The Shadows: Twin Forks, Texas, #1

By James Hitt

Texas, 1925

Two murders, one black, one white.

Two commnunities, one black, one white.

Deputy Sheriff Davy Stoneman has only three days to uncover a murderer and prevent a bloodbath.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JV Books
• Release date: Dec 7, 2019
• ISBN: 9780960017300

James Hitt

James Hitt is a graduate of North Texas State University and holds a BA in English and history and a MA in history.In addition to his many articles related to the American West and film, he is the author of THE AMERICAN WEST, FROM FICTION INTO FILM (Macfarland, 1991), which reviewers cited as the definitive monograph on the subject; and WORDS AND SHADOWS (Citadel, 1993), which examines mainstream American Literature and its connection to film. Mr. Hitt is also represented in THE LOUIS L'AMOUR COMPANION (Andrews and McMeel, 1992). In 2009, his short story 'The Boy With Too Much Hair' won the grand prize for best fantasy story from Once Written.Com. In 2010, Aberdeen Bay released CARNY, A NOVEL IN STORIES. which won the coveted Grand Prize for Fiction from the Next Generation Indie Book Awards. In 2016, his novel THE COURAGE OF OTHERS was nominated for the Pulitzer Prize. In 2018, his latest novel BODIE (Black Horse Press, 2018) was touted by Roundup, the official magazine of the Western Writers of America, as "the kind of Western that every traditionalist novelist seeks to pen." He had also been a guest speaker at the Gene Autry Museum.

Book preview

Part I

Homecoming

WHEN IN THE SUMMER of ’25 after graduating from Southern Methodist, I returned to Twin Forks, Uncle Marsh passed along advice, which has resonated ever since.

I ain’t saying people are naturally bad, but if a fella slaps you on the shoulder, calls you ‘friend,’ make sure you still have your wallet.

By nature, my uncle was not a suspicious man, but during his lifetime, he must have suffered a few betrayals, which caused him to view the human race with a jaundiced eye.

Eight years before when I was only sixteen, Uncle Marsh enlisted. Yet, for me as for most people of Twin Forks, the European conflict remained distant, almost meaningless. Only the newsreels the Tower Theater showed each week brought the war home. When men died on the battlefield, I shook my head and said how horrible, but in reality, the bodies collapsed like rag dolls, not at all like the actors who died in motion pictures like D.W. Griffith’s Hearts of the World which was, for me, far more real. If the Higgins boy and the Pasley boy and Uncle Marsh hadn’t gone off to fight, the people of Twin Forks might have ignored the war altogether.

Uncle Marsh, the first to go, was the last to return. Three months before the armistice, word reached us he suffered an injury on the battlefield. He spent the rest of that year convalescing in a hospital in Paris. The War Department’s letter proved vague on the exact nature of his injuries. The few letters Uncle Marsh wrote home failed to elaborate, which only added to our fears.

When the army finally released my uncle and sent him home, we had little idea what to expect when the train carrying him rolled into Twin Forks. We waited a full minute before he made his appearance. The sleeves of his plaid shirt hung below his wrists so only his fingers showed. His slacks, two sizes too large, were tied around the waist with rope to keep them up, which gave him the appearance of a baggy pants comic. Only his face kept me from laughing. His eyes lay so deeply embedded in his skull they were black holes. Gray splotches covered his skin like a dog with mange. He walked with a shuffle, as if putting one foot in front of the other was the greatest of efforts.

Before he had left us, Uncle Marsh was the most striking figure in Twin Forks, six feet in height, broad in the shoulders with muscles that rippled all the way up his arms. Once a local farmer came to town to pick up a load of lumber when a wagon wheel collapsed, pinning the man under it. If the load had shifted a mere foot, maybe less, the weight would have crushed his chest. Uncle Marsh rushed to help. By using his back and legs, he lifted the wagon and its load high enough for others to drag the farmer from under. Sometimes in small towns like Twin Forks, tales like this get blown all out of proportion, but at least half a dozen people witnessed the event, and they all told the same story, so I figured it must be true.

