten days.
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Painfully but persistently, the man in convict's clothes pressed forward. When the sun
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was a little more than half way across the heavens, he glimpsed a cabin
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tucked away on the side of a mountain spur not far away. At the
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sight, he pressed forward with renewed vigor. But distances are deceptive in that
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part of the country, and it was not until nearly dark that he managed
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to reach his destination. In fact, the Stile's family was just setting down
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to what passes for supper in that part of the world fat bacon and corn
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bread mostly when there was the sound of a man's footsteps some fifty feet away.
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Instantly the hound dog rose from his accustomed place under the table and crouched,
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ready to repel invaders. Old man Stiles. His wife called him Joe,
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but to the entire countryside he was just Old Man Stiles reached for his
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rifle with a muttered imprecation about revenue officers who never let a body be But
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the mountaineer had hardly risen from his seat when there was a sound as of
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a heavy body falling against the door, and then silence. Stiles looked inquiringly
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at his wife, and then at Ruth, their adopted daughter. None of
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them spoke for an appreciable time, but the hound continued to whine and finally
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backed off into a corner. Guess I'll have to see what it is,
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drawled the master of the cabin, holding his rifle ready for action. Slowly
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he moved toward the door, and cautiously, very cautiously, he lifted the
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bolt that secured it. Even if it were a revenue officer, he argued
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to himself, his conscience was clear, and his premises could stand the formality
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of a search, because, save for a certain spot known to himself alone,
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there was nothing that could be considered incriminating. As the door swung back,
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the body of a man fell into the room, a man whose clothing
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was tattered and whose features were concealed under a week's growth of stubbly beard.
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Right into the cabin. He fell, for the door had supported his body,
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and once that support was removed, he lay as one dead. In
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fact, it wasn't until at least five minutes had elapsed that Stiles came to
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the conclusion that the intruder was really alive after all. During that time he
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had worked over him in the rough mountain fashion, punching and pulling and manhandling
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him in an effort to secure some sign of life. Finally, the newcomer's
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eyes opened and he made an effort to sit up. Wait a minute,
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stranger directed Stiles, motioning his wife toward a closet in the corner of the
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room. Missus Stiles, or Ma as she was known in that part of
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the country, understood the movement without a word. She opened the cupboard and
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took down a flask filled with a clear, golden yellow liquid. Some of
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this she poured into a cracked cup on the table and handed it to her
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husband. Here directed the mountaineer, throw your head back and drink this.
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It's good for what ails you. The moment after he had followed instructions,
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the stranger gulped, gurgled, and gasped as the moonshine whisky burnt its way
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down its throat. The man size drank, taken on a wholly empty stomach,
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almost nauseated him. Then it put new life in his veins, and
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he tried to struggle to his feet. Ruth Stiles was beside him in an
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instant and with her father's help assisted him to a chair at the table.
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Stranger, said Stiles, stepping aside and eyeing the intruder critically. I don't
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know who or what you are, but I do know that you look plum
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tuckered out. Nobody's going hungry in my house, so fall too, and
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we'll discuss other matters later. Whereupon he laid his rifle in its accustomed place,
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motioned to his wife and daughter to resume their places at the table,
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and dragged up another chair for himself. Beyond a word or two of encouragement
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to eat all he wanted of the very plain fare, none of the trio
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addressed the newcomer during the remainder of the meal. All three of them had
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noted the almost obliterated stripes that encircled his clothing, and their significance was unmistakable,
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But Styles himself was far from being convinced. He had heard too much
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of the tricks of government agents to be misled by what might prove, after
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all, only clever disguise. Therefore, when the women folk had cleared away
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the supper things and the two men had the room to themselves, the mountaineer
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offered his guest a pipeful of tobacco, and saw to it that he took
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a seat before the fire, where the light would play directly upon his features.
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Then he opened fire. Stranger, he inquired, what might your name
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be? Patterson said the other, Jim Patterson. Where you come from?
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Charlestown first and Morgantown second? Up for twelve years for manslaughter, railroaded at
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that was Patterson's laconic reply. How'd you get away? At that? The
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convict laughed, but there was more of a snarl than humor in his tone
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as he answered, climbed the wall when the guards weren't lookin. They took
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a couple of pot shots at me, but none of them came within a
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mile. Then I beat itself, travelin by night, an hidin' by day,
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stole what I could to eat, But this country ain't overly well filled
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with farms. Hadn't had a bite for two days, sept some berries.
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When I saw your cabin and camp up here, Stiles puffed away in silence
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for a moment. Then he rose as if to fetch something from the other
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side of the room. Once behind Patterson, however, he reached forward and,
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seizing the stubble that covered his face, yanked it as hard as he
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could. What the yelled the convict, springing to his feet and involuntarily raising
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his clenched hand. Calm yourself, stranger, Calm yourself, directed the mountaineer
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with a half smile. Jess wanted to see for myself if that beard was
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real. That's all thought you might be a revenue agent in disguise. A
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revenue agent, queried Patterson, and then, as if the thought had just
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struck him that he was in the heart of the moonshining district, he added,
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that's rich me just out of the pen, and you think I'm a
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bull. That's great. Here, reaching into the recesses of his frayed shirt,
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here's something that may convince you. And he handed over a tattered newspaper
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more than a week old, and pointed to an article on the first page.
