by John Babb
Missus Wilma Moore had lived in the community since the early 1850s, and was considered an old settler. She stuck her hand in the pot and stirred it around a bit, then produced a ticket along with a completely toothless grin to celebrate her new celebrity status. Cave called out the number. “It’s one, zero, two, five.” There was a shriek of joy and a skinny young woman pushed forward, carrying a youngster in one arm and brandishing her ticket stub in the other.
Despite his name, General Brixey was only three years old, and shy enough that he had to be pushed up on the porch. A Confederate General and his staff had commandeered the Widow Brixey’s home for about three weeks during the early days of the war. And some nine months later, when she was casting about to name her newborn son, she realized she never knew the General’s first name. So her baby boy was named after his father in the only way she knew how.
As General Brixey stood on the steps of the Windes Mercantile, he looked like he was going to panic and run back to his ma, but the crowd gave him a good clapping and he did his job. Cave called out. “The big winner is one, zero, four, two.”
One of the most predictable drunks in the entire county hollered out, “Reckon I got the winner.” He worked his way to the porch amidst half-hearted clapping, received his five dollars, and was immediately swept away by two cronies of similar persuasion who were intent on helping him spend his entire prize at Peevey’s Dram Shop.
Cave did not lose this final opportunity. “Just remember folks, anything you buy betwixt now and next Saturday at noon gets you a ticket.” His appeal worked on a few people, and they moved on to the stores, but many others were disappointed. The mood had left them, and they headed to their horses.
During the next week, two things happened that would solidify the place of the Saturday Raffle in the town for the next ninety years. On Tuesday, the remaining Union troops stationed in Cassville were released from service and quickly departed the county, thus removing the appearance of a threat to citizens who had previously stayed away from town for one reason or another.
And on Saturday morning, as people were beginning to fill Keetsville for the second drawing, two men from Gateway, Arkansas pulled out their fiddles and provided what you might call an outdoor concert. They were talented players, and after a rousing “Turkey in the Straw,” the youngest one placed his frayed slouch hat on the ground, and called out to the crowd, “We’ll play about anything ye wanta hear. Cost you’ns two pennies for us to play it.”
Then a third man pulled out a harmonica, spoke to the two fiddlers—presumably about money—and joined them in playing “Tenting on the Old Campground” and “Dixie’s Land.” Someone hollered out from the crowd. “Cain’t none of you fellers sing? We wanta hear “When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again.”
The harmonica player turned once again to his fellow musicians, then stuck his instrument in his pocket, and sang while the fiddlers played the song in the traditional, fast-paced way they had all heard so many times before.
When Johnny comes Marching home again
Hurrah! Hurrah!
We’ll give him a hearty welcome then
Hurrah! Hurrah!
The men will cheer and the boys will shout
The ladies they will all turn out
And we’ll all feel gay when Johnny comes marching home.
The old church bell will peal with joy
Hurrah! Hurrah!
To welcome home our darling boy,
Hurrah! Hurrah!
The village lads and lassies say
With roses they will strew the way
And we’ll all feel gay when Johnny comes marching home.
Get ready for the jubilee,
Hurrah! Hurrah!
We’ll give the hero three times three,
Hurrah! Hurrah!
The laurel wreath is ready now
To place upon his loyal brow
And we’ll all feel gay when Johnny comes marching home
But then something happened to their song that they didn’t think was possible. The fiddlers stopped their play, and the singer continued in a cappella with the last verse. But he changed to a much slower pace, and allowed his tenor voice to linger and caress and mourn every word.
Let love and friendship on that day,
Hurrah! Hurrah!
Their choicest pleasures then display,
Hurrah! Hurrah!
And let each one perform some part,
To fill with joy the warrior’s heart,
And we’ll all feel gay when Johnny comes marching home.
The crowd was transfixed. Never had they heard their song performed like that. The entire crowd hesitated as one, lost in the memories of so many friends and loved ones who they knew would never come marching home again.
