Chapter One
The Heat Of the Night’s Light

In the early morning of May 25th 1874, the small town of Independence Iowa silently enjoys a peaceful night. The Fenny family of three soundly sleep in an apartment above their business, ‘Fenny’s Dry Goods’. The night sounds of crickets and rustling trees in the wind was broken by the haunting yell, “Fire! Fire!”

The thirty-year-old Albert Fenny and his wife Molly were startled out of their sleep. Albert threw the blankets on top of Molly and sprang out of bed. The alarming cry had come from the dirt street below the apartment. In his night shirt, Albert stumbled to the window overlooking the dark street. With his sleeve he cleared away moister condensation on the glass. He could see an orange glow reflecting on the buildings across the street. Grunting in frustration, he raised the window sash.

A man in the street saw him peering out. “Albert! Get your family out. There’s a fire in the next building!”

Albert noticed several people in night clothes gathered in the street. He turned to his wife. “Molly, get Gilbert and get out as quickly as you can!”

“Oh, my goodness,” Molly squealed. She frantically untangled herself from the bed linen and ran to the baby Gilbert’s room across the hall.

Albert grabbed his wallet off the dresser and made his way toward the door. Suddenly he remembered the money pouch which contained the day’s sales. He ran his hand through the top drawer of the dresser, until he grasped the pouch. He grinned at the weight of the coinage in it. Then made his way to the smoke filling stairwell. As he sprinted down the stairs to the street, he called out, “Molly, Molly!” but heard no reply.

As he burst out into the street, he could see smoke billowing from their bedroom window, Molly’s eerie silence tearing at his soul. In panic for his families safety, he sprinted back into the stairwell, just as flames burst out from walls at the top of the stairs. He raised his left arm over his face to shield it from the intense heat. He called frantically, “Molly! Molly! Once again there was no reply.

As he was about to thrust himself through the flames, a voice below penetrated his thoughts, “She’s here, Albert!” He stopped in his tracks and quickly retreated down the steps. The man held the door open as Albert bolted out onto the street.

A bell rang frantically on a fire wagon being pulled by two large white horses. The wagon was driven by the cities’ Fire Chief, stopping in front of Fenny’s Dry Goods store. Men jumped off scurrying around the fire wagon.

Flames could be seen inside the Café south of Fenny’s Dry Goods store. There were flames crawling up the side of the building like a snake. The fire spread quickly to several buildings.

The window in a General store suddenly exploded spraying flame, wood and glass into the street. People standing in the street screamed and dashed away.

The Chief yelled out, “You people need to move back!”

A man stuck his head out a second floor window. “There are two women and a baby up here.” The people below stood dumbstruck. The man retreated back into the building. A mattress was pushed out the window and fell to the street below.

“Who is it Albert?” Molly asked her husband.

“It must be James Holt and his family.”

“Oh, my dear, and their baby.” She coddled her own child.

Two men in the street spread the mattress out under the window. It would be a risky jump, but it was their only hope. Soon another mattress was shoved out the window. The men arranged it on top of the first mattress.

Soon a woman appeared crouched in the window, her feet on the sill. A man below shouted, “Land on your bottom!”

She didn’t hesitate and threw herself out of the window landing perfectly on the mattress. Two men helped her off the mattresses. “Catch my baby, please.” Before they had time to think, a baby was dropped from hands protruding out the window. One of the men leaped onto the unstable mattress and caught the baby. He fell off balance onto his shoulder as he turned the baby upward to protect it from the fall. Albert and another man had run over to assist as the next women jumped out of the window.

She landed on her fanny and bounced, “Oh my,” off the mattress onto the dirt street. Then Mr. Holt landed on his butt bouncing majestically to his feet.

The fire chief worked diligently to get the fire wagons boiler pressure up. Everyone was frustrated at the time lost, while the fire continued to grow. The majority of buildings in town were made of wood, which burned easily.

A woman boisterously said, “We need to get a bucket line going.” The people watching the fire rage, joined in with a bucket brigade.

“Frank,” The fire chief instructed, “Take your wagon and get the buckets at the fire station.” Frank had earlier hitched up his horse to deliver milk and eggs.

With her baby held tightly in Molly’s arms, she and Albert stood watching their business and home burn as if the fire was spouting out like fire from a dragon. The fire was unstoppable as it spread from building to building.

The city had recently purchased the Clapp and Jones Fire Wagon, however the pressure gauge had not yet been installed. The city engineer Dick Guernsey stayed with the wagon regulating the pressure as best he could or it could explode killing him and many nearby. He often yelled at people, “Get away from the boiler, she could blow.”

More people began to gather around in the street dressed in a variety of night gowns and robes. Most of the men took the time to grab their overcoats, but many still wore slippers and of course, their hats. The women and children were being herded away from the burning buildings. Many went to the Montour House hotel. The Montour House was far from the fire and was considered a safe place to support the growing number of homeless.

“Molly,” Albert said in a shaky voice, “take Gilbert to the Montour House. I will stay here to do what I can.”

