by John Babb
“Missus Durham, I need your advice on something. I’m interested in starting a business—possibly here in Keetsville—and I wonder if you’d tell me what kind of store the town needs. That is, what kinds of goods do you need that you can’t get in Keetsville?”
Sue interrupted. “That would be wonderful to have my only kin so close by.”
“Well, that’s what I was thinking too. Other than you and the people I met here, I really don’t know a soul in the whole country. Or if I do, I wouldn’t know where to find them.”
Minnie responded to his question. “So many stores got burned-out or run-down during the war, there’s a lot of things we need that we can’t get here. It seems like every two weeks John and I have to go into Cassville. There’s a general store downtown, but they’ve only got the basic necessities.”
“Can you tell me some of the things you’ve had to buy in Cassville lately?”
“Right now I need some canning jars and lids to put up some rhubarb preserves. I can’t find a spool of thread here in town—let alone a decent bolt of calico. We all have to go to Cassville for clothes and shoes. I need lye for some soap I want to make. Sue needs curtains in their bedroom. That sorry grocer never has a decent vegetable in his store. We buy all our garden seeds in Cassville, even seed potatoes. I’d love to have a good feather pillow. And I broke the handle off my only decent cook pot. Matt complained that he had to go to Cassville to buy ammunition, and he was afraid the Yankees would figure he was a bushwhacker.”
“Maybe I should have asked what you can buy here.” B. F. laughed.
“If you need farm tools, you’re in luck. There’s all kinds of livestock supplies. You can get a horse shod in three places. There’s basic groceries, but when I wanted some white sugar to bake Sue’s wedding cake last week, Mister Brown’s General Store couldn’t help me. So we ended up with that apple cake instead of the angel food we wanted. You can get a tooth pulled at the barbershop. And we got a doctor—or at least we got a man who says he’s a doctor—but he only gives out camphorated opium and Hinkle’s pills. So all he knows how to do is make you go or make you stop. And thank the good Lord—the nerves of half the men in town are safe, because Peevey’s Dram Shop made it through the war without a mark on it. In fact, both sides were downright careful not to damage that particular business. So you can see, we’ve got all the modern conveniences.”
B. F. assured her the information was very helpful, and made his way down to the business district of town. Of course, the “business district” consisted of not more than nine stores in operation. At least a half-dozen buildings had been burned to the ground, four or five more were severely damaged or just deserted, and numerous bullet holes were visible in every building on the street. There were two cannon balls—probably from a six pounder—buried in the trunk of an old red oak beside the livery stable.
He could tell very little about the condition of the empty buildings by trying to peer in the windows, so he visited J.M. McClure (Esquire—in case you didn’t think he was the real thing), who seemed to be the only attorney in Keetsville. It wasn’t necessary to search courthouse records for any of the buildings in town. Mr. McClure had been one of the town’s earliest residents, and he not only knew the owner of every store, but probably more history about each of them than they would have cared to acknowledge.
B. F. asked about a building along the main thoroughfare with a long frontage. Apparently, it had once possessed two large windows in front, but they were busted out and boarded up. The front of the store looked like it once had a long front porch on it, but the posts supporting the roof were in various stages of decline, imparting a sad droop to the face of the place.
The building had previously housed a seed and feed store, which belonged to Norwood Barefoot. Or at least it had until he was killed in a stagecoach holdup about six months earlier. His widow, Esther Barefoot, had inherited the property, but, Mr. McClure confided, she was no longer welcome in the town. “Norwood was at least twenty years older than his wife, and he stayed on the road a lot after the war started. I don’t know that any of us knew what he was doing—some said he was a spy. But anyhow, the seed and feed business really didn’t do well a’tall with him gone so much. Esther had lots of time on her hands, and you know what they say about idleness and the devil.
“Anyway, there were several Yankees that spent a lot of time in the store, and the story got out that Esther was, well, indulging in collaboration horizontale with what appeared to be an enthusiastic percentage of the soldiers quartered in Cassville, so as to keep herself in whisky. But her spreading the joy around was going on long before Norwood got himself killed. Some even say she was providing information to the Yankees about some of the people here in town. Two or three of the local men finally told her to get outa town or they were gonna shave her head bald. Now that Norwood is dead and buried, I’m supposed to sell the place for her—but she’s long gone to St. Louis.”
It seemed that the building had not been opened in months, as the appearance inside was not much different from the spiders and wasps he found in the house he had bought the day before. There was not a whit of evidence in the place that it had ever contained seed and feed supplies except for the remaining odor of moldy grain. Save a half dozen shelves, a counter, and a wood stove, the place was entirely empty.
B. F. walked around the bare walls, trying to determine just how much work would have to be done on the place. There were three big damp spots on the floor that made it pretty obvious the roof leaked, and so many cracks and knot holes in the walls that he stopped counting at fifty. But the rafters and beams looked to be in good shape. The building was unbelievably hot inside—undoubtedly the result of an August afternoon, a tin roof, and no circulation. He figured it would probably be a good idea to add three or four tall windows at the front and back of the store in order to get the air moving.
