Elisha Andrus, Or Uncle Lisha, As Most of His Friends Called Him

Old Uncle Lisha

Elisha Andrus, or Uncle Lisha, as most of his friends called him had a ruddy sun-creased face, with a quick smile, and boundless energy and enthusiasm. He was a tall and rangy deputy sheriff. Lisha spent part of his life in Acadia Parish, arriving in 1901. Most of the more mature citizens of Acadia Parish remembered the fiddle-playing deputy in the era when Acadia was still St. Landry Parish. Wherever Lisha went he brought and played his fiddle. He was one of Sheriff Curly C. Duson’s Deputies.

Lisha liked to tell the story about the time he and Sheriff Curly Duson, along with another deputy, went to an area northeast of Alexandria, Louisiana, in search of two criminals running from the law after a killing rampage. Sheriff Duson and his deputies arrived during the night at the old dilapidated house where the two well-armed desperados were known to be hiding out. A congealed mass of smoke hung motionless above the chimney. The house had once been an impressive, multi-gabled construction. The lawmen spent a restless night keeping an eye out on the old building and waiting till there was enough daylight to storm the structure.

When gray light started filtering through the trees, Sheriff Duson’s eyes popped open. Patience was one of Curly’s least favorite virtues.

The horses’ nostrils issued intermittent billows of vapor that vanished instantly into the bone-dry air, while overhead, the stars winked out one by one. In the east, the sky had begun to turn silvery, and the air felt damp and heavy. Somewhere, thunder began to grumble in the distance.

In the cold-gray pre-dawn hour, Sheriff Duson gave instructions to his two deputies. He whispered, “They will probably shoot the first man through the door, but don’t mind me,” he ordered. “Beat down the door and take them. Don’t get rattled, no matter what happens.”

And because the sheriff was his idol, Uncle Lisha said in hushed tones, “Sheriff, let me go through the door first. I’ve got no family and you have.”

“Thanks Elisha,” was the brusque reply. You’re not married, it’s true, but I’m the Sheriff of St. Landry Parish. Fall in behind.”

Elisha Andrus raised his right hand and touched his brow with his forefinger in what might have passed for a salute.

The sheriff’s mind was as clear as distilled spirits. It was going to be the best of times or the worst of times—or so one would conclude from the tea leafs. Together, they stormed the house in a hail of gunfire. And the rest as they say, is history.