“My roping ain’t what it should be, but it’s required learning in Texas. We got to be able to lasso the teacher or we don’t get out of primary school.” Betsy stole a peek just as the deputy winked at Scott, his normally stern expression showing just a touch of lightness. Then he cleared his throat and his voice dropped as he addressed Uncle Fred. “Since it looks like I’ve landed with the local journalist, I’d assume you know what’s going on here. Anything you can tell me that a faraway politician might not know?”
Uncle Fred fiddled with the kerosene lamp on the tabletop. “It’s not so bad now. If you were to go to Greene County or Christian County, they might need you.”
“My orders are clear—Pine Gap, Hart County, to relieve Sheriff Taney.”
Betsy’s ears perked up. So did the man’s who’d trained her. “When you say relieve him, do you mean you’re going to help him or replace him?” Uncle Fred asked.
Deputy Puckett lowered his fork. “That’s not my call. It’s never been my call to make.” He waited until Uncle Fred had the grace to look away before asking, “You say things are better. Why would that be? What’s changed?”
“The Bald Knobbers.” Scott plunked his elbows on the table. “They’ve been keeping the riffraff down. All except for that Miles Bullard, but he won’t dare show his face as long as the Bald Knobbers are riding.”
Sissy dropped a dish in the basin and walked out of the room—her usual response to the topic. Betsy cuddled the baby close, planted a kiss on her wispy hair, and made her way to the table.
“What does Bald Knobber mean?” Deputy Puckett asked. “Who are they?”
No discussion of the Bald Knobbers began without first glancing over your shoulder to see who could hear. Even though he was in his own house, Uncle Fred looked both ways.
“A bald knob is a mountaintop without trees—not very common in this part of the country. They meet on bald knobs so no one can sneak up and overhear their plans.”
“What are their plans?” Deputy Puckett tapped his finger against his tin cup.
“They do the job that the law failed to do. Ever since the war, there’s been all sorts of trouble out here. Bushwhackers, outlaws, moonshiners, everyone at each other’s throats, and Sheriff Taney turned a blind eye. Finally, some of the men had had enough. They banded together and took out after the troublemakers.”
“Illegally.”
Uncle Fred’s face hardened. “It was a hard choice for many of them. Do something without the government’s approval, or sit by and let your neighbors be killed. One’s illegal, but the other is immoral. Which would you choose?”
Deputy Puckett didn’t answer that question. A prickle of fear crawled up Betsy’s back. Uncle Fred was right—things had simmered down. What kind of trouble would this man stir up? Would he actually punish those who’d helped them survive? Betsy had been nurtured by this town. She’d taken meals in nearly every kitchen in the hills. She didn’t approve of an outsider coming in to straighten things up.
“Give me an example,” the deputy said, “of some of this righteous, illegal activity.”
Uncle Fred settled into his chair, and Betsy prepared for the story she knew was coming.
“Miles Bullard was a ne’er-do-well around these parts. Would get liquored up and play the fool in town, insult the ladies, and assault anyone he felt slighted by. Fowler’s boys had finally had enough. They’d tossed him a bundle on his porch to warn him, but he hadn’t heeded it. Next time he hit town all lit up, they hogtied him, threw him over a mule, and rode him out of town. Got him up the hill, and they lashed him with the same willow branches they’d thrown on his porch.”
Deputy Puckett’s face hardened. “Was he hurt?”
“Mostly his pride,” Uncle Fred said. “But he didn’t learn his lesson. That night Stony Watson, a good family man and the father-in-law of my nephew Josiah, got killed when he went to check on his open barn. Best anyone could tell, Bullard was poking around there, up to no good. Didn’t take no time at all before the gang caught him and hauled him in to Sheriff Taney.”
Betsy remembered that night. She’d pretended to go to bed early so she could sneak out and watch once they caught him. She’d never seen a man look so ill as Sheriff Taney did when Fowler presented him with a real-life murderer all trussed up and ready for trial.
“Was he convicted?” the deputy asked.
“Convicted?” Uncle Fred uttered a gruff laugh. “He wasn’t even tried. Somehow he escaped Taney’s grasp before the moon came up the next night. Taney’s only response was to carry on about Bullard defending himself against the gang and being fearful for his life—as if the gang were responsible for Miles going to Stony’s and shooting him in cold blood. But the gang stayed vigilant, and it wasn’t too long before someone managed to wing Bullard on the run. He showed up at Doctor Hopkins’s, but Fowler tracked him there and brought him in again. This time it only took Sheriff Taney a few hours to lose his prisoner. That’s when we pretty much gave up on the sheriff and started looking to Fowler for help.”