Days of Darkness (33 page)

So as the last year of the century approached, both Jim Howard and Tom Baker were at liberty. Manchester was a dangerous place—and, in Dickey's eyes, licentious. When Dickey spent the night at the home of Henry Marcum on New Year's eve, he was properly distressed when the family ushered in the new year with that tempter of the flesh, a dance. “Five young men, and as many young women,” he wrote, “were drunk, and danced past midnight.”

And, on a more ominous note, about this time mention was made that Chad Hall had been seen visiting the Howards. Hall, a shadowy character who seemed often on the scene when violence occurred but was never himself implicated, had been involved in the earlier Howard-Turner feud in Harlan County and had reportedly been with Wilse Howard and his “gang” when, in the fall of 1889, the Cawoods were killed. A tall, slender, leathery man, Hall was an itinerant blacksmith and cattle dehorner. Born April 15,1859, he was the son of Alford and Sarah Hall of Lee County, Virginia, across the mountain ridge from Harlan. His father had been a fairly prosperous mill owner, but Chad chose to move to Harlan, where he married Susan Nolan and bought a house on Martins Fork. While Susan stayed home, Chad traveled through Harlan, Leslie, Clay, and Bell Counties dehorning cattle, trimming hooves, shoeing horses, and doing general blacksmith work. His sister Jane married Jim Shackleford, who was with the Howards when the Bakers killed Wilson and Burch Stores and wounded Bal. Chad himself was a friend of the Howards in both Clay and Harlan Counties, and a lot of people thought he was something of a hired gun for them. That is unlikely. Mountain gunmen usually worked out of loyalty or for revenge, but in the Clay County trouble most were attached to one side or the other much as cowhands were attached to ranch-owners in the West. General Garrard had as many as a dozen men who acted as guards around his Goose Creek home. Furthermore, though Chad Hall had often been spotted around the scene of trouble, or reported to have been seen riding out after trouble occurred, no one had ever pinned anything on him.

In February 1899, the bitterness pervading Manchester exacted a further price when Allen Baker announced that he was moving to Breathitt County, and put his house up for sale. It was a sad commentary on Clay County when someone had to move to “Bloody Breathitt” to find a more peaceful environment. The next week Anse Baker said he was selling his saloon and moving to Barbourville. This was more understandable, since Manchester had been voted dry in December and the value of his saloon had undoubtedly depreciated. But this marked two Garrards, two Whites, and two Bakers who had left Manchester in eighteen months. The war was draining the town.

The Turtle Calls for Bad Tom

The morning of June 10, 1899, dawned warm and humid under a gray overcast. Tom and Emily woke and dressed in the unfamiliar confines of the tent on the courthouse lawn. They were joined for breakfast by Wiley, Allen, and James, who had been quartered in an adjacent tent. Afterward, they sat on the hotel porch watching the soldiers going about their duties. After an hour or so the Baker followers who had not spent the night rode in, and after what seemed like an interminable wait Judge Cook rode up and went into the courthouse. He was followed by the lawyers and court officers. After a few minutes a bailiff came out and announced that court was in session. Tom, Wiley, and James walked Emily back to the tent, then went into the courtroom.

To one side of the room, near the table where Colonel Williams sat, two neatly dressed men watched the proceedings intently, writing hurriedly on loose sheets of paper. A.C. Lyttle told Tom that the men were newspaper reporters from Louisville and Cincinnati. Tom was impressed and watched the men closely throughout the proceedings.

Much of the morning was taken up with arguments for and against a change of venue and in hearing witnesses. After dinner there was a sudden flurry of interest when Big John Philpot, all seven feet and 300 pounds of him, took the stand and was asked whether he thought the Bakers could get a fair trial in Manchester. Big John said if it was all the same, he'd rather not say.

“Are you afraid to state your opinion?” the prosecutor asked, Big John looked at him calmly for a long minute.

“I don't guess I'm afeard of no man,” he said. “But you could say I've got a feeling for the Bakers.” Judge Cook thanked him, and Big John ambled out, nodding and smiling to Tom as he passed.