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There read that Ruth does all the reading for this family. Was Stiles's
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muttered rejoinder, Ruth, Oh, Ruth, come here minute and read something
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to a pappy. Patterson had not failed to note during supper that Ruth's Stiles
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came close to being a perfect specimen of a mountain flower, rough and undeveloped,
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but with more than a trace of real beauty, both in her face
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and figure. Standing in front of the fire, with its flickering light casting
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a sort of halo around her, she was almost beautiful, despite her homespun
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dress and shapeless shoes. Without a word, the convict handed her the paper
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and indicated the article he had pointed out a moment before reward offered for convict's
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arrest. She read James Patterson doing time for murder breaks out of Morgantown,
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five hundred dollars for capture prisoners, scaled wall and escaped in face of guards
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of fire. Then followed an account of the escape, the first of its
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kind in several years. Even if you can't read, said Patterson, there's
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my picture under the headline, the picture they took for the rogue's gallery,
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and he pointed to a fairly distinct photograph which adorned the page. Stiles took
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the paper closer to the fire to secure a better look, glanced keenly at
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the convict and extended his hand. Guess that's right, stranger, he admitted,
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You're no revenue agent. Later in the evening, as she lay awake
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thinking about the man who had shattered the monotony of their mountain life. Ruth
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Styles wondered if Patterson had not given vent to what sounded suspiciously like a sigh
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of relief at that moment, but she was too sleepy to give much thought
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to it. And besides, what if he had head In the other half
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of the cabin, divided from the women's room only by a curtain of discolored
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calico, slept Patterson and Stiles, the former utterly exhausted by his travels,
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the ladder resting with keen hair trigger consciousness of danger always only a short distance
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away. Nothing happened, however, to disturb the piece of the Stile's domicile.
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Even the hounds slept quietly until the rosy tint of the eastern sky announced.
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Another day, after breakfast, at which the fat back and cornbread were
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augmented by a brownish liquid which passed for coffee, Stiles informed his guests that
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he reckoned. He had better stick close to the house for a few days,
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as there was no telling whether somebody might not be on his trail.
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Patterson agreed that this was the proper wars and put in his time helping with
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the various chores. Incidentally, becoming a little better acquainted with Ruth Stiles.
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That night, he lay awake for several hours, but nothing broke the stillness,
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save a few indications of animal life outside the cabin and the labored breathing
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of the mountaineer in the bunk below him. For three nights nothing occurred,
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but on the fourth night, Saturday, supper was served a little earlier than
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usual, and Patterson noted just a suspicion of something almost electrical in the air.
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He gave no indication of what he had observed, however, and retired
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to his bunk in the usual manner. After an hour or more had elapsed,
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he heard Stiles slip quietly off his mattress, and a moment later there
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was the guarded scratch of a match as a lantern was lighted. Suspecting what
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would follow, Patterson closed his eyes and continued his deep, regular breathing,
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but he could sense the fact that the lantern had been swung up to a
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level with his bunk, and he could almost feel the mountaineer's eyes as Stiles
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made certain that he was asleep, stifling an impulse to snore or do something
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to convince his host that he wasn't awake. Patterson lay perfectly still until he
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heard the door close. Then he raised himself guardedly on one elbow and attempted
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to look through the window beside the bunk, but a freshly applied coat of
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whitewash prevented that, so he had to content himself with listening late in the
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night, so late that it was almost mourning. He heard the sounds of
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men conversing in whispers outside the cabin, but he could catch nothing beyond his
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own name. Soon Stiles re entered the room, slipped into bed, and
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was asleep instantly. So things went for nearly three weeks. The man who
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had escaped from prison made himself very useful around the cabin, and almost against
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his will, found that he was falling a victim to the beauty and charm
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of the mountain girl. I mustn't do it, he told himself over and
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over again. I can't let myself. It's bad enough to come here and
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accept the old man's hospitality, but the girl's a different proposition. It was
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Ruth herself who solved the riddle. Some three weeks after Patterson's arrival, they
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were wandering through the woods together looking for Sassafras roots when she happened to mention
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that Stiles was not her own father. He's only my pappy, she said,
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my adopted father. My real father was killed when I was a little
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girl, shot through the head because he had threatened to tell where a still
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was hidden. He never did believe in Moonshining, said it was as bad
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as stealing from the government, so somebody shot him. And Ma Stiles took
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me in cause she said she was sorry for me, even if my pa
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was crazy. Do you believe that Moonshining is right? Asked her companion.
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Anything my pa believed was the truth, replied the girl, her eyes flashing.
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Everybody round these parts knows that Pappy Stiles helps run the big still the
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revenue officer has been looking for for the past three years. Two of em
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were shot not long ago too. But that don't make it right, specially
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when my Pa said it was wrong. What you smilin at? Patterson resisted
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an incl nation to tell her that the smile was one of relief and replied
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that he was just watching the antics of a chipmunk a little way off.
