Billy Box

By Jack W. Boone

After leaving home in the Mississippi Delta for the Oklahoma territory to seek his fortune, Billy Box grew up fast. He tried to be honest, but having no money after working hard and long hours made it extremely difficult.

Realizing that he would never acquire the necessary capital to break out of poverty by going the way he was, he decided that the only way was to turn to crime. His scheme was to get work in a prairie store, locate the owner's money cache, steal it, then burn the store to cover the crime. It worked.

Occasionally a store would burn with the owner inside. After each fire, Billy would move to another town with his ill gotten money and repeat the process. After several such experiences he accumulated enough money to buy a saloon in Arizona. With a partner he swindled the army by selling them non-existent horses.

A government investigation of the horse business, and the real possibility of being hung if captured, was enough to cause him to sell his saloon quickly and flee to the East. He arrived in Charleston, South Carolina, and set up operations as an investor using his saloon money as bait. A clever prostitute helped him as he slowly worked his way into the Charleston social structure and developed grand schemes to bilk the rich planters out of their money.

When the Civil War started, Billy began planning ways to cash in on it. He formed two shipping lines and sold foreign armaments to both sides in the conflict. Along the way Billy had an affair with a war widow who had inherited a plantation after her soldier-husband was killed in action. They married and Billy became the master of the plantation. His shipping lines were successfully running the Yankee blockades, and the money rolled in. He was really a Southern sympathizer, but worked hard to keep it from showing.

One of his adventures was a house of prostitution in Washington set up to spy on the North. He also used it to blackmail high ranking government officials to protect himself from prosecution. All of his schemes worked. He left a trail of bodies in his wake as he made himself rich and socially successful. After a long and successful career, he died in bed. His departing words were, "I have been a real bastard." He surely was that.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jack W. Boone
• Release date: Dec 2, 2010
• ISBN: 9781458139078

Jack W. Boone

Jack W. Boone began his adult life by spending four years in the US Army during WW II. He was selected for training by British Commandos in Scotland for future invasions, raids on enemy territory and close combat operations. He participated in the invasions of North Africa and Sicily. For his combat roles, he was awarded the Silver Star for gallantry in action and the Purple Heart for wounds received in combat. After returning to the United States he was assigned as an assistant G3 and combat training officer. He commanded a training facility for special operations. He left the service after the war.Prior to, during and after his military years, he came to know several writers and other creative people. The group spent a lot of their free time discussing writing and the arts and what they hoped would be their role in it in the future. During that time, he was only an interested observer with no thought of participating, however that experience probably planted the seed for him to become a writer later.After his discharge the challenge of business took over and he spent the next forty years building his very successful group of companies. They were in real estate, mortgage banking, construction, land development, property syndication, publishing and several other related fields. He has received national publicity for his various business activities on several occasions.After he retired from business he decided to write a few stories for his own amusement. To date he has written seventeen books including eight full-length novels, four novelettes, two nonfiction books and three short story books. In addition, he has written numerous essays, articles, guest columns for newspapers and personality profiles of prominent people he knew for historical books. He coauthored a three-act play and much more.His initial plan was to give the books to charities to be used for fund raisers and other nonprofit causes. He did not plan to commercially market his work. The reaction to his books has been exceptionally good, with people calling to order copies for friends and relatives. After such a favorable reception, he recently decided to place them on the commercial market where the proceeds could be directed to other worthy causes. He gives generously to charities.He continues to write every day and aspires to finish all of the more than twenty writing projects he has outlined for himself including two novels presently in development.He and his wife of nearly 60 years have traveled in more than 45 countries in the world during his business career and on vacations. They presently reside in Marietta, Georgia, where he is active in civic clubs as a member and guest speaker. He recently started a writing program for fourth grade students in several local schools. He wrote half of a short story and the students finish it. Winners are selected by members of the Marietta Golden "K" Kiwanis Club and the schools. Prizes are awarded for the best finished story.

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Billy Box

Published by Jack W. Boone at Smashwords

Copyright 2010 Jack W. Boone

CHAPTER ONE

The time is September 8, 1855. The place is an old shack of a house located on the edge of a cotton field near the little Mississippi Delta town of Tumpie.The weather is cooling off, and for the first time since spring, sleeping had been good.

