by Ralph Moody
“Well, the last couple of minutes of it has been mighty sweet,” I told her, kissed her again, and went out to the old Maxwell, feeling happier than I had for many a day.
There was little celebrating in Beaver Township on Christmas Day, 1920. Wheat that had cost two dollars a bushel to raise, harvest, and thresh, was bringing a dollar forty-five at the elevator, shelled corn was bringing sixty cents, and no one had the slightest idea how much lower livestock prices might plunge. Many farmers knew only that everything they’d gained during the war years had suddenly been swept away by a force they could neither fight nor understand, that their mortgages were greater than the value of their assets, and that they had new bankers whom they neither knew nor trusted. Only Bob seemed untouched, for he still had a good-sized roll of gold-backed twenties to flash.
The westbound train left our cars early Christmas forenoon, so I hauled a load of corn to the siding and spread a few bushels in each car as bait to make the loading easier, but Bob never left the house all morning. Marguerite had, of course, heard Effie’s line call the night before, and she must have listened in on some of the morning gossip on the line. When I came back from the siding she came out to tell me dinner was ready, and she seemed to be on the verge of tears. “How are things, Balp?” she asked nervously.
“I’ve seen ’em better,” I told her, “but they’re no worse for us than for most of the farmers. Unless the market goes all to pieces between now and Monday there’ll be a few shekels left over from this shipment. Don’t you worry about anything until I tell you it’s time to worry. Has Bob said whether or not he’s going to Kansas City with the shipment?”
“Mmm-hmm, I packed his suitcase,” she said tonelessly, then burst out, “Oh, Balp, I wish . . . ” That was the nearest I ever heard her come to complaining, but she suddenly bit the sentence off and turned back to the house. I waited a few minutes to give her time to get hold of herself, and when I went in to wash for dinner she was humming. Throughout the meal she tried to act as if she were happy, but it was obviously a hard task.
After dinner I had barely time to stow a razor and clean underwear in my war bag before a couple of dozen neighbors came to help sort and load the stock. With so many helpers and the cars well baited, the loading was easy, leaving me plenty of time for completing the bills of lading before the arrival of the eastbound train. As it pulled away with our cars Bob, dressed in his Sunday best, showed up and swung aboard the caboose. As always, I wore blue jeans and jumper, but there was little need of working clothes on that trip. Our stock was in as fine condition as any we’d shipped and the weather was crisp and clear, so there was little for me to do but inspect the cars at each stop to be sure we had no fallen or injured animals.
Considering the demoralized market, our stock did well in the auctions. After all deductions, my share was about three thousand dollars more than the mortgage and interest claim against it. While I was settling with the agent, Bob told us he was going to see a Junction City friend who would lend him money for another feeding operation, and he hadn’t returned at train time.
It was well past noon on Tuesday when I got home. I stopped only long enough to tell Marguerite that Bob had gone to see a Junction City friend, then drove to Oberlin, for I’d decided to move my bank account to the Farmers National rather than risk having it impounded at Cedar Bluffs.
I’ve met few men whom I liked and trusted right from the beginning as I did Charley Frickey, president of the Farmers National Bank. We visited for more than half an hour, and though he knew about my wheat hauling, livestock dealing, and feeding businesses, he seemed more interested in how I’d happened to come to Decatur County, what I’d done before coming there, and the family at home. He said the First National would make no livestock-feeding loans until the economy settled down again, but that he’d make me short-term loans in reasonable amounts for my trading and shipping business. When I left he walked to the door with me and said, “Drop in whenever you come to town; I’ll be very much interested in how you’re getting along.”
11
Foreclosures
THE DAY AFTER we returned from Kansas City I was working on a radio when Marguerite came out to the bunkhouse and told me that V P had phoned and asked if I’d come to the bank right away. When I went in he didn’t mention my having withdrawn my account, but thanked me for sending the telegram, gave me my canceled note, and told me, “We don’t aim to foreclose on anybody or anything unless we’re forced to, but poor old Harry let this bank get into such awful shape with past-due and poorly-secured loans that we’ll have to take proceedings in a few cases. What I’d like to do is work out a deal with you for handling and shipping any livestock we find it necessary to foreclose on.”