He turned to McClure. “I’m not sure this is going to do. No circulation, broken windows, leaky roof, holes in the walls, rotting posts out front, a dirt floor, and the nearest well is down at the end of the street. I saw some stores in Cassville that are in a lot better shape. And at least they’ve got more people coming to town.”
“What would you be willing to pay for this building?”
“Not very much. There’s too much money to be spent before I could start any business.”
“Mr. Windes, I have authority to make you a good deal on this property.”
“I don’t want to offend you, sir.”
“Please. How much?”
“Not a dime over four hundred dollars.”
“I was hoping you’d say a thousand.”
B. F. laughed. “Only if it was ready to move in and start a business. I’m going on back to Cassville. If you change your mind today, ride over and let me know. But I intend to look at two buildings there this afternoon.” He held out his hand. “Thanks for your trouble. Good luck selling this place.” He walked out the door and untied his horse from the hitching post.
McClure stood in the open doorway and watched him grab the saddle horn, then put his left foot in the stirrup and swing up into the saddle. It was too much for him to see his only prospect leave town. “Mr. Windes, come back over to my office.”
Later that same afternoon, B. F. stopped again at the Durham’s home, but this time to talk to father and son. When he told them what he had done, they clapped him on the back and welcomed him to the town. He appreciated their enthusiasm, but he had come for advice. “Anybody around here much of a carpenter? That store is in need of a lot of repairs.”
“There’s a sawmill down at Roller’s Ridge—seven miles south of here on the Wire Road. I hear they’re starting to cut logs again. Sounds like you’re gonna need quite a bit of lumber. One of Mr. Trollinger’s boys, William, is a good carpenter, and he hangs around the sawmill. Ain’t much building going on around here, so you can probably get him.”
“Didn’t somebody get killed from Roller’s Ridge rec
ently? Seems like I heard something about it at the wedding.”
“You’re probably talking about Joel Mitchell. He was an old Baptist preacher from Roller’s Ridge, and before the war he owned five or six slaves. A couple of his young bucks run off when they heard about the war, and Reverend Mitchell went after them. They say he caught them both before they could get to Kansas—although one story is that he didn’t catch up to them until they were well inside the city limits of Pittsburg, where they probably figured they were safe. Anyway, he brought them back to his farm, all beat up and hog-tied in the back of a wagon. He punished them boys in front of the other slaves—whipped them so bad they both died.
Knowing the Reverend, I doubt he meant that to happen, but he had a tendency to let his temper run. Anyhow, one of the other slaves took off when the Union troops come through, and apparently she told what she saw.”
“So they got the Reverend charged with ‘sundry illegal and unchristian acts,’ whatever that means, exactly. But when the Yankees went to take him into Cassville for trial, the Reverend had run off. That was about three years ago, and we ain’t seen or heard of him in all that time.
Finally, about a month ago, he came into Keetsville and surrendered to five Yankee troopers. I reckon he got some real bad advice from somebody. They musta thought bygones would be bygones when the war was over.”
“Anyhow, a hollering, screaming mob assembled in no time and demanded that the Yankees turn the Reverend loose. There was a lot of pushing and shoving. The blue bellies were outnumbered about ten to one, and they finally decided to let him go.”
“What started out as a mob turned into just a bunch of his former church members. They were celebrating their reverend getting turned loose—he was praying with all his might, and they were in the midst of a bunch of ‘amens,’ when all of a sudden, a rifle shot rang out and the reverend fell over dead with a bullet that went in one ear and right out the other. We figure one of the troopers done the deed. It happened in broad daylight, betwixt Peevey’s and Brown’s store, but nobody saw a blessed thing. Those in the congregation all said they had their eyes closed on account of Reverend Miller being in the midst of praying and all. So we don’t even have a suspect.”
Forty-Three
The Faux Pas
Waynesville, Missouri 1865
B. F. spent two days with William Trollinger, talking about his plans for his business. William was black-headed except for a strip of completely white hair that ran from his forehead to the middle of his crown. He had high cheek bones and rough features, with skin almost the color you’d expect on a Mexican. Some said he had a grandpa who was pure-blood Cherokee. The ring finger and little finger of his left hand were completely missing. “The sawmill got ’em both when I was just twelve years old. If you look around this mill, most of these fellers is missin’ some part or another ’cause of that saw.”
It appeared that William would be able to build everything B. F. had in mind for the store, but he would need a considerable amount of glass to put together the windows and three showcases. As an example of the many shortcomings of goods in Keetsville, there was no glass available. In fact, there was none in Cassville either—except for plenty of the broken kind—so B. F. had to order glass panels from Springfield. He had serious misgivings that such fragile objects would ever survive a trip along the Wire Road. He involuntarily rubbed his lower back just in thinking about his personal experience on the stage—but there was no other option.
About noon, Matt Durham stopped by the store to tell B. F. there was a letter for him at the house. He apologized for forgetting to bring it with him, but to be sure and stop by.
He didn’t say who it was from, and B. F. didn’t want to give the impression that he was desperate for that information, so he didn’t ask. Hoping it was from Crocia, he spent the rest of the afternoon alternating between being excited and feeling apprehensive. There was plenty of work to do, but he just couldn’t get very enthused about it.
