CHAPTER

1

E d Farmer had four boys. All had reddish-blond

hair except for Jacob, whose hair was jet black.

Jacob had been born while Ed was in the penitentiary

for an unpaid moving violation that he refused to pay.

None of them Farmer boys had jobs. They were

moonshiners, and that was as good of a living as any-

thing in McDowell County, West Virginia.

Smokey—a fourteen-year-old, dark-haired boy

whose stature was more like a man’s but who had

the innocent face of a boy—made his way up to the

Farmers’ to buy a quart of liquor. He was buying it for

a regular get-together he had with his not-so-bright

but loyal friend Johnny “Do What” Bailey. He got

his nickname because no matter what you asked of

Johnny, his response was always, “Do What?”

Do What lived up the holler from Smokey and

had been in school with him since the second grade.

Both of their fathers worked in the coal mines.

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The Farmers lived just past Burke Mountain

outside of Keystone and Northfork, two of the bus-

tling coal-mining towns nestled in the heart of the

Appalachian Mountains. They had moonshine stills

hidden in several strategic locations; this made them

difficult to find but easy to destroy if the law happened

to be on a hunt.

The local sheriff, Donnie, didn’t bother with the

Farmers’ business. When he did get a whiff of trou-

ble brewing in the air, he would track down one of

the Farmer boys and ask them what Ed was up to

this time.

Smokey knew where the stills would be hidden. He

knew they needed to be near a source of freshwater, so

they were likely to be near a spring. The stills had to be

up a holler so that no stranger or hunter would stum-

ble upon the hidden operation. Finally, they had to be

as easy to set up as it would be to abandon so that if

they needed to, they could burn down the operation.

Smokey and his gang, on more than one occasion,

had been to the stills but left them just as they found

them. They didn’t want to risk the punishment they

might face for stealing; even a dip from the still could

mean a beating or worse.

Smokey and Do What would often hunt these stills

for fun. They had drawn out a treasure map of just

about every single one in the county. While Do What

and Smokey shared similar simple dispositions, they

did not share the same smarts.

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Smokey was both street smart and book smart but

paid little attention to school. He kept up his grades so

he could play baseball.

Do What was neither book smart nor street smart

but was as loyal as they come. He would stick up for his

friends and stand at attention at the first sign of trou-

ble. Smokey liked that about Do What. He appreciated

that what his friend lacked in intelligence, he more

than made up for with his devotion and commitment

to the small group of friends they called brothers.

Smokey told Do What that he would use his paper

route money to get the moonshine and that he could

chip in once he sold the rifle he had been trying to

hawk to old man Jenson for the last month with no

luck. Smokey figured Do What would be trying to sell

that old rusted good-for-nothing rifle for ages.

Smokey noticed the eldest Farmer son, Jacob,

leaning on the back of his truck. He had the rear tire

jacked up so that if the law wondered what he was

doing, he could say he had just been changing his flat

tire. Smokey was uneasy. He’d rather be dealing with

Billy; he was his age and they played ball together

on occasion. Jacob was sour to speak to and always

seemed to be ready for a fight. Though Smokey was

close enough to be seen, he wasn’t acknowledged by

Jacob at all.

The wind rattled the sycamore trees as it gusted

gently through the holler. The warm afternoon air

settled over the treetops.

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Jacob was bowlegged and had a large scar near

his eye, partially covered by his black hair. The scar

was deep and prominent and gave him the look of a

villain who had been scorned. The rumor was that

his father gave him that mark for burning a batch of

moonshine when he’d fallen asleep while they were

still cooking the sugar. The scar made Jacob look

like he might come unhinged at any minute and the

menacing grin he carried left you with an eerie feel-

ing that he might be destined for a shady future you

didn’t want any part of.

Smokey walked up and leaned on the rear bumper

of the 1946 rust-colored Chevy next to Jacob.

Without looking in his direction, Jacob asked,

“How many do you want?”

“Gimme two quarts,” Smokey said, intending

to give one to his pa and one for the brothers, and

handed him the money in change.

Jacob counted it and reached into the cab of the

truck. He grabbed two quart mason jars and handed

them to Smokey.