Eighteen year old Billy Baldwin Box had been up since before dawn packing his few belongings in a calico bag for his trip. He walked out to the front porch and set the bag down. Some daylight was beginning to show in the East.

His father, Tommy Box was agitated and blew a cloud of smoke from his corncob pipe into the still morning air. He looked at his oldest son and observed in an impatient tone, you're bound and determined to leave, are ye, boy?

I’ve made up my mind, Papa. I'm goin.

Do you know where you're goin'?

I'm headin' West That’s all I can tell you. I'll stop when I find a place with work that got nothin to do with pickin cotton and dirt farmin. When we finished pickin that last bale yesterday, I said to myself that I’ll never pick another boll of cotton as long as I live, there’s got to be a better way to make a livin. Nobody will get rich doin that, and I plan to get rich.

But you don't know where you’re goin yet, Tommy persisted.

Just out West. That's all I can tell you now. I gonna' see the sun go down another day on a damn cotton farm. To hell with cotton. I've seen enough of it to last a lifetime.

The old man scolded, Hush„up that cussin, yo mama don’t allow no cussin in this house cause it goes agin the Book. His tone changed as he continued his behest, Besides, all you know is farmin. What makes you think people are gonna hire somebody like you when you get out there? You got no education or trade to speak of.

Billy didn’t respond, because he didn’t have an answer.

The older man’s tone turned sarcastic. His voice was higher than normal now, threatening, yet there was fear hidden in it. Billy could feel it. You'll wind up a drunken bum in a cow-town grubbin out livery stables or moppin up cowboy puke in some bar, you wait and see.

There was a long pause when neither father nor son said anything. The old man tapped his pipe on a porch post, knocking the burning tobacco into the yard, and shifted his weight from foot to foot and not looking at his son, like he was ashamed of his remarks.

Billy said, No sir, I guess I'll work at somethin gonna be on no cotton farm and I ain't gonna be no bum in a livery stable or saloon either. You can bet on that, but that say that I won a livery stable or saloon one of these days.

His father’s contemptuous tone continued, I'll bet I can tell you what you're gonna do. You'll wind up just like your grandpa on your mama’s side, gettin' yourself shot by some drunk cowboy in a poker game.

No, sir, I can guarantee that ain’t gonna happen neither. I ain’t gonna drink or gamble. It don't make no sense for a man to do that. I've seen what it does to a body and I made up my mind that it ain’t gonna happen to me.

Tommy looked at the floor for a long moment before he said in a lower, mellowing tone, I guess I know how you feel, boy. I did the same thing when I was about your age. I left home. You get restless feet sometimes on a farm. I guess you’ve got to travel til you get it out of your blood. You’ll settle down when you find a wife. Just don't forget your mama, he pleaded, Try to send her a letter once in a while to let her know how you're gettin along. Women worry about their children. As for me it'll mean a lot of extra work, but I'll make it. Your brother and sister are getting along toward grown now and can fill in some. I guess we'll get along just fine.

Tommy was silent for a long moment, then he smiled at his son, pursed his lips and nodded his head slowly. With a hitch in his voice, he said beseechingly, I'm sorry, boy. I didn’tsay them things about gamblin' and drinkin' and all that stuff. I guess I’m scared for you being out there all alone where I can’t come to help if you get in trouble. You’ve always been a good boy, so you'll do just fine. I know you will. I just wish I could give you some money to help get you started, but you know I got none. I might have a little after I settle up the share, and even then I won’t have any to spare. It takes every penny we make to live and get the next crop in the ground. You know that.

Billy looked at his father, old before his time, a bent and broken man from the many years of hard labor in the cotton fields. A wave of compassion swept over him. He wanted to put his arm across his father’s rounded shoulders as a show of affection, but quickly dismissed the idea. It just wasn't done in the Box family.

He nodded, I know how it is, Papa. That’s the main reason I’m leavin. I’ve got to get y’all off this place and in a decent house of your own. I promise it’ll be better than this sharecropper’s cabin. Don’t worry about me. I’ll get along just fine. I don’t need money. I got me thirty-five cents I saved up. That’ll do for a start.

His mother called that breakfast was ready. They went inside, just as they had done for the past eighteen years. Billy didn’t say a word as he sat down in his regular place at the table. His mother delivered the hot biscuits and a plate of fried eggs before she spoke. Trying to sound cheerful, she poured coffee in his cup and said, you’re gonna have to cook your own eggs now, son. I reckon you know enough not to starve to death.

