BLAM—another shot rang out from the back seat, hitting the ATF agent in the upper left arm. The agent, his arm burning intensely, stuck his five-shot snub nose .38 into the car and emptied it at point blank range toward the gun flashes. Throwing down the .38, the agent pulled his .357 magnum. The moonshiner came out still shooting. The agent fired three more shots. Meanwhile, his partner had emptied his .38 and was reaching for his second gun. The agent was hit again, this time in the center of the chest, knocking him down. He propped himself up against the Chrysler and continued to exchange fire with the moonshiner, who was trying to take cover under a junked car.

"Federal officer—you’re under arrest," I said quietly, trying not to excite the man into alerting the other still hands. His eyes grew as big as saucers and his hands clawed at the sky. "Yes, sir! He gulped.

I had arrested several hundred moonshiners but had never seen one react like this. His eyes were glued on something just over my right shoulder. I glanced back, right into the muzzle of a cocked, nickel-plated .357. If the deputy had fired at the moonshiner from that position, it would have burned the hair off the side of my head and deafened me permanently. No wonder Ulysses was bug-eyed. I was, too.

I fired up the 172 and taxied over the rough runway to the end. How I could believe the four-cylinder, 145-horsepower engine, which wasn’t in top-notch condition, was going to get this overloaded flying machine into the hot summer air in that short distance, I’ll never know. It was an accident waiting to happen.