Finally, at five o’clock he could stand it no longer and rode over to the Durham house. Sue met him at the door with the small letter in her hand. “Crocia stuck this letter inside a letter to me—probably so her folks wouldn’t see that she was writing you.”
“Thank you, Cousin.” He tipped his hat and turned to go.
“Aren’t you going to open it?”
“Sure. I’ll wait ’til I get back to the store. I’ve been sleeping there the last few nights.”
“B. F., you get in here and open that letter. Don’t you think I want to know what she has to say?”
“To tell you the truth, I’m afraid of what she might have to say. I’d rather open it by myself.” This time he made a successful retreat, but not without Sue giving him a withering look as he walked out to his horse.
He forced himself to wait until he made a small fire in his woodstove, then retreated to the open front door where there was plenty of light and carefully opened the letter.
Dear Mr. Windes,
I enjoyed meeting you at Sue’s wedding, and appreciate you escorting me back to Waynesville. I remember with pleasure some of the things we talked about on our journey. Mama and Papa also seemed pleased to make your acquaintance.
You appear to be all the things dear Sue said you were, except she failed to mention a certain streak of stubbornness. Perhaps you will find your way back to Waynesville one of these days.
Sincerely,
Crocia Rayl
Journal Entry—August 24, 1865
I just received a letter from Crocia, and after reading it three times, I have to wonder if the woman could possibly have said anything more confusing? What in the world am I to think is on her mind?
The only thing I can figure is write a letter myself—but to Luther Rayl instead of his daughter. I’ll let him know I’ve bought a store building in Keetsville and that I’d like to turn it into a mercantile and general store. I’ll ask him if he’ll sit down with me in Waynesville and give me some business advice.
Bad as I’d like to, I’ll not write a note to Crocia, and sneak it into a letter posted from Sue. I don’t want the Rayls to think I’m doing something behind their backs. But I suspect that Crocia won’t appreciate being left out of all this either. Maybe If I just tell Sue that I’m going to Waynesville, she’ll end up writing to Crocia about it.
When the actual work began on the store, Trollinger brought a young carpenter with him by the name of Archibald Roller. Given his last name, the boy must have had something to do with the family for whom Roller’s Ridge was named, but no explanation was given. Apparently, the boy was making a great effort to grow a mustache, but its current status was closer to a naked caterpillar stuck on his upper lip. At least ten times a day, B. F. noticed him smoothing the hair on his lip as though he was encouraging it to grow faster. Young Roller didn’t seem to have very much experience, but he was certainly a willing worker. The first part of the job was back-breaking labor, in that it was necessary to remove four inches of the packed dirt floor before they put in the framing for the plank floor. Practically every shovelful of dirt was moved by young Roller. And as he toiled with pick and shovel, Trollinger began to put up the interior walls.
The glass arrived as baggage on the Eureka Stage Line from Springfield. B. F. fully expected wooden boxes full of glass shards, but was surprised to find how well each piece was packed in sawdust and old newsprint. Trollinger then transformed each pair of glass panels into windows two feet wide and five feet tall, which could be opened in order to provide air circulation. Four of them were mounted at the rear of the store and four at the front. When the interior walls were completed, with trim work added, no gaps whatsoever were visible around the windows.
By the time this work was finished, the floor framing could begin, and with both men working, it proceeded rapidly. B. F. paid Trollinger two-thirds of the money they had agreed on for the entire job, and repeated his instructions for the remainder of the work, as well as let him know that he woul
d be back in eight days and they would settle then.
After two less than desirable experiences on the Eureka Stage, B. F. opted for his horse on the trip back to Waynesville. He knew how saddle sore he was going to be, but even with that it couldn’t be as miserable as the stage. Also, it gave him the flexibility to spend some time in Springfield.
His first stop was at a hardware store to purchase a pistol for Mister Rayl. After the war, stores were awash in rifles and sidearms, as returning soldiers on both sides sold their guns to raise much-needed cash. He found a high quality Colt 1862 pocket revolver, with walnut grips and an octagonal barrel, plus a holster for twelve dollars. It was referred to as a pocket pistol simply because the barrel was only five and one-half inches long and could conceivably be kept in one’s pocket. An etching on the side of the gun portrayed two men engaged in a stagecoach holdup. He hoped Mr. Rayl wouldn’t take offense at that.
His stop at a mercantile store was not so straightforward. He had no doubt that Mister Rayl would appreciate the pistol, but he had not a clue as to what his wife and daughter might like. After wandering around the store for a good half-hour, he decided on a large, silver-plated serving tray for Missus Rayl, and a silver and ivory dressing table set for Crocia. The tray was too large to fit in one of his saddle-bags, so he ended up tying it across the back of the saddle, where it inconveniently reminded him of its presence in the small of his back at every rough spot on the road for the rest of his journey.
He arrived in Waynesville at almost dark and once again checked in at the Mad Anthony Hotel. Not sleeping well at all, he spent much of the night playing over in his mind what he intended to say to the Rayls the next morning. Finally, he got up about five o’clock and stood at his window, looking out on the street, but not really seeing anything, save the imagined conversation that would take place in a few hours.