“Check with Mrs. Carlisle, she isn’t getting around very well.” Molly requested. Mrs. Carlisle was an older woman living in an apartment a few buildings down from the Fenny’s. She was a daily visitor to the Fenny’s store.

“Right,” Albert agreed. Albert looked through the crowd in hopes to find Mrs. Carlisle, but he did not see her.

Many residents from buildings in jeopardy gathered their possessions and moved them to the steel main street bridge spanning across the Wapsipinicon River. The bridge was considered to be a safe place.

The flames were big and spreading quickly making the firefighters feel helpless. The fire was engulfing the dreams and aspirations of their fellow townsmen.

“Joseph,” the fire master yelled, “move the boiler to the Wilcox Building. Wet down the shoe repair shop.” They determined it would be best to get ahead of the fire. The crowd was growing hindering the fire fighting.

The buckets arrived in a fast rolling wagon that skidded as it rounded the corner down Chatham. Albert yelled out, “Let’s make a line to the river!” Albert directed people to make a line. “Take those buckets to the river,” he directed the wagon, “quickly everyone!” He looked back at his store and could see it was engulfed in flames. But, other buildings could still be saved.

The Fire Chief noticed ashes from the fire floating to the roofs of buildings across the street, but there was nothing anyone could do. The fire continued to spread toward the iron bridge. When ashes began to fall onto the bridge, everyone began to move belongings from the bridge across the river in front of the Wapsipinicon Mill. As the fire continued to grow, panic and confusion spread among the people.

The spray of water often got blown back, showering the crowd. People screamed as they scattered and left the area. The fire chief, a civil war vet, sarcastically smiled and shook his head, “Good shooting boys! That’s how ya break ’em up!”

“Chief, how did this thing get started?” A man asked.

“Mrs. O’Leary’s cow came to visit,” he replied. The man chuckled slightly, knowing the chief wasn’t sure how it started. The chief was obviously referring to the Great Chicago Fire that had taken place just a few years earlier.

The attempts to stop the fire were in vain. The roof tops of nearby buildings were catching fire. There were urgent telegrams sent to nearby cities of; Jesup, Quasqueton, Winthrop, Fairbank and Hazleton for assistance. It was feared that the attempt to get fire fighting equipment from the nearby townships would be too little, too late.

It was hoped that the three story brick Wilcox Building, would act as a fire break. But the fire went around it and eventually engulfed the Wilcox Building as well. The line of the bucket brigade was hindered by the ever-changing and expanding fire.

The efforts to contain and subdue the fire, were gallantly undertaken by owners and firemen. Despite their efforts, it was not enough to stop the fire from continuing its destructive force.

The crew of firemen from Jesup Iowa, were running their horses from the west into town. As the sky in front of them began to lighten, they could see the flames glow in the lingering smoke above the city. The driver laid the reigns down on the horses, “Come on Robby, come on Jibbers!” He yelled.

As they entered town, the sun peaked over the eastern horizon. They could see the destruction. “Oh my God,” Joshua Mills said as he gazed upon the black ashes left by the fire. There were beams burned black leaving a skeletal remains of a robust town’s business district. There were silent, dazed people wondering through what was left of their homes and businesses.

As the fire wagon from Jesup rolled down Main Street, people looked up in blank stares. Their eyes followed the wagon, Joshua felt they were being chastised for being late. He felt emotionally drained and ashamed they hadn’t got there earlier.

A woman was sobbing as she struggled to lift a charred piece of wood from the middle of the wasteland. She looked up at the fire wagon, her face blackened with soot, her hair wild, straggled, blowing across her face. Her dress was dirty and tattered. She had a bonnet hanging from it’s strap around her neck.

A baby, that was set up in a fruit basket, began to cry. Molly turned toward her baby and slowly walked over to it. “It’s all right Gilbert.” She picked up Gilbert with what appeared to be all the strength she had.

Joshua in the fire wagon continued on through the ruins in search of a fire they could put out. There was a great deal of smoke ahead. “Hey,” a man yelled to them, “This way. They are trying to stop the progress at the court house. Joshua used the whip on the tired horses, they responded as best they could.

No one had been seriously injured in the fire, but the economic losses were staggering. The city was left without many businesses needed in order to survive as a growing and prosperous city. The big question is would the people of this city rebuild or will there be a mass exodus.

Many of the businesses had some insurance, but none received enough to completely cover the loses they sustained. The citizens of Independence pulled together, and the people stayed.

By late July 1874, there were over thirty new brick buildings being built in the downtown area, including along Chatham street. The buildings strongly resembled each other, with great ornamental designs and arched windows. They were generally two story buildings of similar dimensions with a few three story buildings scattered among them. They were built of brick and concrete exteriors, possibly with thoughts of fire prevention a main concern. Many of them had exits through the back of the buildings. More buildings were built the following year. Independence was the most modern city in Iowa, in 1875.