The next week the Keetsville store owners needed 340 tickets to take care of business. B. F. was gratified to know that sixty-eight of those tickets had come from sales at his own store. From then on, you couldn’t have forced them to give up the raffle.
He had written Crocia about ten days earlier, telling her about his idea and hoping that it was going to work. So it felt good to send her a new report on what appeared to be their success. He commented that the only downside was that he had very little time during the day to do those mundane things like keeping the store clean, the merchandise straightened up, and supply orders written. But, he reflected, better to be busy than to stand around all day, wondering if his business was going to survive. He failed to mention in his letter that he now had less time to moon around over her.
Forty-Five
I’ll Be Taking What’s Mine
Keetsville, Missouri 1865
There was also a negative side to the Army pulling out, although it was unlikely anyone in Keetsville would acknowledge there had been anything redeeming about their presence. The fact that troops had been quartered nine miles away and that they had patrolled the Keetsville area at least twice a week, had a dampening effect on the activities of local guerilla bands of bushwhackers as well as any visits from Kansas Jayhawkers.
Neither of these two groups had gone out of business at the conclusion of the war. Not only did each of them continue to make raids across the Missouri-Kansas border in repetition of their main function during the war, but they also maintained their other activities.
Both groups envisioned themselves as organizations that somehow upheld their loyalties to either the Union or the Confederacy. So the bushwhackers didn’t necessarily need to travel over to Kansas to fulfil this role. They continued to target people on the Missouri side of the border who they decided had Yankee sympathies.
The word “jayhawk” was used as both noun and verb. To jayhawk was to steal goods and livestock from those of the Secessionist mindset, whereas a Jayhawker was simply one who engaged in jayhawking. Like the bushwhackers, Jayhawkers did not strictly respect indistinct geographical delineations such as state borders. They were happy to attack their Missouri neighbors, but also quite content to distribute their brand of getting even among any Kansas residents who appeared to lean toward the rebel cause.
Many citizens in southwestern Missouri, southeastern Kansas, and northwestern Arkansas were robbed, maimed, tortured, burned out, or murdered by these guerilla bands. And as time passed, it became suspiciously evident that some of the crimes could not be explained in terms of whether the victims were pro-north or south, but rather their punishment might simply be meted out to get even for some long-standing personal grudge, past disagreement, or perceived insult.
However, the law-breaking activities of the bushwhackers related to stage holdups, bank robberies, and terrorizing businesses was of paramount concern to store owners like B. F. More and more, these actions had nothing to do with what side you had been on but were simply the criminal acts of guerillas. And with the absence of the Army in southwestern Missouri, the gangs’ lawlessness would be emboldened.
B. F. talked to the lawyer, McClure, about his concerns. “I keep hea
ring about these bushwhackers around here, and to tell you the truth, I’m afraid they might decide that Keetsville would be an easy target. The nearest sheriff is in Cassville, and since our town is showing signs of life, they may think we’ve got something worth taking.”
“You could be right. There’s three groups of them around these parts—one close to the Arkansas line that’s led by Calvin Dunaway. Even when he was a little kid, that Cal was always wild as a Kickapoo.
There’s another gang just east of here in that rough country close to Roaring River—they say their leader is Tuck Smith. Then there’s another bunch around Golden, Missouri. Course, they all might be one place today and fifty miles away tomorrow. It’s not like any of them have a permanent mailing address.”
“When I was in Springfield last month, I heard about folks up in Saline County forming the ‘Honest Men’s League.’ Have you heard about that?”
“Can’t say I have.”
“Well, they formed this group to protect the county’s property and lives from guerilla lawlessness because they couldn’t get the local sheriff to do anything about it. My problem is that this League sounds like a bunch of vigilantes. They’re operating outside the law too.”
“Probably betwixt a rock and that hard place. They just decided something had to be done if they were gonna have a chance at living.”
