The    Pickthorn

                Chronicles

By

                                                       

                  Gary        W.    Lemon

              www.pickthorn’scorner.com                  a.pickthorn@yahoo.com

                                                                                              Introduction

      I have been writing short stories for a good many years, mostly for my own pleasure and therapy.      But, a number of friends and associates, in my recent past, have suggested that I share some of my work, that has evolved over the years, with the reading public.

      After dwelling on this possibility for some months I decided to take the plunge and in September, of 2011, I released my first book entitled, ‘Short Stories By Pickthorn.’ I was pleasantly surprised by how the reception of this simple book of tall tales was embraced by many short story enthusiasts.

      After receiving some modest monetary reward for my effort, the thought occurred to me that maybe I could put my over stimulated imagination to some use in what some refer to as the literary world.    ‘The Pickthorn Chronicles’ is the second product of short stories that I offer to those who have expressed    a pleasurable experience in reading my stories and to those who are reading these words for the first time.

      I understand that there are many who prefer the standard full length novel with as many pages and words as possible. I have read many novels, over the years,    but I have probably laid aside many more because my interest    level waned and could not be revived. I prefer short stories that can grab the readers interests from the story’s beginning to the exciting conclusion. I know there are many people who share    this    reading preference.

      Most of my stories, you will find, are fast paced and easy to read.    I try to keep the interest level at a maximum    throughout    each    narrative,    with a minimum of superfluous wording. The ‘twist’ or surprise ending is another trademark I use to baffle the reader, whenever possible.

      I try to offer a wide range of reading interest.      Horror and suspense,    laced with a little humor is my favorite genre,    and    you will see these emotions come to life in our first story, “Horror In Alaska.”    But whatever your reading pleasure, I hope you find it here within these pages.      I do sincerely hope you will enjoy, ‘The Pickthorn Chronicles.’

Gary Lemon                                                     

                FOREWORD

Pickthorn has selected some great stories as a sequel to his first book, “Short Stories By Pickthorn.”    “The Pickthorn Chronicles” brings us new accounts of horrific, blood chilling adventures as well as heart warming stories that may bring forth a tear or two.Suspense, mystery, humor, and intrigue are a few adjectives that describe the highlyentertaining narratives that we have come to expect from of Alfred J. Pickthorn.

‘Horror In Alaska’ describes the terrible ordeal three people face after their plane crashes in the Alaskan wilderness.    The fight for survival takes an evil twist as the wife of the injured pilot and her lover, the pilot’s junior partner, decide to leave the injured man at the crash site, believing that he would soon die from his injuries and the freezing temperature.    The conniving lovers manage to reach freedom and safety and they then divert the rescue mission, to a different location, far from the actual crash site. Confident, their dastardly plot would never be discovered, the villainous pair would now take over a thriving business and live a life of luxury, or so they thought.

From the ‘Horror In Alaska’ the author treats the reader to another murder mystery withthe grisly murder of two prominent citizens, who are the parents of a young man who has a burning ambition to succeed in life but prefers to inherit his wealth rather than to work for it;    he engages a mentally impaired girl to help him reach that goal.    The young girl is known as ‘Dumb Dora.’

If you prefer a nostalgic, warm and neighborly story, then you should enjoy the adventure of a young lad, who risks the displeasure of an old man and his bulldog, by stealing plums from the tree in the man’s backyard.    The ‘old geezer’ protects his plums and his property by shooting trespassers with his BB gun and then lets Spike (his bulldog) chase the intruder away.    The confrontation between the father of the young boy, who had been shot with a BB,    and the old man, was one of the highlights of this story titled “Old Spike.”

A pulsating, heart wrenching, drama is offered in the suspenseful story of a young twelve year old who is heir to a sizable fortune.    He has been kidnapped by a pair of clever and diabolical characters who are intent on executing the boy after the ransom has been paid.A shocking and unexpected ending to this story called, “Kidnapped.”

In my opinion, each of these stories could be and should be made into a feature length film, they are that riveting and entertaining.    Now sit back, relax and enjoy, “The Pickthorn Chronicles.”

Sir Jacob R. MaloneCabot Institute ofFine Arts

Contents Page

Horror In Alaska

Dumb Dora

Duel In The Sky

Left Wing - Right Wing

Garden Of Evil - Sherlock Holmes

Old Spike

Shawnee Lynch Mob

Killer Korpis

A Day Soon Forgotten

Death Before Dishonor

Flight 301

Death Watch

Death At Four AM

Kidnapped

Festus Leghorn

Pic Alas Horror                                                    Horror In Alaska

      In March of 1981, Thad McSwain, became owner of the newly established McSwain Oil & Gas Development Company. He had high hopes for his new company. Since childhood, everything about the Alaskan petroleum industry fascinated Thad. Now, his life-long dream of owning his

own company and marketing his own products had come true.

      It took every penny of his savings and all he could borrow to start a new company, but now he was wheeling and dealing as the new owner of an up and coming oil development and exploration company in Fairbanks, Alaska.

      Rick Killtrain, Thad's friend since high school, became a junior partner in the company by investing his life savings in the venture.

      Roseanne, Thad's wife, decided at the last moment that she wanted to accompany Thad and Rick on their business trip to Vancouver, British Columbia in Thad's new Cessna 340. Thad had been a bush pilot for several years in Alaska before his opportunity to enter the business world.

      Thad didn't think it necessary to file a flight plan, but planned to keep a close check on weather reports for the area through the airport in Vancouver. They left Fairbanks at seven o'clock that evening. About thirty minutes into their flight, Thad called in to the Vancouver Airport:

      "Vancouver Tower, this is CSA-One, what's the latest on that front moving in from the southwest?"

      "CSA-One.....Vancouver Tower..... this 'bad boy' is getting dicey here. You are right on the edge, but coming your way pretty fast. Recommend you return to CS Municipal or divert to Cordova."

      "Negative Vancouver. We are only three hundred miles east of you, going to try to make it on in. Can you give me a new heading?

      "Roger that, CSA-one, come right to course 126, maintain altitude of 15,000, speed 200 knots."

      As they came closer to Vancouver, Thad peered out the side window, hoping to see the glow of city lights below. His gaze focused on the droplets of water dancing across his window. Farther out on the wing, he noticed tiny horizontal icicles growing on various projections. "Hey Rick, check out the wings... think we should de-ice?"

      "Yeah, good idea," Rick replied. Thad loosened his grip from the yoke and flipped the wing deicer switch. Instantly the cockpit lights went out.

Soon, an overpowering odor of burning plastic filled the cramped cabin of the aircraft..

      "What the hell!" said Thad. "Rick! Get the breakers!" Rick fumbled in the darkness until he found the breaker console and began pressing. The instrument lights flickered back to life and glowed dimly, followed by the interior lights which revealed the source of the burning odor. Hazy smoke filled the cabin.

      Thad radioed Vancouver, "Mayday, Mayday! This is CSA-one. We are approximately a hundred miles southeast of Juneau, experiencing heavy ice storm, smoke in the cockpit, electrical system going out, one engine smoking, losing altitude."

      Thad heard a few garbled words, interrupted with static but couldn't decipher the message. Seconds later, the lights flickered off again. "Turn off the deicer!" said Thad. "We'll have to take a chance of icing up or we're going burn up the damn plane."

      Roseanne became hysterical. "Isn't there any place we can land?" she screamed. "I don't want to die in this airplane." She knew before she asked that they were flying over some of the roughest terrain in the Alaskan wilderness.

      "We need to set this crate down someplace. Keep looking for lights!" Thad shouted. Snow and tiny pellets of ice could be seen bombarding the wind-shield. The Cessna continued its westerly course, being buffeted by fifty-mile-per-hour winds.

      Rick yelled, "Thad! You're going to have to think about landing this thing, whether you want to or not!" All three were panic stricken. They knew they were going down.

      "Oh my God!! I don't want to die!!" screamed Roseanne. She began crying uncontrollably. Rick moved from the co-pilot's seat into the back of the plane next to Roseanne. He held her close, trying to calm her and protect her should they crash. The plane began a rapid descent.

      "Both of you hold on tight.... and pray! We're going down. There's

nothing I can do! God.. let there be something besides the wall of a mountain there when we touch down!" Thad struggled, trying to keep the plane level. Suddenly, his eyes widened as he saw a dark object through the falling snow, directly in front of them... then blackness.~~~~~~~~~~~      The skies were clear the next day when Rick regained conscious . He propped himself up on his left elbow and with his right hand, shaded his eyes from the brightness of the sun shining on mounds of snow all around him. He remembered his last thoughts just before the plane crashed and wondered how long they had been there. He saw a large Aspen tree broken in two. The sheered off top of the Aspen could be seen, lying under the fuselage of the Cessna and the tail of the plane, upside down about 100 feet to the east of it. After sheering off the top of the tree, the nose of the plane had miraculously plunged into a snow drift which softened the impact.

      Rick struggled to his feet and staggered over to examine the remaining wreckage of the plane. He saw Thad lying on his side, still in the cockpit, his left leg twisted and mangled, his pants soaked in blood. He saw Roseanne, lying unconscious, still strapped in her seat behind Thad. Roseanne looked unharmed and breathing normally. He went to her and patted her cheek lightly and spoke her name. "Roseanne.. wake up.... It's Rick."

      A frown came upon her face as she began to move her head and flutter her eyes. "Rick... Rick.. Is that you? Where are we? What happened?"

      "Shhhh... don't talk. We crashed. I have no idea where we are, but it appears that we are on the side of a mountain. I can see a lot of trees below,    so we aren't that high up. There's a lot of snow out there. You better stay right here inside the plane. It will keep the cold wind off of you. Thad is lying there in the cockpit. I don't know if he's dead or not. There's a lot of blood on his clothes." Rick heard a moan from the cockpit. He went to check on Thad.

      After struggling with debris of limbs and bent fuselage structure, Rick finally managed to free Thad from the wreckage. Feeling excruciating pain in his leg, he told Rick to break out the survival kit in the cockpit under the pilot's seat, which contained 10 syringes of morphine, a mirror, matches and a flashlight. Thad injected his injured leg with a shot of morphine. A three day supply of food, enough for three people, remained safe under the passenger seats.

      Thad, wincing with pain, assessed the situation; "The radio has no power. We are about a hundred miles east of Juneau. We don't know if the airport got a clear copy of our Mayday. They may not have any idea about where we are or that we are down. We can't count on Air Rescue finding us up here any time soon ... and maybe never." He turned to Rick. "It's up to you, buddy. You're the only one able to go for help. You need to start out on your own as soon as possible and get us some help. Show them the way back here. You're our only chance."

      Rick immediately packed some food and a sleeping bag in a backpack and strapped it on his back. Thad told him to keep on a westerly course and he should be able to find a house or road somewhere, since they were so close to Juneau. Rick could see the morphine taking effect on Thad, as he fell back into the reclined seat next to Roseanne and closed his eyes.

      As Rick started to leave Roseanne followed him, then threw her arms around him and kissed his lips. "Come back to me, darling." she said, with tears in her eyes.

      "Don't worry, sweetheart. Everything is going to be all right," he said, then proceeded down the mountain. Rick covered a lot of ground that first day and he soon reached the valley below the crash site. Being on level ground, he walked, stumbled and crawled about five miles through the deep snow before darkness set in.

      Rick found a place away from the wind where he could throw down his sleeping bag for the night. He chose a snow drift by a narrow frozen river he had been following and used a small digging tool from the survival kit to dig a deep hole in the drift, then put the sleeping bag inside and curled up for the night.

      He couldn't sleep because of his thoughts of dying there in the wilderness and thoughts of Roseanne. His affair with her had started about six months earlier. They were now deeply in love.

If I can just get help and get back up the mountain, what a stroke of luck it would be if I could find that Thad had died of his injuries. Roseanne and I could be married as we planned and my wife would not only be my partner for life, but we would be joint owners of the company. And Thad would never

have to know about the affair. The exhaustion of his body soon won over the anxiety in his mind and he drifted off to sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

      Rick awoke early the next morning and started out again on his westward trek. After three hours of trudging through knee-deep snow, his optimism began to wane. Depression took its place when he realized that he had only covered a half-mile and needed desperately to rest. As he lay down in the snow, looking up at the blue sky and the snow covered mountains, he thought, what a beautiful day to die.

      He couldn't hold his eyes open and succumbed to his need for sleep. After dozing for about forty-five minutes, he suddenly sat up with a look of bewilderment on his face. Am I going crazy...or do I smell bacon frying? Looking around, off to his right he saw a plume of smoke rising above the ridge. A new wave of energy swept over him as he scrambled up the ridge. At the crest of the ridge, he looked down and saw a small shack with two mules tied up outside.

      Ten minutes later, Rick stood at the door of the old shack. Without knocking, he barged through the door. He saw an old man who looked to be about seventy, with a gray frizzy beard sitting at his table eating breakfast. Startled, the old man dropped a fork with a clump of scrambled eggs on it and jumped up from the table yelling, "What the hell are you doin' in my house? And who are you? What do you want? "

      "Look mister, we were in a plane crash about ten miles from here.. up on the side of the mountain. I have two friends at the crash site and one is hurt bad. I need a little food and water to take back to them and I need those two mules outside to get back up there."

      "You ain't gettin' my mules. That's for dang sure. And I ain't got but barely enough vittles to last out the winter. So just get the hell on out of here and get on about your business. You can follow Roaring Fork River for about a mile and right where it turns back west... there's a village just north of there about two miles. You can make it in about three days... Now get out of my cabin."

      The old man went over to an old kitchen cabinet and opened the drawer.

He took out a .45 Smith and Wesson and aimed it at Rick. His hand shook as he said, "Get on out now, young feller. I mean business!

      Rick lunged at the old man and grabbed his hand that held the gun. Afraid the weapon would go off, Rick turned the barrel away from him, pointing it toward the old man. The old fellow's hand squeezed the trigger as he tried to pull the gun away from Rick.

      The gun discharged. The old man screamed, his face frozen in pain and terror as he placed his wrinkled hand over the gaping wound in his chest. "Oh, Lord, you killed me boy,...I'm goin!"

      Oh my God. What have I done! Rick watched as the man fell to the floor. The old man gasped a few times then his breathing stopped, his sightless eyes staring at the cracks in the wooden floor.