Although V P accused me of being a robber, we finally made an agreement, put it in writing, and both signed it. I was to be paid fifty dollars a carload for shipping and accompanying to market all stock delivered to the Cedar Bluffs loading pens on shipping days. If cattle had to be brought in from the farms, I was to receive an additional dollar a head, plus fifty cents for each day they had to be cared for and fed before shipment. The rate for hogs was half those amounts. I was to take my pay in livestock, valued at what it would bring as butchering stock at Kansas City, less a dollar fifty per hundredweight.
I hadn’t seen George Miner since shipping, so went over for a visit right after supper. It was bright moonlight when I came home, and there was a new Buick touring car in the dooryard. I knew that Bob must have come home by way of McCook and picked up the auto he’d ordered when he sold the corn. I stopped a minute to look the Buick over, and had started toward the kitchen door when I heard Marguerite say in an almost hysterical tone, “You’ll do no such a thing, Bob Wilson! Tomorrow morning . . . ”
I turned back to the bunkhouse, lighted a lamp, and went to work on a radio set. By the time I’d finished the job the house was dark and silent, so I went in quietly, and to bed.
In winter I’d always built the fire before going to do the milking so the kitchen would be warm when Marguerite came out to cook breakfast. But when I woke next morning I could see the reflection of a light in the kitchen, and as I dressed I heard the rattle of stove lids. When I went to the doorway Marguerite was standing at the stove as though in a trance, staring down at a basket of cobs she held in her hands. She looked tired enough to fall, utterly discouraged, and her swollen face and eyes showed plainly that she’d been crying. I stepped forward, took the basket, and said, “Let me build the fire for you. Why didn’t you call me?”
She looked around with a vacant expression and said, “I suppose you know Bob’s home. He’s out milking.”
In the year I’d lived there Bob had never before been up earlier than I, or done the milking if I were at home. Between the shock of it and trying to avoid admitting that I’d overheard her scolding him, I had no better sense than to say, “I thought so when I saw the new Buick in the yard last night.”
“Well, that’s all he brought,” she said, “and we’re not going to keep it. I don’t know where he’s been or what he’s been doing, but he didn’t go to Junction City and he hasn’t got a nickel to his name. There’s going to be another baby next fall, and I don’t know . . . Hasn’t Bob made anything out of all the stock you’ve fed together?”
“Neither of us has made a nickel on it,” I told her, “but I’ve still got enough to carry on the shipping business, and Bob could make a good living from it if he’d settle down and go to work.” Then I went out to tell him what I thought of him.
Lantern light shone full on Bob’s bloated face, and for the first time since I’d known him it showed deep worry, if not stark fear. “I’ve been an awful fool,” he said in a dull voice. “I don’t know if I spent or lost it, but all I got for the corn is gone . . . and Marguerite’s expecting again in the fall. I come home through McCook and picked up the Buick, but I didn’t know then that Marguerite was expecting. After breakfast I’m going to take it back. If they won’t
give me no refund, will you leave me have a hundred or two till I get back onto my feet again?”
“I won’t lend you a penny,” I told him. “If you honestly want to make a living for your family you can work for me in the shipping business and help farm this place, but every dollar you get out of it you’ll earn with your own two hands. The first time you shirk or groan about that phony lame back I’ll quit you.”
“You don’t need to skin the hide off’n me; Marguerite done that last night,” he said. “All I’m asking is a chance.”
I doubted that his repentance would outlast his hangover, so told him, “One is all I’ll ever give you; it’s all up to you.”