She handed him a small packet wrapped in cloth. There’s a little salt and pepper in here, in case you have to catch a wild animal and cook it. There nothing fit to eat without salt on it. If you should catch a rabbit, you and cook it good and done, otherwise you might get the rabbit fever. It’s nearly burnt to a crisp. Then she handed him another small sack. This here is some beef jerky. It’ll hold in the heat. Save it for emergencies. You know how to eat it. It’ll carry you over for a while.

He smiled feebly and put both packets in his pocket. The tension was high. His younger brother and sister came in and joined the group at the table. The family finished breakfast without much conversation.

You about ready to go, son? His father asked.

Yes sir. I guess I am. ... Mama, I’m gonna write you as regular as I can about where I am and what I. I might be able to even send a little money along once and a while. We’ll have to see how things go. But, you’ll hear from me, I promise you that.

Within a half-hour, he had said goodbye to the family and walked away to a new life. The last he saw of the little tenant farm was when he reached a bend in the road and stopped to look back. The scene would be indelibly etched in his memory forever, the little house with smoke rising from the kitchen chimney and the family gathered on the front porch in the breaking daylight. He waved, and they waved back, then he turned away with a lump in his throat and walked fast.

For the next day and a half he walked nearly fifty miles, planning to join a wagon train out of Memphis. When he arrived, he went directly to the stockyards area where most of the wagon trains spent a few days stocking up on supplies before continuing their trip.

Billy spoke to the manager, I hear tell that a feller can catch a wagon train out of here. Is that right?

Two laborers working nearby giggled. The manager glared at the laborers. He had seen these farm boys come out of the Delta before. He had been raised in the Delta himself, so he was sympathetic to their plight.

Yep, but the last one has been gone over a week now. Winter will be comin' to the prairie soon and a wagon train ain’t no place to be in a blizzard out there. The manager was looking the boy over as he talked. You a fast walker, boy?

Yes sir, tolerable fast. I come from Tumpie, Mississippi in a little over a day and a half. It's nearly fifty miles they tell me.

If'n you goin’ to walk a pretty good clip every day like you just done, you could probably catch that train in about a week or ten days. The wagon master was complaining that he had over thirty yokes of oxen this time and they're slow. Them steers gonna' walk nowhere near as fast as a horse or mule train.

Billy thanked the man and walked to the well to get a drink of water. He looked up at the location of the sun in the afternoon sky and figured he had about four hours of daylight left, so now was as good a time as any to start. He filled his canteen and waved to the manager. The old man waved back and pointed to the trail. Billy started walking.

His ragged clothes were clean and patched, and his old felt hat was floppy and wet at the band from sweat. He was slim, nearly six feet tall, with long hair reaching down to his collar. He was not necessarily handsome because his stern, fairly narrow face, made him look older than his years. His forehead protruded to the front slightly and shaded his eyes more than it did on most folks. The large eyelashes, at first glance, made it look like his eyes were set back in his head, still anybody who looked into his eyes would see a look of devilment, like that of a small boy about to play a trick. He had a warm, generous smile, accented by a well„shaped nose over a wide mouth and ample chin. As he shaved only once a week, he nearly always had a stubble of a beard.

His equipment was simple. The only item of value he carried was his grandpa's old 44„caliber revolver. Of course, he also had his homemade hunting knife in a leather sheaf on his belt and his bull whip coiled around his left shoulder. He knew how to use them all very well. His papa let him shoot the old revolver at Christmas„time when the relatives came around for the traditional family dinner and the shooting contest afterward. The knife and gun were comforting, but he

preferred his bull whip. With it rolled around his left shoulder he could grab the stock with his right hand and it would roll off of his arm into a ready position out in front of his body. He had made this one himself last winter after curing a cow hide. The leather was thick and pliable.

He had walked for four full days and this was the fifth. Now, nearing noon, the sun seemed to be getting hotter by the minute. His shirt was hot to the touch and sticking to his skin. He was still walking at a good clip, just not quite as fast as earlier. He only paused long enough to dampen his mouth with a little water occasionally. The water was hot.