      Rick dragged the old man's body out near a stream about fifty yards from the cabin, expecting that some wild animal would dispose of it in a short time. He hurried back to the cabin, gathered all the food he could carry and untied both of the mules. Climbing atop one of the mules and leading the other one, he made his way back up the trail to the site of the crash.

~~~~~~~~~~~

      Rick tied the mules to a tree at the base of the mountain. Then he started climbing up the slope. As he approached the fallen plane, he could see Roseanne smiling and running to meet him.

      Thad was lying on the frozen ground outside the plane on a makeshift bed made from his sleeping bag and other clothing they had brought on the trip. He had been drifting in and out of consciousness all morning and he thought he must be dreaming when he saw his wife embracing and passionately kissing his best friend and partner.

      Thad knew he had not been dreaming when Rick and Roseanne were now standing there looking down at him.

      "Is help on the way, Rick? I don't think I can last much longer." Thad was wincing in pain, not only from his mangled leg and broken ribs but from the realization that his wife and partner had betrayed him and were now lovers.

      "No, old buddy, helps not on the way, not for you, anyway. I didn't want it to end this way, Thad, but you would have found out anyway. Me and Roseanne love each other and we've been in love for some time now."

      Roseanne felt that she had to explain to her husband her true feelings.

      "I was going to divorce you, Thad, but now that won't be necessary. Being a widow is much better and a lot more profitable than a messy divorce."

      Thad could feel the rage building within his tortured body. "So that's what's been going on behind my back, huh? Do you plan on leaving me here to die or will you send help."

      "I wouldn't expect any help, if I were you, Thad. We got plans for a life together and they don't include you, old buddy. We just need a few things from the plane then we'll be on our way."

      Rick took the flashlight, the only matches in the aircraft and some navigation maps. Rick paused for a moment when he came across Thad's .357 magnum in the console. "Thad I'm going to leave your Magnum, you may need it if the pain gets to much for you. Well, I guess this is goodbye, old chum. Don't worry about Roseanne, I will take good care of her."

      "Thad, I want you to know that I did love you at one time, but that was a long time ago, and don't worry about the company, me and Rick will run it better than you ever could. We have to go now."

      Thad watched his wife and partner walk away without looking back. The rage and adrenalin surging through his body gave him strength to rise to his feet. Luckily he found a severed limb from a pine tree a few feet away that was perfectly shaped and could be used as a crutch.

      With his makeshift crutch he hobbled over to the starboard engine of the aircraft, partially buried in the snow. The cowling had been ripped away from the engine at the point of impact and the wiring and fuel lines were exposed.

      Thad knew that he had to hurry to have any chance to save his life. He frantically began ripping out the wiring from the engine with his bare hands. Using a ten foot piece of wire he wrapped his broken leg. White pain shot through his brain and he fought to keep from blacking out, but it didn't slow his preparation to leave the crash site.

      He removed his upper clothing and stood shivering in the zero degrees weather as he pulled on a quarter inch fuel line that lead to the engine induction system. The line came loose from it's housing and a stream of avgas came spewing from the broken line.

      Thad caught large amounts of the gas and began applying the liquid all over his body. He knew that the heat given off from the fuel would offer some protection from the bitter cold. Then, with his sleeping bag and a few items strapped to his back he started out in his painful pursuit of Rick and Roseanne.

      The fresh tracks left by the pair were easy to follow in the snow covered mountain side, but every step was like torture to his badly broken leg and ribs.

      It took Thad an hour to descend to the valley below. At this point he became momentarily confused because the two tracks he was following became two tracks of some kind of animal, either horses or mules. He became even more discouraged because the thought of tracking two people riding mules or horses while hobbling along on a broken leg seemed like an impossible and futile exercise.

      Soon darkness began to settle over the valley and Thad knew he had to give up the pursuit until morning. He chose a spot between two large boulders to pitch his sleeping bag. He prayed that it wouldn't snow during the night and cover the tracks he had been following.

      His luck held out, at sunrise, the sky was clear and the mule tracks were still visible. Six hours later he had painfully trudged another mile. The thought of his unfaithful wife and his longtime friend and partner leaving him to die at the crash site gave him a strong will to carry on until he found them or died trying.

      Near sundown, Thad found another excellent location to spend his second

night alone in the Alaskan wilderness a small cave that was only a few feet deep in the side of a small rise along side a frozen stream. After entering the cave and zipping up his sleeping bag he was ready to spend his second night alone in the unforgiving cold northern winter. His breakfast consisted of two candy bars that Roseanne and Rick had left him that were in the survival kit.

      At sunrise the next morning Thad was ready once again to resume his pursuit of the treacherous pair. Again the weather had cooperated and the tracks he had been following were still visible.

      Around noon after covering another torturous two miles, Thad, couldn't believe his eyes, about a half mile ahead he could see the old man's cabin and two mules were walking around near the cabin.

      It took Thad another hour to reach the cabin. He was totally exhausted and his body was wracked with pain. He quickly discovered the dead prospector that had been shot and left by the side of the creek.

      After entering the cabin, he found that Rick and Roseanne were gone. He had noticed the tracks of two people leading away from the cabin. All he wanted to do at that moment was to rest and recuperate from his arduous trek of the last two days.

      There was still some food left in the cabin and Thad decided to give up the pursuit of his betrayers until his wounds were healed.

      As Thad slept in the miners cabin, big news was taking place forty miles to the southwest. Roseanne McSwain and Richard Killtrain had somehow survived a plane crash and walked 50 or 60 miles through the Alaskan wilderness to the small Eskimo village of Umiak.

      Television and radio news media descended on the small village and air rescue began an immediate search for the badly injured owner and pilot of the downed aircraft. Richard Killtrain, insisted on joining the air search for his injured partner and close friend.

      The location of the crash site according to Killtrain, was approximately fifty miles northeast of Umiak, but the actual location was thirty miles southeast of the village. The last act of betraying his former friend had now taken place.

      After three weeks of daily searching a hundred mile radius of the area indicated by Killtrain, no sign of the airplane or Thad was found.. After two weeks the search was called off and Thad McSwain was presumed to be dead.

      Three months later Thad McSwain was officially declared "deceased" by the state of Alaska and Roseanne and Rick were married the following Sunday. Roseanne and Rick didn't have time to think much about the man they left on the mountain to die a horrible death. The McSwain oil com-pany was expanding and profits were soaring. Life couldn't be better for the newlyweds.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

      The months following the plane crash passed quickly for Rick and Roseanne. There was great excitement within the company. Another gusher had been capped down in the lower valley. It was the fourth well brought in by the company since Rick and Roseanne became the new owners.

      Today was their first anniversary of their marriage and Roseanne had promised Rick a nice surprise when he came home from the office.

      The first thing Rick noticed, when he came through the door, was the delectable smell of baked pheasant, Rick’s favorite dish. Soft, romantic music was playing on the stereo system and was heard throughout the house. The dining room was dark except for two candles lit and glowing on the dining room table.

      Rick began looking around the house for his lovely Roseanne. He kept expecting her to leap out from her hiding place, in a scanty clad negligee, or something, but she was no where to be found.

      The little darling must be upstairs, I bet she's waiting for me in the bedroom. His anticipation of a session of unrestrained and steamy sex was racing through his mind. He opened the door to their bedroom, the sound of running water was coming from the bathroom. Ah, she's taking a shower, I'll just check and see if she's ready to rumble.

      Rick slowly opened the bathroom door, "A-AAA-IIIE-EAGH." Rick

couldn't control the blood chilling scream coming from deep within his being.. He had come face to face with the severed head of his wife, Roseanne.

      It was hanging by a cord from the ceiling. A look of unspeakable horror was frozen on the face.    Rick had recoiled in a state of shock, he had backed up against the wall, whimpering like a small child, trying to comprehend what was happening. The head was slowly turning to the right and then back left again, the lifeless eyes seemed to be staring at him as if accusing him of the terrible fate she had suffered, blood was still dripping from the severed head, now beginning to coagulate in a large pool on the tile floor.

      Then Rick heard a familiar voice.

      "Aren't you going to kiss your wife, Rick... it's your anniversary, isn't it?"

      Rick couldn't believe his eyes. He was looking at a slender figure of a man with a scraggly beard and shoulder length hair and a crooked left leg. He had stepped out of the closet where he had been in hiding, waiting for Rick. He was holding a .357 magnum in his right hand

      “My    God!    Thad, is that you? I th-thought y-you were d-d-dead!! Oh, Thad, it was Roseanne, who wanted to leave you out there, not me!!! Don't kill me, Thad... we've been friends a long time."

      "I'm not going to kill you Rick, we're going to be partners again, just like before, but without Roseanne. What do you say.....?"

      "Y-yeah, you bet Th-Thad, it will like old times. Ju-just put the gun down, please."

      "I better not do that, Rick, I'm not sure I can trust you. You may try to kill me again."

      "No, no, Thad, like I said, it was Roseanne who wanted to leave you at the crash site, not me."

      "Come over here and sit down at your desk, Rick. I want you to write an apology. I'll have it framed and put on the wall in my office."

      "Sure, sure, Thad. I'll do that.... what do you want me to say?"

      Rick sat down at his desk and picked up a pen, a note pad was placed in front of him. Thad was standing next to him, still holding the magnum pointed at Rick's head.

      "Just say, I'm sorry for what I done, then sign it, Rick."

      Rick nervously wrote the message dictated by Thad and signed it.

      "Now will you please"......Those were the last words ever spoken by Rick, the sound of the explosion was deafening.

      Thad was surprised at the size of the hole in the side of Rick's head caused by the discharge of the magnum. Blood, brain tissue, and skull fragments sprayed the wall, floor and even the ceiling.

      Thad, who was wearing his gloves, then placed the magnum in the right hand of the deceased, then quietly left the premises.

      The following day, the horror of the murder and suicide was headlined in the morning paper. The police were at a loss to explain why Richard Killtrain would sever the head of his wife and leave her headless body in the shower with the water running. They concluded that there must have been a terrible argument between the couple that led to the grisly murder and suicide. Killtrain's note left no doubt as to what occurred. There was no evidence of foul play and the case was closed.

      Two weeks after this tragedy, another sensational "miracle" occurred. Thad McSwain was found "alive" in the small village of Umiak. He explained to the police and news media how he had managed to leave the crash site, over a year earlier, with severe injuries and miraculously found the prospectors cabin in the wilderness. There is where he stayed and lived for over a year, subsisting on mule meat and food left in the cabin. He explained how he found the skeletal remains of the old prospector after wild animals had devoured most of the man's body.

      McSwain said he was anxious to see his wife Roseanne and get back to work running his company. When told of his wife's murder and the suicide

of his partner--- McSwain wept bitterly. It was obvious, he was heartbroken after hearing the shocking news.

      pic 6420108 blonde                                                  Dumb Dora

          Charles Van Norton was president and CEO of Van Norton Enterprises of Scarsdale, New York.    The Van Nortons owned three of the largest supermarkets in Scarsdale. The grocery business was very profitable for the Van Nortons and those profits exceeded over two million dollars per year for the last fifteen years.       But, money could not buy happiness for Charles and Emily Van Norton.Their one and only son, twenty-year-old Robert, a Princeton dropout, wascontinually getting into serious trouble with his drug use.    He had a pen-chant for making the headlines of the daily paper with his drunken escapades. The Van Nortons, once considered the royalty in Scarsdale's society circles, were now being shunned by Scarsdale's elite community leaders.

      The situation in the Van Norton household had reached a boiling point.Charles decided that Robert was a hopeless case.    The time had come to inform him that he    could no longer expect to be supported by his parents and would have to move out on his own and survive as best he could.       "Did you want to see me, Pop?"    Robert asked his father, who was waitingfor him at the bottom of the stairway.       "That's right, Bob.      Come into my study.    I want to talk to you."

      "Well make it quick, Pop.    I got a date in about twenty minutes."       "Are you still seeing that stripper down at the Nitty Gritty Club?"       "Yeah, Pop.    Roxy is the hottest babe in town and she's nuts about me.I guess I'm the most eligible bachelor in town, eh ?"    Robert had an irritatinglaugh that made his father wince.

      "I'll get right to the point, Bobby.    Your mother and I want you out ofhere and out of our lives. You have been nothing but an embarrassment to usand a royal pain in the ass.    I've given you every opportunity to makesomething of yourself and you have let me down every time."

      "Oh yeah, Pop. I appreciated the offer of a position in your company, butI don't want to be a lousy stock clerk in one of your lousy grocery stores."       "Let me tell you something, smart ass. I started out in this business as astock clerk and you sure as hell aren't any better than me."       "So you're kicking me out eh, Pop?    Just when I'm getting ready to close adeal that will make me a few million bucks."       "I'm not interested in your pipe dreams, son.    Here's a thousand bucks.You can blow it anyway you want to, but I want you out of this house by thefirst of the month."

      Robert angrily snatched the money from his father's hand and stormed outof the room, slamming the door behind him.       He was still fuming over the fight he had with his father, while waitingfor Roxy to finish her number at the Nitty Gritty Club.    After Roxy completed her striptease act, she walked over to Robert's table, ignoring the whistles and wolf calls from the male patrons.       As she sat down next to Robert, she sensed that something was terriblywrong. "What is it, sweetie?      You look like you're ready to explode."         "The old man is kicking me out.    I got to be out of there by the first ofthe month.    That gives us two weeks to pull this off."

          She leaned close and whispered, "Oh honey, do you really plan on killingboth your parents? Isn't there some other way?"

          "No, there's no other way.    I'll take over the business and you will bethe wife of a multi-millionaire.    How does that sound?"

      "Oh, darling. That sounds wonderful, but I'm so scared."

      Robert could feel the adrenalin surging through his body, as he envisionedtaking over his father's company and being in control of millions of dollars.       "Don't be scared.    It will be a cinch. Do you remember Dora Plunkett?She's been madly in love with me since high school.    She has agreed to dothe killing"    because I kind of let her believe that I would marry her afterthis was all over.    Heh, heh. I gave her two hundred bucks to buy a pistol atthe pawn shop.    I'm going to meet her in a little while, after she gets offfrom work."       "You mean 'Dumb Dora', that works at the Dairy Queen?    She dropped out of school after spending two years in the eleventh grade," Roxy said, indisbelief.

      "Yeah, I know Dora ain't too bright, but the way I got this planned,nothing can go wrong.    Trust me, baby.      I got to go now."    Robert kissed Roxy and hurriedly left the club to see Dora at the Dairy Queen.       At 10:30 that evening,    Robert was parked down the street from the DairyQueen in his Ford Mustang.      Five minutes later, the lights went out and Dora soon came out, walking briskly toward his car.       She opened the door on the passenger side and slid in beside Robert. Hekissed her very passionately and said, "Did you get the gun, baby?"

      Dora opened her purse and withdrew a .38 snub nose revolver andsaid, "Will this do, Bobby?"

        "Hell yes, this will do just fine."    Robert examined the weapon. "Ah good,it's fully loaded. We may need those extra bullets."       "Oh Bobby, I'm so scared.    I don't know if I can do this," she whimpered.

        "Look, darling,    I know you can do this.    It's our only chance of having alife together. Just think, baby " you are going to be the wife of amillionaire."       "Bobby, I love you so much. You know I will do anything for you."       "Okay,    that's settled. Let's go over this again.    After you get off worktomorrow night, you wait until eleven-fifteen before you enter the house.I'll leave the outside door to the pantry unlocked before I leave for theclub.    I'll be at the Nitty Gritty, that will be my alibi.    My parents go tobed at ten o'clock every night and will be sound asleep by eleven fifteen."

      He could see that Dora was shaking badly as he went over the details ofthe murder plot he had planned.

      "Now calm down, Dora.    You are a big girl now.    Think of what's at stake

here. Once you're in the house, quietly go upstairs, then go to their bedroomand open the door. Walk over to the bed and hold the gun close to the oldman's head and pull the trigger, then turn the gun on mom and shoot her in the head.    Make sure they are both dead then go to mom's jewelry box on the dresser and take all of her jewelry. We have to make this look like a robbery" and be sure to wear those latex gloves I gave you. We don't want to leave any fingerprints for the cops to find. Do you understand, baby?    We don't want any screw-ups.    I know you will pull this off just as we planned."       "I'll do it, Bobby. Just as you say."    Robert leaned over and kissed Doraagain. There was no turning back now.       The next night, Dora parked her ten-year-old Chevy Cavalier two blocksdown the street from the Van Norton two-story residence.       The poor girl was scared out of her wits, but she knew she could not fightthe spell that she was under.    Bobby Van Norton had complete control of hermind and body.           The pantry door was unlocked, just as Bobby said it would be. Dora had the pistol in her pocket and was wearing the latex gloves he had given her.          She slowly climbed the staircase leading to his parents' bedroom.           Standing at the bedroom door, Dora hesitated.    She was trying des-perately to muster the courage to enter the room and carry out the plan of taking two innocent lives.       Finally, she opened the door and stepped inside. She could make out thedarkened figures of a man and woman, sleeping side by side on a king size bed.    They were both sleeping soundly.    Dora took the .38 pistol from her pocket and approached the bed. She was trembling and fighting back tears as she stood over Mr. Van Norton, aiming her pistol at a spot just over his right ear. Dora slowly squeezed the trigger.    The loud sound of the gunshot echoed throughout the house.

          Mrs. Van Norton raised up in bed and screamed at the horror taking placein the sanctity of her bedroom.    Dora was sobbing loudly and said, "I'm sosorry, Mrs. Van Norton," and pulled the trigger again. The bullet struck the

woman in the forehead and she fell backward and died instantly.       In a robotic trance, Dora went to the jewelry box on the dresser andstuffed the diamond necklace, bracelets and rings in her pockets, then randown the stairs with tears streaming down her face.       When Dora entered the darkened pantry, ready to bolt through the door, ahand reached out from behind her and covered her mouth to muffle a scream. She was pulled back into the arms of the person behind her.       "Don't be afraid.    It's me, Bobby," he whispered in her ear. "I left theclub a little early. I wanted to make sure everything went off as planned.Are they both dead and did you get the jewelry?"

      "Yes, they are both dead and I got the jewelry.    Let's get out of here."

      "You did great, baby. Give me the gun and I'll get rid of it." Dora handedhim the gun. The barrel was still warm after being fired twice.

          Bobby said, "Kiss me, darling."          Dora came into his arms and their lips met.    At that instant, Dora knewthat the terrible deed she had done was worth it.    She would soon be Mrs. Dora Van Norton and her life with Bobby would be wonderful.       But that ecstatic thought was vanished when she felt the barrel of thepistol Bobby was holding being pressed against her throat.      For a splitsecond she realized what was happening.    She pleaded, "Oh no, Bobby... don't."

      The gun fired and Dora fell to the floor.    She died instantly. The bulletentered under her chin and exited through the top of her head.       Bobby flicked on the lights in the pantry and looked down at the patheticyoung girl lying on the floor at his feet. Blood was still gushing from thewound in her head.    He noticed the diamond necklace that was partially hanging from her pocket.

      He dropped the gun and went to the phone and dialed 911.    "Send an ambulance and the police to number 64, Brentwood Street.    Please hurry.    I came home and found a burglar in the house. The burglar has been accidentally shot.”

          The police arrived within minutes of the call.    They found a distraughtyoung man sobbing uncontrollably.    He had found the bodies of his parentsafter he called 911.

      Bobby Van Norton explained to the police that he had returned from theNitty Gritty Club at approximately eleven-thirty.    He heard someone runningthrough the house and he knew it must have been an intruder. He caught theperson in the pantry and there was a struggle for the gun.    The gunaccidentally discharged and the intruder fell to the floor.    He was shockedwhen he saw that it was a female he had been struggling with. The morning paper in Scarsdale ran this banner headline in its morning edition:

                                                "VAN NORTONS ARE KILLED BY                                                 BURGLAR; SON KILLS BURGLAR"

          The mayor of Scarsdale, Anthony Bergman, released this statement to thenews media: "We are shocked and saddened by the brutal murder of Charles and Emily Van Norton.        Mr. and Mrs. Van Norton were two of our most honored and respected citizens and business leaders.    They will be sorely missed by all.    On behalf of our fair city, I wish to express my heartfelt sympathy to Robert Van Norton and the Van Norton family.    I would like to publicly thank Robert for his heroic effort in subduing the person that killed his parents."       Robert was having a hard time suppressing the feeling of elation andplaying the role of a heartbroken son who had just lost both of his parents.       At ten o'clock, on the morning after the murders, Robert was giving aninterview to a reporter from WLRZ TV. After the interview, he was met by two detectives from homicide division of the Scarsdale Police Department.

          "Robert, would you mind coming down to the station with us and clear up a few things?" said lead detective, Vincent Marconi.

      "No, I don't mind.    But I have another interview at noon, so I don't havemuch time."

      Robert was reveling in his newly acquired fame as a hero who had avenged the death of his parents.

          "It won't take long Robert, let's go."    Detective Marconi didn't seemimpressed with Robert's celebrity status.       At the police station, Robert was led to an interrogation room and wasseated at a small table opposite the two detectives.       "What's this all about, boys?      I ain't got all day, you know."    Robertwas getting a little testy.

      "I want you to explain something for us," said Marconi, as he placed asmall tape recorder on the table and pressed the 'play' button.       The words coming from that little recorder caused shock waves toreverberate in Robert's brain.    His body began to shake as he heard his ownvoice coming through that small speaker on the table.    "Baby, did you get the gun?"

      Then he heard the voice of Dora, "Will this do, Bobby?"

      His voice replied, "Hell, yes. This will do just fine.    Ah, good!    It'sfully loaded."       Robert sat listening in stunned silence, to the incriminating words comingfrom the tape player. The last words heard on the tape were" "Oh no,... Bobby don't." then the sound of a gunshot.

      When detective Marconi turned off the tape, Robert meekly asked, "Wheredid you get that, sir?"       "Your friend, Dora, had this recorder taped to her chest.    Evidently, shedidn't trust you and she was going to use this tape to force you to carry outyour pledge to marry her.    She wasn't as dumb as you thought.    Her biggest

mistake was getting involved with a loser like you."       Robert's head was spinning and he felt faint.      Within a matter of minuteshe went from millionaire and town hero, to a detestable, vicious murderer,facing death in the electric chair.       As Marconi placed the cuffs on Robert's wrists, he said, "You know you'regoing to fry, don't you, son?"

      "Yeah, I know that, and the sooner the better,"    Robert said with a sigh.

                                           

pic dogfight                                                          Duel In The Sky

          Major Peter Dietrich eyed the fuel gauge of his P-51 anxiously. He knew his squadron was approaching the maximum range of their aircraft and would soon have to return to England.

          The U.S. 152nd Fighter Group,    comprised of forty one P-51 Mustangs, was flying escort for the 4th Bombardment Wing.    The 4th B.W. included seven different bomb groups, totaling 146 B-17 flying fortresses.    Their target was the Messerschmitt aircraft plant located in the Bavarian city of Regensberg.

          This plant turned out two hundred deadly ME-109 and ME-110s, each month, nearly thirty percent of the German single-engine fighter production.           Far ahead of their formation, Dietrich could see swarms of tiny specks inthe sky.    He knew that these were German fighter planes; ME-109s, ME-110s and Foch Wolfe-190s.    They were out of the range of the U.S. P-51s and were patiently waiting to pounce on the American bombers, as soon as their P-51 fighter escort was forced to turn back.           Ten miles before reaching the German border city of Aachen, Col. RobertMcDowell, commander of the fighter escort, radioed the bomb groupleader, "Redbird Leader to Rainbow One.    Breaking off. Good luck, men."   

          The American bombers were on their own.    They would now be escorted by hundreds of German fighters, attacking in relays, all the way to Regensberg and again on their return home.           At this moment, Major Dietrich noticed four ME-109s, far below, streaking upward and hellbent on attacking the last bombers in the formation.    "Redbird One to Redbird Leader.    Jerries at 2 o'clock !    Low, going down."   

          "Roger, Pete, watch your fuel gauge, don't stay too long."           As the rest of the fighter group turned back to their base in England,Major Dietrich and his two wingmen, dove down from 23,000 feet to intercept the German attack.    The range between the fighters closed rapidly.  At two hundred yards, the P-51s, using the three 50 caliber machine guns, mounted on each wing, opened up on the German MEs.   

          The surprised Germans never had a chance.    The lead ME-109 exploded in a massive ball of flame.    Another began to fall away, showing a

trail of black smoke.    The other two MEs broke off and scattered in different directions.           Peter Dietrich had recorded his eleventh kill.    His major concern now, was whether he would be able to return, with his two wingmen, Lt. Carl Buel and Lt. Ed Durking,    back to their base in England on their sparse amount of rapidly depleting fuel.   

          The sky was now clear of all other aircraft.    The rest of their fighterwing was    far ahead on their easterly course to England and the bombers were now deep into Germany, fighting off hordes of German fighters.           Major Dietrich wasn't    too concerned about meeting any other Germanfighters on his return trip.    He knew that three hundred forty six heavybombers, in the 1st Bombardment Wing, should be crossing into France about that time. They were on their way to bomb the ball bearing factories atSchwienfurt, Germany. Any German fighters in the area would, no doubt, bethere to meet that challenge .           On his return trip home, Peter Dietrich had time to reflect on the unusualevents in his own life.    He had been born in Germany, but in 1926, when he was two years old, his American mother had taken him to the United States.  His mother had married Herr Dietrich, a German business man.    After the birth of three children, one girl and two boys,    she had divorced    her German husband and returned to the United States.    She was successful in gaining permission to bring only Peter to America with her.    Pete's mother had written to him earlier that year, that his father, brother, and sister had been killed in the British bombing raid on Hamburg in November of 1942.    Peter felt sorry for his mother, but he could feel no remorse for the rest of his family that he never knew.

          He did feel compassion, however, for his fellow pilots who were falling in increasing numbers before German guns over France and Germany.    There were many empty bunks in his barracks, once owned by good friends, who had failed to return.       The three P-51s were cruising at three thousand feet.    They were onlyfifteen miles from the English Channel and only thirty minutes from landing at their base near Hiwycome.    Then, disaster struck.    "Look out Pete!!     

Bogey two-o'clock high," came the frantic scream through the headphones of Dietrich.   

      The warning had come from Carl Buel, flying off the starboard wing.    The warning came too late.    A single FW-190 was diving directly out of the sun toward the three American fighters.    There was too little time for evasive action.   

      At point blank range, the German opened up with his 20 MM cannon.    One 20 MM shell penetrated the fuel tank of Ed Dierking's P-51 and the plane exploded violently. The force of the explosion lifted Dietrich's plane one hundred feet straight up in the air and Pete momentarily lost conscious.   

          Seconds later, Dietrich's mind cleared and by instinct, he immediately banked his plane to the right, searching the sky for the FW.           After the initial attack, the German fighter pulled out of his dive andstarted climbing again in a wide, 180 degree arc.    As Dietrich leveled off, hecould see the action taking place below.    The Foch Wulf had completed the 180 and was now directly beneath Carl Buel.    Dietrich called frantically for Buel to dive, but it was too late.    One short burst was all that was necessary.

          The stricken P-51 was riddled and immediately began to trail black smoke, as it nosed over and started falling out of control.      Dietrich marveled at the flying skill of this German pilot!    He had never seen such a performance in aerobatics.

        Dietrich was quickly shocked back to reality.    The FW suddenly flippedover, while making a 90 degree turn and then leveled out again.    Dietrich now realized that the German pilot was flying on a collision course, directlytoward him.    He pressed the firing button and he could feel the vibration, asthe 50 caliber machine guns on each wing, began firing at the oncoming FW.

          Dietrich could see the black puffs of smoke coming from the German plane that was bearing down on him at fifty knots.    He knew that his enemy was answering back with his deadly 20 MM cannons.    Suddenly, Dietrich's plane was rocked by the impact of a 20 MM shell, that hit the engine of the Mustang.    At that instant, Dietrich was aware of the FW flashing by.    The P-51 began to vibrate violently and the cockpit began to fill with smoke.    Pete knew he had to get out, before the plane exploded.    He slid the canopy

back and a few seconds later, he was falling free from the aircraft.    A sense of relief swept over him as his chute blossomed out above him.           As Pete drifted earthward, he anxiously searched for the FW and the German pilot, who had successfully gunned down the three P-51s.    Far to the left he could see the FW swinging around.    Though the plane was trailing smoke, the pilot was very much in control of the aircraft.   

          Hanging helplessly in his parachute while drifting to the ground, Pete suddenly realized that the German was maneuvering his plane to make a firing pass at him.   

          Pete Dietrich watched in horror, as the smoking German fighter plane, came bearing down on him.    At a distance of about two hundred yards, the German fired a short burst at the American pilot, descending in his parachute.           Pete felt a 30 caliber round tear through his flight jacket and severalothers pass by his ear, but miracuously, he was not seriously hit.    Before hehad time to think about being alive and unhurt,    the FW zoomed by withinthirty feet of Dietrich,    and for a split second, he saw the German pilotstaring back at him, curiously.           Dietrich finally hit the ground, landing in a French cornfield.    Hequickly unharnessed his chute and looked around.    To his complete surprise, he saw the F-190 coming in very low, at the edge of the same cornfield.    The pilot appeared to be attempting a forced landing with his landing gear up.

          Dietrich watched as the plane hit the ground, sending up a cloud of dust and corn stalks, high into the air.           Pete watched in awe, as the German FW bounced across the field.    Stillsmoking badly, it nosed over slightly, then settled back.    The plane hadstopped only fifty feet from where Pete was standing.    The canopy on the FW was thrown back and the pilot struggled to free himself from the burning plane.    Pete withdrew his 45 automatic from his holster and approached the burning plane.

          As the German stepped out, onto the wing of his plane, he saw Pete coming toward him.    He reached for    the Luger at his side, but this time he was not fast enough.    Pete squeezed off two rounds.    The German pilot pitched forward onto the wing.    He slowly rolled over and then over once more,    before falling to the ground.           Pete rushed over to where the German was lying face down on the ground. He had his gun raised, ready to put another slug into the bastard who had killed his two wingmen.    Pete angrily kicked the German pilot's side, and nudged him over on his back.    At that moment his knees buckled.    He felt a wave of nausea sweep over his body, as he looked into the lifeless eyes of Lieutenant Herman Joseph Dietrich ......... his twin brother.

                                                               

pic                                                          Left Wing -    Right Wing

Lieutenant Ryan Jennings, Bravo Company, 76th Combat Regiment, 101stAirborne, could not wait for the last week of his third deployment to Iraq tofinally end. On Friday,    August 6th, 2011, he would be winging his way back to Medford, Long Island, New York.

            Ryan was deliriously happy because of his upcoming wedding to his high school and college sweetheart, Jennifer Bledsoe. Ryan had saved every letter he had received from Jennifer.    He read and re-read them dozens of time.    He considered himself the luckiest guy in the world.

            Jennifer's Dad ran a large insurance firm in Medford and he, had promised Ryan a good position in the firm that paid six figures, but Ryan was undecided about the offer.    He didn't feel like he was cut out to sell insurance.

          His homecoming finally arrived, and all his family, his mom and dad andlittle brother Billy, were waiting for him when his MAC flight landed atMcGuire AFB in New Jersey.    He was glad to see his folks but, the one he was most anxious to see was the beautiful girl who flew into his arms and kissed him with passion and a burning desire,    his beloved Jennifer.

            The wedding was set for    October 16th in St. Marks Chapel.    The Bledsoe’s had sent invitations to all of the elite, upper class residents of Medford that always attended the social gatherings of the rich and famous.

            With all the hustle and bustle, just three weeks away,    Ryan andJennifer, had not much time to get re-acquainted, and relax and discuss theirfuture together.    Ryan was determined to remedy that problem that very night. He suggested a movie, then a little dancing, then a drive to some romantic spot on the island where they could just talk and enjoy each other's company.             Jennifer said, "That's a splendid idea Ryan, we do need a little downtime.    I've been on cloud nine since your return."

            After the movie and an hour at the 'Club Divine,    Ryan drove out toMontauk Point at the northern end of Long Island.    He parked on a bluffoverlooking Long Island Sound where the inland waterway joined the Atlantic Ocean.    It was 1.30 am.

            "Oh, Ryan, what a lovely view.    There goes the ferry over to Nantucket;    I wonder if any of those people are as happy as we are?"

            "I doubt it, darling,    I don't know about you, but, I don't think anyone

could be as happy as I am right now....    A full moon tonight, it looks likethe man up there is smiling down at us, with his blessings.    That's a goodsign."

            "Ryan, sweetie,    I wonder if you would do something for me tomorrow?"

            "Why sure my love, your wish is my command,    what is it, darling?

            "I would like for you to come with me to Wall Street tomorrow to show our support for the 'occupiers,' and Ryan, I want you to wear your uniform."

            Ryan's jaw became rigid.    He had an incredulous look on his face.

            "Jennifer, I can't believe you said that.    You want me to join thosemaggot, infested protestors, and wear my uniform?    HELL NO!    I won't do that.    Those people are the scum of the Earth.    Don't you understand,    those low life, nut jobs are what's wrong with this country.    I don't want anything to do with those freaks and I'm surprised that you would ask me to do something like that."

            "Ryan, I'm shocked!      Are you, one of those right wing, George Bush, ass-kissin, idiots, who wants to turn the clock back to the good old days ofsegregation, keeping the wife home, barefoot and pregnant with the kids?"

            "Now calm down, Jenn, let's not get too emotional.    We may have different ways of looking at things, but I love you.    We're going to be married in a couple of weeks."

            "I'm not so sure about that,....... . I guess you're against a woman's right to choose too, huh?"

            "A right to kill her unborn child!!    Hell yes, I'm against that, and I'magainst spending this country into oblivion with one hair brained scheme after another, adding trillions to the national debt.    I can't wait until November, 2012 to get rid of this radical crackpot, Obama!"

            "I just realized something, Ryan....... I hate your guts!      I am on theMedford committee to re-elect Barrack Obama.    One more thing, you

redneck piece of crap!....I want you out of my life and out of my sight."

            Jennifer opened the car door and stepped out onto the ground. "How many babies did you kill over there in Iraq, you miserable creep?"

            "So now I'm a baby killer, am I?"

            "I don't know what you are, but I know one thing for sure....you won'tbe my husband.    I must have been nuts to fall in love with you."

            "Get back in the car, Jenn, I'll take you home or I'll drop you off onWall Street and you can join your lunatic friends, just get back in the car."

            "No, leave me alone.    Go, already,    I have my cell phone, I'll callsomebody."

            Ryan opened the car door and got out.    Before Jennifer could run from him he had his arms around her waist.    She fought like a woman possessed. Her right hand grabbed his hair and with her left hand she dug her fingernails deep in the side of his face.

            He stepped back for a second, then suddenly slapped her hard across themouth and nose, from which blood started gushing.    Grabbing the strugglinggirl, he tried to drag her back into the car.    Jennifer's face was buried in his chest, her blood was creating a large stain on his sport shirt.

            Ryan cried out in pain as Jennifer sank her teeth into the flesh of hischest.    He released his grip on his ex fiance and she turned and ran.    Hegrabbed her blouse, but the fabric tore away and he was left holding a stripof torn cloth.      He watched as she ran off into the darkness.

            "Well to hell with you,    I'm leaving."             Ryan threw his car into reverse and then into forward drive and withspinning wheels, leaving gravel and rocks flying in his wake, he gunned his2006 Mustang and left the scene without looking back.

            Ryan pulled into a VFW club that he knew would be open at three

o'clock in the morning.    After four or five scotch and sodas he headed back to his apartment, feeling terrible over what had happened at Montauk Point.

            Ryan had a puzzled look on his face when he saw two police cars waiting for him in front of his apartment building.

            "Are you Ryan Jennings?"    A balding detective with a thick moustacheasked while he was shining a flashlight in Ryan's face.

            "That's right, I'm Jennings, what's this all about?"

            "I'm Lt. Marquard and this is detective Mallard.    We'd like to ask you afew questions, if you don't mind."

            "Go ahead, what do you want to know?    Make it fast, I've had a roughnight and I want to hit the sack."

            "How did you get those scratches on your face, and this looks like bloodon your shirt.    Where did that come from?"

            "Me and my girl had a little fight tonight.    She became violent and Itried to slap some sense into her and maybe she bled on me a little bit."

            "I think maybe you better come down to the station with us, son,....Yourgirlfriend is dead."

            Ryan was in a state of shock, as he sat in the back of the police car onhis way to the Medford police station.    He knew Jennifer was alive and wellwhen he left her after their fight.

            After they sat down in the interrogation room, Ryan learned more detailsof Jennifer's death.

            "We found Miss Bledsoe at the base of a sixty foot bluff. Her neck was

broken, and she had bruises about her face and part of her clothing had beentorn away."

            "We were engaged to be married.    I love Jennifer,    we found out tonightthat we weren't suited for each other.    She loves Obama and I can't stand theson of a bit... uh, son of a gun."

            "Well I won't lie to you, Ryan, this looks really bad for you.    You admityou fought with this girl and you slapped her around and tore her clothingdidn't you."

            "Yes, I told you that, but I didn't kill her.    Don't you believe me?"

