The Moonshiners
Ron Lewis
The Moonshiners
An Osceola County Adventure
Ron Lewis
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© Copyright 2022 Ron Lewis
This is a work of fiction and not intended to be historically accurate, but merely a representation of the times. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to any person, living or dead, is merely coincidental and unintentional. Historical characters used are strictly for dramatic purposes. This story contains some violence.
Authors note: There is no Osceola County in Oklahoma.
The Moonshiners
Osceola County, Oklahoma June 1965
Robert Forest Bain pulled a kitchen chair to the living room, climbed on the chair, and retrieved his .22 Winchester pump-action rifle from the rack on the wall. Climbing down, he put the gun against the wall. Returning the chair to the kitchen, Robert picked up the gun, four .22 long rifle shells from a drawer in the secretary, and sat down on the couch.
He extracted the inner tube from the outer and dropped the shells into the tube. Once he replaced the inner tube, he stood and headed out the door. With both his parents at work, he was free to have some fun, so long as he returned in time to make it to baseball practice at 5:00.
Living on the outskirts of Walkertown gave him quick access to the woods. The woods meant squirrels. He opened the gate and let his beagle, McCartney, out of the backyard to accompany him on the hunt. Kneeling, he petted the dog and rubbed his neck.
“I got four shells,” Robert said, “should be enough to get at least three squirrels. Let’s see if Papa wants to go with us, okay, McCartney?”
The two walked down the incline of the ridge toward the valley below. Walkertown sat on a long, flat-topped hill in Osceola County, Oklahoma. The ridge was shy of being a mountain by 200 feet. Halfway down the slope, a small white house stood in a large flat section. There was a dirt road that meandered down the hill from the dwelling.
“DP Bain,” the boy yelled, “You want to go a-hunting with me, you old man, you?”
The screen door opened. A short, somewhat round man, wearing a tall, wide-brim Stetson hat, a blue bib shirt, with a Colt single-action pistol strapped to his hip, sauntered onto the porch. The elderly man sat on the porch swing. He pushed the hat back on his head, patted the seat next to him, and called to the boy.
“Robert Forest Bain, you come up here an’ sit with me an’ don’t you be yelling at me like-n I was your damn dog, boy. Come here, McCartney,” the old man said, followed by whistling.
The dog rushed toward the old man, bounded to the porch, and jumped into the old man’s lap. Putting his front paws on the man’s chest, he licked the man on the lips.
“Deacon Patrick,” a voice yelled from an open window. “Don’t let that mangy dog lick your lips, you ole coot.”
“Yes, Kate,” Deacon said.
The dog realized the old woman was angry. In his mind, the beast reasoned, most likely, she was angry with him. McCartney jumped down, ran to his master, returned to the old man, and repeated the ever shorting journey as Robert approached his grandfather.
“Hi, Granny,” Robert said, coming up the steps to the porch.
“Hello, young man,” she said. “I see you got your Christmas present in tow. How’s she shoot?”
“Shoots right good, Granny, after pops put this broke match under the left side of the sight. I dropped the girl one day, early on, and damaged the sight a bit.”
“Guns are for target practice or killing game, not playing,” Kathrine Bain said.
“I wasn’t playing. I got her off the wall, and she slipped out my hand. It loosened up the front of the backsight where it attaches to the barrel. Pops wedged a broken matchstick in thar to keep her from a-flip-flopping.”
“Don’t be snippety with me, youngster,” Kate Bain said. “Or I won’t give you any apple pie.” Turning her attention back to her husband. “Hotter than Hades today, DP. I’m gonna turn on the swamp cooler, and then I’ll bring you fellers your pie.”
“Take your time, mother,” the old man said.
“Yeah, Granny Kate, don’t hurry on my account.”
“Like I would, boy,” she said with a smile and a hardy laugh. She tugged down the window.
“How old is Granny?” Robert asked.
“Nearly 72 years old,” Deacon Patrick said.
“And you?”
“When was my last birthday?”
“Last month, May 9th.”
“I was born in 1881, so how old am I? Or don’t they teach math in school no more?”
“Eighty-four, I reckon.”
“You reckon right. I guess you paid some attention in your schooling.”
“You gonna come squirrel hunting with me?”
“Well, let me calculate on it over pie and let you know afterward.”
“Figure you won’t,” the boys said, disappointed.
“Why?”
“You’ll need a pipe full of tobacco, a gallon of coffee, and maybe a nap,” he said. “And you’ll waste an hour or two thinking, then say no ‘cause it’s lunchtime.”
“Suppose you’re right,” he said. “I’m old, son. Not spry as I used to be.”
After the pie, Robert made his goodbyes to his grandparents and ventured down the dirt road to the bottom of the ridge. Skirting the state park, he made his way up to the edge of the small dugouts where bandits hid and lived back in the Nation days. There were at least twenty cars of tourists in the small park there.