They exchanged a few words about baseball and

then said their goodbyes. Jacob wasn’t much for words

and, rather than spoil the semi-pleasant exchange,

Smoke immediately left with his jars stuffed in his

shoulder sack.

The Farmer family provided a good deal of moon-

shine to Cinder Bottom, the notorious, yet hushed

about red-light district in Keystone. Cinder, or the

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Bottom, as it was simply called, wasn’t far from Dead

Man’s curve along Route 52. Despite the small size of

the town, Cinder drew a steady stream of men looking

for liquor and ladies. The Farmers moonshine busi-

ness was just one of many. They weren’t the only shin-

ers in the county. It was important, in fact, for there

to be several outfits in operation; at any time the law

would take one down.

The crackdowns would happen whenever a bigger

judge was up for election or a new politician wanted

to make a name for themselves. They liked to say how

they had destroyed the devil’s brew at local churches

to win points with Holy-Roller voters. Everyone knew

that these raids were just stunts to make headlines.

Cinder Bottom was too important of a red-light dis-

trict to actually close it down.

Those who visited Cinder Bottom from the out-

side came for three reasons: to drink, to gamble, or

to find the company of a lady. Sometimes they came

for all three. It was a town built during the height of

the coal boom of the late 1800s. It served as a place

for the wealthy, the clergy, and politicians to have

the anonymity they required for their secret acts

where no one would say a word. It was an unspoken

rule that what happened in Cinder Bottom stayed in

Cinder Bottom.

Those who lived and worked in the area had an

understanding that no one would ever reveal the iden-

tity or the activities of the visitors. They had a small

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but prosperous life despite their remote location and

sometimes hard circumstances.

Cinder in the 1950s was a place that had experi-

enced racial integration for many years; there were

both colored brothels and bars that were frequented

by both whites and blacks. Some married white men

from the larger cities in the northeast would make

their way to Cinder to find a young black prostitute

to lay with and to enjoy the freedom not to be judged

or bothered.

Big Ma ran the most infamous colored whore-

house in Cinder and ruled her beer joint like a well-

oiled machine. She sold beers for a nickel and had

the jukebox playing with the latest music. There was

no sign for Big Ma’s place. The cinder block exterior,

weathered paint, and dusty windows made her place

seem almost abandoned. The entrance was in the

rear and, once you entered, it was as if the outside

world stopped.

Smokey and his gang were welcomed there to have

a beer but were seldom given any access to the back

rooms where the girls would wait and then bring their

johns to the back for a spell. Smokey and Do What

had had even gone to the back once to help Big Ma

paint one of the rooms. The room was nearly empty

except for a lonely bed and a small nightstand where

the only lamp in the room stood.

The room they painted was dark and smelled

musty. There were no doorknobs on the doors but

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the holes were still there and on occasion, the boys

had tried to peek into other rooms. Despite their

best efforts, the dimly lit rooms revealed nothing

but squeals.

The main room of Big Ma’s featured a long

wooden bar cluttered with ashtrays and a can to

make change for the jukebox and call for a girl.

Dim lights behind the bar cast soft light on the hazy

room and lit the faces of the patrons, both regulars

and newbies. They would chat as they guzzled their

drinks and waited for their turn. During the daytime,

Big Ma had Ernie the bouncer grill out on the back

porch and serve sweet tea to her girls in preparation

for the evening.

Ma was seldom seen during the day. She was

ashamed of the horrible acne that scarred her round

face. She preferred the soft light of the bar at night.

You could see how beautiful her features must have

once been. The scars seemed to reflect the life she had

led—her beauty had faded long ago. Her plump figure

still had the shadows of her youthful curvy body.

Sometimes, she could be found dancing at the end of

the evening when the patrons had finished the liquor

and the girls were done for the night.

Big Ma was kind to Smokey, offering him odd

jobs here and there to make some extra cash. It made

him feel important. He honored the code of Cinder

Bottom, and Big Ma knew he could be trusted.

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Smokey stashed his liquor in his jacket and headed

to the makeshift baseball field at the edge of town to

meet Do What to partake in a bit of moonshine before

they headed to the Hatler house, where the weekly

Friday night gathering of the brothers occurred.