Mr. Albert Fenny had not properly kept up on his insurance, and as a result was unable to rebuild his business. He had placed blame, for his oversight, on his wife for not reminding him to keep up with the insurance payments. Molly accepted the blame, even though she was not to blame.

Albert spent much of his time working hard building his fellow businessmen’s businesses back up. He offered his services at a fraction of what many builders were being paid. He felt his sacrifice and devotion would result in support from those he helped in reestablishing his own business. His fellow businessmen thanked him, but showed no further gratitude towards him. For the next few years Mr. Fenny festered with a growing animosity towards, not only those businessmen that he helped, but towards all businessmen. This attitude also put a great strain on his relationship with his wife.

He worked from time to time and began to frequent the saloons. Molly and Albert argued over money nearly every night. She often went hungry so Gilbert could eat. They needed money and Mrs. Caferty offered her a job as a seamstress at her newly rebuilt clothing store.

Against Albert’s strong objections, Molly went to work at the clothing store. With the majority contribution from Molly’s wages as a seamstress, the Fenny’s were able to start a small livery stable. Albert continued to drink and resented his wife working. Over the next few years the livery business became a butt of jokes around town.

The family resided in a small one bedroom house next to the stable. Often Gilbert would sleep with his mother because Albert would be sleeping it off somewhere in town or in the stable. Once in a while Albert would find a nice warm cot in the jail. When he didn’t sleep with his mother, Gilbert slept on the middle shelf of the closet next to the kitchen. One night, while sleeping in the closet, he was awakened by an argument between his parents. He dozed in and out of sleep as they argued.

“Albert,” his mother said firmly in an affectionate manner, to her husband. She was a soft spoken petit woman, who seldom spoke harshly to her husband. Even though her tone was full of passion for her husband, it was still firm and unusual. “Albert,” she addressed him once again, “I have decided that Gilbert and I are going to Dubuque to stay with my mother for a while.”

“No,” Albert insisted sternly, “you’re not leaving me. You’re going to stay here and suffer. This is your business as well, ya’ know. I’ll get money soon.”

“Albert, it isn’t the money,” She pleaded with him to understand. “I need to get away from your attitude. Things have been hard for you, I know you’re a good man. But you make it impossible for us to live with you.” Her voice began to melt with more sympathetic tone. “Mother, has been wanting me to come to Dubuque for a visit.”

“How long do you plan to be gone?”

“I don’t plan on coming back,” She said. She sensed anger in Albert’s eyes, so she quickly changed her stance, “At least for a while. When you can come to grips with your anger and your drinking, I will return to you.”

“You’re my wife and you are staying here with me.”

Her tone again went back to being uncharacteristically stern. “We are leaving in the morning, for my mother’s.”

“No you’re not.”

“Albert, stop it, you’re hurting me.” She kept her voice low, not to wake Gilbert.

Gilbert’s heavy eyes got the best of him and he fell off to sleep once again. When he woke up the next morning, his memory of his parents argument was blurry.

This Sunday morning was bright with sunlight filling the kitchen. He crawled off his shelf and peeked out into the kitchen. He expected to see his mother making breakfast, but only saw his father taking the last swallow out of a bottle. He attempted to place the bottle on the table, but his inebriation caused it to tip off the table. His father staggered into the bedroom and fell into the squeaky bed. Gilbert noticed mud on the floor obviously from his father’s shoes.

Gilbert looked quietly all around the shabby house, but could not find his mother. He noticed the picture of her that sat on the fireplace mantle was gone. He also noticed most of his mother’s clothes were gone. He looked around outside in the yard for her, but did not find her.

He was hungry, so he found some bread to eat and went back to bed to wait for his mother to come and get him. He lay in his bed playing with a ball he had found laying in a vacant field where he and his mother had picnicked. Eventually Gilbert gave up waiting for his mother and decided to wake his father. He pushed on his father’s shoulder, with no response. So he shook his shoulder a bit harder. His father stopped snoring long enough to crack his eyes open for an instant, but did not say anything as his eyes closed.

“Where’s mother?”

He barely opened one eye and slurred out angrily, “She left us for a salesman.”

Most boys of four, may have accepted this as an answer, but Gilbert knew his mother. He knew she would not leave without saying goodbye or taking him with her. There was nothing he could do about this situation. He knew he had a grandmother and an aunt somewhere. He wondered if he would see them soon or possibly even be raised by them. He loved his father, but was afraid to live with him without his mother.

“Will I go live with Grandmother now?” Gilbert asked his resting father.

Albert barely opened his eyes as he lay there motionless. “You don’t have a grandmother. She don’t want ya’.”

Gilbert would often go to church with his mother. He also knew when to go to church. “Are you going to take me to church?”

“Hell no.” He said firmly as he rolled over to sleep. As the following weeks went by, he continued to go to church by himself. He would often go to the church during the week since his father was often gone from the livery stable. There were a few times the minister, reverend Hand, would often take time to talk to him. Gilbert found comfort in the conversations. He would often join the reverend and his wife for a meal.