Five other men were called. Those friendly to the Whites or Howards said that the Bakers could get a fair trial in Manchester. Those siding with the Bakers held that it would be impossible to find an
impartial jury in Clay County. A little after four o'clock Judge Cook called the attorneys to the bench and, after conferring briefly, gaveled the court to order. He announced that in his opinion counsel for the defense had made a compelling argument and that in the interest of good order and a fair trial he was granting a change of venue to Knox Circuit Court. He directed Colonel Williams to provide a suitable escort to assure the safety and security of the accused and to deliver them to the jailer in Barbourville as expeditiously as practical. In view of the hour and the distance involved, however, he directed that the transfer be delayed until the next morning.

Outside, Tom talked for a minute with General Garrard, who had once more come in for the trial.

“I want to thank you again, General,” he said.

“Don't mention it,” said Garrard. “I'm sorry about this, but I'm glad you got the change of venue. You'll have a much better chance of a fair trial down in Barbourville. Try to get some rest and don't let your men get out in town and start trouble. I'd say the sooner they get back to Crane Creek, the better.”

“I'll see to that,” said Tom.

“Well,” said the general, “I guess I'd better be getting back. Try not to worry. I'll be down to Barbourville for the trial. If there's anything you need, I'll see what I can do.”

“I appreciate it.”

The general drove off. Tom walked over to the tent that some of the soldiers referred to as the guardhouse and sat on a cot, talking with Emily, telling her of the change of venue, making plans for the morrow.

“You might as well go on home,” he told her, “and try to get some rest. John and some of the boys will come with you down to Barbourville when it's time. But you might as well go on now.”

“I guess I'll stay,” she said.

A photographer from Louisville came up to the door of the tent and asked if he could take Tom's picture. He had already taken James's and Wiley's. Tom said he guessed it would be all right, and he walked outside. One of the reporters was standing by, writing, as the photographer prepared to take Tom's picture. Tom looked rumpled and dusty but stared unsmilingly into the camera. The photographer thanked him and asked if he could take a picture of Tom with his son James. Tom said all right, and James joined him. The soldiers looked on with obvious interest. The reporter got on his horse and headed down the hill.

Tom walked back and stood with Emily in the doorway of the
tent. After the hectic day it was fairly quiet around the courthouse. The soldiers were lounging around the tents or sitting on the ground, talking. Small groups of people were leaving, going home. Some of the Baker kinsmen, having retrieved their guns, were mounting their horses for the ride back to Crane Creek. Others had decided to stay until morning to see Tom and the others off.

Suddenly a shot, strangely muffled, shattered the afternoon. Bad Tom Baker, with a soft moan, fell forward across his wife's feet.

For a few seconds no one seemed to grasp what had happened. Then soldiers, responding to Emily's screams, rushed to Tom's side. Tom had landed on his right side and rolled over onto his back. The red stain of blood was spreading around the bullet hole near the center of his chest. Tom Baker was dead.

Everyone began looking frantically around to see where the shot might have come from. Captain Bryan, his face ashen, came running up. There was a great shouting of orders and rushing about, and someone pointed across the street to the home of Sheriff Beverly White, where a small wisp of smoke drifted from a partly opened window.

Making little sense but doing the only thing they knew to do, the soldiers, with fixed bayonets, formed a line of attack, while others wheeled the big Gatling gun around and pointed it toward the sheriff's house. Captain Bryan raced up and stopped them before they could do any damage. “Follow me!” he shouted, and a platoon fell into line and charged across the street. They were stopped by a locked gate and stood for a moment as though wondering how to overcome this obstacle. It was not an eventuality for which their training had prepared them. Then Captain Bryan ordered them to break it down, and they frantically kicked it open. But then they had trouble with the locked front door. When they finally got in, they raced through the house, found no one, but discovered on a bed in the front room a rifle, its barrel still warm. By an open rear window lay a hat with Sheriff White's name in it.

Bryan raced back to the courthouse, where Colonel Williams waited, red-faced with anger. Members of the Baker group raged around the grounds, demanding that the troops get Bev White. Others demanded that they arrest Jim Howard. But when Williams entered the courthouse he encountered Howard coming out of his office. Outside on the sidewalk he met Sheriff White.

“It's very unfortunate that the gun that killed Baker was found in your house,” he said sternly.

“Before God,” declared White, “I didn't kill him.”

“Well, who did then?” demanded Williams.

“Could have been anybody,” said White. “Dozens of people have access to my house.”