With the help of various people, including a woman from Boonesville, my uncle persevered. If he never fully recovered from the damages of the war, he improved enough to lead a normal life. Wrinkles created a relief map of his face, which made him appear sixty-five rather than forty-five, yet he worked every day of his life excluding Sundays, which, although he never called himself a religious man, he observed as a day of rest. Still, if stress reared its head, the physical evidence of the war returned.

One morning after my return from SMU, I wandered downstairs to the clothing store to find my uncle half hidden behind stacks of bib overalls.

When I told him I was thinking of returning to school, he scratched his grizzled stubble.

What for? You just graduated.

I have a degree in history. All I can do is teach. Frankly, that doesn’t interest me. Southern Methodist has opened a law school. I’m thinking I’d like to study law.

We might have thirty dollars in savings. You’re welcomed to it, but it won’t get you far.

You and Aunt Esther have done enough already.

My adoptive parents were never blessed with children. After the death of my mother and father, I came to them. Here I grew into the person I was. I called them Uncle Marsh and Aunt Esther, but I loved them more than my real parents who, each year, receded further into the dark recesses of memory. They were always protective of me as if I were truly theirs, which, for all practical purposes, I was.

I need a job where I can save up enough to see me through.

His hand on his chin, he thought for a long moment. Hodd Pickerson moseyed by yesterday. He mentioned the sheriff is looking to add a couple of deputies. But maybe that’s not the job you want.

I’ll take what I can get.

The next morning, I donned in my best Sunday-go-to-meeting duds, although as I have said, we never attended meetings, at least not the religious kind. By eight, I waited in front of Misener’s Livery for the Texas Electric Interurban, which, eighteen months before, extended its tracks through our town all the way to Hollister, the county seat. I doubted ten residents of our town owned motor cars. Townspeople preferred to walk or ride their wagons. Most viewed the rail service as the progress of civilization, which I suppose it was, but a part of me longed for the quieter, more sedate days. Twin Forks was no paradise. It was insular, and rife with racism. With the extension of the interurban, the temptations offered by big cities lay within easy reach, which meant our lives were bound to change. I feared not for the better.

Right on time, ten minutes after eight, the trolley rolled into town. The conductor, spotting me, pulled on the brake handle, slowing the vehicle, sparks flying as its pole passed over a connector. The door folded open. I stepped aboard, dropping a nickel in the coin box. Only four other passengers were there before me, all farmers by the look of them. The car swayed from side to side as it gained momentum. Soon we were flying along at twenty or twenty-five miles an hour, the scenery zipping by so fast it seemed dream-like, a blur, details hazy, out of focus. Or perhaps I was too distracted, too excited about what lay ahead, whatever that might be. Most people when we face the indeterminate future, when we are about to change direction, we often, for good or bad, fail to see the details of the present. The future overwhelms us.

We passed through Yancy, Monroeville and Calhoun, none as large as Twin Forks, each a close replicate, but we made no further stops until we reached the end of the line. Hollister was a typical Texas county seat, already old fashioned, a community left over from frontier Texas. The town square surrounded a brick courthouse as if the building were a fort where, if the town were attacked by marauding Indians or outlaws, the residents could take shelter. In an effort to mimic a big city, however, the building was a smaller version of the Dallas Courthouse. Even the red sandstone originated from the same quarry at White Rock Lake. Also, like Dallas, offices were on the first floor, courtrooms on the second.

Once I was inside, a directory pointed to a door with the word ‘Sheriff’ stenciled on a frosted window. As I entered, a deputy, his fingers poised above a typewriter, looked up. A patch covered his left eye, but even more unsightly was the scar tissue that comprised his left cheek. Our county sent close to a hundred boys to the war. All who saw action in the trenches returned with injuries, some visible like this deputy’s, some invisible but nevertheless real.

What can I do for you, bub?

I hear you’re hiring.

He stepped to a half-opened door. There’s a fella here looking for work, Sheriff.

Send him in.