His mind kept drifting back to the Delta, wondering what the family was doing now. He satisfied himself that he was sure he knew, because they did the same thing, day after day, year after year.

He heard a loud squall from a strange bird, one that he had never heard before. He was concentrating on the bird call when he was startled by the terrible sound of a rattlesnake’s rattle. That stopped him in his tracks. He froze in place. The hair on his neck stiffened. His entire body tightened as fear raced through it. He instinctively knew that death was very close at hand. He was deadly afraid of rattlesnakes. Moving only his eyes, he searched the ground before him very carefully. The snake rattled again. His eyes settled on it instantly.

The big snake was coiled about four feet in front of him in the same wagon„track. The snake had his head pulled back into his coil, ready to strike One more step and he would have been within range. He very slowly backed up two steps and lowered the calico bag to the ground, never taking his eyes off the snake, nor it him. He carefully unwound the whip from his shoulder. The snake tightened up its coil at the activity and raised his head, ready for a fight. With an easy, wide, mule-skinner’s swing of the whip, he cut the snake's head off as clean as if he had used a butcher's knife. He watched the headless body turn and twist on the hot sand. He looked around carefully for another snake. He knew they occasionally traveled in pairs in the fall just before going to ground for the winter. He walked over and kicked the dead snake's head off the road very carefully. Every country boy knew that a snake’s head can still bite and was just as poisonous as if still attached to the body because the poison sacs were in the head.

He took out his hunting knife and cut fourteen rattles and a button off the tail of the dying snake’s body. That was worth keeping. He figured he could trade it in town for food. His papa had once told him that Chinese men thought ground up rattlesnake rattles had magic powers for their manhood. He understood what that meant. He thought to himself that there might be a Chinese merchant in the next town. He dropped the rattles in the calico bag.

He continued walking. It was really getting hot, and he was paying a lot more attention to the trail now. His thoughts were randomly drifting when he was startled by a human voice coming from the shade of a large rock about a hundred feet off the road.

Hey, you boy, the voice yelled, come over to the shade for a spell. Where you goin' in such a hurry?

Billy stopped and pushed his hat forward to cut the glare from his eyes. He stared at the rock for a moment. He saw a man sitting on a smaller rock in the shade.

I'm heading out West. Billy answered in his pleasant drawl and started walking toward the rock. Don't look like you headin' place sittin' in the shade of that rock. Billy grinned at his own little joke.

Don't get smart-ass with me, boy. Who're you and where you from?

The stranger’s tone made Billy's temper bristle momentarily. Try as he might to appear calm, his voice had an edge to it as he answered, My name's Billy Box and I'm from the Delta country near Tumpie, Mississippi. Who're you?

Name's Bob Willis, the stranger said, this time calmly.

Willis knew by the tone of the young man's voice that he had better not push this fellow. He wasn't in the mood to take any bull off of a stranger this hot morning. He smiled and said, I'm a ginner by trade. I'm headin' back to the Delta where they got cotton. There nothin' out there where you're goin' except Indians and rattlesnakes and both wanna kill ya.

Billy had calmed down. I know, I killed a big rattler back yonder. You'll see it. He walked into the shade, took off his hat and wiped his head with his shirt sleeve.

Willis asked, Your folks still farmin' in the Delta?

Yeah, you might know my old man. His name is Tommy Box.

Naw, I don't know Tommy Box. You're the only Box I ever met. His laugh was an irritating, high-pitched, a sort of screech.

Billy didn't like this fellow. His temper flared again. Well, you know a Box now, and don’t you forget it.

Willis got serious in a hurry. Wait a minute there. I didn't mean to rub you, boy. I was just funning.

Well, Bob Willis, I ain’t lookin' for no fight, but if it comes to one, I don't run from no man. I don't like for a man to make fun of my family neither.

I'm sorry, boy. I swear I didn't mean no harm, a now serious Bob Willis said calmly.

No offense taken. Billy said as his temper settled down quickly. He thought it best to be on his way. This meeting hadn't started out right.

Well, Bob Willis, I go. I'll be seein' you.

Suit yourself, but you ought to sit down here in the shade for a spell. It's gettin' awfully hot and you don't look like you're carryin' no water.

I got a canteen in my bag. I got to go. I got a long way to make before the sun goes down today. How far it is to the next town?

