Open Season on Game Wardens
I
mentioned
earlier that both the man who preceded me ("Doc" Cox)
and the man who
succeeded
me (Cecil Bays) as Wise County Game Warden were shot
to death by
assassins.
They weren't the only wardens to die in the line
of duty in Southwestern Virginia during
those
years.
Harve
Carter, the
Scott County warden, was a lawman all the way. He
really worked at his
job, and tried to give all the people of his county a
fair shake.
One day
Harve
was in the ridge country between the foot of High Knob
and Clinch
River,
when he heard some shooting and went to investigate
it. No one ever
knew
exactly what happened after that, but Carter wound up
in a footrace
with
a hunter who was carrying a shotgun. He chased the man
down a path that
ran along the top of a ridge, both of them running
right past the
hiding
place of a fourteen-year-old boy who had ducked back
into some bushes
when
he heard them coming.
According to
the
boy's testimony later on, he heard shots from Carter's
pistol, and
heard
Harve shout, "Stop there, or I'll shoot you!" The boy
said that the
hunter's
reply was, "Yes, and if you don't stop shooting at me,
I'll have to
kill
you!"
A few
seconds
later the hunter stopped, crouching behind a big stump
as Carter
approached,
pistol in hand. Then he stepped out and shot Carter at
close range with
the shotgun, killing him instantly.
It was
several
days before the body was found, and several months
passed before the
boy
told his story to the law. A man named Flannery was
tried for Harve's
murder,
but was found not guilty by a jury of twelve men.
Most
officers
at some time or other have done just what Harve Carter
did--fire into
the
air while in pursuit of a fleeing suspect. What they
must realize is
that
this gives the suspect the right to
shoot
back in self defense.
Frank
Tompkins was
a big, husky ex-Marine, careless as well as fearless
in carrying out
his
duties as game warden.
I recall one
time
in 1933 when Frank and I decided to have a friendly
shooting match. He
went to the glove compartment of his car to get his
gun--an
automatic--and
it was so rusty you couldn't work the action by hand,
let alone fire
it.
That's how Frank was. He just didn't like to carry a
gun. (Later, the
Game
Commission made it compulsory for every warden to
carry a side arm at
all
times while on duty. This regulation came too late for
Frank, who left
a lovely wife and two or three small children in
Duffield when he was
killed.)
Frank
died
in a fight in a community store near the post office
at Clinchport, Va.
Witnesses offered several different versions of what
happened to
provoke
the fight, but all agreed that Frank had a man bent
backward over the
store
counter and was working him over with his fist when
the man pulled a
small-calibre
pistol out of his pocket and shot Frank several times
in the stomach.
The man
was
tried in Scott County, and given seven years in
prison.
My
old
buddy Joe Rose was making an arrest of a fellow named
Sparks for a game
law violation in Wise County when the man made a lunge
for Joe's
pistol.
In the tussle that followed, Joe was shot through the
foot.
Fortunately, Joe recovered. He was able
to
work for many years after that--but he always walked
with a limp.
I
never had
a better, more loyal friend than Cecil Bays. Our
closeness was
heightened
by the fact that I knew Cecil from the time he was a
baby; I knew his
people,
on both sides, and regarded them as some of the finest
people on earth.
And on top of everything else, Cecil was married to
Louella's sister
Ann,
making him and me brothers-in-law.
Bays was
a
hard-living, hard-driving man all his life. He was
tough as nails,
mentally
and physically, and he loved physical contact. He was
a high school
football
star at Norton High, and a "perfect Marine" in World
War II, going all
through the Pacific campaign and earning numerous
decorations.
As a
warden,
Cecil was known as a man with a very even
disposition--always fuming.
If
he didn't get involved in a fist fight or a
pistol-whipping about once
a month, he felt he wasn't giving the
taxpayers
their money's worth. But lacking as he might have been
in diplomacy, he
was an honest man; he was dedicated to his job, and he
was the kind of
officer that when the going got rough, you didn't have
to look around
to
see if he was still there with you. If he was your
friend, he'd walk
with
you right into the fires of hell.
The
last time I saw Bays alive was on Thanksgiving
morning, 1950. We met at
Joe Rose's place at six o'clock that morning, then
split into two-man
teams:
Bays was to work the fields (quail and rabbit
hunters), with a friend
named
Brownie Chaffin riding along for company, while Joe
and I worked the
mountain
(squirrel and grouse hunters).
About
7:30
p.m. that evening, two local officers came to my home
and called me
outside
to tell me that Bays had been killed--shot to death by
an unknown
person
or persons. I took my wife to Bays' home to comfort
her sister, then
joined
in the investigation of the murder.
The
story may best be pieced together this way: Bays and
Brownie Chaffin
picked
up a young acquaintance named Hollyfield during the
course of the day,
and late that afternoon the three of them drove across
the Kentucky
line
to have supper at a little restaurant. It was there
that Bays first
laid
eyes on the man who was destined to kill him a short
time later, though
there was no fuss or quarrel between them in the
restaurant. The woman
who ran the restaurant explained to Bays and his
friends that she would
not be able to serve them, because she was already in
the process of
closing
up.
Bays,
Chaffin,
and Hollyfield left the restaurant quietly and started
home. A short
time
later, they had stopped along the road to share a
drink of whiskey,
when
a car drove past and one or more of its occupants
hollered something at
them. There were four people in the car: the
restaurant woman, another
woman, and two male companions.
Bays and
his
party drove on to the town of Pound, Va. where they
stopped at a little
cafe to eat. After their dinner, Bays was impatient to
get on home. In
trying to hurry the others along, he walked out to his
car and put the
ignition key in the switch while they were still
inside. While he was
standing
there alongside his
car with the door on the driver's side
open,
he was shot from ambush and killed.
When the
identity
of the suspect became known to Norton police,
they purposely
withheld
the information from me. They figured that because of
my personal
involvement
with Bays, I'd be likely to start shooting the minute
I found the man I
thought was the guilty party. While I was chasing down
other leads, two
city policemen went to the home of one of the
suspects, a Norton taxi
driver
named Hembry. Both suspects were in Hembry's house,
and both were
armed.
A gunfight began as the officers approached the house.
Officer Jack
Banner
shot and killed Hembry, but the other suspect, Napier,
escaped by
jumping
out the back window. Sheriff Fleming, acting on a tip,
found Napier at
the St. Charles Hotel the following morning and placed
him under arrest.
Napier
was
arraigned and charged with Bays' murder , but on the
day the case was
to
be tried, the rival attorneys reached a compromise
whereby the charge
was
reduced to manslaughter. He pleaded guilty, and was
sentenced
to five years in prison.
Napier
was a hardened criminal who had done time for two
other murders in
Kentucky
before he killed Bays. I always suspected that he
might have been hired
to kill Bays by a lawless element with whom we had
been feuding .
After
pu1ling
two or three years of his five-year sentence, Napier
was paroled. A
short
time later, he got into a scrape in Neon, Ky., and
somebody blew his
head
off with a shotgun.
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