Right after breakfast Bob took the new Buick back to the dealer in McCook, and managed to get a fifty-dollar refund. I followed in the Maxwell to bring him home, and on the way we passed a field with a dozen fine young hogs in it. “Daggone it,” he said, “if I’d a-thought of it, I’d sure have butchered one of them good bacon hogs of ourn before we shipped.”
“Then it’s a good thing you didn’t think of it,” I told him. “V P would have you thrown in the hoosegow if he found out that you’d butchered a mortgaged hog, but I’ll make a deal with you: If you’ll give Marguerite the fifty bucks when we get home, I’ll buy one of those hogs in the pasture for you to butcher.”
As soon as we got home I went with a wagon for the hog, while Bob heated water for scalding and got ready to do the butchering. Neither he nor Marguerite ever told me he’d given her the money, but it showed on their faces when I got home. The afternoon was crisply cold, and we did the slaughtering behind the barn, out of the children’s sight. By twilight we had the halves hung high in a tree where coyotes couldn’t reach them during the night. Marguerite fried fresh liver for supper, and though it was taboo on my diet I ate my full share. That evening was the best we’d had since Thanksgiving. I brought in the powerful radio I’d been working on, and was able to tune in the New Year’s Eve broadcast from a big Chicago station.
New Year’s Day was a busy and happy one. Bob was up as early as I, built the kitchen fire, and fed the horses and cows while I did the milking. The temperature had dropped to zero during the night, so after breakfast we brought the pork into the kitchen. Bob cut the chops, then trimmed the hams and bacon slabs, and packed them in salt to cure for smoking. My job was to bone the shoulders and neck, and grind fifty pounds of meat for sausage. Marguerite seasoned the meat as I ground it, fried thick patties slowly in deep fat, packed them in stone crocks, and poured in hot fat to seal out the air and preserve the sausage. By bedtime we had more than a two month’s supply of meat packed away in the cave cellar.
With only two cows and four horses to take care of, there wasn’t much work to be done around the place, but Bob was up at the crack of dawn on Sunday, and kept himself busy all day, doing half a dozen odd jobs that he’d been putting off ever since I’d lived there. I spent most of the day loafing, telling the girls stories, finding them programs they liked on the radio, and writing letters to my folks back home.
Bob’s notes fell due on Monday, so he went to the bank to sign over his half of the remaining feed. He was gone about half an hour, and when he came back he told me, “That guy acts like he’s mad at everybody. The only way I could keep him from foreclosing on the whole shebang was to sign over both cows along with the feed. He wants to see you right away.”
When I went in V P came to the railing with a sheaf of papers in his hand, held it out to me, and said in a disagreeable tone. “The sheriff’s serving papers on these foreclosures now. I want the stock shipped out of here Saturday, every head of it. If anybody gives you any trouble, let me know right away.”
The foreclosures were against eleven of the finest young farmers on the lower benches at either side of Beaver Valley, and listed on each of the orders V P gave me there were anywhere from a dozen to fifty cattle and hogs of various classifications. From calling on those farmers I was well enough acquainted with their stock to know that they were being stripped right down to their last milch cow and brood sow. I also knew that the only reason their horses and farming equipment weren’t being taken was that no market could be found for them. After looking the papers over, I asked, “Is this stock going to be delivered to the railroad shipping pens on Saturday?”
“No,” V P snapped irritably, “you’ll have to go get it.”
I knew in reason that the foreclosed stock would net the bank far less than the new management expected, and that I’d leave myself open to claims of dishonesty unless I had proof as to the stock I received and shipped, so I told him, “Then there will have to be a bank representative to check the stock into and out of my hands, sign receipts, and set the value on stock I hold out to cover my charges.”
“Be reasonable,” he told me. “You know I can’t chase all over this township to check in a few head of livestock.”
“That’s not necessary,” I told him. “It can be any man who knows livestock, is trusted by the farmers being foreclosed on, and who has no mortgage obligation to this bank.”
There were only three or four men who could qualify, and after a few seconds he asked, “How about Miner?”