“What would you say the chances are of putting together a group like that here in Keetsville?”
“Probably not good. Lots of these men got friends or family that run with the bushwhackers. They aren’t about to go chasing after ’em. Besides, some of these guerillas are unpredictable customers. For instance, that Tuck Smith I mentioned—last year he busted in on a wedding over at Branson. He and his boys ran the bride and groom and all their guests into the woods, shooting away at them. Didn’t hit anybody except the damned preacher!
But then the guerillas ate the victuals and the cake, drank what whisky there was, and stole all the gifts. In fact, they started to make off with the bride herself, but when they saw how homely she was, they brought her back to the groom with their condolences. I wonder how that girl felt to know she was too ugly to steal? Anyway, there wasn’t no reason for any of it except plain meanness.”
“Thanks for the advice, but I sure don’t feel good about there being no law whatsoever except in Cassville.” The next week, B. F. ordered a 450-pound safe from St. Louis. They might get some of his money, but they wouldn’t get very much.
Business was certainly improving. People were coming into Keetsville to buy their supplies from up to twelve miles away. In fact, some said they were actually pulling business away from Cassville because of the raffle.
The first Saturday in December promised to be their best drawing yet. Friday evening, they counted 430 ticket stubs and hoped for another 80 before the noon raffle the next day. B. F.’s new safe was installed in his office, and he had taken the extra precaution of attaching a heavy chain to the safe and then embedding the other end of the chain in concrete. There was no bank in Keetsville, and he was only able to get into Cassville once a month, so the rest of the time his store’s growing deposit was kept in the safe.
Like the previous Saturday mornings, there was no shortage of entertainment in town. Along with the two fiddlers from Arkansas and the singing harmonica player had come yet another man who played a guitar and could sing any song anyone ever heard of.
About ten minutes before noon, the business owners came over to the Windes’ store and added their tickets from that morning’s sales to the pot. Squire Cave called to the crowd for quiet and once again asked for the oldest and youngest to step forward.
But before the drawing could proceed, a shot was fired in the air and five men stepped into the gap. All were holding pistols in their hands, each of them had tied a handkerchief over their face, and all were wearing various combinations of butternut-stained pants and shirts. There were a few screams as people realized what was happening, and the crowd quickly backed away from the bandits.
At that moment, a burly man with a large mustache that hung down below his lower lip pushed his big sorrel horse through the crowd and up to where Squire Cave stood. He wore no mask, as though it made no difference to him what people knew or thought.
B. F. heard several whispers in the crowd. “It’s old Tuck hisself” and “That’s Tuck Smith.” So this was the guerilla leader! B. F. immediately thought how easy it would be to wipe out this gang right then, if only he could have counted on three or four others to help. But he realized there would be a slaughter of people if he pulled his gun and only was able to shoot a couple of them.
Tuck hollered out to the crowd. “I come for two things this morning. If you don’t give us no guff, we’ll just take them two things and be gone.” He paused for a minute, saw no sign of resistance, and continued. “Cave, I got the winning number for that raffle. Hand over that prize money.”
Squire Cave looked helplessly around, but finding no alternative in the crowd, did as he was told. Tuck hollered out again. “The second thing I come for is here someplace.” He stood up in his stirrups and looked over the crowd, then grinned and clicked his horse to the other side of the street, where he stopped in front of a man and woman. “Mose Simpson, I’ll be taking what’s rightfully mine.”
The man had to have been scared out of his wits, but he managed not to let on. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. I ain’t got nothin’ of yor’n. Hell, I’m too poor to change my own name.”
“Maybe you don’t know you got what’s mine. But I’m a takin’ it this morning. Tuck smiled as though he had just outsmarted the whole town. He held out his hand. “All right, Mose, gimme what’s mine.”
Mose looked at him like he was crazy. “I ain’t got but two nickels in my pocket. Is that what you’ns are after?”