While he was walking home from church he saw a carriage leaving his father’s livery stable. The carriage turned onto the street he was on and proceeded toward him. There were four well dressed people, two women and two men. The younger woman resembled his mother, which excited him. His heart sank as he realized it was not her. He noticed the young woman looked curiously at him.

The older woman was speaking sternly, but the younger one didn’t seem to be listening. Suddenly she stopped looking at him and spoke. Gilbert could barely hear what she was saying, but what she said resinated in his mind. “I don’t believe she would have just left.”

“What are you thinking Rachel?” One of the men said. That was all Gilbert heard from the carriage as it wheeled past him.

When he got back to the stables he asked his father, “Who were those people?”

He had a sudden look of horror that changed to anger, “Nobody was here.”

“Those people?” Gilbert badgered his father. “One looked like mom.”

His father was certainly disturbed by the inquisition from his young son. He was on the verge of angrily responding, but found the patience to respond calmly. “Oh them,” he stumbled through the next phrase, “they were some people wanting to leave their horses at the stable while they were in town.”

“They’ll be back then.”

There was silence before he answered, “They will be back in a few weeks.”

Four years later on a clear cool June morning, the eastern sky was showing a beautiful, reddish orange glow. The eight-year-old Gilbert Fenny was beginning to stir in his small tattered bed covered with old rags and blankets. The sun was casting long shadows of trees and buildings onto the ground.

The morning silence was broken by chirping birds and the sound of a milk wagon creaking and squeaking past. The sounds seemed magnified through the crisp air to Gilbert’s ears. The milk wagon, delivering dairy products from the creamery on the north side of town, rolled down Walnut Street from the north toward Main Street.

Then he could hear the tooting whistle of a railroad steam engine, approaching from the west on the Illinois Central Rail Line. It was the sound of the train whistle that alerted Gilbert that it was time to get to work. He took the responsibility to get himself up to care for the family business, so his father could sleep off the previous night’s indulgence.

Gilbert sat up in his bed stretching his arms and legs as he took a deep sleepy breath. He stood up, pulled on his patched up brown britches and flipped his suspenders up over a white tattered stained shirt. He stepped into his shoes and buckled them up. Then he quietly walked through the house, not to disturb his father. It was not a pleasant experience in the past when he disturbed his father this early in the morning.

The kitchen was messy with dirty dishes collected in the wash tub. The bare wooden floor was swept, but worn to splinters. He grabbed his flat brown cap off the table. One of the table legs was an old piece of wood salvaged from part of the horse stables. There were two wooden crates placed at the table for chairs. He quietly closed the door, then crossed the back yard to the horse stable. Once he reached the stable door, and was out of danger of waking his father, he began to whistle a peppy tune.

He pushed the wooden latch up and over the hooks on the wooden door. With a creaking noise he pushed with all his might to swing one of the heavy wooden doors open. He pulled a stone and a match stick from his pocket to light the few lanterns around the stable. A deep-throated neigh of an old mare made him turn toward her with a smile. He patted the old gray mare on the neck. “Good morning, Greta.” There was a whinny from a chestnut mare in the corner. “Good morning to you Daisy.” He stared into the depths of the brown eyes of Greta and chuckled gently as he passed. “I see you’re feeling much better today.” There was one last horse named Rome. Rome was a prideful black thoroughbred, owned by Mr. Francis Groober.

The young Gilbert took a small can of oil from the shelf and a bucket that lay on the floor near the barn door. He carried both these items to a water pump. He placed the bucket under the faucet, then spread the oil on the pumps’ shaft. He slowly began to pump it. There was a small squeal from the pump for the first few pumps before the oil silenced it. Water soon gushed from the pump making a hollow thud into the bucket. After a few pumps of water, he swirled the contents then dumped it out.

When he had finished filling the bucket, he took it into the stable for the horses. He grabbed a curry comb from a shelf. He placed the bucket down for Greta to drink while he brushed her with the comb. Once he was done with her he moved onto Daisy. Each horse was given special attention by this boy.

Gilbert was smaller in stature, skinny and short. He had short messy brown hair with an uncontrollable colic problem. Which didn’t matter to Gilbert since he couldn’t see his hair. He may have been small, but his heavy work created a strong muscular physic. Gilbert would most often have to feed himself, if he could acquire food to eat. He had become accustomed to eating most anything edible.

Gilbert took great pride in caring for the horses. When he finished grooming the horses, he moved them one by one out of their stalls to walk them around. Once he got the horses out of the stable, he pulled the manure barrel over and shoveled manure into it. Once he had gotten the manure removed, he grabbed armfuls of fresh hay for the horses. The horses all showed great cooperation and affection for the young boy.

He gave each horse a bucket of water and a small ration of oats. The horses eagerly munched on the few oats given to them. “Sorry, I wish I could give you more,” he told them. His father wouldn’t purchase oats for the horses, but whenever Gilbert got a hold of money he would purchase a bucket of oats. He got money from offering to carry bags for people at the railroad stations.