The vehicles’ license plates ranged from as far away as Texas County to the far northwest to as close as Latimer County of the in-staters. The out-of-state cars had Texas, Arkansas, Kansas, and New Mexico plates.
A girl, perhaps the same age as Robert, sat at a picnic table. She was lovely, blonde, with wavy hair down to her shoulders, wearing a brightly colored dress and black buckle shoes. The young lady moved her feet as if she rocked. The child stared blankly around the park. Her gaze turned to Robert, and she grinned at him, did a slight finger wag of a wave, and motioned for him to come to her.
Raising his right hand high, he lowered it, motioned across his belly, and let his arm fall to his side.
Again, the girl motioned for him to come to her.
Robert raised his right fist, shook it lightly, two times, motioned from his left side with the same hand, pointing a finger to the north. He turned and walked away.
The girl hadn’t a clue he’d given her a Native American sign for hello and said no, I’m going this way. Letting out a small huff, she returned to her bored gaze at her parents and the other people poking around the park. She wished she had a bathing suit. The lake looked inviting.
She was a nice-looking girl, he thought. Brushing the thought of the lovely girl away, Robert’s mind soon returned to his quest. The boy had to find some squirrels. He hadn’t had squirrel stew in some time and hankered for his mom to fix some pestering his mind.
The temperature broke 85 degrees by 11, with 89 percent humidity. A fine mist covered the boy’s face and body. The dog’s tongue hung from his mouth, slobber drooling to the ground.
The boy walked a-ways, stopped, and waited. But no chattering of squirrels caught his attention. After a few minutes, he’d move a bit, stop, wait for a time, and travel deeper into the forest. Making his way up the side of a mountain, about a hundred yards, Robert stopped when smoke grabbed his attention.
On the level patch of ground, above him and to the east, stood a large kettle perched above a fire. A coil of copper sprouted from the top and wound downward to a large wooden bucket. A tent stood close to the still.
“Shiners, McCartney, cooking corn squeezing’s.”
At that moment, clouds covered the sun, and the temperature dropped. In a flash, rain fell, not hard, but rather, a chilly shower crept across the area.
Pulling his western-style hat from his head, Robert raised his head to the sky, letting the rain wash the sweat from his face.
“Feels good, don’t it, boy?”
“Yes, sir.” Gazing over his shoulder, Robert glanced at the man. He knew him.
Billy Bob King grinned back at the kid.
“Your daddy, send you here to spy on me, boy?”
“No, sir, I’m hunting,” Robert said as the shower slowed to a drizzle and stopped.
“Yeah? Well, shoot, already played out, did she?” King said.
“Yes, sir, the rain dried up already. Going to be muggier when the clouds move on.”
“What’s your name?” the man asked.
“I’m Robert Bain, sir.”
“Knew the Bain part, forgot the Robert. I’m…”
“Your Bill King. You’s the best running back Walkertown High School ever had. If not for the war, you’d been a college star and a pro. My daddy told me so.”
The man limped up to the boy.
“Your dad’s exaggerating a mite. I’d’ve given her a go, though, had this not happened.” He said, pointing down to his mangled leg. “Lost three toes and got me ruined knee to boot. Watch lively if you ever have to make war, and if you ever hear a clicket-click under your foot, well, hope to God you can get away from it. I jumped as far as I could as fast as I could, but… Well, I hope you never go off to war, Robbie.”
“Robert, if you please, sir, or Speed if you like. My ball coach gave me the nickname.”
“I seemed to remember some call you Bulldog. Do you not like that one?”
“Oh, yeah, I like Bulldog fine. Not sure where it came from.”
“You hold on to the ball, like a bulldog, when you block the plate. You going to tell your daddy about the still?” the comment wasn’t a threat, and Robert didn’t take it as one.
“No, sir, but he wouldn’t do anything about it. You know, the Yahola Accord is still in force.”
“After all these years? Your grandad and ole man Napier set that up, what, 40-some years ago,” Billy Bob said.
Billy’s younger brother hollered to them from higher on the mountain.
“What’s going on? Is that Sheriff Bain’s boy?”
“Nothing is going on,” Billy answered, gazing at his sibling. “Is that wood wet?”
“Not so much.”
“Put the wood on the pile,” Billy said.
“So, what you hunting, Bulldog?”
“Squirrels,” Robert said. In the distance came the clattering chatter of squirrels.
“I’d sure like me a squirrel for lunch,” cupping his hand to his mouth, “Chuck, would like a squirrel for lunch?”
“Oh, hell, yeah, I would.”
“I’ll give you two dimes, Robert, for two squirrels.”
“Make it thirty cents, and I’ll get you three.”
“Done,” Billy said.
“Be silent and stay still. Kneel. Tell your brother to be quiet for a spell, and I’ll get you guys three, Mr. King.”