Tuck shifted his attention to Mose Simpson’s young wife. “C’mon Dolly. I’m tired of waiting. You’re going with me now.”
The woman looked at Mose, then back and forth at all the people gathered around them, then pleadingly at the horseman. “Please, Tuck, don’t do this now.”
Mose stared at her. “You know this here bandit?”
Tuck replied for her. “She knows me real well, Mose. She’s too much woman for an old man like you. She’s going with me.” He bent down and with one swift motion, put his arm through hers, pulling her up on the saddle in front of him.
Dolly looked at her husband. “I’m sure sorry, Mose.” And with that farewell hanging in the air like the wind off a chicken coop, Tuck spurred his horse and they headed south down Main Street.
But the pain of the insult was too great to stay silent. Mose hollered after them. “Yer nothin’ but a lowdown whore, Dolly.”
Tuck brought his horse up short in the middle of the street and turned around. “Mose, I got my hands full right now. But you’re gonna regret that remark one day real soon.” He wheeled his horse about again and was immediately followed by the five other horsemen, still wearing their masks.
Before they were completely out of sight, B. F. began hearing comments from the crowd. “We got cheated out of that raffle.” “I just come to town for the drawing.” “Not our fault the raffle money got stole.”
Old Swede piped up, “Ya, my wife raise Holy Ned to come to this raffle.”
B. F. quickly went inside his store and retrieved seven dollars from his cash box, then came back out on the porch, grabbed Squire Cave, put the money in his hand, and spoke in his ear. “Tell them the raffle is still on. Don’t let them leave without the drawing.”
Before the end of the day, Cave came over to see B. F. and handed him five dollars. “All but Peevey and George put in a dollar to pay you back. They all said you done some fast thinkin’ this morning. We wouldn’t wanta do nothing to mess up this raffle. We’re doing more business now than we were before the war.”
“Thanks. I didn’t figure on the raffle working as well as it has for me, either. I’m glad to work
with you.” B. F. extended his hand. “Say, Mr. Cave, has anybody ever talked about these bushwhackers or guerillas or whatever you want to call them, in terms of putting them completely out of business in Barry County?”
“Not before today, at least not to me, but we sure don’t want that happening again in Keetsville. Course, mebbe they won’t be back now that Tuck Smith got Mose’s wife.”
“I hear that gang has some kind of a hideout between here and Roaring River.”
“I heard that too, but they got lots of friends around here. You oughta ask yourself if there might be another reason besides bein’ cheap as to why Peevey and George didn’t put no money in the kitty.”
He described what he knew about the Honest Men’s League, but Cave just shook his head. “For that to happen here, they’d have to be more dirty dealin’ going on than stealing seven dollars and hijacking a girl that everybody knows is a no-count tart.”
“I understand. Thanks for the five dollars. I appreciate the friendship.”
On Wednesday afternoon, Squire Cave was back to see B. F. “Did you hear about Mose Simpson?”
“You mean the man that lost his wife last Saturday?” Cave nodded. “No, nothing since then.”
“His brother Lem found him this morning, dead. The killers shot him in both knees and both his elbows. Lem said it looked like after they shot him up, they drug him over to a big walnut tree and hung him. His neck wasn’t broke. Looks like they just strung him up and let him choke to death.”
“I saw three men die that way in California. Hard to forget a thing like that.” B. F. shook his head as if to clear his vision. “Anybody see who did it?”
“Lem says there were three sets of horse tracks that left there. And it looks like all of Mose’s wife’s belongings are gone from the cabin. But nobody saw a thing, and if they did, they’d probably be smart enough to keep their mouth shut.”
“So now it’s more than seven dollars and a tart, as you put it. Now it’s murder.”
“Maybe we need to have a meeting like you said. But we’ll have to be real careful who we invite. That gang is probably made up of twenty-five different men, but they don’t all ride at the same time. So lots of people got friends and relatives who’re connected.”