            "No, we don't believe you.    You admit that you fought with this girl,slapped her around and tore her clothing.    THEN YOU THREW HER OFFTHAT CLIFF, DIDN'T YOU?"

            "No, no...HELL NO!    I loved Jennifer.    I wouldn't hurt her.    I want alawyer."

            Ryan Jennings was read his Miranda rights and was later charged with the murder of Jennifer Bledsoe.

                                                                      >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

            Harold Meredith, the Jennings family lawyer, was retained to defend Ryan at his murder trial.    Ryan was charged with first degree murder

            The evidence was overwhelming.    The jury only took thirty six minutes to find Ryan guilty of murder.    He was sentenced to life without parole in Attica state prison.

            Before Ryan was taken from the courthouse and transported to prison he asked to have a private meeting with Jennifer's Father, George Allen Bledsoe.    He wanted desperately to convince him that he had nothing to do with Jennifer's death.

            The court allowed the meeting to be held after George Bledsoe agreed

tothe private meeting, where only he and Ryan were present in the room.

            Ryan was in tears as he explained what happened on that dreadful morning that Jennifer died, and concluded his remarks with this appeal:    "Mr. Bledsoe, I know I will spend the rest of my life in prison and maybe I deserve the fate that I have received, but I want you to know, sir, I did not kill Jennifer."

            George Bledsoe looked a bit uneasy after listening to Ryan's pitifulexplanation,    concerning Jennifer's death.    He cleared his throat and thensaid:

            "Ryan, I know you didn't kill Jennifer, but you are the reason she isdead and you must pay a price for that.    Jennifer called me on her cell phoneafter you left her out there on Montauk Point.    She asked me to come and get her.    I hopped in my car and went as fast as I could out to the Point but Ididn't see her.    After searching for five or ten minutes I found her body atthe base of the cliff,    she was still clutching her cell phone.    She probablyfell off the cliff while stumbling around in the dark.    I removed the cellphone from her hand, then called 911, using my own cell phone."

          "So, like you said Ryan, maybe you deserve the fate you have received. I hope you fair well up there in Attica.    I must go now....good day."

pic                          Sherlock Holmes In The Garden Of Evil

          Looking back on those years I was privileged to assist Sherlock Holmes in his investigations, I have frequently been asked; which of the many cases of the master sleuth intrigued me the most?'

            This is indeed a difficult question. As you know, Holmes disdained the commonplace and mundane.    He only accepted a case that offered a test to his extraordinaire reasoning power and his analytical mind.

            One comes to mind that did indeed test the wit and cunning prowess of the great logician of Baker Street. It was a most unusual case, a case of intrigue to be sure.

            I had just returned from a safari in East Africa... in February of '92, as I recall. An expedition in which I was fortunate to claim several magnificent trophies.

            After a month-long absence, I was anxious to pay a call on my old friend Sherlock at his 221-B Baker Street quarters.

            After entering Holmes quarters I was introduced to a very distinguished gentleman who had been discussing, with Holmes, a subject of some urgency and of a delicate nature.                                                                     

            "Doctor Watson, I would like you to meet the world renowned mysterywriter, Sir George Mumphry."

          "I'm an ardent admirer of yours, Sir George. I've read much of your work," I said, after shaking hands with the gentleman.

          "Thank you, Doctor, and I am well aware of the great service you haverendered Mr. Holmes during these past years."

          "Sir George, I received your letter yesterday recounting the disturbingevents recently befalling you. With your permission, I would like to relatethe details you have given me thus far to Dr. Watson. I would like for him To assist me on this case.

          "By all means, Mr. Holmes. Please feel free to conduct this investigationas you please, you have my complete cooperation, I assure you."

          With that, Holmes recounted the facts of the case as told to him by SirGeorge Mumphry.

          "The wife of Sir George has apparently been abducted by unknownassailants. Lady Catherine disappeared from the Mumphry estate April second, four weeks ago. The following day, this ransom note was found in the letter box of Sir George."      Holmes handed the note to me; it read:

          'WE HAVE YOUR WIFE. DON'T GO TO THE POLICE, SHE WILL SURELY DIE.    LEAVE FIFTY-THOUSAND POUNDS OF UNMARKED CURRENCY OUTSIDE YOUR FRONT DOOR,    AT MIDNIGHT TONIGHT. ANY FUNNY BUSINESS AND WE SLIT HER THROAT. YOU ARE BEING WATCHED.'

          Holmes continued, "Sir George paid the ransom as instructed but LadyCatherine has not been returned. He fears for her life. There is another aspect to this case, Watson. The gardener of the estate, Albert Drue, has not been seen since the disappearance of Lady Catherine."

          "Sir George, would you kindly give me any information about Lady Catherine you feel is pertinent to this case?"

          "Of course, Mr. Holmes. My wife is an American lady from Boston. Herfather was a diplomat at the embassy here in London. That is how we met. We were wed almost three years ago. Happily married, I might add."

          Sir George Mumphry paused to re-light his pipe, then continued, "My wife is twenty-one years of age and I have reached my fortieth year. Yes, I know of the age disparity and the gossip bantered around the social circles in London but we are not concerned with such drivel, I can assure you."

          Holmes interjected, "Very interesting, but if you please, Sir George, giveme a description of your wife and a photograph would be most helpful."

          "Of course, Mr. Holmes. She is five-foot six-inches tall and aboutone-hundred-ten pounds. She has long red hair about shoulder length and she wears spectacles to correct a condition of near-sightedness. Here is a recent photograph that I believe captures her radiant beauty. Don't you agree, Mr. Holmes?"

          "Yes, I do agree, quite a striking young lady. Quite striking, indeed.Now, sir, pray tell me about Mr. Drue, your gardener."

          "Yes Drue, a loathsome chap. I wanted to discharge the fellow sometimeago, but Catherine wouldn't hear of it. For some odd reason she was quite taken with the man. He is about thirty-five or thirty-six years of age, about my height and built.    Drue has a full neatly-trimmed beard, black hair and brown eyes. I hired the man about six months ago to look after my garden and take care of the grounds. Actually, I don't know where the man came from or anything else about him except that Catherine seemed foolishly attracted to him."

          "And you have not seen Drue since the night your wife was abducted?"

          "That is correct. I must say, I fear the worst, Mr. Holmes."    Tears welledin the eyes of Mumphry. "My poor wife.    She did so want to return to Boston to visit family and friends, but I would not allow it. Now I fear that she will never see Boston again."

          "Let's not be too hasty in our conclusions, Sir George. Lady Catherine may be alive and well. We must wait and see where this investigation leads."

            Holmes checked his timepiece. " The hour is late. May I suggest that wecontinue in the morning, Sir George? Watson and I will meet you at your home at eight a.m. ."

          "Very good, gentlemen. I will see you then. Good day."

          Inspector Holmes examined the ransom note and studied the picture of Lady Catherine. On the back of the photo was written: "To my darling

husband, Kate."                 "This ransom note was most assuredly written by a feminine hand butdefinitely not the hand of Lady Catherine." Holmes mused. "This could be a most interesting case."

          We arrived the next morning at the Mumphry Manor. We were admitted by Sir George himself. "Did you sleep well?" Holmes asked.

          "No, Mr. Holmes, I haven't slept well since my wife was abducted. I'mafraid I will never see her again."

          "You must not fret, Sir George, I feel that I will have answers within theweek." Holmes placed his hand on the shoulder of the shaken man. We thenproceeded to look over the house, escorted by George Mumphry. Holmes busied himself taking notes and asking questions, completely engrossed in his work.

          Later, we were shown the magnificent garden of Sir George. We cameto a long row of yellow flowers and Holmes took an immediate interest in this particular group.

          "A lovely assortment of marigolds, Sir George, but something is odd here. The marigolds in this section are two inches shorter than the rest. Why do you suppose that is, Sir George?"

          "I couldn't say, unless they were planted at a later date, let's move on."

          After returning to Holmes' Baker Street address, I spoke to him as werelaxed in his study. "I'm afraid not much was learned from our visit to theMumphry Manor today."

          "On the contrary, my dear Watson, a great deal has been learnt. Forinstance, our friend Sir George is keeping company with another woman, a woman with yellow hair."

          "My word, how do you know of this?"

          Holmes produced a single strand of blond hair and began studying the

follicle with his magnifying glass. "I lifted this from the shoulder of SirGeorge this morning when he believed I was trying to console him. Anincriminating piece of evidence, no doubt. But as yet, I have not gathered allthe missing pieces to this puzzle.”           “I know you have many patients in need of your service, Watson, so I will let you return to your practice. I expect to be quite busy for the next few days and I expect to have this matter resolved before the week's end."

          During the next few days an outbreak of measles gave me cause for greatconcern. For a time, my work did not allow thought of Holmes' investi- gation of the case. Then on Friday, I received a summons from Holmes to meet him at his Baker Street quarters. I wondered what progress the great detective had made since our last meeting.

          "Well Doctor, I trust that the absence from your practice has nottarnished your skill," said Holmes upon our meeting.

          "Not in the least, Holmes. But how is your investigation proceeding, praytell?"

          "Splendidly. The day following our visit to the Mumphry Manor I checked with several shipping lines and discovered that a Mr. and Mrs. A. Drue booked passage on the 'British Star'. It sailed for Boston on April 4th, two days after the abduction of Lady Catherine. The ticket agent recalled that Mrs. Drue had long, red hair and wore spectacles. Mr. Drue, likewise was the same age and description as Sir George gave of him... black hair and beard, about thirty five years old. He further identified the photograph of Lady Catherine as the identical red-haired lady who booked passage, Mrs. Drue."

          "Well, there you have it, Holmes. This fellow Drue and Lady Catherineobviously faked her abduction, robbed Sir George of fifty-thousand pounds and off to Boston they went. Dastardly deed, just dastardly. I say, Holmes, Isuspected as much."

          "Well now, Watson, you may be correct in your conjecture. But I mustcaution you... sometimes things are not always as they appear."

          Sherlock Holmes lit his pipe and inhaled deeply. His demeanor was that of a man in deep thought and a troubled mind. "Watson, I would like for you to accompany me to the Mumphry estate tonight. I hope to have this matter cleared up by morning, and Watson, if you please...bring your pistol."

          Not knowing what to expect, I went with Holmes after sunset, to the home of Sir George Mumphry. We secretly made our way to the garden where we found a place of hiding among the wisteria bushes. Ominous-looking clouds were moving in from the east. Flashes of lightning and rumbling thunder disrupted the silence of the evening. Hours passed and all became still. I began to think that we might be on a lark, but I should have known that it was not wise to doubt Holmes reasoning or his methods.

          I whispered to Holmes, "The hour is getting late. It's almost midnight."

          "Patience, have patience, old friend."

          Suddenly, we noticed a movement near the rear of the manor. Two darkfigures were moving in our direction. As they drew closer, we could see theywere carrying spades. They stopped near the row of marigolds and began digging rapidly. Within minutes they had uncovered what they were looking for.

          "Have your pistol ready, Watson," Holmes whispered, then stepped out from our hiding place. We then confronted the two mysterious intruders.

          "The game is up, Sir George. Do not you, or your lady friend, move amuscle. Doctor Watson has his pistol aimed directly at your murderous heart."

          Sir George gasped, "You!... Sherlock Homes!"

          Holmes then moved closer to see what had been uncovered by Mumphry and the woman with the yellow hair.

          "Well now, Sir George. I see that you have found your beloved Catherine...and Albert Drue as well. If you and the lady will be good enough to accompany us to Scotland Yard, I'm sure they will be pleased to have such distinguished guests to honor their establishment."

          Sir George Mumphry and his accomplice, Annabelle Simmons, were charged with the murder of Catherine Mumphry and Albert Drue and were securely locked away.

          We departed from the Yard in the early morning hours, feeling exhausted from the long ordeal.

          A dense fog had descended upon the city as we guided our carriage through the deserted streets of London. I was most anxious to learn of the facts that led Holmes to the apprehension of our quarry.

          "Well, Holmes, you have done it again," said I. "Brilliant work, simplybrilliant. But how was the case solved, pray tell?    I believed that Mrs Mumphry and Drue were in Boston having a jolly time, whence all the while the poor souls were lying, murdered, beneath the marigolds."

          Sherlock leaned back in his seat and lit his pipe before answering.Simple deduction, my dear Watson, very simple. Remember when we visited the garden of Sir George? It was quite obvious that the soil beneath the flowers had been disturbed. The marigolds, being two inches shorter than the other flowers, indicated something was buried there. When asked about this oddity, I became suspicious of Sir George's nervous response."

          He correctly assumed that my investigation would discover that a man and woman answering the description of Lady Catherine and Albert Drue had booked passage for Boston on the British Star. He assumed that my investigation would end at that point after I surmised Lady Catherine and Albert Drue had staged the abduction, received the ransom and sailed for America. That was not my assumption, however.

                I was quite sure that the two who purchased the tickets toBoston were actually, George Mumphry and his mistress, Annabelle Simmons, in disguise. Miss Simmons, wearing a red wig and spectacles, bore a striking resemblance to Lady Catherine, and George Mumphry wearing a fake black beard, was mistaken for Albert Drue."

          "No doubt you garnered some solid evidence other than speculation,Holmes."

          "How right you are, Watson. I could not call his hand until his guilt hadbeen established without a doubt, so I decided to play Mumphry's little game.

          On Thursday morning, wearing the disguise of an elderly gentleman with a slight limp, I followed Mumphry from his home to Chelsey Station. I watched as he boarded a train for Wickerbee. Undetected, I boarded the same train.

          In Wickerbee, I followed him to the home of Annabelle Simmons. After several hours, they left the residence. I quickly gained entrance to the home using a pass key. I soon discovered what I was looking for. Hidden in a hatbox in Annabelle's wardrobe, I found the red wig and fake beard. I also found a Sterling-Wright revolver, which I am sure will prove to be the murder weapon."

          "Remarkable!    But how was the murder committed?"

          "Oh yes, the murder. Sir George spoke the truth when he mentioned thatCatherine was attracted to Drue. Being a man of intense jealousy, Sir George could not abide his wife having an affair with another man, even though he was guilty of the same indiscretion with Annabelle Simmons.           Mumphry waited for his opportunity. On the night of the murder, he hid in the shadows, watching his wife slip off to be with Drue in the servants' quarters. Moments later, he burst through the door and fired a lethal charge, killing his wife and her lover, then burying them in the most convenient place, beneath the marigolds."

          "Brilliant, Holmes. Simply brilliant!"

          "Ah, but the evidence was not conclusive at that point, Watson. It wasnecessary to induce Sir George to place his own head in the noose, you might say. After returning from Wickerbee with the evidence I found at the home of Miss Simmons, I again paid a visit to Mumphry manor. This time, I secretly left a notice in the letter box. It stated that I, as well as Scotland Yard, would arrive at his estate the following day for the purpose of searching his garden and that we were particularly interested in the marigolds."

          Sir George knew after reading my note that he would have to move fast to remove the evidence buried in the garden. To accomplish this task, he would need the service of his accomplice, Annabelle Simmons. Naturally, removing the remains of Lady Catherine and Albert Drue was risky. It could only be done under the cover of darkness...

          And that, my dear Watson, is why we were hiding in the wisteria bush,catching a chill, no doubt."

    Pic. old spike                                            Old Spike

      When I was a young lad, about eight years old, we moved to Argenta, Arkansas.    We were very poor, but my daddy managed to pay $200 down on an old house on 31st Street. The house was badly in need of repair.    I didn't mind too much though, because out in the backyard, mounted on a telephone pole by the alley, was a real basketball goal.

        I was so excited to have my own basketball court!    I just had to have abasketball. After a few weeks, Mama finally became tired of listening to mycontinuous begging. It was the happiest day of my life when she relented and bought me a brand new Voit basketball.       School was out and I had two months of free time to do what I wanted. I expected to be in the backyard, shooting hoops every day until I started back to school in September.

        Directly behind us, and across the alley from our backyard, was a house that faced 32nd Street. The house had a big backyard, with a white picket fence completely surrounding it. It didn't take long for me to spot a big plum tree on the other side of that fence, right across the alley from my basketballcourt. There was a sign on the fence that said: 'PRIVATE PROPERTY, NOTRESPASSING'. Another sign warned: 'BEWARE OF DOG'.

        It just so happened that plums were my favorite fruit and that tree was loaded with fat juicy plums. I began thinking, How can I get some of those plums?

        My new friend, Jimmy Tucker, who lived next door, was reading my thoughts.         "Don't even think about getting a plum from that tree. The old man who lives in that house will shoot you with his BB gun if he catches you in his yard... and that ain't all. He's got a little bulldog named 'Spike' that will bite your leg off if he catches you in there."

        "What's the old man's name?" I asked.

        "His name's Caldwell, but we call him 'old man BB gun'. He's got a bad leg. He hobbles around with a crutch under his arm, but he can still shoot that gun."

        "Well I ain't scared of some old man with a bum leg. How'd he get crippled?"

        "Well, Pa says he was shot up during the war. Other folks say he was shot by a revenuer one time when he was making whiskey up in the hills. Nobody really knows for sure. He don't talk to nobody and nobody talks to him. He's just a mean, grouchy old man."

        The next morning I was in the backyard by myself, shooting hoops. I kept eyeing the plum tree across the alley. My mouth was watering for one of those juicy plums. Finally, I could stand it no longer. I left my basketball on the ground and ventured over to the picket fence. No one was around and I didn't see a dog anywhere. Hopping over that fence was easy as pie. In no time, I was in Mr. Caldwell's backyard, sneaking over to his plum tree, and feeling a bit cocky.

        I plucked a nice big purple plum from a low hanging limb and took a big bite.    Boy, was that good!    It was the best thing I had ever tasted. After finishing off the first plum, I was ready for another one. I was reaching for another plum when I heard a 'zing', then felt a sharp, stinging pain in my right shoulder. At first I thought I had been stung by a giant wasp or a bee, then I realized that I had been the target of old man Caldwell's BB gun.

      I was about to turn and jump the picket fence, when I heard someone say, "Get him, Spike!"

      I glanced back in time to see a small bulldog coming at me as fast as hislittle legs would carry him. He was growling and showing me a bunch of hissharp little teeth. I was terrified, but that didn't stop me from making abeeline for that picket fence. Two feet from the fence, I became airborne andsailed headfirst over the fence. Spike had managed to nip the heel of my leftbare foot, before I could make it over the fence.

        I lay sprawled in the alley for a few seconds, looking back at the fence. Spike was going crazy, frantically clawing at the ground, trying to find a way to get through the fence and take another bite. I limped back home with

my shoulder still stinging from the BB wound.

      I had to tell Mama what happened, even though I expected to get a whippin' for stealing those plums. "Mama, Mr. Caldwell shot me with his BB gun and his little dog bit me on the heel."

        "Oh, my Lord," she cried in a loud voice. She raised my tee shirt and examined the spot where the BB had hit me. Only a small red spot was visible.

        "That doesn't look too bad," she said. "Where did the dog bite you?" I showed her where the dog had nipped the back of my heel.

      "It looks like he barely broke the skin. You are lucky, young man... but you may not be so lucky when your daddy gets home. I'm going to have to tell him what you did and what Mr. Caldwell did to you."

      My luck held out. My old man's favorite verse in the Bible was, 'spare therod... spoil the child.' He usually didn't need a good reason to take me tothe woodshed. This time, he was more angry at Mr. Caldwell for having theaudacity to shoot a little kid with a BB gun, even though the kid was on hisproperty, stealing plums.

      Daddy said, "I think I'll go over and have a little talk with Caldwell aftersupper."

      Sure enough, Daddy was hell-bent on having it out with Mr. Caldwell. I had to go with him after we had supper. As we approached the house, we saw Mr. Caldwell sitting in his porch swing, reading the paper.

        Daddy unlatched the fence gate and started to push the gate open.       "Caldwell, I want to talk to you," he said, in a menacing voice.

        "I wouldn't come through that gate, mister, unless you want to get dog bit."

        Spike, who had been asleep on the porch, was now on his feet snarling and baring those sharp little teeth. "Simmer down, Spike." Caldwell patted his dog on the head.

    Daddy stepped back and closed the gate. "If that dog ever bites me, you'regonna have a dead dog on your hands, Caldwell."

    "Well, who are you and what the hell do you want?"

    "My name is Larkin. I bought the house behind you last week and I want to know why you shot my boy with a BB gun. Just who do you think you are, anyway?"

      "You need to teach that boy how to read, mister. I have three or four signs on my fence, warning people to stay off my property. Your boy was trespassing and stealing my plums. I got a right to protect what's mine."

      "You ain't got a right to shoot anybody, especially an eight year old boy... No matter what he's done. If you weren't a crippled old man I would take that BB gun and wrap it around your neck."

      "Okay, you said your piece. Now get on out of here and leave me be."

      "You've been warned, Caldwell." Daddy said, as we turned to leave. "Let's go, son."

      I saw Jimmy in his yard the next day, with his cousin, Jerry Bajorek, and Icouldn't wait to tell them what happened. "Me and Pa scared the dickens out of old man Caldwell,    I don't think he will be shooting any more kids with his BB gun after the bawling out Daddy gave him."

      A few days after our confrontation with Mr. Caldwell, I saw Spike runningaround in his backyard, chasing a butterfly. I decided to taunt the littledevil for biting my foot. I walked over to the fence and started barking likea dog, "Arf, arf, arf," I said, then growled a little. Spike looked up to seewhere the noise was coming from. He spotted me looking through the picket fence at him, acting like a fool.

      Spike didn't hesitate. He came at me as fast as he could, barking and growling at the same time. I wasn't scared. I knew he couldn't getthrough the fence.

      When he was about thirty feet away from me, I picked up a rock and threw it in his direction.    I was horrified when I saw the rock hit Spike right abovehis left eye. He let out a loud yelp of pain, then rolled over and over. Hestood up but then fell down again and lay on his side. His little legs werestill running, but the rest of him wasn't moving. A few seconds later, after afinal twitching of his hind legs, he wasn't moving at all.

      "Oh, no! What have I done?" I cried. "Get up, Spike.    Please get up.      I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."

      But Spike didn't move. I knew he was dead. Panic took hold of me. I knew I had to get away from there... and fast. I began to run and I kept running until I was so tired, I couldn't run anymore. I realized then, I couldn't run away from what I had done. So, feeling like a murderer, I went back home.

      "Billy Joe, where have you been?" my mother asked, as I stumbled up the steps with my head down.

      "I've been down to Bajorek's house," I mumbled, not looking up.

      "Someone killed Mr. Caldwell's dog. That poor old man. You could hear him crying and wailing all over the neighborhood when he found his dog in the backyard. I felt so sorry for him. It was a pitiful sight to see."

      Mama knew me so well. When she looked at me, she sensed that I already knew what she was talking about. "Billy Joe, do you know who killed that dog?"

      I couldn't keep the tears inside any longer and began to sob. "I done it, Mama. I didn't mean to hurt Spike I just wanted to scare him a little bit. Please don't tell anybody I killed Spike."

      She could see how much I was hurting inside. She put her arm around me and said, "I know you didn't mean to kill him, Billy Joe. You love all animals.

      This will be our secret. I won't tell anyone what you've done." Mama kept our secret for forty-one years... until the day she died.

      Three days after the death of Spike, I was shooting hoops in the backyard when I noticed a big, black hearse pull up in front of Mr. Caldwell's house. Two men got out and with a stretcher went inside.

      It didn't take long for some curious neighbors to gather at the house next door to the Caldwell house. Daddy always called them a bunch of 'cackling old hens'.

      I saw the two men come out of the house, carrying Mr. Caldwell's body on the stretcher. It was covered with a sheet. As they carried his body to the hearse and placed it inside, I heard Mrs. Tucker say, "Poor old feller. I guess after his dog got killed, he figured it was his time to go too. That old man didn't have a friend in the world... 'cept that little dog. He was the only friend or companion old Caldwell had for the last ten years."

      The day after Mr. Caldwell's funeral, five or six other kids were playingbasketball with me in the backyard. We stopped playing when we saw a gray-haired lady in the backyard at Caldwell's house, waving at us. She beckoned to us and said, "Boys, would you come over here for a minute? "

      We all went over to see what she wanted.

      "My name is Mildred. Mr. Caldwell was my father. I will be living here for awhile. I'd just like to meet and get to know some of my neighbors. Would you all like some plums?    I'll open the back gate and you can have all the plums you want."

      A joyous shout went up from all the kids. "Oh boy, plums! Let's get 'em."

      The lady unlocked the back gate and we all rushed in like a pack of hungry dogs.    There was no need to fight over plums because there were hundreds of juicy plums in that tree and each kid had a hand full of them.

      I took a couple of bites of the plum I picked, then I noticed a little doghouse sitting by Mr. Caldwell's back porch. Over the entrance of the dog house was written, 'SPIKE'.

      The memory of the terrible deed I had done came back to me in a flash. Idropped the half-eaten plum, then turned and walked away. The kind ladyasked, "What's the matter, son, don't you like plums?"

      "I used to like 'em," I said. "I liked 'em a lot... but not anymore." I walked back across the alley, picked up my basketball and went in the house. From that day on, I never played much on my basketball court. It seemed like shooting hoops was just not as much fun as it used to be.

    pic noose                                            Shawnee Lynch Mob

                                Oklahoma Territory had an unbelievably hot summer in the year of 1892. Folks in the town of Shawnee, had another reason for being hot under the collar. Tempers were flaring among many of the populace who were wanting to lynch an old negro named Rufus Millweed, who worked for Luke Crenshaw at the livery stable.

      Rufus had been arrested the previous Friday because of accusations made by the widow Simpson.    She swore, "That nigger meant to break in my house and have his way with me! He wanted to rape me!"

      Rufus denied any such intentions. He told Sheriff    Forrest Malone, "Nawsuh, Sheriff.    I'as    jus' walkin' by the wida's house, so hot I was spittin' cotton.    I only stopped to get a drink of water from the wida's well."

      The circuit judge was scheduled to be in Shawnee on Thursday. Sheriff Malone planned to bring Rufus before Judge Mumphry to be tried for trespassing on the widow's property. The Sledge brothers and other irate citizens of Shawnee had other plans for Rufus. They wanted to string him up to the nearest tree to warn other negroes in the area what would happen to them if they ever got out of line.

    Jack and Bob Sledge were cattle barons in central Oklahoma. It was widely known that they acquired most of their cattle by rustling them from other ranchers in the territory. No one ever mentioned that fact, because both Sledge brothers were mean as rattlesnakes and lightning fast with a six-shooter.    Jack Sledge had spent six months in jail at Fort Smith for killing two Pima Indians in a barroom brawl.

      The Sledge brothers were at the Rotgut Saloon on Monday evening, organizing a lynch mob. The brothers soon incited the members of the mob into a frenzy. They were ready to storm the jail and take Rufus down the street to the hanging tree.

      Sheriff Malone was aware of the unrest in town, but he thought the talk of lynching would die down before the judge arrived on Thursday. Suddenly, the door flew open and the sheriff's son, Jake, ran in screaming,    "There's a lynch mob down at the Rotgut and they are coming for Rufus!"

      From his jail cell, Rufus could hear what was being said in the sheriff's office, "Lawdy mercy! Don't let 'em git me, Sheriff !    I swears I ain't done nothin' wrong.    I swears, I ain't."

      "Shut up in there, Rufus. Ain't nobody gonna hang you. Them boys is just blowin' off a little steam."

      The sheriff turned to his deputy, Jess Edwards, and said, "Jess, you will have to handle things here. I have to ride over to Okemah and settle that water rights squabble. I need to see that things don't get out of hand over there."

      "But what about the lynch mob?" Jess asked.

      "Aw, them boys ain't gonna hang Rufus. That's just talk."    With that assurance, Sheriff Malone mounted his horse and rode out of town in a cloud of dust.

      Jake said, "What are we gonna do now?    Do you think he will be back in time to stop the mob."

    "Hell no! Didn't you see him skeedaddle out of here?    He ain't gonna stand up to them Sledge boys!    Go out to the ranch and tell Snake what's happening here."

    "Snake? Are you crazy? Snake Corley retired 20 years ago!    He's almost as old as Rufus."

      "Do like I told you, Jake!... and hurry!    I'll try and hold them off as long as I can."

      Rufus could see from his jail cell window, the lynch mob was coming down the street. "Lawdy, Lawdy.    Dem folks is sho 'nuff gwine to hang ol' Rufus.    Oh, help me, Lawd."

      Jack Sledge approached the sheriff's office,    holding a long rope with a noose on the end. About thirty townsfolk were with him and they were all ready for a necktie party.

      "We want Rufus!    Bring him out here and no one will get hurt." From behind the bolted door, Jess replied, "I can't do that, Sledge. Y'all get on out of here. Rufus is going to stand trial.    The law will see that justice is done."

      "Damn the law! We gonna see that justice is done. Okay, boys.    Let's break this door down."

      Jess was helpless against the angry mob. Within minutes, they had Rufus and were heading down the street to the hanging tree.    Jess could hear Rufus pleading, crying and praying, all at the same time, "Lawd, help ol' Rufus. Don't let 'em hang me!    I aint nevah done nothin' bad."

      When the mob reached the hanging tree, one man tossed the rope over a lower limb and six other citizens of Shawnee volunteered to hoist old Rufus skyward.

      The widow Simpson was part of the lynch mob.    She urged the lynch party to do their duty.    "Alright,    get on with it!    I want to see that nigger swinging in the breeze."

      "Now, calm down, Rosemary.    We ain't barbarians here. We gonna let Rufus speak his last words. Go ahead, Rufus. What have you got to say?"

      "Mistah Sledge, suh... I swear I ain't evah done no hawm to nobody. Pleeze don't hang ol' Rufus."

      "Okay, boys... let's get on with it," Sledge said, with a cruel smile.

      The noose was placed around the neck of the trembling black man and six citizens were waiting for the signal to hoist Rufus into the tree.

      Suddenly, two shots rang out in rapid succession. The crowd turned in the direction of the gunshots.

      Riding slowly toward the lynch mob, was Snake Corley.    Dan 'The Snake' Corley was still a handsome figure of a man, with a no-nonsense, take-charge, aura about him. In his younger days, he had been a federal marshal, overseeing the Central District of Oklahoma.    It    had been twenty years since he hung up his guns and retired to his ranch, just outside of

Shawnee.

      Boot Hill was populated with outlaws and renegade Indians who were foolish enough to test Dan's quick draw and pinpoint marksmanship.    He had been given the name 'Snake'    because of his fast draw. People said he was 'quicker than the strike of a rattlesnake and twice as deadly'.    It had been many years since he had kept the peace in Indian Territory and he had not picked up his guns in all those years.    But here he was, now close to seventy-years-old, and facing the fastest guns in the territory.

      As Snake slowly stepped down from his horse, he holstered one of the two Colt forty-fours, worn at his hips. He never took his steely-gray eyes off  the Sledge brothers.

      "Alright, you boys have had your fun. Now, take that rope off of Rufus and get out of here," Snake said, with grim determination.           "Corley, we gonna hang Ol Rufus and there ain't a damn thing you can do about it!    You ain't the law around here no more. You may live a little longer if you mind your own business."

      "I'm gonna kill you boys in about one minute unless you take that rope off Rufus and get the hell out of here."

      Out of the corner of his eye,    Snake saw Tom Donlevy go for his gun.      At the same time, the Sledge brothers began their draw.    Seven or eight shots rang out in the next two seconds.

      When the smoke cleared away, Jack and Bob Sledge lay dead on the ground. Jack had taken a bullet in both eyes and the back of his head was missing.    Bob had taken one slug right between the eyes and Donlevy had taken a round in the belly and one near his heart. Tom was writhing in pain, as he took his last few breaths.

      Snake had been shot once through his upper right arm but the bullet missed the bone. One bullet had grazed his right cheekbone and another slug had passed through his new Stetson hat.    He survived this shootout, as he had many times before. With blood oozing from the wound in his arm, Snake walked over to Rufus and removed the noose from around his neck.

      Rufus was in a state of shock as his eyes looked toward heaven and he said, "I is still alive!    I is still alive!    Lawd, Almighty!    I is still alive!    Thank ya, Mistah Snake.    I'll be yo slave fo as long as I live."

      "You ain't gonna be nobody's slave, Rufus.    Them days are gone forever. You go on back to work at the livery stable.    Tell Luke to let me know if there's anymore trouble down here."

      The undertaker, Roy Barcroft, with the help of Jake Malone and Jess Edwards, were loading the three dead men onto a buckboard, when the widow Simpson came up to Corley.

      "Oh, Snake!    I tried to stop them Sledge boys from hangin' Rufus.      They just wouldn't listen to me. You know me, Snake.      I ain't evah had no bad feelings toward them nig...    uh, black folks."

      Dan climbed back in the saddle and looked down at the widow Simpson and said, "Rosemary, you go on home now.    You've caused enough trouble for one day."

      With a tip of his hat and a twinkle in his eye, Snake turned Ol' Scudder around and headed back to his ranch.

pic 2579411 creepy                                      Killer Karpis

      In 1934, the terrible depression was in its fifth year.    Twenty-five million people in the United States were unemployed. At that time, unemployment benefits, welfare, or social security were not provided by the government.    Families had to survive the best way they could, or starve. Regrettably, that's exactly what happened to many during that tragic era in America's history.       This was also a time that produced some of the country's mostdesperate gangsters. Cold-blooded killers such as, John Dillinger,Bonnie and Clyde, and Baby Face Nelson were roaming free, terrorizingfolks throughout the South and Midwest.       George and Elizabeth Martin and their infant daughter, Rosellawere trying to survive these hard times that were gripping the nation.They had a small grocery store, with two rooms built in the back thatwere used for their living quarters. It was located eighteen miles from the resort city of Hot Springs, on a dirt road in rural Arkansas,near the small community of Mountain Valley.       Even though the Martins knew that most of their neighbors wouldnever be able to pay for the groceries they bought on credit,    they found it very hard to refuse them.    As a result, they found themselvesas poor as all the other residents in Mountain Valley.       One day, in May of 1934, a black Ford roadster pulled up to thegas pump in front of the little store. George went outside to offerhis services to the customer.      "Fill her up?" he asked the man behindthe wheel.       "Yeah, and be quick about it. I'm in a hurry."

George noticed the car had a Missouri license plate and what appeared to be a bullet hole in the trunk of the car. He began to wipethe windshield and noticed a similar hole through the back glass.

      Through the back window, he saw a towel on the shelf, with what lookedlike dried blood soaked into it.    The logo written on the towel was    Hotel Desoto'.

      "It looks like some deer hunter mistook your car for a deer," George jokingly said to the driver.       The man behind the wheel, was not smiling.    Without answering, he gave George a menacing look with his black, beady eyes.       "Are you headed for Hot Springs?" George asked.       "Say, buddy.    You're kinda nosey, ain't ya?" the man replied.       "No sir, just trying to be friendly.    That'll be three-dollars and ten cents.    Can I check under the hood for you?"       The man handed George $3.10 and sneered. "Hell no, you've doneenough checkin' already."    He threw the roadster in gear and sped offdown the dirt road, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake.          Elizabeth watched as George came inside the store, picked up acharge slip and pencil, then scribbled something on it and put it inhis shirt pocket.    "I think that was Alvin Karpus I just gassed up outthere,"           "After I check my traps, I think I'll walk over to Marriott's Garage and call the sheriff."      Ed Marriot lived about a half-mile down the road and had one of the few phones in the community.       Alvin 'Creepy' Karpis, a notorious gangster on the FBI's ten most-wanted list, had been rumored to be in the Hot Springs area.

      Hot Springs, located in the middle of the rugged backcountry of theOuachita National Forest, but with all the conveniences of a largercity, was a favorite hide-out for many wanted fugitives in the earlythirties.       Like most of the folks in the rural Mountain Valley area, Georgehad to depend on trapping and hunting, of wild game, to feed his family.After checking his traps on the hill behind the store and finding themempty, he started back down the hill. As he came closer to the store,he was surprised to see the black Ford roadster, parked in front of the

store again.

        Knowing who the driver of the car had been, his heart began to race and he started running down the hill toward the store.       George stopped suddenly, when he saw the beady-eyed man open theback door with a .45 automatic in his right hand. Elizabeth screamed,

      "Run, George. He's got a gun!"    and grabbed the man’s    right arm.He fired one shot that missed because of Elizabeth's interference.He shoved her back into the house and she fell on the floor.    He firedagain, this time grazing George's right cheek.    George fell to the groundpretending to be dead. The man went back inside.    Elizabeth, fearful thathe would hurt the baby, pleaded:

      "Please leave! We have no telephone to call the police and have nothingyou want here."       "I seen how your old man looked at me. There's bound to be someonewith a phone around here somewhere. I can't take a chance on somebody callin' the cops."       Karpis looked under the counter and found a cigar box that served as their cash register.    He took the measly, fifteen-dollars and thirty-cents from the box.

      "Please don't take our money, that's all we have!"    Elizabeth tried to take the money from his hand.

      "You ain't gonna need no money.    I told you!    I ain't takin' a chance on you people callin' the cops.    I finished off your old man...now it's your turn, lady."

      The man brought the butt of the forty-five down hard on Elizabeth's        head.    She fell to the floor, unconscious.       Karpis went outside and poured the water out of a bucket that Georgeused to wipe windshields.    He pumped a gallon of gas into the bucketand splashed the gasoline over the front of the store, then set the store ablaze.

      George saw the man drive away after setting the store on fire. He ran through the back door, into the burning building and found his wife, still unconscious on the floor. He carried her out the back door to safetythen returned to find his daughter, crying hysterically in her crib. He covered her with a blanket from the crib to protect her from the smokeand falling embers, and carried her out of the crumbling building.

      He placed her by the side of her mother who was beginning to regainconsciousness. The store and home burned completely to the ground. Nothing was saved.       Several neighbors had seen the smoke and fire and were gathering atthe site. George asked one of his friends to take Elizabeth and Rosella toDoc Sweeny's office. Sheriff Brody arrived about ten minutes later. He sawthe blood on George's cheek.

      "What the hell happened here, George."

      George reached in his shirt pocket and gave him the small charge sliphe had scribbled on earlier that morning.       "What's this? ... Missouri - SL-125-00?" asked Sheriff Brody.

      "Find the guy driving a black Ford roadster with that tag on itand you'll find Alvin Karpis.    It may be parked at the Hotel Desoto inHot Springs."