The house was once a company home that miners

would rent from the mining company. There had

been a time when miners had no other choice but

to live in the company houses. The only homes you

could rent in the Holler were owned by the company.

The money they earned was spent at company stores

and went right back into the company’s pocket.

No matter how hard someone worked as a coal

miner, they never could seem to escape the com-

pany. Though the pay was better than any other job

in the county, it was impossible to scrape enough cash

together to get out of McDowell. The miners’ lives

were closer to indentured servitude than paid work-

ers. Workers could have a nice stove but they had to

work years to pay it off. Most folks just succumbed to

the life the company meant for them to have. They

learned to be happy to have a job, a roof over their

heads, and food to eat.

Many of the miners were immigrants or descen-

dants of immigrants like Smokey’s family, who had

escaped the hard life of the farms of North Carolina

to the city life that places like Northfork, Keystone,

and Welch had to offer. The dust-covered, black faces

of the men that filed out of the mines each evening

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were always a bit more worn down than they had

been the day before.

By this time, the miners led a less prosperous life

than the one that lured them to the mines from the

farms years ago. When Smokey’s father had come to

McDowell County, he had been drawn in by the run-

ning water and electricity in the company houses,

luxury not afforded on farm life. Over time, the hard

life of working in the mines had dulled the lure of

modern conveniences.

Smokey knew that the long-drawn faces of his

father and friends were not a sign of hope but a trap

that he never wanted to be a part of. He vowed that if

he could find a way out, he would.

Smokey remembered that he needed to drop off

the other quart of moonshine to his father. He had

used his paper route money to buy both quarts of

liquor—one for his father and one to share with the

brothers. He never asked his father for money to buy

his moonshine, but on occasion, his pa would give

him a few half dollars and tell him to keep the change

so that he would have some walkin’ around money.

Smokey figured the least he could do to repay him

was the gift of some firewater in return.

When he arrived home, he presented his father

with the quart of moonshine and watched as he took a

long drag from his cigarette. He motioned for Smokey

to set the quart jar on the railing.

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Smokey peered at his reflection in the window

and ran a comb through his already slicked-back dark

hair before making his way off the porch. His father,

whose face was still covered in soot from the mines,

called to him.

“Smoke!” he hollered from the back stoop. “Go

help your mama put away those potatoes in the root

cellar before you go.”

Without questioning, Smokey hurried around to

the cellar and hauled the twenty-pound sack of pota-

toes down to the root cellar. He hated going down

there. The cellar was dark and wet, but the real trouble

was the memory that surfaced each time he stepped

down the stairs. It haunted him like a monster under

a child’s bed. He had only been five at the time of the

incident, but he had never forgiven himself.

He dropped the potatoes and hurried back

upstairs, slamming the cellar doors shut as if to trap

the memory once again in the darkness. He rushed

back to his pa and told him he was going to hang out

with Do What and he would see Pa in the morning

after his paper route. His father, a man of few words,

didn’t even gesture. He continued to stare into the

distance, as if he was longing for someone to return.

Perhaps he wanted to return to the hard but pleasant

life of the farm.

Back on the old family farm in North Carolina,

people made daily pilgrimages to fetch water from

the natural springs. The waters were said to have

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incredible, magical healing properties for those who

were afflicted with all kinds of ailments. Smokey’s

Aunt Annie, who lived a simple primitive life on the

family farm, had never married. She treated her farm,

her animals, and all her kin as her own children. She

was a wiry-framed woman with a grip of a sailor and

a mouth to match. She reeked of tobacco, which she

grew and dried herself, and of goose feathers from

her handmade feather bed.

Smokey had fond memories of visiting Aunt Annie

every summer. The solitude of her farm seemed to

protect Annie from the progress of the world that

advanced around her. She still fetched her water from

the spring each morning before firing up the wood-

burning stove to cook and make her coffee. She didn’t

seem to enjoy the simple life as much as she seemed to

belong in it. No matter how much her kinfolk wanted

to provide her with more modern conveniences, she

always reverted back to the simple ways of her youth.

