Chapter 1

Billy-Joe Henshaw was what anyone would call a flaming Red Neck! His souped up pick-up truck was his pride and joy. He could run Shine down back roads faster than a speeding ATF Agent in a super powered Corvette Cruiser. The Red Bullet, as he named his truck, was outfitted with couple of double barrel 12 gauge shotguns and a lever action Wini-35, all hanging on a gun rack in the rear window, just in case.

If anyone had an attitude that just splashed on the ground when he walked by, it was Billy-Joe. He was pushing five feet three with red hair flaming as bright as his Red Neck attitude. His squeaky voice sounded like it could break glass when he yelled, "Yee-Haw." He had more freckles than Mad Magazine's Alfred E. Neuman.

With the wide gap between his two front teeth, he almost could have been the model for that infamous cover guy. Even his ears mirrored that famous caricature making one think if he ran fast enough he would be able to fly.

His red plaid flannel shirt was always bright and so heavily starched it almost looked like he couldn't bend at the waist or move his arms. The shirt made him saunter like he was a muscle bound weight lifter or Martial Arts expert with bulging biceps. The shirt crinkled like thin patches ice make whenever he moved.

Silver studded, sliver-tipped, black cowboy boots was standard fare for him. He always wore a black broad rimmed ten-gallon hat along with blue denim jeans which completed his distinctive outfit.

Billy-Joe's hands were massive. If one or both of them pounded on a bar or table top, the entire room would shake from the impact. His swift right hook and his iron fist ended most arguments with whomever crossed his path or him.

Now, if Billy-Joe came up against someone ranging above six feet, dwarfing him, his alternate attack was a fast left jab to the groin, smashing his opponents family jewels. When the guy doubled over from the sudden impact his follow up would be his iron fisted, right uppercut, to the guy's jaw. His opponent would always wind up eating a healthy dose of floor. That instantly ended confrontations he had with giants.

Nobody crossed Billy-Joe in the back country. Nobody! Well, almost nobody. No guys did. Women were another matter. Billy-Joe had a very soft spot for them.

His home territory was the rolling hills and shallow valleys of south-western Kentucky and the adjoining northern Tennessee. Everyone knew him or his reputation throughout the territory. When a new batch of shine was ready to be delivered, if the run was going to be difficult, Billy-Joe was called in to be the prime mover.

Billy-Joe had never lost a delivery or been caught with a truckload of hooch. His strategy was very simple. When you are chased, dump the loot and scoot! After driving ten top speed miles over a twisting road with the Feds or locals in hot pursuit he'd let them catch up only to find nothing in his truck bed.

His secret was every few miles along any route he used for his runs was a blind spot. A place that was covered and camouflaged. After a sharp turn he could duck into a cutoff from the backwater road and without slowing down below 30 or 40 shove his pallet load off his truck and make it appear he had not stopped.

It was real simple. A ram on his truck and a hook on the pallet stopped the load dead in the blind as he sped off letting it sit there for him to retrieve it later. Even if the Feds were able to bring in a chopper, the move off the road and back would look like a route correction going unnoticed.

Not to say that he wasn't caught occasionally with a full load of five gallon jugs filled to the rim on board. He had to make the cops think he could be caught. It just kept the chase exciting. Of course, those trips where they were able to catch him, well, he was delivering water not hooch. After all, good clean water was just as valuable a commodity as sugar or corn for a still.

His favorite trip when he let them catch him was one where the Sheriff of that little notch in the state line on Tennessee's northwest corner, Stewart County, stopped him just a mile or so inside of the border. He knew the run was a setup. Billy-Joe had a nose for those things. Never trust anyone had been something he learned as a young tyke.