~~~~~      George had to wait at the burned building for the insurance man.George had called Continental Insurance Agency where he had a smallpolicy that would pay $1,500 for the loss of the store. The agent wasto meet him there at one o'clock that afternoon.       The agent, Ted Sloan was right on time. George shook hands withMr. Sloan and said, "As you can see Mr. Sloan it's a total loss."       "It certainly is, Mr. Martin, but I'm afraid I have some more badnews for you. According to the police report, this was an act of arson.Your policy does not cover arson."

      "Are you nuts?" asked George. "We didn't set the damn fire, the guythat tried to kill us done it."         "I'm sorry, but that makes no difference.    Arson is arson.    Your policy is worthless in this case. I have to go now.    I have another appointment in thirty minutes. Goodbye, Mr. Martin."       George became desperate at the alarming news from his insurance agent. "You can't leave us like this, we have nothing! Don't you understand? We've lost everything!"       George grabbed Sloan by the arm as Sloan tried to get to his car."Take your hands off of me!" said Sloan, as he put his right hand inGeorge's face and pushed as hard as he could.       This act of violence only enraged George.    Something snapped in hishead and he began pummeling Sloan with numerous blows to his head and body. Sloan was knocked to the ground, but George immediately picked him up with both hands around his throat. A neighbor, who had come over to help the Martins, screamed, "Turn him loose, George!    You're going to kill that man!"       A moment of sanity returned to Martin and he realized he had almoststrangled the insurance agent.    He released the man, whose face was turningblue.    Sloan fell to the ground gasping desperately for air.       George was in a state of shock as he watched Sloan crawl to his car,still retching and trying to breathe.    He knew he was in serious trouble,as the agent disappeared down the dusty road at a high rate of speed.    Anhour later he was arrested and taken to the county jail in Hot Springs,where he was charged with assault and attempted murder. He knew he would be sent to prison and for all practical purposes, his life was over. Why did this have to happen to me? he thought. The mental anguish was excruciating.

