Special investigator Frank Hamer crouched behind a man-made screen of brush and vines.

It kept the six members of the posse hidden from sight.

The hill they'd perched on between the towns of Gibsland and Sales in Louisiana gave

them a perfect view of a small stretch of State Highway 154.

It was the morning of May 23rd, 1934.

Hamer and his men had already spent an entire night on the hill getting bit by chiggers

and mosquitoes and with nothing to drink but bad coffee.

Their patients started to wear thin.

The Louisiana air was hot and heavy and the men were just about ready to head indoors

for a while.

But Hamer kept his eyes on the road.

Down on the side of the highway, a man stood by a Model A logging truck that was up

on a jack.

He looked like nothing more than a motorist in need of some help.

Then they all heard the sound of a car.

Hamer glanced at his men.

They readyed themselves just in case.

They checked their weapons.

Each man had a browning automatic rifle, a 12-gauge shotgun and 245s.

You might have thought they were going to take on a small army.

A V-8 Ford came to a stop by the logging truck.

The men in the driver's seat greeted the stranded motorist.

...