When he finished with his morning chores, he would have normally gone to school, but school was out for the summer, so he would often go to the library. He particularly loved books about horses. He was looking forward to finishing up and heading for the library. While he was putting the comb, hoof pick, and hoof clippers away, a yelling man’s voice broke the peaceful morning. His father approached the stable followed by another man dressed in a fancy riding outfit, named Francis Groober. Trailing behind the two men was a young girl. Gilbert knew her from school, Mr. Groober’s eight-year-old daughter, Clara.

Mr. Groober was a tall husky man with sharp green eyes, who had a very successful brewery in town. Gilbert recognized the outfit from drawings he had seen in the books he read. English aristocracy would wear them when riding an equestrian horse. Gilbert wondered if Mr. Groober was going on a fox hunt or possibly a steeple chase. Mr. Groober, who was generally frugal with his fortune, brought his business to Mr. Fenny’s stable because Mr. Fenny charges less for the poor service he gave.

The two men were obviously in a heated discussion as Clara glared at Gilbert with her blue eyes that stood out in comparison to her vivid red freckles. Clara and Gilbert both attended the Hawthorne school on Main Street west of the river. The Hawthorne school was one of the finest in the state. It was a three-story cross shaped brick building. Clara and her friends considered themselves a class of people, that did not converse with the poor people like Gilbert.

Clara was wearing a full length white dress, trimmed in pink satin lace. This dress had white lace cuffs and a tall collar. There was a pink feathery plume protruding from a large white hat covering most of her dark red curls of hair. Clara looked at him and made a face giving Gilbert the impression something smelled bad. Once she knew Gilbert was looking at her, she turned her nose up and ignored him. This didn’t surprise, nor upset him, because he was normally treated this way at school by most of the children. Gilbert didn’t hate the other children, he knew he was different.

Gilbert ignored her as well and began to listen to the harsh conversation of his father and Mr. Groober. “No! I am taking my horse and buggy elsewhere.” Mr. Groober articulated, “I can no longer trust a business run by a man who is drunk half the time!”

“I’ve been getting caught up; I’ll break your horse very soon and have the wheel fixed today.” Albert pleadingly promised.

“You’ve had your chance, I need the buggy this Saturday, and the horse needs to be broken by next Tuesday,” Mr. Groober spoke. “I’ll send someone for my buggy later.” Mr. Groober firmly made his way over to the stall where the well-bred black thoroughbred colt stood.

He began to untie the colt to walk him out of the stable. Gilbert broke his silence, “Sir, Mr. Groober, sir,” he said, “you may ride him if you wish. He is broken. There is a saddle you can use if you would like.” Gilbert pointed to a saddle on a rail.

Albert looked at his son angrily. Mr. Groober looked at him in wonderment. Then he asked, “What do you mean, boy?”

“My pa had told me to break your horse days ago and I haven’t told him he is broken. He rides very well, sir.” Gilbert looked for approval from his father. “Pa, tell him the blacksmith said he would have a new wheel ready tomorrow?” Mr. Fenny was not responding, so Gilbert continued quickly, “Pa, strengthened the frame and it needed a new rim. If that is all right with you, sir?”

Gilbert wasn’t completely stating a falsehood. He had cleated the split wood back together, then rolled the wheel to the blacksmith’s the day before. He had not, however, done anything with Mr. Groober’s horse Rome. How the horse would react to someone getting on his back remains a complete mystery. Gilbert rode horses regularly, but he had never broken one before.

Mr. Groober looked at the boy in complete disbelief. “Show me boy.”

“Yes, sir,” Gilbert said with great enthusiasm. He knew he had to show great confidence in order to succeed in this little/giant lie. Rome was a spirited, ill tempered animal and the chances of riding him were slim.

Despite the situation, Gilbert knew something drastic needed to be done, because the business was not doing well. They needed Mr. Groober’s patronage and good word of mouth. Mr. Groober was an important businessman in town, who’s word could help the stable business or put them out of business. Gilbert wasted no time, he got a blanket and a saddle. It was a struggle for the young lad to drag the saddle to the colt.

Gilbert gently grasped the bridle of the colt. He talked softly to the colt while he patted him gently on the neck. He reached down into a bucket close by, which contained some carrots, then fed one to the colt. He guided the horse alongside the fence. He needed to use the fence to assist him in throwing the heavy saddle on the colt. The three bystanders looked on without even considering an attempt to help him. Clara smiled smugly, while he struggled to saddle the horse. Mr. Groober looked at him in amused, amazement. His father looked upon the situation as an embarrassment in the making.

He lashed down the saddle, while he continued to pat and talk to the unbroken colt. He tentatively got on the fence and carefully crawled onto the back of the horse. With his stomach in knots, not knowing what the horse might do, and without delay he gently nudged the colt with his heels. The colt smartly pranced down the street for a half a block. Then Gilbert not wanting to press his luck, pranced him back to the stable giving the spectators the impression this was the finest trained horse in the country. Mr. Groober was excited and couldn’t wait to mount the horse and take him for a run. Gilbert was relieved to have the horse ride so well. Clara was unimpressed by Gilbert’s display of maturity and skill. He avoided eye contact with his father knowing he would not be pleased with his action.

