Read Online Northfield by Johnny D. Boggs - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Johnny D. Boggs
Tags: Biographical fiction, Fiction, General, Historical, Historical - General, History, Western Stories, Westerns, 19th century, Minnesota, jesse, Fiction - Western, Westerns - General, American Western Fiction, Bank Robberies, James, Northfield
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a signature upside down.
The big man was J.C. King. The dark-faced one, Jack Ladd, which seemed to amuse him, but, at the time, I thought he was merely reliving one of his plays on words.
In seriousness, the man I would know as J.C. King said they had come to Madelia in search of farms to purchase.
“You don’t look like farmers,” I said, and they didn’t, not with those big black hats, black coats, linen dusters, and the heavy golden watches, big chains, large fobs. Farmers are frugal, with rough, calloused hands.
Mr. King removed his hat, revealing thinning hair—auburn, a few shades brighter than his facial hair. “Ten years ago, I didn’t look like I’d be bald, but take a gander at me now.”
At ease again, I informed Mr. King and Mr. Ladd that I would find much delight in showing them around Madelia, telling them of the farms that I knew might be for sale. After handshakes, I offered both a long nine cigar, which they took with relish.
Thus, we exited the hotel, turned down Buck Street, and walked along, enjoying the sunny day.
“First things first,” Mr. King said. “I ain’t willing to pay more’n one dollar an acre.”
“No need to haggle with me, sir,” I answered, “for I am not selling.”
Presently I introduced them to Doc Cooley and the good physician joined our troupe, selling Madelia and the surrounding farms as if he were a land agent.
“Lot of sloughs, lot of water, lot of woods,” Mr. King said, addressing Doc Cooley. “What concerns me most is getting my crops to market. Tell me about the land around here…to the north, and to the west.”
They had asked me the same question moments earlier, and I could not help but notice how their interest seemed much more intense when hearing descriptions of Watowan County. Naturally Mr. King’s reasoning made sense, and were I buying a farm in a strange area, I would not take one man’s word on paradise. I would seek opinions from everyone.
We told them about the Army Road, which ran southwest across the ford of the Watowan River. They asked about the river, the ford, and Doc told them we might have a bridge put up sometime; at least, that notion kept resurrecting itself in town meetings. We told them about the two other fords, the ferry, the hard-working nature of every resident for miles. We told them about Lake Hanska, and they asked more about bridges, so I told them about the bridge over in Linden Township, up in Brown County. We told them about Linden Lake, and again Mr. King expressed his concern about getting crops and cattle to market, about not wanting to get bogged down or flooded out. We told them a lot about Madelia, although naturally we never once mentioned St. James, the town southwest of Madelia, hell-bent on stealing our county seat.
They asked about a bank, and Doc told them that the Yates brothers gave credit at their store. They asked about a hardware store or gunsmith, and again Doc referred them to the Yates’ mercantile, although saying he rarely carried anything other than a shotgun and, as far as we knew, had never been asked to repair a firearm. “Shotgun’s fine,” Mr. Ladd said, winding his big gold watch. “Just saw some prairie hens riding into town.”
“That’s about all we ever hunt,” I informed them.
They asked about the law, and we said that James Glispin was a good Irishman, though we never had much trouble. They asked about the woods, again, and the sloughs, and the roads and terrain, and which farmers might be most interested in selling.
Then Mr. King asked: “Is that croquet?”
Which stopped me. I stood there blinking, confused, then Mr. King pointed to the vacant lot, and sure enough, the ladies—including Hester, my lovely wife—did have a game of croquet going, girlishly laughing as they’d try to send those balls through the wickets. Their efforts were as lamentable as mine on a baseball field.
We introduced our visitors to Hester, Mrs. Corley Miss Ivers, Inez Murphy, and
The big man was J.C. King. The dark-faced one, Jack Ladd, which seemed to amuse him, but, at the time, I thought he was merely reliving one of his plays on words.
In seriousness, the man I would know as J.C. King said they had come to Madelia in search of farms to purchase.
“You don’t look like farmers,” I said, and they didn’t, not with those big black hats, black coats, linen dusters, and the heavy golden watches, big chains, large fobs. Farmers are frugal, with rough, calloused hands.
Mr. King removed his hat, revealing thinning hair—auburn, a few shades brighter than his facial hair. “Ten years ago, I didn’t look like I’d be bald, but take a gander at me now.”
At ease again, I informed Mr. King and Mr. Ladd that I would find much delight in showing them around Madelia, telling them of the farms that I knew might be for sale. After handshakes, I offered both a long nine cigar, which they took with relish.
Thus, we exited the hotel, turned down Buck Street, and walked along, enjoying the sunny day.
“First things first,” Mr. King said. “I ain’t willing to pay more’n one dollar an acre.”
“No need to haggle with me, sir,” I answered, “for I am not selling.”
Presently I introduced them to Doc Cooley and the good physician joined our troupe, selling Madelia and the surrounding farms as if he were a land agent.
“Lot of sloughs, lot of water, lot of woods,” Mr. King said, addressing Doc Cooley. “What concerns me most is getting my crops to market. Tell me about the land around here…to the north, and to the west.”
They had asked me the same question moments earlier, and I could not help but notice how their interest seemed much more intense when hearing descriptions of Watowan County. Naturally Mr. King’s reasoning made sense, and were I buying a farm in a strange area, I would not take one man’s word on paradise. I would seek opinions from everyone.
We told them about the Army Road, which ran southwest across the ford of the Watowan River. They asked about the river, the ford, and Doc told them we might have a bridge put up sometime; at least, that notion kept resurrecting itself in town meetings. We told them about the two other fords, the ferry, the hard-working nature of every resident for miles. We told them about Lake Hanska, and they asked more about bridges, so I told them about the bridge over in Linden Township, up in Brown County. We told them about Linden Lake, and again Mr. King expressed his concern about getting crops and cattle to market, about not wanting to get bogged down or flooded out. We told them a lot about Madelia, although naturally we never once mentioned St. James, the town southwest of Madelia, hell-bent on stealing our county seat.
They asked about a bank, and Doc told them that the Yates brothers gave credit at their store. They asked about a hardware store or gunsmith, and again Doc referred them to the Yates’ mercantile, although saying he rarely carried anything other than a shotgun and, as far as we knew, had never been asked to repair a firearm. “Shotgun’s fine,” Mr. Ladd said, winding his big gold watch. “Just saw some prairie hens riding into town.”
“That’s about all we ever hunt,” I informed them.
They asked about the law, and we said that James Glispin was a good Irishman, though we never had much trouble. They asked about the woods, again, and the sloughs, and the roads and terrain, and which farmers might be most interested in selling.
Then Mr. King asked: “Is that croquet?”
Which stopped me. I stood there blinking, confused, then Mr. King pointed to the vacant lot, and sure enough, the ladies—including Hester, my lovely wife—did have a game of croquet going, girlishly laughing as they’d try to send those balls through the wickets. Their efforts were as lamentable as mine on a baseball field.
We introduced our visitors to Hester, Mrs. Corley Miss Ivers, Inez Murphy, and
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