      George was sitting alone in his cell, thinking about how stupid he had been, when he heard whispering.    It came from the adjoining cell.       The inmate on the other side of the bars said to him in a low voice, "Hey

pal, come over here"       George moved over next to the bars that separated the two cells. Theman in the other cell was about twenty-five years old. He looked as if hehad a permanent sneer pasted on his face. He projected an image of sadisticbrutality.

      "What's your name?" he asked.       "George Martin."       "What you in here for?"       "Assault and attempted murder."     "Oh, a tough guy, huh? I like tough guys. I'm kinda tough myself.    My name is Trigger Burkett. Maybe you heard of me. I'm in for murder one.I had to kill a guy during a bank heist."       George's head was spinning. Was he really sitting there chatting with a cold blooded killer.       "Hey, George, you know you're looking at a long stretch in Tucker,don't you?"       George responded, "Yeah, I guess so. I don't know how I got myselfinto this mess."       "George, you look like a guy I can trust. I'm gonna bust out of thiscracker box tomorrow morning when they bring the slop around. I'd like foryou to come with me."       "I don't know about that. I got a wife and kid, you know."       "Look George, you're headed for the worst prison in the world.I know, I've been there. They whip you every day just for the hell of itand a starving dog wouldn't eat the crap they feed you in that place.You can do more for your wife and kid on the lam than you can in prison,what do you say, you want to come with me?"

      George thought for a minute, then said, "OK, Trigger. I'm in. Howare we going to get out of here.?"       Burkett then laid out his plan of escape for George. They discussedevery detail of the plan for the next hour. He was aware of the enormousrisk he was taking, but he figured it was his only chance. He didn't thinkhe would survive a long stretch in prison.       About four o'clock in the afternoon he was lying on his bunk, goingover the escape plan in his mind, when the jailer came to his cell doorand said, "Come with me Martin, the DA wants to see you."       The jailer led Martin down the corridor to an office. The sign on thedoor read, "District Attorney of Garland County." The jailer ushered Georgeinto the DA's office.       "Well I'm certainly glad to meet you, Mr. Martin. My name is HowardCrenshaw. I'm the district attorney of Garland County. I have persuaded Mr.Sloan to drop the charges against you. You are a free man.”       George felt his knees buckle at this incredible news. "My God! Youwouldn't kid me, would you, Mr. Crenshaw?"       "No sir, Mr. Martin. We owe you our gratitude and thanks. Theinformation you gave the police led to the arrest of Alvin Karpis anhour ago, at the Desoto Hotel. He was on the FBI's 10 most wanted list,you know. Mr. Martin, I have another little surprise for you, here's acheck for $1,500 from the Continental Insurance agency. A little warningfrom me, persuaded these people to honor your policy and pay you themoney they owe you and admit their error."       "By the way, Mr. Martin, there was a $5000 dollar reward forinformation leading to the arrest of Karpis. You are entitled to thatreward and I will see that you get it."       George's head was swirling. What an unbelievable turn of events.He found himself in a joyful state of shock as he was driven from thejail to be reunited with his wife and daughter.       George and his family moved to Hot Springs the next day and rented

a nice house there. George sat down to breakfast that morning and openedthe morning paper. The horror of the last two days and his brief meetingand planned escape with a cold blooded killer, came crashing down on himas he read the headlines:

BURKETT    SLAIN IN DARING    ESCAPE    ATTEMPT                                                                                                                                   

    pic cafe                      A    Day Soon Forgotten

      A light snow fell on the town of Russellville, Arkansas, that day in early December, 1941. It looked as though the kids in town might get the white Christmas they hoped for...a rarity in Arkansas.