Mr. Groober jumped on the colt and was promptly bucked off. He popped up off the ground and began to brush his smart outfit off. He said something under his breath no one could understand. He gently handled the colt as he mounted him slowly. “I’ll bring the saddle back later.” Mr. Groober commanded.

He held a hand down toward his daughter, gesturing for her to take it. As she did he pulled her up and set her on the saddle, side saddle, in front of him. Her father held her with one hand and guided his horse by the reigns, with the other. They smartly rode together down the street. A half a block later the colt bucked a few times, sending Clara into a screaming fright. Mr. Groober eventually was able to get the horse under control. Gilbert chuckled slightly.

Mr. Fenny smacked his son to the ground and left without a word. Gilbert got up to continue to care for the animals. He closed up the stable earlier than usual, then walked down the dirt street toward the Wapsipinicon River. He had a secret hiding place at which he spent much of his free time. He had no friends to play with, no father to bond with, a tremendous responsibility to a business, any free time was precious. He looked around as he approached an old weeping willow tree, with strings of leaves hanging down to the ground. Once he was confident no one would see him, he slipped through the long curtain created by the stringy leaves.

Gilbert had found this sanctuary tree shortly after his mother had left four years earlier. He used the tree’s curtain to escape the hardship of his life. When he was sitting on the branches of the tree, he felt he had a clearer connection with his mother. A connection that was filtering away from him as he got older. He thought of this tree as a place to dream and gave him some freedom from the harsh life he was dealt.

He climbed up the tree’s trunk, the coarse bark prickling at his hands and arms. He had to climb nearly eight feet up to reach his favorite branch. When he got settled in a comfortable position on a branch, he stretched his aching legs and closed his eyes. He lazily day-dreamed about having his own horse and stable business. He wanted to get a racing horse, a trotter, one that can be entered at the county fair or maybe even go to the state fair. He smiled broadly as his dreams placed him behind the fastest trotting horse in the country.

His dream was interrupted by a soft sob floating to his ears with the breeze that rustled the long curtain length leaves of the tree. He opened his eyes and saw only the hem of a skirt through the lower branches. He raised his eyebrows curiously shifting his head around the limbs to see who the sobbing girl or woman might be.

His heart sank a bit when he saw that it was the snobby girl, Clara Groober. She was not aware Gilbert was up in the tree watching her. She sat herself down on the grass at the base of the tree. She leaned forward with her face buried in her hands sobbing. He frowned at the thought of his privacy being invaded. It disturbed him more being invaded by this particular person. As he sat in silence, he found himself filling with concern for her obviously distraught feelings.

He spoke softly, showing great concern, “What’s wrong, Clara?” She jumped up from her seated position, and looked around. She did not see anyone. “Up here.” Her green eyes were reddened by tears. Her tears had overflowed her eyes covering her face with glistening streams. Before she could speak, he added, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I’m not scared,” she said obstinately. She took a moment to wipe the tears from her eyes and face with the long sleeves of her dress. He lowered himself down a branch, then jumped down next to her. He handed her a clean handkerchief as a good gentleman would do for any lady. She looked the handkerchief over carefully without touching it. To her surprise, it appeared to be clean. Even though she needed and wanted the clean handkerchief, she backed away from him, wanting no part of his gentlemanly gesture.

“It’s clean,” he tried to convince her. He looked at her green eyes puzzlingly, “I thought you had blue eyes?”

She again rubbed her eyes dry with her sleeves. Her runny, red nose was so stuffed up, she sounded nasally when she spoke, “My eyes turn green when I’m emotional.”

Gilbert was surprised to hear that, “Really,” he said as he gazed into her eyes.

She turned away from him so he couldn’t see her eyes. “Why are you here?” She asked in a stern tone.

“Why would they do that?”

“They?”

“Your eyes?”

“I don’t know, they just do that,” She said trying to get some dignity back. She tried to suppress her tears and sound less nasal. “Why are you here?”

“Why are you here?” He asked.

“I asked first.”

“I was here first,” he responded.

“You came after me, remember.”

“I was in the tree, before you came.”

She didn’t say anything, she just stood there staring at him, then she rolled her eyes. “Nothing I would want to tell you about,” she said snobbishly.

“I can understand that, but you can trust me really. I promise, I won’t laugh.”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s nothing to laugh about. Besides you would probably go around blabbing it all over.”

“Who are you to tell me what I would do,” Gilbert said seriously. He tried to convince her that he really was concerned about her feelings. “Besides nobody talks to me, so who would I tell?”

She nodded in agreement, “Why would you care about me?”

“Why shouldn’t I care?” He asked. “You are a person that is obviously hurt and needs some attention.”

“I’m not a horse, I don’t, ne–-ed, your attention.”

