THE MOONSHINER’S SONG

  In 1925 Ouray was still unmistakably a mining town. There had been ups and downs but the mines were still employing hundreds and yielding almost immoral tons of precious ore. There were plenty of churches and plenty of brothels. The Utes had long gone, replaced by new immigrants from Italy, Ireland and Eastern Europe. Most were thirsty fellows and ladies.

     The only thing missing were the boisterous saloons of frontier living. The temperance folks had had their way. Prohibition was in full swing with ax-wielding do-gooders saving the population from the evils of demon rum. They had failed to convince the thirsty and the great unwashed as to the moral implications of boozing, so they  simply legislated them into dusty submission. The noble experiment doomed to failure.

     One man, set on making a living in his hometown, saw a window of opportunity. His family had made what they called mountain dew, or hooch since coming to the San Juans in the late 1880s. Then they sold it more out in the open. Today’s whiskey runner would have to be more careful. Although the authorities generally turned their backs when it came to the sins of the populace, one never took that benefit for granted. Only last spring the police had reluctantly arrested two Montrose men for selling bootlegged whiskey. Now the two were in jail and their families were hungry. What good did that do?

     Abe Morrow had served in France during the war. He was convinced that the teetotalers had conspired against the doughboys during a time of national emergency. They had stabbed them in the back with all this Prohibition. If men in France forgot the horror of war with a good bottle (or three) of French wine what harm was done?

     By 1925 the nation had settled back into what historians call the Great Dry Spell. Morrow, now approaching 3o years of age had a thriving business. His stills ran all day and he ran around all night satisfying the needs of his customers from Silverton to Dallas. It always amazed him how happy they were to see him. Very little sales work. Just a good sense of public relations and jugs of excellent souma, white lightning or poteen.

     Most of his elixir was safe enough to drink and varied in quality and barter capacity. It was rumored that he distilled a sort of kosher whiskey and some powerful bailie, distilled from sorghum, that he sold to the Chinese in town and even up n Silverton, when the opportunity presented itself. He had to be careful not to step on the toes of other moonshiners who did not appreciate the intrusion into their territory and often met Asian customers at the top of Red Mountain Pass.

     But most of his customers were miners, good hard working people in need of a good whistle wetting after a long shift underground.

     He was looking good, but he needed to take on a partner, someone who could run the operation when he got too old. A bachelor, Abe had no kids to bring into the business. His prospects must know about hard woods and where to get them for a smooth taste. They had to study his bottling procedures. They had to be good in the woods at night. They had to shut their mouth about this and that. They had to be aware of what cops were also customers and which ones would be trouble. Most of all, they had to be honest…yes honest, with the customers and with Abe too.

     Since most of his potential associates were employed, he would have to search the ranks of newcomers, or teach some kid the grist mill and mash trade before he embraced some other profession. The population of newcomers was peppered with a sad assortment of ragamuffins and scalawags and that was on a good day. He didn’t want to hook up with his competitors, the Carlson Boys, down valley because then he would have more than a partner, he’d have a boss. The same would go for alliances in San Juan County.

     One afternoon as he was headed up to work up Hayden Mountain he noticed a young man coming out of the miner’s union. He knew the kid. His name was Richards. The two had stopped and talked before. His father had been killed at Belleau Wood in 1918. His mother had died of scarlet fever a few years later. Like many of the town’s younger men he had been rustling a job at one of the local mines. At present he said he had few prospects other than nipping at the Old Maid or tending to cranky mules up at the Camp Bird.

     There were always jobs in the coal mines but that was far more dangerous work and besides, he had hard rock mining in his veins.

     Morrow told Richards he was on his way to work and that he might be looking for some help later in the week. He was afraid to say more, but he needed to start somewhere. He felt like a high wire performer, sans net at his first practice session.

     “I know what you do,” said Richards. “I see you coming and going. I don’t drink myself or I might have sampled your wares.”

     Abe was dumbstruck. He thought he had covered his tracks better than this. He always took the back roads and never even drove his empty delivery wagon into town. He figured that the miners thought he was a rancher and the ranchers thought he was a miner. He hauled around an assortment of serious-looking tools that he had no use for simply to keep nosey sniffers off the scent.  This kid was paying attention.

     “So what is it that I do?” he finally asked.

     “You deliver milk,” was the answer. “Mother’s milk, I suspect.”

     Both men laughed. Abe carefully cross-examined Bobby Richards, attempting to sort out opinions on the morality of the liquor business.

     “You looking for a job?” he asked.

     “Yeah, I’m getting tired of sweeping up and hustling newspapers at the brothels. I think I’m ready for a new career, something stable, with a future.”

     “Have you checked at the bank?” smiled Morrow, looking Richards square in the eye.

     “No money in that,” said the younger man. “Is this a job interview?”

     “Maybe, but I’m having trouble with where to start,” said Morrow.

     “Got some deliveries tonight?” asked Richards. “I can drive, you can drop.”

     “I’ll think on it,” said Morrow without sharing further secrets.

     Although his recent successes were closely aligned with keeping his business to himself, Morrow knew his prayers had been answered. The next day he approached Richards on the street.

     “Still want that job?” he asked.

     “Sure, except for the fact that I start my policeman training on Monday.”

     Abe’s heart stopped. Was the kid serious? Nobody was smiling. Here in his first attempt at expanding his services he had just hired a cop, or at least a rookie one. He froze.

     “Don’t worry about me, Mr. Morrow. Everyone knows about your war record, how you were a hero and all. Even my dad talked about you in his last letters from France,” he said. “I have no problem with you. Even a cop takes a drink once in a while, illegal or not. Ain’t none of us voted for this Prohibition business anyway.”

     Abe began to sweat. He had been so careful and yet this kid knew all about him.

     “Lot’s of people know who you are and what you’re doing,” said Richards. “As far as they’re concerned you’re not hurting anyone…You’re just providing a needed service. The marshal and a lot of others don’t want anyone else coming in here upsetting the cart, no matter what the cargo.”

     “So you won’t turn me in?” he choked.

     “What for?” laughed the kid, “and if my new job doesn’t work out I might consider going to work for you. I think I’d be good at it.”

     “No doubt,” thought Abe as the two parted ways. “I’d better move my copper kettles nonetheless,” he mused as he headed out of town.

     As he made his way up past Ironton Park, Morrow took time to reevaluate his security procedures wondering how many other people knew his business. The money was too good to stop smuggling booze but he might have trouble sleeping from now on. Prison was not a part of his agenda.

     He was far too afraid to conduct any more job interviews. He would remain a one-man enterprise, at least for the time being.

     From time to time over the next few years Morrow would watch a young railroad cop walk his beat in Montrose. It was Richards. The new job had worked out fine but neither felt comfortable to resume earlier conversations.

     Life goes on.

     On February 20, 1933 a Lame Duck session of Congress passed the Twenty-first Amendment to the Constitution, repealing Prohibition. It ended an era of gangsters and widespread disregard for the law. It also killed Abe’s moonshine operation and he was forced to find another, more suitable occupation. One place he didn’t look was in the area of law enforcement.

– Uncle Pahgre