The electric stove that Smokey’s dad and bothers

installed sat unplugged like a piece of furniture. She

refused to use it and relied on the woodburning stove

for heat, even in the coldest of winters.

Annie reminded Smokey of the simple times that

his family must have once enjoyed before the mines,

before the mine company had arrived and began to

rip the coal from deep within the earth.

Those simple days were long gone for McDowell

County, and the idea of returning to such a rural

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simple existence was never a consideration of anyone

in coal country, though the life of the miners was

hard. At least their kids could attend school and have

a chance to get a better wage.

Smokey was one of the few boys his age that had

a proper job. He’d had his paper route for almost

four years, ever since he was ten years old. He inher-

ited it from Do What’s older brother who had left

for the Navy. He had tried to give it to Do What, but

he could never remember the route or the houses

or would forget to collect the monthly fee for the

papers and thus lost his paycheck to cover the losses.

Do What figured that if he gave the route to Smokey,

then he could enjoy the Friday evening liquor run

and at least get some of the benefits that the paper

route provided.

Smokey didn’t mind the job so much; he was

able to get some exercise and visit with a few friends

along the way. It kept him busy after school and pro-

vided $1.75 a week, just enough for his moonshine and

a quarter for a few snacks during the week. Smokey

dreamed of bigger things, but the paper route would

do until he got a real job one day, far from the mines.

He never told his father about his dreams. He feared

that his father would think that he didn’t believe the

life of a miner was good enough for him. He appreci-

ated his dad’s hard work, but he also remembered the

day they received the news that his grandfather had

been in a mining accident. A slab of stone had fallen

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on him, breaking his back. He lived hunched over

now, constantly in pain.

Smokey knew his grandfather’s lungs were as

black as his father’s face after a shift at the mine. He

feared that his dad might die there, a fate that he

never wanted to have for himself. But for those who

lived in McDowell County, it seemed inevitable that

the boys would grow up to work in mining in some

way or another; there was nothing else to aspire to.

Going back to the farm was seen as a step backward.

No one would ever consider that, no matter how hard

it was there in the coalfields.

Smoke waved to his father, who finally acknowl-

edged him with a raise of his now three-quarters-full

quart of moonshine. Smokey scurried off before his

mother asked him to do more chores. He wanted to

play ball in the field with his friends as he did each week

but worried his mother would ask about his chores. It

would be a stretch of the truth to say that he had com-

pleted them. She didn’t approve of his sneaking around

and didn’t like his habit of smoking and would have a

fit if she knew he was drinking all night as well.

Smokey could see Do What heading down the

road, so he picked up the pace to meet him.

They walked on the shoulder of the main road

that passed through Keystone to avoid the careless

drivers that wandered too close to the faded solid

yellow line. Smokey liked walking with Do What

because he observed the strangest of meaningless

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details. He would stop and ask Smokey if he noticed

the way the leaves seemed to be dancing when the

wind howls.

Today, Do What’s gaze was fixed overhead.

“Smoke, have you ever wondered why the sky

seems like it never ends?” he asked.

“Ah, hell, Do What, how in the heck would I know?

I think it’s something about the gases that form the

atmosphere,” Smokey said.

“Man, you are smart, Smoke. That sounds right,”

Do What said.

These kinds of questions intrigued Smokey.

Do What wasn’t like his other friends; in fact, Do What

was often the butt of the joke among the rest of the

brothers. Smokey never let it go too far and would cut

them off if they got out of control. Some fun was fine,

but he didn’t want to see his friend hurt, and when he

had enough, he let them know.

It was on these walks to the field that Do What

seemed to cherish the most. He was such an old soul.

It was like he was an eighty-year-old freshman. An old

man in a kid’s body. He often forgot things and didn’t

really have any other true friends besides Smokey,

which suited him fine.

As they rounded the last curve before they were at

the baseball field, they saw an unusual sight.

Ahead of them, the sheriff had pulled over to

the shoulder. He was speaking with a man in a fancy

Thunderbird, definitely not from around Keystone,

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but maybe a car from the regular visitors from bigger

cities coming to Cinder Bottom to have a weekend

of fun.