“Fine,” he said. Silence filled the air, which accented the sound of the wind blowing through the leaves making them dance back and forth. Gilbert shrugged his shoulders and started to climb up the tree trunk once again. Clara watched him as he climbed up the tree. She smiled benevolently, then she burst out laughing.

Gilbert was curious at what she was laughing at, knowing it had something to do with him. He jumped down to the ground and looked at her wondering.

“I’m sorry, but you looked so funny climbing up that tree-trunk.”

“What do you mean trying to climb the tree? I was doing just fine.”

“Like a frog in a bowl,” she chuckled. They both laughed at the analogy as they imagined a frog in a bowl.

“I knew I could get you to laugh. That’s why I tried to look so funny,” he said hoping to save some dignity. He was anxious to change the subject, “Whatever it is that is bothering you, think of something worse, like your mother or father dying. I’ll leave you with your thoughts,” he began to leave through the curtain of the willow tree. As he was leaving, he thought it would be nice if she called him back. Yet he would not be upset if she didn’t.

“That’s a terrible thing to say,” she retorted, “and you are no gentleman leaving a lady in distress.”

He smiled then returned back through the curtain of leaves. “See, that would be something to really cry about, wouldn’t it.” She just stared at him. “Now what has upset you today. Really, I would like to help.”

She looked around, considering telling him. “All right, you may be right. This isn’t as bad as my parents dying, but it still hurts me very much.”

There were several awkward seconds of silence as Gilbert waited for her to speak. He broke the silence, “Soooo, are you going to tell me?”

“Yes, I’ll get to it,” she said, “I’ll tell you when I am ready to tell you. But, since you insist on knowing.” She turned away from him wiped her eyes and sighed, “I got into an argument with my father.”

“Oh, what about?” Gilbert asked with concern.

“He wants to sell our horse Ginger, to a man that will take her away to be—. I don’t want to lose Ginger, she’s my friend.” She looked sternly at Gilbert, “It is partly your fault for doing such a good job on, Rome.”

“Oh,” he paused, “I understand.” He thought for a second, “Well, I have never owned a horse, so I guess I understand only in a sense.”

She asked, “You have a livery stable and you have never owned a horse?”

Gilbert smiled, “Well, not me personally, but I would like too, someday.”

“I don’t really own Ginger myself, but she is the one I talk to when I need someone to talk to.” Clara went on, “I couldn’t tell her about this, so I came here.”

“Now you are talking to me,” he said with pride. “Don’t worry, I’m sure your father won’t sell her if you let him know how you feel.”

“I did, that’s why we argued.”

He smiled and wiped another tear from her cheek. “Let’s see.” He thought for a moment, “I can’t steal her, they’ll hang me. I don’t have any money to buy her. I could barter for Ginger, but my father wouldn’t be able to drink her.”

She smiled, “We are children, what can we do? Thank you, for trying to make me feel better anyway.”

“Now, don’t give up my friend,” Gilbert kept thinking and Clara started to think as well. “Why does he want to dispose of her?”

“I don’t know.”

“How old is she?”

“She is nine-years-old and doesn’t get around very well. At least not like she used to be able to get around.”

“Maybe your father will sell her to someone live’s around here and not destroy her.” Gilbert thought some more then asked, “Can she still pull a wagon or a buggy?”

“I don’t know,” Clara was wondering why he was so interested in helping.

“Can you show her to me?” Gilbert asked with great sincerity.

“Why are you so interested?”

His eyes popped open wondering how she could not know, “Horses are beautiful animals and should be treated well.”

Clara was still apprehensive of Gilbert showing such interest in her problem. She was somewhat desperate for any help she could get. Even help from a boy she and her friends made fun of at school regularly.

They walked together through the streets as dusk began to fall upon the city. Clara was hoping none of her friends would see her walking with him. She intentionally guided their path a block out of the way to avoid going past one of her friend’s house. She claimed to Gilbert she was distracted by their conversation and missed the turn. This didn’t fool Gilbert since there wasn’t much of a conversation going on between them at the time. He knew the true reason and it really didn’t bother him.

Gilbert spent most of the conversation asking Clara questions about Ginger. He wanted to know of any injuries, ailments and eating habits.

They arrived at her house, that was impressively large and elegant. It was on the southwest corner of Iowa and Spring Streets on the southwest side of town. The house was a two-story home with a covered entry on the west side to allow a buggy to drop off its passengers. There was a main entry to the east facing Spring Street. When they approached the house, Clara looked closely at it and directed Gilbert silently to the south side of the house. They walked behind a row of bushes and arrived at a stone barn behind the house unseen by anyone.

Clara quietly opened one of the doors slightly and the two slipped in. She peeked out the door as it closed. There were three horses in the barn, Rome whom Gilbert recognized in the nearest stall. She led him to a stall where their was an older horse. “This is Ginger.” He looked her over carefully, running his hand over her back and legs. He looked intently into her eyes. “How often does she get out to exercise?”

“I take her out once in a while.”

“When was the last time?”

“Last week, maybe,” Clara looked down in embarrassment. She felt guilty after portrayed herself caring so much for this horse yet she neglected the horse’s needs.