      Emma Lou Parker, a waitress at the Blue Bird Cafe, noticed a blackPackard sedan with New York license plates pull up in front of thecafe at about 4:30, Saturday afternoon. Two men wearing black topcoats got out of the car and looked around suspiciously then entered the diner. Both took a seat at the counter.

      "Give us two burgers and two beers," said the taller man. He had a large flat nose and seemed to be wearing a permanent sneer.

      "Sorry, no beer. This is a dry county."

      "Okay, make that two coffees with cream and a couple of burgers."

      A couple sat in the corner booth of the diner eating an early dinner and a young boy, was engrossed with a game of pinball, played Intently on the machine near the door.

      “Are ya'll from out of town?" Emma asked.

      "Yeah, we're from a long way from this hick town," replied the shorter of the two men. Emma took a second look at him and noticed that his left ear was missing.

      "Hey babe...You know a guy named Johnny Gordon that livesaround here?"

      "Sure, everybody knows Johnny. He's a swell guy."

      "Somebody said he comes in here to eat around five o'clock everyday. Is that right?"

      "Hey Red, these guys are asking about Johnny Gordon. Come out hereand talk to 'em."

      She noticed the couple in the corner booth were getting up to leave. After paying for their meal, they stood at the cash register, waitingfor Emma to make change. The man took a dime from the change in his hand, placed it on the corner table, then he and his wife left the cafe.

      "The chubby proprietor with pale, freckled skin and thinning red

hair came from the kitchen drying his hands on a dingy white dish towel

      "Hi, my name's Red Coulter. What can I do for ya?"

      "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Red.    I'm Leo and this here'sTony... Like I was askin' the little lady... don't Johnny Gordon come inhere every evenin', 'bout five?"

      "Are you fellas friends of Johnny's?"

      "Yeah, sure. We're old friends from back east. How's Johnny-boydoin these days?"

      "He's doin' pretty good. He just got promoted to supervisor at the pickle company over in Atkins."

      "Well, ain't that just dandy... Hey Tony... Johnny's the supervisor of a pickle factory!" They both guffawed at this bit of news.

      " A pickle maker!... Wait'll we tell the boys back home." Leoalmost choked on his hamburger from laughing so hard and took a sipfrom his coffee.

      Red didn't see the humor, since many of Russellville's residents wereemployed by the Atkins Pickle Company. "You say you're friends of Johnny's?

      “Are you here on a visit?"

      “Yeah, just a short visit... a surprise visit you might say." Tony wasn'tlaughing now. He glowered at Red, then looked across the room.       "Hey, kid! ...you at the pinball machine... beat it! Get out of here..go someplace else.”

      “Huh?    But , why do I..."

      “Beat it, I said!    Get the hell out of here!,"

      Leo made a move toward the kid and the boy bolted through the

door and jumped on his bicycle...stumbled, trying to find the pedals, then sped down Main Street without looking back.

      Ten-year-old Lenny Ingram, went straight to Johnny's boardinghouse on Denver Avenue, four blocks from the cafe. Johnny hadbeen like a surrogate father to Lenny, whose biological father hadnever married his mother and left them to fend for themselves whenhe was only a year old. He and Johnny were fishing buddies andLenny thought of him as his best friend. He couldn't wait to tell himabout what he heard at the cafe.

      When he reached the boarding house, he hopped off of the bike and raced upstairs to Johnny's room, taking two steps at a time, then banged on the door.

      "Hey Johnny!    It's Lenny...let me in." The door opened and Lenny ran inside, wide-eyed and bursting with excitement.

      “Johnny! You know what?    Two mean-lookin' guys are looking for youdown at the Blue Bird Cafe.    I think they have guns!"

      “What do they look like, Lenny?"

      “One is a big ol' tall guy, with a flat nose and the other guy's short anddidn't have no ear. Do you know 'em, Johnny?"

      Lenny noticed a look of fear and dejection in Johnny's face.    He didn'tanswer Lenny's question but sat down on the bed breathing heavily.

      Lenny knew something was terribly wrong and weighing on Johnny'smind.

      Finally he spoke:    “Yeah, I know 'em... a couple of punks I knew inNew York, part of the Bonavito family.

      I gotta tell you somethin'. Lenny....I'm not who you think I am. I've been on the run for quite awhile I knew it was just a matter of time before they would find me."

      “You can call the sheriff,    Johnny, .he'll arrest those guys."

      "No... No cops....Lenny, my name ain't Johnny. It's Vince Vinuto ..I'm wanted by the police in several states back east. Those guysat the cafe are after me because I killed a couple of their buddies inNew York. They are in the Mafia and nobody gets away from them.

      “I've done a lot of bad things in my life... a lot of things that I'm not proud of.    I'm gonna have to scram out of here kid.    Maybe if things workout alright, I can come back here in a couple of years and things willbe like they was before, but right now I got to get movin.”

      "No! Don't leave!    Johnny,    please don't go. You can stay at my house.They won't find you there."

      "No dice, kid, I ain't gonna get you and your Ma mixed up in this.    I Love you Lenny but I got to go now."

      He reached under his bed and pulled out a suitcase. He removed a.45 caliber pistol and a snub nosed .38. He stuck the .45 in his belt andthe .38 in his pocket.

      "Listen, I want you to do something for me, Okay?    You'll soon be a man and your mama needs you to take care of her. You give her this fifty bucks, and this is my lucky silver dollar... I want you to keep it." Lenny looked at the dollar in his hand, then turned away, so Johnny couldn't see him cry.

      "Now just wipe those tears and do what I say. I want you to promise me that you'll stay in school and grow up to be somebody important, like a doctor or lawyer, ya hear me? And if I hear that you screwed up and got in trouble with the law, I'm gonna come back here and kick your butt...Ya understand?"

      "Okay, Johnny. I promise. Whatever you say. I won't ever forget you."

      Vinuto hugged him, knowing that he would never see him again.He quickly left the boarding house, then threw his suitcase into the backof his pickup, parked by the curb,    he jumped in his truck and with squealing tires he left at a high rate of speed.

      Inside the cafe, the gunmen had forced Red and two of his kitchen

employees, Mrs. Hudson, the cook and Buckaloo, the dishwasher, tosit in the corner booth where they could be easily watched. Emma hadbeen instructed to stand at the front door and turn people away, tellingthem the cafe was temporarily closed because of a plumbing problem In the kitchen.

      "When you see Vince coming toward the cafe, wave your hand, thenget on the floor, if you want to live," said Leo.

          At five minutes till five, the gunmen were becoming impatient.

          Tony faced all who were seated at the corner booth. "Okay, it looks like Vince ain't gonna show. Which one of ya is gonna tell me where he lives?”      He pulled back the hammer on his gun. "I'm gonna start with the fat lady at the end, and then give everybody at the table a chance totell me where Vince is hiding before I eliminate the whole bunch of ya, one by one."

      "Are you boys looking for me?"

      The mobsters turned their heads toward the entrance into the kitchen, where Vince stood with his forty-five leveled at them.

      Caught off guard, they wheeled around to face him but they never had a chance to get a shot off. His expert marksmanship skills and quickness, that had earned him the dubious honor of being the Mafia's number-one hit man a few years earlier, had not diminished. He fired six times with each slug finding its mark.

      Both gunmen fell to the floor, immediately encircled by a pool oftheir own blood that mingled together and soon began to coagulate. Splatters of tiny red dots decorated the pinball machine and walls near the front door where Lenny had enjoyed a game of pinball less than an hour earlier. The cook fainted and Buckaloo ran out the front door and down the street, screaming incoherently.    Johnny    unhurt, ran out the back door to the alley and jumped in his truck.

      Lenny, three blocks away, heard the gunshots.

      By the time he got to Main Street, he saw Buckaloo running toward

him.    Terror was written on the face of the black man.

      "Buckaloo, what happened?    I heard gun shots."

      "Run child, run!    Screams Buckaloo, without slowing down.      "Shootin and killin,' it's da wrath of da lawd.    Lawd hep us."

      Buckaloo continues running and screaming, he was soon out ofsight.

      Lenny could hear police sirens wailing and coming from everydirection.    When they arrived at the scene he was already insidethe cafe and was staring at the dead bodies of both hit mensprawled on the floor.    Even though he was in a state of shockLenny was glad to know that his friend Johnny was still alive.

      Soon spectators were on the scene and photographers were taking pictures of the dead gunmen.

      Later in the evening, Red Coulter invited Emma and Lenny tocome over and listen to police calls on his radio. When he finallylocated the police band, he heard an excited voice speaking....

      "Unit 21- A white '39 Ford pickup truck, just ran a roadblock...Intersection of Highways 64 and 7..Suspect has turned left on high-way    7 two units are in pursuit."

      Moments later they heard: "Suspect has abandoned vehicle, Now on foot..."

      Lenny felt like his heart was in his throat. "I hope he gets away!"

      Red stared at the radio. "I can't believe this is happening."

      Twenty minutes later, intermittent reports separated by static, continued: "Unit 10"... "Suspect believed to be cornered in brushy area near Baker's Creek... Shots are being fired...Suspect is down.... Repeat... Suspect is down"...

      "Unit 10... Uh... we need the coroner out here... Suspect appears to be

deceased.... Copy?"

      "Copy Unit 10 ... Coroner has been notified."

      Lenny, with a bewildered look on his face, stared at Red, "Does that mean he's dead?"

      "I don't know, son.    It sounds like it."

      The boy looked down at the silver dollar he had been clenching in his hand for luck, then jumped up and ran out of the house with tears streaming down his face.

      Emma watched Lenny running down the street toward his home.       "Poor kid. He thought a lot of Johnny. It's going to be rough on himand his mom for awhile. I was kind of hoping Johnny might be Lenny's dad someday. I think he was kinda sweet on Mrs. Ingram."

        She picked up her coat and headed for the door.

      "Where you goin', Em?"

      "I'm going home and curl up with ol' Jim Beam and try to forgetthis day ever happened, Red.”

      “Guess I'll go over to the cafe and see if I can get somebody tohelp me clean up the mess so I can open up tomorrow," said Red.

      Emma Lou woke the next day to the sound of a clock tickingnext to her head. To Emma, it sounded more like someonebeating on a drum. She had an excruciating headache. Sheslowly opened one eye and turned her head toward the sound ofthe ticking. She focused her eye on the clock beside her bedand couldn't believe it could be that late.    One-thirty? It can't beone-thirty in the morning... the sun is shining out there. Oh Lord...I'm supposed to be at the cafe at four o'clock for the dinner crowd.    I better get up and try to get myself together.

      She sat up and felt her stomach start to heave. Right then, she wasn't

worried about getting to work by four... she just hoped she would make it to the bathroom in time.

      Red had cleaned away any sign of the previous day's gory scene and opened the cafe at noon, as usual. He did a lot of business on Sunday, catering to the church-goers who stopped by at noon after services and then again before and after going to the evening services.    Emma always worked the late shift, because she liked being able to sleep late on Sunday mornings.

      She was still a little queasy from her morning hangover, but made it to the cafe to begin her shift at four. She hung her coat on the rack and called to Red in the kitchen, "Did you get the Democrat yet, Red?"

      "Yeah, Em, it's over there on the bar. The article about Johnny is on page three. It's open there. "

      Emma went over to the bar and saw the headline, 'Three Killed In Shootout At Russellville Cafe.' She took the paper over to a table and sat down reading. She frowned as she read the story about her friend, Johnny and his sordid past. A mug shot of Johnny had the caption 'Vince Vinuto' under it.

      Red came over to the table and looked over her shoulder.

      "That's a real shame, ain't it, Emma? He will always be Johnnyto me. He was a good guy... just got off on the wrong foot. I don't know how he could ever have been mixed up with something like that."

      "Yeah, Red. It's hard to believe. Hey!... This is such a big deal to everybody around here... What's this story doing back here on pagethree?"

      "Ain't you heard, Emma?"

      "Heard what?"

      Red tossed it down on the table in front of her. There on the front page, she saw written in bold letters:

                                                                            JAPANESE      BOMB

                                                                            PEARL      HARBOR,                                                                            AMERICA    AT WAR

Pic 7638105 Salute

                                                  Death Before Dishonor

      Charles Ingersoll was a combat veteran of World War II,    he was a member of Patton’s Third Army, seeing combat all across Europe, culminating with the Battle of the Bulge in December of 1944.       He proudly flew the American flag from a pole in his front yard since 1947, when he was discharged from the army. His support for the Vietnam war never wavered even as American casualties exceeded 30,000 combat deaths and 100,000 wounded. He continued to stand by the administration in 1968, even though the war continued to escalate.

      Charles and his wife, Margie, were happily married and lived with theirtwo children, Becky, sixteen, and Steven, eighteen, in Topeka, Kansas. He had many heated discussions with his family concerning the war in Vietnam.

He was the only family member who supported America's involvement in the war. Steven was adamant in his belief that the United States should not be involved in a civil war between North and South Vietnam.

      " Look, Pop, Ho Chi Minh is not a threat to America. Why are Americansdying over there? What do we expect to gain? It doesn't make any sense to me."

      "Stevie, I hate war as much as anybody on this earth. I was with my bestfriend when he got his head blown off in the 'Bulge'. I have seen war like you wouldn't believe. I wish I could go over to Nam and fight again, but they won't take old guys like me."

      "But, Dad, don't you see? It's not our fight! We should not be over there.Thousands of civilians... women, children and old people, are being killedevery day... and for what?"

      "Listen, son. When your country calls, you just obey your orders and dothe best you can. A soldier is not paid to think, but to carry out the missionhe is assigned to do and not question whether it's right or wrong."

      "I know, Pop, but I sure don't want to go fight for something I don'tbelieve in."

      "Son, every Ingersol for the last one hundred years has fought for Americawhen the call was given! Your Uncle Ted was killed on Iwo Jima. Your granddad Elrod was with Pershing at Chateau Thierry in World War I. I know when the time comes, you won't bring shame on the name of Ingersol, and you will make your old man proud of you!"

      "Okay, Pop. You win. I'll think about college when I get out of the army.If that's what you really want, then I'll enlist tomorrow morning."

      Two days later, Steve was waiting with twenty other army recruits, toboard a bus that would take them to their new home at Fort Leonard Wood,Missouri. He would be there for eight weeks of basic training. His mom anddad, his sister Becky and Janie, his high school sweetheart, were at theinduction center to see him off.

      Tears were flowing freely from his family and his girl as he prepared to board the bus. Steven shook hands with his dad. Mr. Ingersol said to his son, "Stevie, I'm so proud of you. I know you will bring honor to the family name as did all the Ingersols that served before you."

      "I hope so Pop. I'll do my best."

      His mother hugged him. "Darling, please be careful and be sure to write."

      "I will, Mom, don't worry."

      Janie held him tightly and didn't want to let him go. "Come back to me,Stevie."

    "I will, honey. I'll be back before you know it."

      A few minutes later, Steve was watching his loved ones fade into thedistance as the bus got underway for Fort Leonard Wood.

      He adapted to army life very well. After basic training, he applied forand was accepted into an airborne assault unit. His new home was FortCampbell, Kentucky with the 101st, Airborne Division, the 'Screaming Eagles'.

      Steve was assigned to the 2nd Battalion, 187th Combat Regiment. Advanced training intensified and every member of the unit knew that Vietnam would soon be their destination. The 187th disembarked at Cam Ranh Bay, South Vietnam, in February, 1969. After the regiment set up camp thirty miles northwest of Saigon, combat missions were a daily occurrence.

      Back home in Topeka, the Ingersols prayed each day for the war to end and for Steven's safe return... but it was not to be. A telegram arrived on May14, 1969.

The news was devastating;

'Dear Mr. and Mrs. Ingersol,

It is with deep regret that I must inform you that your son, Private

Steven R. Ingersol, was killed in action on May 11, 1969. Private Ingersol was bravely performing his duty in the assault on hill 961. Private Ingersol died upholding the highest tradition of United States military service. I share in your profound grief.Major General William Westmoreland.'

A few days later, the Ingersols received a letter from Steven's platoon leader.

LT. Harold Simmons,I know that you have been officially notified of the death of your son, Steve, but I just wanted to offer my own heartfelt condolences to you. Private Ingersol was an outstanding young man and a dedicated soldier. I was honored to have Steve in my platoon. He died while saving the life of another trooper. He had previously destroyed several enemy machine gun emplacements that made it possible for our advancement to the top of the ridge.    I am recommending Private Ingersol to be awarded the Silver Star.

      Charles Ingersol later learned that Hill 937 was the infamous 'HamburgerHill' so named because of the many deaths on both sides that were fed intothe 'meat grinder'. The hill was taken on May 20th, but soon abandoned, to the chagrin of the many soldiers and Marines who fought to capture that enemy stronghold.

      Steven was buried with full military honors in the Veterans Cemetery inTopeka, Kansas on May 16. A few days later, Charles received Steven's personal effects. He sadly opened the box containing the personal property of his son.

      Tears filled his eyes as he examined the articles in the box; his leatherbillfold, containing nineteen dollars, a gold watch that he gave Steve on theday he graduated from high school, his dog tags and a number of pictures Steve had taken with him to Vietnam. There was a picture of Steve in his football uniform, reminding Charles of the many times he sat in the stands watching his son lead his team to victory... pictures of happier days.

      He found every letter Steve had received from family, friends and his sweetheart, Janie. Each letter had been saved, still enclosed in its envelope.

      Mr. Ingersol noticed another letter in the box, that appeared much older

than the others. The postmark on the envelope indicated that the letter had been mailed to Steve on May 16, 1967, two years prior to his army enlist-ment. The return address was 'Military Records Center, St. Louis, Missouri.'.      Charles Ingersol's hands began to tremble as he realized what the envelope surely contained. He removed the letter and saw that it was a document with the designation DD214 in the upper left corner. It had been twenty-five years since Mr. Ingersol had seen the original document. Charles was looking at a copy of his own service record from World War II.

      A wave of nausea and revulsion swept over him as his eyes scanned over his DD214. He knew the dreadful, shocking, information this document revealed. There it was at the bottom of the page, information he had kept hidden all through the years:

Type of separation from the service: Dishonorable discharge

Reason for separation of service: General Court Martial. Violation of article 85 UCMJ. Desertion In Face of the Enemy

Court Martial Disposition: Reduction in rank to Private. Forfeiture of all pay and allowances.

Sentenced to four years of hard labor. Private Ingersol will be confined in military stockade,    Ansbach, Germany until such time as he can be transported to a correctional facility in the United States.

      Charles Ingersol's world was collapsing around him. It was killing him to know that his son died in a foreign land, fighting for a cause that he didn't believe in, only because his father had encouraged him to go and do his duty.

