Spring 1866Billy Drury, Farmer
Clay County, Missouri
I timed my entrance perfect at Jesse’s baptism—missing the God part and the dunking business but arriving in time for the food.
“I’m so sorry, ma’m,” I told his ma, as I stepped onto their back porch. “My riding horse come up lame, you see, and I had to foot it over to the landing and catch the stage… .”
“That’s all right, Billy,” his ma said. A busy woman she was, that afternoon.
“You just help yourself. We got chicken and corn steamed in the husk. We got turnips and ribs. Biscuits and syrup. We got baked apples and cobbler.”
She gave me a wink. “And I hear a flying rumor that Mr. Frank has a jug down behind the icehouse.”
“Is that so?” I sniffed the air but detected nothing.
The place overflowed with people, all diehard rebels