As the boys approached, they noticed that the

sheriff and the man were not having a casual conver-

sation. Smokey quickly grabbed Do What’s arm and

pulled him into the trees off the shoulder.

“Hey, why’d you do that?”

“Shh, quiet or they’ll spot us,” Smokey barked. He

led them around the road, heading up toward the tree

line where an old deer trail followed the road.

When they got close to the sheriff and the stranger,

they crept quietly toward the cars. They crouched in

silence, straining their ears to hear.

“Naw, I ain’t seen anyone like that here in Keystone,”

said the sheriff.

“Now, are you sure you haven’t seen anyone with

that description?” the man asked.

“I told you what I know and I know everything that

goes on here, who’s coming and who’s going, and I’m

telling you I haven’t seen him,” the sheriff answered.

“Besides, what did he do that you Feds want him so

bad anyway?”

“That, sir, is official state department business.”

The man handed the sheriff his business card. He

stared at it, unsure what he was supposed to do with it.

“Call me if you hear or see anything,” the man

said. “This is a matter of great importance. We need

to find that man, but you mustn’t involve anyone

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else, you understand? We need your cooperation in

this investigation.”

Sheriff Donnie liked the idea of being on the

inside of an official investigation. He was used to the

Feds coming to hunt out moonshine stills to prove

that no illegal liquor would be tolerated. These

raids were more of a statement to the bosses back in

Washington than a real investigation. This seemed

different. Something about the man’s tight lips told

Sheriff Donnie that this was serious business.

“Yes, I understand,” the sheriff said, wiping the

sweat from his brow. He felt like he was being ques-

tioned by his high school principal. The man said

nothing further, turned around, and headed back

down the road away from Keystone.

The sheriff raised his hat and scratched his head,

looked at the card, then tossed it on the ground,

and got back in his police car. He drove off toward

Keystone.

Smokey waited to be certain the two cars were out

of sight, then he headed to the road to fetch the card.

“Hey, Smokey, wait for me,” Do What said, hur-

rying forward to see what he had discovered. “What

does it say?”

The card had the official state department seal,

and the name “Max Tucker, Agent on special assign-

ment” was printed on the card with a phone number.

Smokey stared at the card. Something didn’t seem

right. Why would a man from the state department

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be looking for a man in Cinder Bottom? Who was he

looking for? And what had he done? They were too

far away to hear the full description of the man, but

Smokey had managed to hear something about the

man being blond with blue eyes.

“Let’s keep this between you and me, you hear?”

Smoke said sternly.

“Do What?” Do What was already looking up at

the trees, looking at the outline the leaves made when

the sun shone through them.

“Do What, don’t tell anyone about the sheriff and

that man, you understand?”

“Oh, yeah, got it. You can trust me, Smokey. I won’t

say a word.”

Smokey knew that Do What was trustworthy,

but he worried sometimes that he would slip up.

Sometimes Smokey felt he was just plain dumb and

knew he had to be specific about what he agreed to.

“Don’t mention the car, the strange man, and the

sheriff. Got it?” Smokey ordered again.

“Got it,” Do What answered. “Can we go now, and

can I have one of your cigarettes?”

Smokey was always willing to share if he had extra

and he handed him a Pall Mall he had stolen from

his brother’s secret stash in his sock drawer. He had

hiding places for just about everything: cigarettes,

moonshine, and dirty magazines. Smokey knew all of

the spots. He knew that his bother would never con-

front him; if he did, he knew he could be ratted out.

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It was an unspoken rule that Smokey would take two

cigarettes a week, not more.

Smokey struck the match, lit both cigarettes, and

handed one to Do What. They wandered down the

road to meet the brothers. They walked in silence,

taking long drags on their cigarettes, but Smokey’s

mind was racing. Who was the strange man, and who

was he looking for? What had he done?

When they were almost to the baseball field,

Smokey began to wonder if the man really was ever in

Cinder Bottom. What if this man wasn’t in trouble or

wanted? What if he was missing? He tried to tuck his

questions to the back of his mind but they nagged at

him as they arrived at the field.