The year was 1925 and the night was cold and damp, the air biting at the two men’s noses as they walked towards the only light in the distance, each of them holding a wooden box in their hands.
Jonnie Hargrove, the older brother, was a wiry built, dark-complexioned, one-eighth Cherokee man of 25 years; he stood 5 foot 9 inches tall, had buzzcut hair, and a very close shaven mustache and goatee combo.
Stetson Hargrove, the youngest of the two brothers, stood 5 foot 10 inches tall, had a clean-shaven face, had only a slight dark complexion, and a toned/athletic build. His hair was hidden under a burgundy, long-billed fedora, and he wore a long, heavy, dark-blue topcoat that hid the clothes beneath.
Stetson and Jonnie had grown up, the sons of a hard-working father who had a great job in the oil industry until around the time the Depression hit, and he was laid off.
Seeking help from the government and finding none, Rocky devised a scheme with his two sons: make and sell beer, moonshine, and whiskey, and tonight, his two sons were carrying out a delivery for their father: delivering whiskey to a local business owner.
Stetson’s breath turned to smoke as they approached the door of the old shack, and he reached out and knocked, stepping back afterwards and waiting.
“You alright?” asked Jonnie.
Stetson nodded, shaking from the cold as he spoke.
“Yeah, just… the wind… if it wasn’t for the wind, I’d be fine.”
Jonnie nodded. “Yeah; don’t worry, we’ll be back home soon.”
“Why isn’t he coming to the door?” asked Stetson, sniffing hard after as snot started run from his numb, frozen nose.
“Knock again.” Said Jonnie.
But before Stetson could, five men stepped out the shadows from around the shack, shotguns in their hands.
“That’s it, boys! Drop the boxes, step back away from them and put your hands in the air.” Said the tall, bearded man.
“Revenuers.” Said Jonnie under his breath.
“I can see the badges.” Said Stetson under his breath.
Jonnie nodded. “Just do as I say and….”
Before Jonnie could finish, Stetson threw his box at the nearest agent and dropped to one knee.
“Stetson, NO!” Jonnie protested.
But it was too late to stop now; Stetson crossed his arms and reached under his colt before rapidly drawing two Colt M1911 pistols and firing three shots into the Revenuer agent that he’d just assaulted, with one pistol, and firing a single shot through the skull of another that was positioned about five yards from him, on his right.
Jonnie kept his hands high above his head until he saw another one of the agents step forward and level his shotgun at Stetson; Jonnie leaped onto the man, tackling him to the ground and driving his long-bladed knife into his back several times.
“Stop! I’ll shoot!” said an old, Irish-Man with short red hair and leathery skin.
But before he could shoulder his weapon, Stetson swung his right arm around and fired two shots into his stomach.
“Next time do it instead of talking about it.” Said the young, clean-shaven, 22-year-old, young man.
“Stetson!” Jonnie shouted as he pointed towards the last Revenue Agent, who was trying to run away.
Stetson nodded as he stood up, squinted through the blinding snow, aimed his pistols, and emptied them into the man’s back.
Within seconds afterwords, Jonnie stood, shaking his head as he looked around at the 5 dead agents, as Stetson was searching all of them and taking their money.
“You hot-headed, simple-minded, son of a…”
“Shut up.” Said Stetson as he shoved blood-stained money into his inner-jacket pocket and smiled, his teeth almost shimmering in the light of the shack, as he stood there, half in the in light and half in the shadows.
“83 dollars; we made even more than what we would’ve if we’d have sold the stuff.”
Appalachian Post 
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