      The pain was now unbearable as he realized that Steven had known for several years that his father was an army deserter, a liar, and a fraud,    but he never said a word.

pic airplane

                                                                      Flight        301

      Flight 301 was on time, departing from Chicago to Los Angeles International Airport. I was anxious to get back to L.A. after two weeks of negotiating a two million dollar sale of aircraft parts to a major airline company based in Chicago.

      The flight attendant, who directed me to my seat in the first class section of the 727, was a cute little redhead named Heidi. She was friendly enough, but all business. After a couple of inquiries, I learned that she never got involved with any of her passengers, so I reluctantly dismissed the thought and relaxed, thinking about the big bonus I expected to receive upon my return. Moments later, we were westward bound at 36,000 feet.

      After a couple of cocktails, I was ready to catch a few winks to pass the time on this five hour flight to Los Angeles. My reverie was interrupted a moment later by a voice over the intercom:

      "This is the captain speaking. Ladies and gentlemen, I am sorry to inform you that this flight is being redirected to Havana, Cuba. There is a gunman in the cockpit."

      Pandemonium swept throughout the airplane. "We are being hijacked,"

someone screamed. Almost immediately following the startling announcement by the captain, five gunshots rang out in rapid succession.

      At once the plane nosed over into a gradual descent. I bolted from my seat along the aisle and in five strides I was at the cabin door leading to the cockpit.

      At that moment, the door opened and I was face to face with a wild-eyed young man with bushy hair. He had a maniacal look on his face and a .701 mm Mauser automatic in his hand. Instinctively, I swung at the young man's jaw as the gun exploded. I felt the bullet tear through my jacket under my right armpit, as my right hook connected with the man's jaw. He went to the floor as if he'd been struck with an axe. A drop-kick to the side of the head finished him off. I reached down and picked up the man's pistol and slipped it into the vest pocket of my jacket, before entering the cockpit.

      Hysteria and pandemonium had broken out throughout the plane and the three flight attendants scurried up and down the aisle trying to calm the panic stricken passengers.

      Upon entering the cockpit, I was stunned by the scene of horror. The pilot and co-pilot, as well as the navigator, had been shot and killed by the demented gunman.

      The plane was losing altitude rapidly and I could see the ground below rushing up to greet us. After what seemed like an eternity, I was finally able to drag the lifeless body of the pilot out of his seat and take control of the aircraft. Working frantically, with precious few seconds to spare, I was able to bring the nose up and by applying maximum thrust on both engines, we began to climb ever so gradually.

      Suddenly, I felt two powerful hands around my neck! I was being choked by this maniac who had regained consciousness and was now determined to crash the plane and kill everyone aboard, including himself.

      I screamed for help, as I struggled to keep control of the aircraft, but no help was forthcoming. Everyone on the plane was petrified with fear and in a state of shock. I tried to beat him off, but it was of no use, he was a man possessed, bent on destroying all life aboard the aircraft.

      During the struggle the control stick was pushed forward and the plane again went into a steep descent. We both went to the floor of the cabin in the desperate encounter. I was finally able to grab a Co2 bottle, with which I bashed the man's brains out. I raised up from the floor in time to see the huge mountains our plane was hurtling toward.....Then blackness.

      A voice came to me from out of the darkness. "Sir, you must fasten your seat belt, we will be landing soon." It was Heidi, the stewardess.

      "Landing!?" I couldn't believe it, but looking out the window of the plane, there was the smog-shrouded city of Los Angeles coming into view.

      "What the hell happened?" I asked, incredulously.

      The stewardess had a look of concern on her face. "Sir, are you feeling ill? You must have had a bad dream," she said.

      I realized I was perspiring profusely. "I'm OK, just a bad dream."

      I was still quite shaken by the experience as I left the airport. I decided not to tell anyone about the weird dream I had on the plane. They would think I was cracking up.

      Arriving back at my apartment, I was ready for a hot shower before calling the office. I had already dismissed the incident on the plane as a freakish aberration of the mind. I removed my jacket and tossed it on the desk. I was mystified by the metallic 'clunk' sound made when the jacket made contact with the desk. I was curious to find out what had caused such a sound.

      I looked in the vest pocket, and there it was, the .701 German Mauser with six empty cartridges. I inspected the jacket closely and I knew what I would find, a bullet hole through the right armpit of the jacket.

      It wasn’t a dream!    It really happened!… I just wish I could convince the doctors at this mental hospital……..What fools.

Pic electric chair

Death Watch

      Carl and Burl Stump were born on June 6, 1940, in Waycross, Georgia. They were identical twin brothers and looked amazingly alike, but that is where the similarity ended. Carl dropped out of school when he was thirteen years old and soon began a life of petty crimes; purse snatching, fighting, being drunk and disorderly, and a plethora of misdemeanors that landed him in and out of detention centers throughout his early years.

      Convicted of burglary at eighteen and sent to the state prison, he was paroled three years later when he turned twenty-one. Everyone who knew the Stump family presumed that Carl had inherited a wild streak from his father, who was killed trying to rob a liquor store when the boys were two years old.

      Burl Stump was a mild-mannered kid who became a family man at the age of twenty-one when the girl he was living with, Bertha, gave birth to a little girl they named Snowflake. He became a member of a jazz band called the 'Stargazers', that played each weekend at Daddio's Club in Waycross. Burl and Bertha were married and life couldn't be happier for the couple and little Snowflake.

      After his parole, Carl saw Burl occasionally at the club. On one of these occasions at Daddio's while the band was taking a break, Carl sat next to

him at the bar. He began trying to persuade Burl to take part in a robbery that he and his boys were planning. Carl was flashing a sparkling diamond ring, a prize from a recent heist, as he waved his hand in front of Burl, and took a long draw on a cigarette. He blew the smoke in the air and watched it rise in the blinking red lights of the Budweiser sign behind the bar. Then he moved his eyes across the room, surveying the clientele in the smoky barroom..

      "Burl, you're stupid for wasting your time in a joint like this, playing for nickels and dimes. You could make ten times more money by pulling just one job with us, than you could make in six months sittin' around here beatin' on those damn drums."

      "I don't want that kind of life, Carl. You're gonna wind up just like Daddy... shot down in the street like a mad dog."

      Carl laughed and said, "Don't worry kid, I'm a little smarter than the old man."

      Six weeks after meeting with Burl at the club, Carl and his best friend, Sam Perkins were involved in an armed robbery of a Wells Fargo armored truck. The truck had stopped at the Spartan Department Store on Peachtree Street in downtown Atlanta. While picking up a payroll pouch, one of the truck guards opened fire. Perkins was killed instantly. Infuriated by the death of his friend, Carl instinctively returned fire and dropped the guard in his tracks. He managed to escape with a pouch containing $125,000. The guard died later that evening.

      One of the witnesses to the robbery and shooting identified Stump from a book of convicted felon mug shots. An APB alert was issued for the arrest of Carl Stump and a nationwide manhunt was soon underway.

      He managed to avoid capture for eleven days after the crime. A tipster notified police that he was staying at the Regency Motel in Charleston, South Carolina, where he was arrested without resistance. Only five-thousand dollars from the robbery was found on Carl when they extradited him back to Georgia three days later. Stump claimed that the pouch containing the $125,000 had been lost in his desperate effort to escape and he didn't know what happened to it.

      His trial started three months later and lasted three days. The jury took

only twenty minutes to reach a verdict. He was found guilty of first-degree murder and was sentenced to die in the electric chair on February 13, 1953. He won two stays of execution during the two years that followed, but his third execution date was set for May 10, 1955. His chance for another stay was extremely remote.

      Carl had not seen his brother in two years. With only six weeks to go until his date with the electric chair, he asked his mother to tell Burl that he wanted very much to see him. She promised that she would ask Burl to come to see him one last time.

      A week later, Carl was led to the visitation room for death row inmates. The room consisted of a counter that ran the length of the twenty-foot room. A steel mesh screen was attached from the ceiling down to the counter, separating the inmate from his visitor. A guard was posted in the room during each visitation. Nothing could be passed through the screen, but the visitor and inmate could speak freely through the screen.

      Carl was directed to a stool and sat opposite a man sitting on the other side of the screen, wearing a full bushy beard and shoulder length hair. He finally recognized the man as his brother. "Burl is that you? I didn't recognize you under all that hair. Are you running from the law or somethin'?"

      "No, Carl. Your picture has been in the paper quite a bit lately. I didn't want anyone to mistake me for you."

      Carl lowered his voice to a whisper. "Look Burl, I have a proposition for you. You can get me out of here and make one-hundred-thousand bucks for yourself, Bertha and Snowflake."

"Really, who do I have to kill?" He forced a laugh.

"Hey, I'm serious man. Don't kid around. I ain't got much time."

"Okay, Carl. I'm listening. What are you talking about?"

      "I got this all figured out, see. You cut your hair short and shave that crap off your face. I'll tell the warden that I want to make a final confession to a Jesuit priest. You will come back next week dressed as a priest wearing a

black beard, and glasses. One of my boys will bring you all that stuff at the club."

      "Forget it, Carl. I ain't gonna do nothing like that."

      Carl was desperate. "You gotta do this for me, kid... or I'm going to fry. Nothing will happen to you, I swear it. Please, hear me out."

      "Okay, Carl. This ain't goin' nowhere... but tell me the rest of it."

      "I've made friends with the death-watch guard, okay? So when they escort you to my cell, the guard has agreed to leave the area while I give my confession. Just as soon as you get in here, we will change clothes as quick as we can. Then, when the visit is over, I will walk out of this joint dressed like a priest and you will take my place in the cell."

      Burl looked at him incredulously. "Brilliant plan... What happens to me then? You expect me to fry instead of you?"

      "No, No! You ain't gonna fry. After I'm out, I will recover the money from the Wells Fargo heist and give Bertha the hundred-thousand. She will let you know she has the money. I will take a few G's for myself and then head for Canada. But when you come dressed as a priest, you gotta be sure and bring both our birth certificates and make sure they are well hidden."

      "Okay, Carl. This sounds pretty good for you, but how do I get out of this... assuming of course, that I agree to it?"

      "Good question, bro.... On the day of my execution, you break the news to the warden that you are Burl Stump, not Carl Stump. You show him our birth certificates and ask him to compare your fingerprints with mine. Your fingerprints will prove that you're not me. You will then tell the warden and the D.A. that you were forced into this scheme because I had threatened to have my boys kill you, Bertha and your child. You had no choice. You had to go through with it, to save your family. They can't prove otherwise. They will have to let you go... They can't kill an innocent man. Don't you see? It's perfect! Just think of it Burl... You, Bertha and Snowflake will be a hundred grand richer and I'll be out of the country. What do you think of that?" He looked at him with pleading eyes. "You're a good man, Burl...and the only one in the world who can save me is you... my brother."

      Burl scratched his head and stroked his beard, then said, "Dammit, Carl... I think it might work. Me and Bertha could sure use the money. Let's do it!"

      Two days later, a stranger came to the Daddio Club with a package for Burl. The package contained the priest's disguise, including a large rosary with a cross attached and a pair of large glasses.

      Carl made a request to the warden that his confession be heard by Father Johan Malachi, a Jesuit priest, which was granted. Pete Ottinger, the death-watch guard told him that he could lose his job for abandoning his post, but would leave the area during his visit with the priest, as he had asked.

      Burl arrived at the prison in Reidsville at the time of his appointment, dressed in a very convincing disguise. He wore an authentic priest's cassock, tied with a cincture and a tuftless biretta... The glasses and phony beard hid his features well. He had shaved his real beard and had his hair cut very short like his brother. He showed the guard at the gate his fake credentials that identified him as Father Johan Malachi. After a quick pat-down search for weapons, he was escorted into the prison and to death row. Carl's cell door was unlocked and the priest entered.

      Ottinger left his death watch post, saying that he would return in exactly five minutes. When the guard was out of sight, Carl and Burl began undressing as fast as they could. Within three minutes, the two brothers had exchanged each article of clothing the other had been wearing.

      When the guard returned five minutes later, he saw the priest, anointing a man, kneeling before him. "Trust me my son. God will have mercy on your soul."......"Thank you, Father," said the condemned man.

      The priest was escorted from the cell and left the prison. The plan was working without a hitch. When he was free to retrieve the money, Carl went to an abandoned coal mine, where he had buried the loot after the robbery. He brought the hundred thousand dollars to Bertha. She visited Burl on the last visiting day before he was to be executed and whispered that the money was safely in a bank deposit box. There was nothing anyone else could do now to carry out the rest of the plan, except Burl.

      May 10th, the day of Carl Stump's execution had finally arrived. Warden

Patrick O'Keefe, Ottinger, and the prison chaplain came to his cell door at 7.30 A.M., thirty minutes before the execution had been scheduled.

      "Carl, the time has come. Are you ready to go?" asked Warden O'Keefe.

The time has come... for me to drop my bombshell... "Warden my name is not Carl. I am Burl Stump, Carl is my twin brother and he left here two weeks ago."

      Burl reached under the mattress of his bunk and produced the birth certificates and handed them to the startled warden.

      "What kind of nonsense is this, Carl?" asked the warden, as he examined the certificates. He was stunned after his examination of the birth certificates. "How could you have swapped identity with your brother?    Carl has been under a constant death watch since his last execution date was set?"

      Burl told the warden how he had been forced to go along with the plan because his brother had threatened to have his family killed by one of his gang members on the outside. "Don't you see, Warden? I had no choice... I had to protect my family.    He explained how they managed to switch identities and pull off such an amazing feat.

      The warden turned to Ottinger and asked, "Is this true?    Did you leave your post while the priest was here?"

      "Yes, Warden, I'm afraid I did. I was only away for five minutes."

      "You fool! Bring me an ink pad. I will take this man's fingerprints and compare them with Carl Stump's prints in my office."

      Ottinger left and returned a moment later with an ink pad and a finger-print card. After taking Burl's prints, the guard locked him in his cell. The chaplain was asked to return to the chapel until he was summoned by Warden O'Keefe.    The warden and Ottinger left and proceeded to the warden's office to compare the prints taken in Stump's cell to the finger-prints of Carl Stump's in the warden’s office.

      When the prints of Burl Stump were compared to Carl's, the warden

gasped. "They don't match! The man we have locked in that cell is not Carl Stump! Do you realize what this means? I am a year away from retirement. I could soon be receiving a sizeable pension for the rest of my life.    Instead... I will be the laughing stock of Georgia and more than likely will lose my job.    And you... you damn fool... will probably be prosecuted for leaving your post and allowing this travesty to happen."

      Ten minutes passed before the warden and Ottinger returned, accompanied by the prison chaplain. The warden had a uneasy look about him.

      "Well, Warden O'Keefe... you see that I was telling you the truth. I'm not Carl Stump," Burl said, with an air of confidence.

      "Nice try, Stump," he said, with a nervous twitch in his smile, "but your little scheme didn't work. Your prints matched exactly with those of Carl Stump.    Let's go, Carl... 'Old Sparky' is waiting.”   

Pic burning building

                                                                    Death At Four AM

      In Cleveland, Ohio, however, the war between the two daily newspapers, the Daily Clarion and the News Sentinel, continued in full swing. No holds were barred, as each newspaper sought to dominate the news market in northern Ohio. A board meeting was held at the News Sentinel, to discuss the situation that had become critical.

      The owner of the News Sentinel, John Finklestein, addressed the department heads that were attending the meeting: "This has got to stop! We are losing subscribers and advertising to the Clarion every day. By God, we have to reverse this trend or heads are going to roll around here."

      Editor, Maxwell Crowley, then spoke to the board: "I have taken it upon myself to hire the best news reporter in the business, Harry Blackstone. If he can't add a little spark to this paper, no on can!"

      "Blackstone! Isn't he the guy that was fired by the Times for manipulating the news, creating riots, and staging phony events... just to sell newspapers?" asked the Vice President of Sales, Stewart Hatch.

      "Well, yes. I admit Blackstone has some very unorthodox methods. But this guy has a nose for news that is unsupassed by any other reporter in the business," Crowley responded.

      Finklestein then replied, "Maybe that's what this rag needs; a little innovation, a little imagination.... OK. Bring on Mr. Blackstone."

      Mary Finklestein, a college news journalist and evening reporter for the News Sentinel, spoke up, "I'll be glad to show Mr. Blackstone around, Pop. I'll let him know who to suck up to." She laughed.

      Three days after Harry Blackstone became chief reporter for the Sentinel, a terrible tragedy struck the Cleveland area. The 4 A.M. train from Chicago jumped the track on the outskirts of Cleveland, resulting in the death of twenty-four passengers. A subsequent investigation confirmed that one of the rails had been dislodged. It was a clear case of sabotage..

      Harry Blackstone had been on the scene within minutes and phoned the story in immediately. The morning headlines, with the byline of Harry Blackstone, told the tragic story in detail. The Clarion had already gone to press, when the tragedy occurred. This was a tremendous stroke of luck for the Sentinel.

      What a break for the Sentinel and what a terrible blow to the Clarion. Jubilation and congratulations were passed all around the Sentinel on this amazing scoop, made by their newly-hired, top-notch reporter, Harry Blackstone.

      The management at the Clarion was furious and demanded an investigation over the good fortune of the Sentinel. It didn't seem possible to have full coverage of the train wreck so late in the morning without knowing in advance that the tragedy would occur.

      Subscriptions and advertisements picked up dramatically at the Sentinel and it looked like the clear winner of the newspaper war in Cleveland would be the new home of Harry Blackstone. A gala party was held in the Sentinel newsroom. Mary Finklestein proposed a toast; "To the greatest reporter in the world ....... Harry Blackstone." Harry was flattered by all the attention he was getting, but told his adoring fans, "I am only doing my job."

      Three weeks after the train wreck, another tragedy struck in Cleveland. At exactly 4 A.M., a fire broke out in the Sunnydale Apartments, a highrise building in southeastern Cleveland. Eighty-six people lost their lives in the inferno and surprisingly, Harry Blackstone was on the scene with an up-to-the- minute account of the terrible event, complete with dramatic pictures of some residents leaping to their death, to escape the flames.

      Again, the Clarion was scooped by the Sentinel. Not a word of this tragedy was seen in the morning issue of the Clarion. When a subsequent investigation indicated that the fire was the act of an arsonist, many officials,

including the mayor, were wanting to know how the Sentinel was able to provide their readers with a detailed account of the tragedy when the paper normally, would have already gone to press. "Good reporting by a first class news organization," was the response from John Finklestein.

      Six months passed rather quickly after the fire at the Sunnydale Apartments. The story had long since disappeared from the daily news in Cleveland and faded from the memory of most of the citizens of that metropolis. The competition, however, between the two daily papers was as fierce as ever. The News Sentinel was again losing readership and advertising to the Clarion and the euphoria and optimism at the Sentinel was replaced with deep concern over the future of the newspaper.

      The mood was somber in the newsroom of the Sentinel on the Friday evening of October 6, 1954. Harry Blackstone was talking to Mary Finklestein about his feeling of an impending disaster, that he sensed was about to occur. "I just feel something is about to break. I can feel it in my bones. I'm going to ask Crowley to hold up the final issue until he hears from me. I'll see you later, Mary."