The deputy waved me forward, his hand showing the same scaring as his cheek, which made me wonder how much of his injuries were covered by clothes. With a nod, I entered the office of Sheriff Jimmy John Haslip.

He circled his desk, holding out his oversized mitt. His grip was firm, which I appreciated. I hated fellas who gave me a limp rag to shake.

At six three or four, he was thinner than a fence rail. His face was elongated, which reminded me of photographs of Lincoln without the beard. Long before he won the election for sheriff, people of the county were well acquainted with Jimmy John Haslip, or ‘Slim’ as they called him. Throughout the 1914 baseball season, he pitched for the Boston Braves, helping to lead them to the World Series against the Philadelphia Athletics. Unfortunately, a week before the series opened, a runaway team crashed into a crowd exiting the Ritz Harbor Hotel. Among the injured was Slim Haslip, who suffered a broken hip ending his career. He walked with a limp, but people still talked of the kid with an unhittable fast ball.

Sheriff Haslip. I’m David Stoneman from Twin Forks.

He pointed me to a seat as he rested his butt on the edge of his desk. What kind of work are you interested in, Mr. Stoneman?

I heard you’re looking for deputies.

You ’pear a mite young.

Come September, I’m twenty-three.

What experience do you claim?

I worked as a guard for Ross Cotton Gin while I attended Southern Methodist.

He perked up with the mention of the university. How long did you attend?

I graduated.

His surprise grew. Why would a bright young fellow with a college degree want to be a deputy sheriff?

I want to go law school. I need to save up money.

He peered at me with rejuvenated interest. We don’t have a college graduate anywhere in county government. I doubt we have anyone with more’n a year of college. Can you handle weapons?

I’ve got plenty of experience with a Winchester. I’ve shot Uncle Marsh’s single action .44 dozens of times.

Marsh Langdon? He worked for my campaign. Did a great service for his country. A real hero, if you ask me.

He’s the best man I know.

Your town has trouble keeping deputies. I swear, every time we seem to have it settled, something goes skewwhiff. He leveled a finger at me. We’ve experienced problems with the coloreds there. If I hire you, can you keep them in line?

I held up my hand. Whoa, Sheriff. Those people seldom cause problems. Problems are heaped on them.

You’d defend coloreds?

He examined me with one eye closed, squinting through the other.

I stood, my spirits flagging. I thought there might be a work for me here.

I headed for the door.

He pushed himself to his feet. I’ve been told coloreds are to blame for the troubles in your area. If that ain’t so, I want to know. They ain’t like us. They ain’t as smart. They ain’t as civilized. All the more reason to make sure they get fair treatment.

He was wrong about the intelligence of those folks, but he wanted to be fair. For that I respected him.

When next he spoke, his voice held a softer tone. I’m looking for men I can ride the river with.

Old timers often used the expression to refer to men they trusted. It was about the highest compliment one man paid another.

If you’re looking to be that kind of man, the job is yours. You be straight with me, abide by the law, whether it’s to your liking or not, then I’ll stand with you, even if the whole county is after your hide.

So, early one September morning, I rose at half-past five. I ironed my uniform before cleaning my department issued .45 revolver. Once dressed, I examined myself in the full-length mirror attached to the closet door. To my consternation, I looked as if I stepped out of a William S. Hart or Tom Mix moving picture, making me feel a bit foolish, but as I walked through the hotel lobby carrying my suitcase, people regarded at me with more than a semblance of respect. As I exited the hotel, I sensed a new, more confident self. Where once I viewed myself as directionless, I saw a clear path to the future. Even my stride was more assured, as if the possibilities of the uniform made me more eager to start my new job.

I stepped outside where the weather mirrored my euphoria. The sun shone brightly on the early September morning. As of yet, the humidity, so often a problem regardless of season, was within acceptable boundaries, a slight stickiness but not unduly uncomfortable. I followed the sidewalk to the rear of the courthouse where the department maintained half a dozen Model T Fords, ‘McCabe County Sheriff’ painted on the sides of each. Sheriff Jimmy John Haslip, a boot planted on