The older man shrugged, That'd be Woodly. There nothin' there but a store and saloon by a creek and the creek ain’t got no water in it. They even got a lawman. It's three days for folks like me. If you keep up that pace you was makin while I watched you come up the road, it'll be two days or maybe some less for you.

Willis suddenly showed some concern in his voice as he said, You better slow down some, boy. You ought'a better'n anybody what this hot prairie sun can do to ya.

Billy caught the concern in the older man's voice and responded, I know, and I plan to be careful. I appreciate your concern, but I got to catch up with a wagon train. I was hoping you passed it along the way.

Sure did. She's a biggun all right, maybe fifty or sixty wagons, I'll guess. They makin' fair time. The oxen looked to be in good shape. They ought to make about ten miles a day at the rate they a'movin.

The older man pulled a twist of tobacco from his pocket, cut himself a chew and offered one to Billy.

I don't chew, but I thank ya, Billy replied to the gesture. You ought to try it, boy. It'll keep your mouth from goin goin' to chew, get yourself a little flat rock and put it under your tongue. It’ll make spit to keep your mouth wet also.

I know all about that. I learned that on the farm. Guess I'll be goin' now. How far ahead is that wagon train?

I passed it yesterday afternoon. They're turning south sometime today.

Billy looked surprised. How come they doing that, did they say?

The wagon-master said that was their plan. They’re heading for the panhandle of Texas to farm cotton. They got their own ginner, so there ain’t no need for me to go with them. They ain’t headed out west, if that’s what you thought.

Billy swore, The last thing in the world I need is another cotton farm. I ain't chasin them no more. I'm headin to Woodly.

Willis laughed, don't blame you none, I ain’t no farmer neither. Just keep to the right up the valley where you see their tracks turn off to the south, and follow the old wagon road on west. You'll get there in time.

Good-bye, Bob Willis. Sorry we got off on the wrong foot. If you see my old man, tell him I'm still goin' strong and everything is all right.

The older man nodded his head, Good luck to you, Billy Box. Maybe I'll look up your pa to give your message. Be careful and don't let them find your bones bleachin in the sun out there on that prairie. He pointed to the buzzards floating lazily in the sky, They would like that. His high pitched laugh pierced the air again.

Billy waved as he walked away. Soon he started to whistle as he walked. There was no particular tune. He wasn't going to let people like Bob Willis get to him and that was his way of showing it.

Billy walked for over two weeks, passing through Woodly and three other small settlements, sleeping on the ground along the way. Houses and towns were scarce on the prairie. At small pioneer farms he would ask for work in exchange for food and water and get a few dried apples or figs for his labors. Occasionally he would snare a bird or shoot a rabbit. He knew better than to steal anything. That was serious trouble in the Oklahoma territory and could lead to hanging without a trial.

There was not much manual labor available for a drifter. Slaves and freed blacks did all of the hard work. He could usually find minor work at a store or on a ranch, but it didn't last long. As soon as he finished a job, the owner would give him a dime or quarter and let him go.

Being a farm boy, he was accustomed to eating only one good meal a day. He could usually manage that, wherever he was.

Working in the stores, loading wagons and serving at the counter gave Billy time to think about his immediate future. He knew he would probably never accumulate enough money to start his own business the way it was going. He had to have a stake, and the only way for a stranger to get a stake was by his wits.

While working in the stores, one thing in particular caught his eye, the owners always took their money to bed with them at night. Billy watched this practice with a great deal of interest. That money could be his stake, but he had to figure how to get it and survive. Robbery was also a hanging crime.

After much pondering, he made up his mind. He had to get the money and eliminate the chance of getting caught doing it. He would select his target carefully. The idea quickened his pulse. As his plan developed in his mind, it became an obsession. He convinced himself that he was entitled to the money.

Without realizing it, Billy had started the master plan that would shape his life forever. As he walked the lonesome trail from town to town, he had plenty of time to perfect his ideas. The primary question in his mind most of the time now was how to get the money and stay alive afterwards. He knew that if the owner was still alive, he would stir up such a fuss that the sheriff would investigate, and he would be the first suspect because he worked in the store. There was only one solution, the owner must not survive. He had killed wild game and domestic animals all of his life. Killing a man couldn't be that much different. He shook it off as a detail that he would deal with when the time came. He knew now what he had to do. The building would have to burn with the body of the owner inside to destroy all of the evidence after he took the money out and buried it for safekeeping. To test his scheme, he needed to find a store owner with no family. Preferably a miserly fellow with a raw personality to ease his conscience.