“He’d be okay with the farmers and me,” I said.
V P had Effie get George on the phone, talked to him a minute or two, and told me, “He’ll do it and be ready to start out in the morning. I want all that stock shipped Saturday, and there ought to be more to go along with it.”
I told him I’d do my best, went out, and crossed the street to the telephone office. The bank had a private line so that no one (except Effie) could eavesdrop on conversations, but it worked both ways. No one on the bank phone could listen in on line calls or the gossip continually flowing back and forth over the party wires—and I planned to start a little gossip. No farmer could help having some resentment toward me—even though he knew I had nothing to do with the foreclosure—if I came to his place and took his stock away; but he’d have none if he delivered the stock himself and was well paid for doing it, particularly if he’d just had his bank balance seized.
“I’ve got a job to do that I don’t like,” I told Effie. “Will you get Bill Hornbuckle on the line for me?”
She raised her eyebrows questioningly, then plugged a jack into the valley line receptacle and rang the Hornbuckle’s combination. A moment later she said, “Hello, Dotty. Is Bill right handy? Bud Moody wants to talk to him.” She covered the mouthpiece with her palm and whispered, “Be careful what you say if you don’t want it to get around. I a’ready heard five or six receivers lifted on that line.”
I picked up the receiver on the wall phone, waited for Bill to come on the line, and told him, “I’ve just been given a shipping job that I don’t like worth a . . . ”
“I know it,” he said in a discouraged voice. “The sheriff served the papers this morning. The sooner you come get the stuff the more feed I’ll have left for my horses.”
“That’s why I called you, Bill,” I said. “The bank has given me more of these jobs than I can handle by myself, and is allowing me a dollar a head for cattle and fifty cents for hogs to bring the stock in. I’d sure like it if I could get you to bring yours in at those prices. The list I’ve got calls for nineteen cattle and twenty-two hogs.”
“That’s right,” he said, “including my brood boar and bull, and Dotty’s two milk cows. Sure, Bud, I’ll bring ’em in, and much obliged for giving me a chance to earn a dollar.”
Effie had, of course, listened to both ends of the conversation. I’d no sooner hung up the receiver than she jerked the line plug and demanded angrily, “How many other folks did that young whippersnapper foreclose on?”
For answer I fanned out the papers V P had given me, and said, “There’ll be more, but I don’t know how many. I’d sure appreciate having any of them bring their stock in at the rates the bank will be paying me—the ones I told Bill.”
“Is everybody getting cleaned out like Bill, right down to his las
t milk cow?” she asked.
“That’s right,” I said, “and every herd bull and boar.”
“It’s a dirty shame,” she snapped. “A farmer’s milk cows are part of his family, and I’d about as leave take away one of his kids as one of his . . . ” She half choked, then spluttered, “Get on out of here before I set myself to bawlin’! Anymore, I’m gettin’ to be a sentimental old fool.”
Sentimental or not, Effie had given me an idea that would be of inestimable value to Beaver Township—and to me. The more ambitious and better farmer a young man was, the less security Bones had required on loans. It was they who had overexpanded and improved their stock the most during the war years, so they were first to be foreclosed on by the new bankers. Each of them had one or more excellent milch cows, and their herd bulls and boars were among the best in the township. But as butcher stock bulls and boars, regardless of their breeding qualities, would bring little more than two cents a pound above shipping costs, and my agreement with the bank was for payment of my charges in livestock at its butchering value.
“I’m to take livestock for my pay,” I told Effie, “and aim to take the cheapest—milch cows, bulls, and boars—but it would break me to feed them through the winter. If any of the folks being foreclosed on would keep a cow or two for me till spring I’d sure appreciate it. And anybody who wants a good herd bull or boar can come and pick one out, then pay me back pound-for-pound in bacon hogs when I start shipping for myself again.”
Effie bounced out of her chair, smothered me in a bear hug, and told me, “Now get on out of here! I’ve got work to do.”