A crowd of people had gathered by this time, gawking at the fallen feudist and speculating on his killer. The
Courier-Journal
reporter, who had been heading out of town when he heard the shot, had returned and was scribbling away. Standing behind him, looking over his shoulder, was Chad Hall, looking down on Tom with a fascinated stare. Big Jim Howard, stone-faced, looking neither right nor left, walked down the sidewalk toward town. The Bakers were too astonished to try to stop him.

The killer of Bad Tom Baker was never found.

The next morning a wagon carrying James, Allen, Wiley, and three troopers pulled up in front of the courthouse. A white-faced, dry-eyed Emily stood beside them a moment and bade them goodbye, as Captain Bryan ordered his men to form up for the trip to Barbourville. He then turned to Emily, who was sitting in a wagon with two of her children.

“Mrs. Baker,” he said, “why don't you leave this miserable county and escape from these awful feuds? Move away and teach your children to forget.”

Emily turned toward him with a face filled with hate.

“Captain,” she said, “I have twelve sons. It will be my chief aim in life to bring them up to avenge their daddy's death. I intend to show them this handkerchief, stained with his blood, every day of their Jives and tell them who murdered him.”

That, at least, is legend. It is doubtful she said it. If she really did, it was a promise she couldn't carry out. She didn't know who had killed her husband any more than anyone else did. At least anyone willing to talk.

Then the wagon carrying the body of Bad Tom Baker pulled slowly out of Manchester, headed for Crane Creek.

There was a further saddening aspect of Tom Baker's murder. On June 9, when Tom had come into court, George and Lucretia “Lucy” Goforth rode toward Manchester, prepared in spite of the danger involved to keep their promise to the dying Will White and testify to the manner of his murder by the Bakers. They were not called, and they came back the next day, heard that the trial had been shifted to Barbourville, and were on their way home when they heard of Tom's death. They did not have to testify.

But Wiley Baker, Tom's brother, was not one to forget. Or forgive. After his trial in Barbourville, which acquitted him and Allen and
James, he regarded the Goforths as enemies. They had not testified, but they had been willing to. That was enough. Wiley condemned them, even though his son Bev was married to Lizzie Goforth, the daughter of Bud and Lucretia. Bad Tom had liked and respected Bud Goforth. Once, when George Hall sent word to Bad Tom that he was tired of fighting and wanted to meet and talk, Tom replied that he would talk, unarmed, if Bud Goforth talked with Hall and was convinced that he was sincere in wanting peace. Bud acted as intermediary, and a truce was arranged.

But now Wiley refused to speak to any of them, Lizzie and his own grandchildren included. Some years later, when the elder Goforths moved in with Bud and Lizzie and their two children, Wiley would ride by and, if he had had a drink too many, fire a few rounds toward the house, despite the fact that his grandchildren were playing in the yard or on the porch. Like the Howards, the Bakers forgave slowly, if ever.

On the night after Bad Tom's murder, there was a massive wake at the Baldy George Baker home, where Tom's body had been taken, with the usual eating, drinking, mourning, and commiserating. All evening people streamed in and out of the house. Tom lay in his coffin beneath the lamplight. And then, when the casual mourners had gone and only the family members and old friends were left, a strange thing happened. (I do not offer this as truth. You can believe it or ignore it. But when Stanley DeZarn asked Tom Baker's grandson, “Do you believe that?” Baker looked at him in surprise. “Of course I do,” he said. “Everybody I know does, everybody that was there or knew somebody that was there.” I merely pass it along.)

It was after midnight, well toward morning. Talk had quieted, voices drifting in from the kitchen, people speaking softly, the sound of men sucking on their pipes, sipping whiskey from cups. Suddenly there was a strange scratching at the front door. One of the men got up, went to the door and, seeing no one there, opened it to look around the porch. When he did a huge turtle pushed past him, plodding slowly, resolutely into the room and made straight for the coffin. Those familiar with the incident of the murdered peddler drew back in fright. Then Pleaz Sawyer got up, grabbed the big turtle, hauled it outside, cut off its head, and threw it into the draw behind the house. Tom had said of the peddler, “Let the turtles have him.” This time the turtle had come for Tom. Perhaps Pleaz had exorcised the spell.