“She needs more exercise and a good diet of feed.”

“We feed her well,” Clara defended her family’s care for Ginger.

“Don’t misunderstand me, I mean a better diet for a time to get her back into shape. She’s been eating too much, for too long.” Gilbert pleaded for Clara’s understanding. “She’s gained too much weight and lost much of her strength. She needs a purpose for living, a job in other words.”

“So, you agree with my father?” Clara showed great fury in her statement. The door of the barn swung slowly open and there stood a young short husky woman. She had a small round pink face, with small curls of brown hair stringing down from a work bonnet. She was dressed in a plain light brownish grey work dress and a thick brown flower patterned apron.

The little woman looked puzzled and spoke in a strong Irish accent to Clara, “I thaught I saw ya’ come in ’ere.” Gilbert had trouble understanding her accent.

“Eva, close the door, please,” Clara addressed her with urgency, but showed great politeness. She turned to Gilbert, “Gilbert this is Eva, our maid. Eva, this is Gilbert.”

“It is a pleasure to meet ya’ Ma’am.” She closed the barn door.

Eva closed the door and turned back to the two children. “Well laddy, aint ya’ the young gentleman.” She turned to Clara, “What ya’ be doin’ out ’ere after dark? Your mum is a bit worried ’bout ya’.” Clara nor Gilbert said anything as Eva surveyed the situation. “Aye,” she appeared to be enlightened to the situation. “Worryin’ ’bout the Ginger are ya’.”

“Yes,” Clara responded as she pet Ginger’s head and hugged her.

“Your father will be gettin’, very angry if he catches the young lad’ ere’.” Eva hinted putting her hand on Gilbert’s shoulder to show she didn’t mean for him to leave. “You ’ad better get in the ’ouse missy. And make sure ’e doesn’t find out. I want to ’ave a word with the young gentleman.”

Clara reluctantly started to leave then spoke kindly, “Good-bye Gilbert.”

“See you later, Clara.” Gilbert felt a warm sense of friendship with Clara.

“What do ya’ think of our Ginger, young Master Gilbert?”

“She is overweight and under exercised.” Gilbert’s mind turned to thoughts for a good solution to everyone’s problem. “Can you tell me, has Mr. Groober already finalized a deal to sell Ginger?”

“I don’t believe anythin’s been set in stone,” Eva answered with an inquisitive manner. “A man plans to stop to take a look at ’er in the afternoon the day after tomorra’.” Eva turned her head toward him and lowered her eyebrows, “Why ya’ be askin’?”

Gilbert broke out in a great big smile for two reasons. He was amused by her Irish dialogue and the sale of Ginger was not completed. He thought for a moment, “I’ve got an idea. But I will need your help.”

“What do ya’ ’ave in mind?” She asked, showing great interest.

“Well,” Gilbert said, not knowing just how to put it all together. He was saying what he was thinking while he sorted out his plan. “A gentleman from the creamery, here in town, came to our stable today looking to buy horses. They need some horses to increase their delivery capacity. He wanted to know anything about any horses we knew of, that could be capable of hauling their products to businesses here in town. With a little care and work Ginger could do that all right.” Eva continued to show great interest in what Gilbert was saying. “Do you know what price Mr. Groober was expecting to get for Ginger.”

“I would think ’e’s in the mood to get rid of ’er cheap. ’E doesn’t want to spend the time or money on ’er. Twenty dollars may have been spewed once,” She said as she leaned back against the stall rail. “What does ya’ need me to do?”

“Nothing really, Maybe hint to Mr. Groober that the creamery was looking for horses.” He stopped and added, “In your own way of course.”

“I ’ave never been afraid of expressin’ me-self to Mr. Groober.”

“Good,” Gilbert said as he turned to leave, but stopped. “When was the man coming to purchase Ginger?”

“Friday, shortly after the noon ’our.”

“Gives us some time.” Gilbert pondered, “It has been a pleasure to meet you.”

“I wish ya’ luck on whatever ya’ ’ave in mind.” Eva turned away to go back to the house, but turned back to Gilbert, “I won’t be sayin’ anythin’ to our little Clara about it. Don’t want to be gettin’ ’er ’opes up. Be sure ta shut down the lamp when ya’ go.”

“I will,” he answered as his brain was already churning trying to figure out the best way to get Mr. Groober to sell Ginger to the creamery. He patted down Ginger and looked her over carefully, to see what someone wanting to buy her would see in her.

He didn’t want to be around the stables if someone were to catch him. Just as that thought passed through his head, he heard a clank coming from the direction of the house. He reached up quickly and turned the flame down in the lamp hanging near Ginger’s stall.

He peeked through a crack in the door to the barn. He didn’t see anyone and was about to open it slowly when he heard a strong accented Irish voice call out. “Mr. Groober, sir,” Eva could be heard, “don’t forget your new ridin’ blanket.” Gilbert then saw Mr. Groober retreating back into the house.

He took the opportunity to slip out of the barn and make his way back home.