America 1929: John F. Kennedy, the Great Writer

Chapter 146 The Mountain People of Appalachia

Leaving the plains of Maryland, the pickup truck continued westward.

Several hours later, Arthur entered the heart of the Appalachian Mountains.

This is deep in the mountains where Maryland and West Virginia meet.

As the altitude continues to rise, traces of agricultural civilization on the plains completely disappear.

The people who live here, the Alabachian mountain people, are called "Hillbilly." The famous book "Hillbilly Elegy" by the vice president with his thick eyeliner was actually about the descendants of these people.

For a long time, these people have been considered ignorant and violent, and have suffered discrimination and persecution as a result.

For example, local governments in the United States at the time even planned to forcibly sterilize these people.

In 1927, the U.S. Supreme Court ruled in Buck v. Bell that the forced sterilization of a woman who was wrongly convicted of being "mentally challenged" was constitutional.

Subsequently, several states in the Alabacia region, including Kentucky, North Carolina, and Virginia, passed mandatory sterilization laws.

Social workers and doctors often include impoverished mountain people on sterilization lists on the grounds of "intellectual disability," "moral depravity," or "unfitness to raise children."

It is estimated that thousands of residents of the Alabacia region were forced to undergo sterilization in the 1930s alone, a trend that continued until the 1970s when it gradually came to an end.

Although Arthur was born in Scranton, he was not actually very familiar with the real Alabacia region.

It's as if he's now forced to slam on the brakes after a sharp turn.

The road ahead was completely cut off.

A huge red pine tree with a diameter of over one meter lies across the narrow mountain road, its trunk wedged at both ends against the mountain rock face and the edge of the cliff.

The cut showed very clear, fresh marks from two people sawing.

This appears to be a man-made roadblock.

Arthur didn't turn off the engine; he quickly reached for the shotgun under the passenger seat with his right hand.

But he didn't even have time to draw his gun.

Suddenly, fourteen or fifteen men, dressed in tattered flannel shirts and with faces covered in soot, stood up from the steep cliffs on both sides and from the bushes.

They were carrying old-fashioned Springfield rifles, double-barreled shotguns, and even deer hunting rifles with simple scopes.

A dozen or so dark gun barrels pointed downwards, forming a crossfire network with no blind spots, locking down every firing angle from the driver's cab.

"Turn off the engine. Take both hands off the steering wheel and slowly stick your head out the window. If you dare touch your belt, we'll smash your head into a pulp."

A young man standing on a rock to the right of the front of the car shouted loudly.

He had greasy red hair, a severe burn scar on his right cheek, and his eyes gleamed with an extremely excited and fierce light.

Arthur quickly assessed the situation.

Being pointed at by more than a dozen long-barreled firearms at a distance of less than ten meters, the result of drawing a shotgun would definitely be being riddled with bullets in an instant.

Faced with overwhelming firepower, any resistance is futile.

Arthur calmly released his right hand, turned the key to turn off the engine as instructed, and raised both hands out of the car window.

"Jeb, go and search him!" the red-haired man ordered a burly man next to him.

Two mountain people, guns at their ready, quickly approached, yanked open the driver's side door, and roughly dragged Arthur out.

They lacked the hypocrisy of the plains police who emphasized procedures; their actions were extremely primitive yet efficient.

One man pressed the butt of his gun firmly against Arthur's back, while another quickly searched his body and the carriage.

"Cletus! That bastard has a fully loaded Colt 1911 pistol on his belt!"

The burly man named Jeb pulled out the pistol from Arthur's waist and threw it to the red-haired man on the rock.

Jeb then climbed into the driver's seat, fumbled around for a moment, and let out a gasp.

"Good heavens! There's a pump-action shotgun under the passenger seat, the kind used for trench warfare! The barrel's loaded with big buckshot!"

The mountain people searching the area threw their Winchester shotguns to the ground. Then, something extremely deadly happened.

Jeb pulled the dark blue leather ID from the inside pocket of Arthur's coat.

The red-haired man, Cletus, jumped off the rock, snatched the document, and flipped to the inside.

He didn't know many words, but he definitely recognized the extremely conspicuous gold eagle badge of the U.S. House of Representatives, which was also the most hated badge among the Appalachian mountain people, and the word "investigator" below the badge.

Cletus's face instantly turned extremely gloomy and twisted, his eyes blazing with intense hatred.

"A lackey of the Washington government!"

In a fit of rage, Cletus slammed the documents into Arthur's face and spat a glob of phlegm onto the muddy ground in front of Arthur's boots.

"I bet you're either a tax policeman sent by the Ministry of Finance to crack down on illicit liquor, or a scavenger agent hired by the United Coal Mining Company to survey land! Dressed smartly, you came in with heavy close-combat weaponry to probe our territory!"

This was the extremely unique social ecology of Appalachian society in 1930.

Due to poverty, unemployed miners could only survive by brewing high-proof corn liquor in the deep mountains and exchanging it for flour on the black market.

The IRS agents often disguised themselves as passersby to search the mountains. Once they found a distiller, they would blow it up or even shoot and kill any resisting villagers.

Another, even more terrifying enemy, is the private armed detectives employed by large corporations.

After the coal mines were closed, the miners, having lost their value, became "illegal occupiers" who remained on the company's land.

The company would use government approvals to lead a large number of legally-licensed thugs into the mountains to carry out physical clearing.

Therefore, in the eyes of the mountain people, any stranger wearing a federal badge is an executioner who has come to take away their last sustenance.

"I am not a federal tax police officer, and I have no connection with any coal company."

Arthur calmly looked at the manic Cletus and explained.

"This document was just a cover I used to get through interstate checkpoints, to avoid trouble with the local police. My real identity is a writer from New York. I'm going to California."

"A writer? Do you think I'm some idiot who's just started gnawing on tree bark in the mountains today?"

Cletus thrust the barrel of his gun into Arthur's chest with tremendous force.

"A guy who wields a pen drives a heavy pickup truck with added crash bars? He hides a loaded automatic shotgun in his coat? That's standard equipment for those bastards at Baldwin-Fields Detective Agency!"

Cletus refused to listen to any explanations.

In this lawless and chaotic place, the trauma of extreme xenophobia and violence has destroyed any trust they have in the outside world.

"Save your nonsense for the King of Hell, you government bastards. Tie his hands! Take him and the car to Black Coal Valley and let Dad decide!"

Cletus shouted the order.