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But that night he felt a thrill of joy as he lay listening as always
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in his bunk. Things had been breaking rather fast. Of late, the
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midnight gatherings had become more frequent, and convinced that he had nothing to fear
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from his guest, Stiles was not as cautious as formerly. He seldom took
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the trouble to see that the escaped prisoner was asleep, and he had even
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been known to leave the door unlatched as he went out into the night.
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That night, for example, was one of the nights that he was careless,
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and as usually happens, he paid dearly for it. Waiting until Stiles
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was well out of the house, Patterson slipped silently out of his bunk in
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his stocking feet, and inch by inch, reopened the door. Outside.
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The moon was shining rather brightly, but save for the retreating figure of the
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mountaineer, outlined by the lantern he carried, there was nothing else to be
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seen. Very carefully, Patterson followed, treading softly so as to avoid even
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the chance cracking of a twig. Up the mountain side went Stiles, and
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some fifty feet behind him crouched the convict, his faded garments blending perfectly with
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the underbrush. After half a mile or so of following a rude path,
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Stile suddenly disappeared from view, not as if he had turned a corner,
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but suddenly as if the earth had swallowed him. After a moment, Patterson
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determined to investigate. When he reached the spot where he had last seen Stiles,
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he looked around and almost stumbled against the key to the entire mystery.
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There in the side of the mountain was an opening, the entrance to a
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natural cave, and propped against it was a large wooden door, completely covered
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with vines. Not a chance of finding it in the daytime unless you knew
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where it was, thought the convict, as he slipped silently into the cave.
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Less than thirty feet farther was an abrupt turn, and glancing round this,
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Patterson saw what he had been looking for. A crowd of at least
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a dozen mountaineers gathered about a collection of small but extremely efficient stills. Ranged
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in rows. Along the sides of the cave were scores of kegs, the
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contents of which were obvious from the surroundings. Pausing only long enough to make
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certain of his bearings, the convict returned to the cabin, and long before
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Stiles came back would sound asleep. It was precisely four weeks from the day
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when the buzzard noted the man on the side of the mountain, when a
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sheriff's posse from another county, accompanied by half a dozen revenue officers, rode
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clattering through Maymead and on in the direction of a Stiles cabin. Before the
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mountaineers had time to gather, the posse had surrounded the hill Rifles ready for
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action. Styles himself met them in front of his rude home, and in
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response to his challenge as to what they wanted, the sheriff replied that he
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had come for a prisoner who had escaped from Morgantown a month or so before.
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Stiles was on the verge of declaring that he had never heard of the
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man, when, to his amazement, Patterson appeared from the woods and surrendered
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the instant the convict had gained the shelter of the government gun. However,
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a startling change took place. He held a moment's whispered conversation with one of
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the revenue officials, and the latter slipped him a Sperry Volver from his holster.
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Then hands up ordered the sheriff and Styles his hands shot above his head,
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leaving three men to guard the cabin and keep watch over old Man's styles,
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whose language was searing the shrubbery. The remainder of the posse pushed up
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the mountain, directed by the pseudo convict. It took them some time to
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locate the door to the cave, but once inside they found all the evidence
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they wanted. Evidence not only directly indicative of moonshining, but the two badges
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which had belonged to Douglas and Wood, and which the mountaineer had kept as
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souvenirs of the shooting, thus unwittingly providing a firm foundation for the government's case
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in court. The next morning, when Commissioner Chambers reached his office, he
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found upon his desk a wire which read Stiles Gang rounded up without the firing
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of a single shot, direct evidence of complicity in Wood's Douglas murders. Secret
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still is a secret no longer. The signature to the telegram was James Reynold
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alias Jim Patterson. Jim Patterson mused the Commissioner, where have I heard that
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name? Of course, he's the prisoner that broke out of Morgantown. A
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couple of months ago. Jimmy sure did lay the local color on thick.
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But I inquired, as Quinn paused, don't you consider that rather a dirty
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trick on Reynold's part, worming himself to the confidence of the mountaineers and then
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betraying them. Besides, what about the girl? Dirty trick? Snorted the
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former Secret Service agent. Would you think about ethics if someone had murdered two
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of the men you work next to in the office, It was the same
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thing in this case. Jimmy knew that if he didn't turn up that gang,
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they'd probably account for a dozen of his pals, to say nothing of
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violating the law every day they lived. What else was there for him to
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do? The girl? Oh, Reynolds married her. They sometimes do that
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even in real life, you know, as I said, they're living out
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in the Middle West. For Ruth declared she never wanted to see a mountain
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again, and both of them admitted that it wouldn't be healthy to stick around
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within walking distance of Tennessee. That mountain crowd is a bad bunch to get
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riled, and it must be a most time for Styles and his friends to
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get out of jail. It's a funny thing the way these government cases work
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out. Here was one that took nearly three months to solve, and the
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answer was the direct result of hard work and careful planning. While the Trenton
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taxicab tangle, for example, was just the opposite end of Chapter seven