Billy walked into the town of Riverton, in the Oklahoma Territory, two weeks later. He had been perfecting his scheme in his mind every step of the way. It had replaced his nostalgia. Home was a distant place, seldom in his thoughts now that the obsession was growing. He ached to get started. The more he went over the scheme step by step, the more convinced he became that he had it down perfect.

A few hours earlier, before Billy walked into town, old man Tom Wirtz had caught his delivery boy eating a piece of cheese and fired him for stealing.

Wirtz studied the farm boy standing at the counter asking for work. He knew farm boys were hard workers and occasionally not too bright, so he could squeeze their pay to a minimum.

So, you want a job, do ya? The old man asked in his thick accent.

Yes sir, could use one. I done wore a hole in my boot walking from the Mississippi Delta and I ain’t had a lot to eat lately.

Wirtz knew he had a hungry one here. He instantly decided to cut the pay in half.

I'm only paying a dollar a week and one meal a day. You interested, boy?

Billy looked him in the eye. He knew the old man was trying to take him. The battle of wits was on. He had badly misjudged Billy Box.

Well sir, I hardly make it on that and eat the other two meals I’ll need to do you a good job.

Billy said sadly, I guess I'll just have to walk on or try some ranch near here. At least I'll get a bunk and three meals there. They pay as ten dollars a month and keep during roundup time.

The old man smiled. This one had some pride and enough smartsto know that fall was roundup time. Tell you what, boy. You can sleep in the shed out back. There's a bunk in there. I'll feed you two meals in the store and I'll give you a dollar and a half a week. How's that?

Billy stalled for a long moment, then said, I thank you sir, but that would only be six dollars a month. I need that other four dollars to get some boots and clothes. Also, I want to send some money home to my mama.

All right. I'll give you two dollar a week. That's my last offer.

Billy pursed his lips and after a pause, as if he was considering it. Finally he said, I'll take it if you will throw in a good pair of boots.

The old man laughed. You win, boy. You got a deal. I got some used boots up there in the front of the store. You get yourself a pair and you can have ‘em. He failed to tell Billy that those boots came from dead cowboys killed in street fights or accidents on the range. He paid the undertaker twenty cents a pair for them.

Billy worked hard for the next three weeks. Soon old man Wirtz was treating him better and giving him more freedom around the store. Billy knew he was watching him like a hawk. He resented it, but he knew that the old man didn't trust anybody. They were never friendly toward each other or passed small talk. If Billy tried to bring up his family in conversation, Wirtz would cut him off short and give him a chore to do. Wirtz had no family. The old man kept the cash drawer locked at all times. Try as he might, Billy couldn't get into it. Wirtz kept the key tied to a string on his belt.

Billy began to make it a point to be around when Wirtz took the money out of the cash drawer at night. He wanted to know where Wirtz hid it. Billy wasn't interested in the small change.

As it turned out, it was no trick at all to find out where he kept his stash. Each night he could hear him walking in his upstairs bedroom after he closed his door. Billy counted the steps. It was the same every night, five steps toward the north wall. Within seconds, he would hear a scraping noise, like a piece of furniture being dragged across the floor for a short distance. The bed was on the south wall. He could hear another noise, like possibly a board being moved in the wall or floor. Billy waited patiently. He knew generally where the stash was located now. All he had to do was the board in the room, remove it, and take the contents.

It was on a rainy winter morning two weeks later when Wirtz left the store in Billy's care for the first time, but not the key to the cash drawer, and went to see the town doctor. Billy waited until he saw him actually enter the doctor's office before he raced up to the old man's bedroom and paced off five steps toward the north wall. He dropped to his hands and knees and started bumping the floor boards with the heel of his fist. Within seconds, he had found a loose board under the edge of the bureau. He slid the bureau off the board and lifted it up. His eyes nearly popped out of his head. The hole was nearly full of bills and gold coins.

Billy couldn’t take time to count it because he wouldn’t be away that long. He replaced the board exactly as he had found it and slid the bureau back into place then returned to the store. No one had come in during