      "Be careful out there, Harry," she said.

      Police calls were monitored in the newsroom of the Sentinel and the humdrum, routine traffic on the police band was suddenly broken at 3:50 A.M. with the startling announcement......"We have caught the '4 A.M. Killer'. He was trying to blow up the Causeway Bridge. We're bringing him into the 36th Precinct."

      Upon hearing this shocking news, Mary Finklestein, realized the importance of getting first-hand coverage of the arrest. She sent Crowley an urgent message: 'Stop The Press! They have arrested the '4 A.M. Killer'!!" After hearing the bombshell news of the arrest, she grabbed her camera and headed for the 36th Precinct station, which was only two blocks from the newspaper building.

      Mary was the only reporter present when the police brought him in; the alleged killer of nearly a hundred people, who had attempted to blow up the Causeway Bridge. The suspect was surrounded by police and detectives, as he was hustled into the station. He was handcuffed and his head was lowered with the brim of his hat covering his face. As he was escorted past Mary, she

had her camera ready to get a clear shot of the suspect. She yelled at him, "Hey, Mister! Who are you?"

      The suspect looked up for a brief second....."Oh my God; It's my father!!" Mary fainted at the sight of her father, John Finklestein, being dragged into the police station and charged with the murder of dozens of innocent people.

      Finklestein admitted his guilt and was sentenced to death in the electric chair at the state prison. Two years and one month later, on December 7, 1956, John Finklestein was led into the death chamber and seated in the electric chair. As he was being strapped into the chair and the electrodes were placed on his head, he could see his ace reporter, Harry Blackstone, among the witnesses. Harry was busily taking notes, describing this dramatic event.

      Just before the switch was pulled to send 2500 volts of electricity through his wretched body, Finklestein glanced up at the clock on the wall. The time was exactly 4:00 A.M. ; 'How appropriate,' he thought......

pic. woods

                         

                                                                                Kidnapped

      Twelve-year-old Reggie Van Buren was somewhat puzzled when summoned to the registrar's office of Brighton Academy. He had been in the middle of an algebra exam, so he knew the reason for being called must be something of real importance.

      Upon entering the office, Reggie was confronted by a nice-looking young lady who appeared to be about twenty-five years old. She had red hair, about five-feet tall and wore horn-rimmed glasses.

      Mrs. Martin, the registrar, said, "Reggie, this lady is Mrs. Oglesby. She has something to tell you."

      Ms. Oglesby smiled and said, "Reggie, I am you father's secretary. Now don't be alarmed, but your mother has been in an accident. She is in the hospital and your father has sent me to take you to her.    She's been asking for you."

      "Oh, no! Is she hurt bad?"     

        "No. Not too seriously, but she wants you with her. We must leave at once."

      "My parents have told me never to leave with someone I don't know.    Maybe I should call home first."

      Mrs. Martin spoke up, "Now, Reggie.    I have checked Mrs. Oglesby's credentials and she is, indeed, your father's secretary. I have already called your home. You are to go with Mrs. Oglesby. Your mother is waiting for you."

      After Mrs. Martin's reassurance, he agreed to go with Mrs. Oglesby.    They proceeded to a long, black Lincoln Continental, which was parked at

the curb. A rather sinister-looking man was sitting behind the wheel.

      "Reggie, this is Mr. Bradford. He will drive us to the hospital. You can sit up front and I will sit in the back."

      As soon as Reggie got in and closed the door behind him, the car sped away from the school at a high rate of speed. Before he could make further inquiries regarding the extent of his mother's injuries, he felt a stinging sensation at the back of his neck.

      "Ouch!" he cried, as he turned his head toward the backseat.    He saw Mrs. Oglesby withdrawing a hypodermic needle from his neck, just before he lost consciousness.

      When Reggie awoke, he realized his hands and legs had been tied.    He could hear people talking in the next room and recognized the voice of Mrs. Oglesby, "I wish we didn't have to kill the boy."   

      "Yeah. It's too bad, but we have no choice. He could identify us. We can't take any chances. Anyway, it's Big Jake's orders.    He wants the kid disposed of."

      Reggie could feel a wave of fear sweep over him, when he learned that his kidnappers planned to kill him. A moment later, the door opened and the two kidnappers came into the room and turned on the lights. "Well, our sleeping beauty has awakened," said Bradford. "How are you feeling, young fella?"

      "My head hurts... and I'm scared!    I don't believe this!    How could my school turn me over to a bunch of kidnappers?"

      Bradford and Mrs. Oglesby laughed at the innocent question posed by Reggie. "Well, it's like this, Reg... We have an inside man at Van Buren Enterprises who gave our 'Mrs. Oglesby' her fake credentials. He also changed your emergency phone number that Brighton has on record, to the number the registrar called this morning... my cell phone.    Clever, huh?"

      "Who is the person at my father's company that would plan something like this?"

      Bradford replied, "Well, I don't guess it matters if I tell you, 'cause you don't have long to live anyway. His name is Big Jake. He's the head of personnel at your dad's company. Pretty neat, huh?"

      Reggie was desperate to save his life, "Listen... If you let me go,    I'll see to it that each of you get a million bucks. My dad will give you the money and no charges will be brought against you."

      "Sorry kid... no can do. We ain't stupid. Your old man ain't gonna do just anything you tell him to do. He'll    give us a million bucks alright, but he ain't gonna get nothin' in return... except one dead kid."    He laughed sadistically, then said with a sneer, "And don't even think about trying to escape. We have four hungry Pit Bulls outside that front door.    If you should manage to get out of here, they would tear you to pieces in minutes.    So you better be saying your prayers, little man."

      The two kidnappers turned out the lights and left the room. Reggie knew he had to do something fast to save his life. There would be no one coming to his rescue. He began to struggle, trying to free himself from the ropes that were binding his hands and legs. Finally, using all of his strength, he managed to free one hand from the ropes.    He was then able to untie the rope that bound his feet together.    His heart was pounding, knowing that Bradford and Oglesby could return at any moment.

      Reggie heard a cell phone ringing in the next room and Bradford answered, saying,    "You have the money?...That's great...    Okay, Big Jake... We'll get rid of the kid tonight."

      Desperately, Reggie looked around the room for some kind of a weapon, but could see nothing that he could use to defend himself. Then, in a flash, it came to him!    The bed!    Of course!    It must have slats to support the mattress.

      Reggie threw back the mattress as fast as he could and chose a heavy four-foot slat. He quickly placed the mattress back on the bed and shaped the pillow and a curtain to look like someone was lying there, then covered it with the bedspread. He stationed himself behind the door and waited for the kidnappers to come in to finish him off. He didn't have long to wait.....

      The door slowly opened and Bradford took three steps inside the room.

He carried a two-foot length of wire in his hand, with which he planned to strangle Reggie.    Mrs. Ogelsby followed close behind him.

      'Wham' !    Reggie slammed the slat with as much force as he could muster, across Bradford's head, knocking him to the floor... out cold.    He immediately whipped the slat around and caught Mrs. Oglesby on the side of her head and she too, went down.    In his excitement, he dropped the slat and ran to the front door.    Without thinking, he opened the door to get away.

      To his horror, he faced four vicious Pit Bulls running toward him... their objective being, to tear him into tiny pieces. Reggie quickly jumped back inside and closed the door. The dogs continued to bark and growl outside, hoping he would make another appearance.

      Reggie knew he was in grave danger.    Then, an idea came to him. He saw that Mrs. Oglesby was regaining consciousness. She was moaning and feeling the bloody wound on her head. Reggie took off his jacket and easily slipped it onto the still-groggy, woman. He then helped the staggering woman to her feet and escorted her to the front door. Reggie flung the door open and shoved the startled Oglesby outside. He quickly slammed the door behind her and tried not to listen to the growling, chomping, crunching sounds the dogs were making and the blood-curdling screams of the woman who had played such an important part in his kidnapping.

      While the Pit Bulls were busy tearing Oglesby apart at the front door, Reggie knew it would be the opportune time to make his escape through the back door. He could still hear the faint screams of the unfortunate Oglesby, as he was running through the darkness, into the woods that surrounded the house. He had no idea where he was or how far he might have to go before he came to a highway or a town. Then he remembered something; "I forgot to get the cell phone from Bradford! Too late now. I have to get away from here!"

      After plodding through the woods on that moonlit night for what seemed like an hour, Reggie thought he could see lights.    As he came closer, he could tell that the lights he'd seen, flickering through the trees occasionally, were the headlights of cars passing by on the highway, just a few hundred feet ahead.

      He finally made it to the highway and saw a car approaching. He stepped

out onto the road, waving his arms frantically.    Thankfully, the car stopped and Reggie ran up to the car, gasping for breath and crying, as he said to the stunned driver, "My name is Reggie Van Buren. I have been kidnapped.... but    I just escaped. Will you please call my parents?"

      The kindly, gray-haired gentleman behind the wheel replied, "Of course, son. You poor kid.    Get in the car. There's a service station just up the road.  I'll call 911. Then we'll call your parents and let them know you are alive and well."

      "Thank you, sir. I'm so glad you picked me up," said Reggie. "I can't believe what's happened to me. It's been like a nightmare."

      Reggie and the helpful gentleman proceeded down the dark highway.    Suddenly, the tires squealed and Reggie was thrown against the passenger door, as the driver made a sharp turn off the highway and headed down a rough, dirt road that lead off into the woods.   

      "Where are we going?"    Reggie said, frantically. "Why did you turn off the highway?"    The man looked at Reggie and smiled, but didn't answer.

        "Who are you, anyway?!" Reggie screamed.

      The man stopped the car and turned to Reggie.    He held a snub nosed .38 in his left hand.    His demeanor had now changed dramatically,    his voice was low and threatening.

      My name is Jacob Stern, sonny..... but most folks just call me, 'Big Jake'."

      Reggie knew he only had seconds to live, his mind was racing at warp speed.    Negotiations were out of the question.

      “Don’t shoot me!    There will be blood all over your car.”

      “You’re a smart little bastard ain’t ya?    We’re going to take a little walk in the woods, son.    Don’t worry I’m not going to hurt you.”

      Big Jake opened the car door and stepped outside, he had switched the gun from his left hand to his right.    Reggie who had is hand on the door handle while pleading with the gunman, pressed the handle down, swung the

door open and leaped out of the car.

      Reggie had ran ten feet into the woods when he heard gun shots.    At the same time he felt a stinging sensation in his lower left side and he knew he had been shot.    He could feel the blood streaming down his left leg but he was still able to run and within seconds he had left Big Jake far behind as he ran deeper into the woods.    He didn’t know how bad he was hurt but he knew he was growing weaker from the loss of blood.

      Reggie knew he had left his would-be killer a good distance behind as he turned and looked back in the direction from which he came.    He saw the beam of a flashlight that was pointing straight ahead in-stead of sweeping back and forth.    Oh my God, he’s following the blood trail, if I pass out he will find me for sure.

      As Reggie tried to continue into the woods he stumbled over a rock the size of a softball.    At that moment he turned again toward the light that was getting much closer, he could hear Jake grunting and cursing as he followed the blood trail left by Reggie.    He knew it was no use trying to outrun his ‘pursuer’ in his condition.

      He picked up the rock he had stumbled over and turned and walked a few steps back toward the approaching light.    A huge oak tree was just to his right, he stepped behind the tree still holding the rock he had found in his right hand.    He could now hear the crunching sound of heavy feet coming very close.    He could see the blood on the trail Big Jake was following, as the beam of the flashlight revealed the path Reggie had taken.    He hoped that Jake could not see that he had retraced his steps and was now hiding be-hind the tree.

      Reggie’s heart was pounding so loud he was afraid Big Jake could hear it beating.    He knew he had only one chance of coming out of this ordeal alive.    Jake was now passing the oak tree, still pressing forward expecting to find Reggie passed out on the ground.

Reggie stepped out from the tree with the rock in his hand.    Big Jake heard the noise behind him and turned around just as Reggie threw the rock.    As the rock made contact with the man’s skull it made a sickening ‘thud’ like sound.    The would-be killer never knew what hit him as he hit the ground.    Reggie picked up the man’s flashlight and pointed the beam at the head of

the man he had just slammed the rock into.    Blood and brain tissue was soaking up the leaves and brush on the ground.

      As the adrenalin rush subsided in his body, Reggie became aware of the severe pain in his lower left side.    The bullet had entered just above his left thigh and exited from a wound in his stomach.    He knew he couldn’t make it back to the highway which was over a thousand feet away.    His best bet was to try and make it back to the car, about three to four hundred feet from where he had managed to kill the man who was intent on killing him.

      Reggie removed his shirt and folded it in a way he could use to stem the loss of blood flowing from his gunshot wounds.    He then staggered back toward the car, feeling weaker with every step.

      At last, Reggie made it to Jakes’s new Pontiac, he had escaped from moments before.    Fighting his body’s demand to shut down, he climbed in behind the wheel.    Luckily the keys were still in the ignition.    Reggie turned the key and the engine sprang to life.    He threw the gear in reverse and stepped on the gas.    Instantly, the Pontiac shot backward.    Reggie couldn’t steer the car but he knew that as long as the car was moving he was heading toward the highway.

      The Pontiac rose several feet in the air as it slammed into the em-bankment of highway 16.    The car came crashing down in the middle of the road and twelve year old Reggie Van Buren lost conscious.

      When Reggie awoke, his mom and dad were at his bedside, in the Intensive Care Unit of St. Peter’s    hospital.    He had undergone a six hour operation and a transfusion of four pints of blood.

      His Mother was holding his hand tightly with tears running down her face.    “You’re going to be just fine, Reggie.    We are so proud of you.”

      Jack Van Buren, Reggies’s dad, leaned over and whispered in his ear, “that’s right son, you’re a real hero now, a chip off the old block.”

      Doctor Mendelson, the doctor who had performed the surgery on their son, told them, “Reggie, you are very lucky to be alive, young man, you lived through quite an ordeal.”

      Reggie, though heavily sedated, nodded his head in agreement with the doctor.    For the first time since the abduction, the Van Buren’s were able to laugh again.       

Pic    Festus

                                                                  Festus Leghorn

      Every town of any size has a town drunk and Butler, Georgia was no

exception. Festus Leghorn was his name and the year was 1905.

      You could always find old Festus hanging around the Gray Dog Saloon just about any time of the day, hoping that some kind soul would buy him a drink or give him a nickel for a bowl of soup, or a twist of Cotton Boll.

      Without too much coaxing, Festus would relate to anyone who cared to listen, how he and Jeb Stuart    "kicked them Yankees' ass, back during the war twixt the states."

      "Tell us how you killed all them Yankees, Festus," a laughing patron of the Gray Dog would jibe.    Old Festus would gladly oblige and tell of one daring exploit after another that he participated in, during that fracus some called the 'Civil War'.       "No tellin' how many of them blue bellies I sent to Hell," Festus chuckled.

      Of course, everyone knew old Festus never killed anything but a bottle of rotgut whiskey during the last 70 years, but that old man sure loved to spin those yarns.

      One cold day in December, Festus was sitting in the bar with Moss Butterworth, a friend and much younger drunk.    As usual, Festus was spinning another yarn about his heroics during the Civil War.

      "Yep, I picked that Yankee sentry off from at least 300 yards, got him right 'twixt the eyes, by damn."

      "You're a liar !! You ain't never been nuthin' but a stinkin' town drunk!" All eyes turned to the well dressed man at the bar who was glaring at Festus with hatred in his eyes.

      "Simmer down there now, Zeke. Festus don't mean no harm. We like to listen to them yarns even if they ain't exactly true."

        Zeke Barlow owned a large farm east of Butler and he had a warning for Butterworth.

      "You stay out of this, Moss!    I'm tired of listenin' to this rumpot lyin'   

'bout fightin' them yanks. My pappy was kilt at Chickamauga and I won't have some lyin' drunk claimin' he was in the same army as my pap."

      "You're wrong, Zeke.    I rode with Jeb Stewart.    I ain't lyin'."

      "General Jeb wouldn't let you near him, Festus. You're a disgrace to the Confederacy."

      "A DISGRACE?!! YOU, YOU SCALAWAG.    I'LL SHOW YOU."

      Festus got up and staggered toward the man at the bar, who laughed as the old drunk came toward him.

      When he came within two feet of his antagonist, he tried weakly to hit him with a wild swing of his right hand.

      Barlow easily blocked the attempt, then knocked Festus to the floor with his own right hand.

      As Festus lay on the barroom floor, Zeke gave him a vicious kick to the rib cage. Festus cried out in pain.

      "Maybe the old bastard will quit his lyin' now."

      "You should'nt oughta done that, Zeke. Festus never done you no harm."

        Moss helped Festus to his feet and walked him to the saloon door.    "You want to come over to my place, Festus, Sarah’s cookin’ up some poke salad and cornbread for supper?”

    "No, Moss.    Just leave me be." Festus staggered down the street, bent over moaning, while holding his stomach.

      The next day, they found old Festus out behind the Gray Dog Saloon, frozen to death with an empty wine bottle in his hand. He had fought his last fight.

      Someone suggested they bury Festus in the veteran's cemetery over in Macon, but wiser heads prevailed. "We ain't gonna dishonor them boys that died fightin' for the South, by puttin' old Festus in their midst! Potter's Field

is where he needs to be!"

      Moss Butterworth was the only mourner present when Festus was lowered into the frozen ground of Potter's Field. Festus had joined the other de-ceased dregs of society in Calhoun County.

      The undertaker in Butler, was Caleb Grapevine. Caleb didn't receive any money from the county for burying Festus, but was entitled to any assets that belonged to the deceased.    Festus didn't own anything but an old shack out on the edge of town. It wasn't worth even a few dollars. Nevertheless, Caleb figured he might be able to use some of the wood in the shack to build a few coffins.    So one day, a week or so after the demise of Festus Leghorn, Caleb, with his wagon and mule, went out to the rickety old building that Festus called home and started tearing it down. After about thirty minutes of dismantling the structure, the undertaker was shocked to find a gleaming sword behind one of the boards in the wall. Upon closer inspection, a look of astonishment crossed Caleb's face, as he read the inscription engraved in the blade of the beautiful sword. The inscription read:

"Presented to Captain Festus L. Leghorn, 4th Georgia Cavalry, Woodbridge, Virginia, April 9th, 1863.    The bravest soldier I've ever known.... General Robert E. Lee."

      The news of the amazing discovery of the sword presented to Leghorn, by Robert E. Lee, spread throughout the county like a prairie fire.

      Butler's Mayor, the Honorable Roscoe G. Peabody, called a meeting of the City Council and a resolution was passed to disinter the body of Festus and rebury him within the city limits of Butler with full military honors.

      Most of the citizens of Calhoun County turned out to honor the passing of Butler's most distinguished resident.    Festus never knew he had so many friends in town.    Almost everyone at the ceremony claimed to have been a good friend and benefactor of the deceased.

      A bronze statue was erected at Leghorn's gravesite.    The statue is one of a galloping steed with Captain Leghorn astride, holding the reins in his left hand and a saber thrust forward in his right, charging ahead at full speed, …in    pursuit of those damn Yankees.