“There is a wrong organization in Pontotoc, Seminole, Pottawatomie…counties, the purpose
of which is to resist the draft law.”
—Ada Weekly News, August 2, 1917
Following Rob Gunn and Dick Miller from Boynton to the rebel headquarters outside of Sasakwa wasn’t easy for Scott and Trent. Scott wished mightily that Rob had just left town on his own never to be heard from again. But as it was, he felt he had no choice but to see for himself what was Rob was up to and stop him if he could. If Rob was planning to join the insurgents just as Sheriff Duncan and his posse converged on the slacker army with guns blazing, there wouldn’t be anything Scott could do to keep the situation from going to hell. Rob would either end up dead or in Leavenworth.
Trent met up with Scott at the jailhouse before dawn with two saddled horses in tow, and were well hidden by the time Rob rendezvoused with his contact. Miller picked Rob up in an automobile, which caused the men on horseback some consternation at first. But the roads were so bad that Miller and Rob spent about as much time pushing the auto out of ruts and changing flat tires as they did driving in a forward direction. Sometimes the lawmen had to spend half an hour at a time sitting in the saddle, watching them from the woods off to the side of the road. It was late in the afternoon by the time they got where they were going.
Scott and his deputy dismounted and followed along on foot as the straining auto headed deeper into the trees. It wasn’t long until they began to hear voices ahead. A lot of voices. Scott motioned to Trent and they stopped as Miller’s auto ground to a halt twenty feet ahead of them.
Trent followed Scott’s lead and tied Brownie’s reins to a skinny blackjack before the two of them crept forward. They were at the bottom of a craggy hill. A red flag flapped from a pole at the crest, near a broad, flat tree trunk. Trent drew a breath. There were at least a couple hundred people gathered in the clearing.
Scott surveyed the situation for some minutes. By following Rob he had found the rebel army. Yet he was disappointed that he was not going to be able to do anything for his shirttail kin. It was too late. Rob was in the middle of the enemy camp. “I think we’d better withdraw,” Scott whispered. “Let’s ride south and see if we can meet up with Duncan and his posse before they get here.”
The two men scooted backwards on their bellies until they were far enough into the woods not to be seen, then crept back to where the horses were tied.
Someone was there ahead of them. Standing at Brownie’s shoulder was a rough-looking old man in overalls and bare feet. He greeted them with the barrel of a shotgun.
“We’ve come to join the revolution,” Scott said, without missing a beat.
“Your tin badge says otherwise,” the man replied. “But I ain’t one to judge. What’s the password?”
Scott knew they were sunk. “Don’t know. But I finally had enough. I want to join up.”
The old man wasn’t buying it. “Reckon you can join after I tie you up to yonder persimmon tree. Go ahead on, then, and don’t make any quick moves or I’ll send you both to hell.”