A Most Daunting Time

By Robert Roach

A Most Daunting Time is an epic tale of two families in the 1930s in the shadow of the Great Depression. Melvyn and Sally Bridges settled in Dodge City, Kansas, a mid-western town of renown, in 1919, and began farming. They farmed until the middle-'30s when the Dust Bowl rendered them penniless. Sally bore two sons and a daughter, the eldest of which, Mitchell, is a baseball player with remarkable skills and future ambitions. Charles Clark, an aristocratic oil tycoon, and his daughter, Holly, a "Belle of the South," live in Hattiesburg, Mississippi, and have lived quite well through the hardening times. But, fate has a way of evening out odds, and little did both families know they would be brought together in unforeseen circumstances.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Outskirts Press
• Release date: Jun 19, 2017
• ISBN: 9781478791232

Robert Roach

Robert Roach lives in Central Oregon. After a stint of two years in the army, he became a court reporter and practiced his craft for thirty-plus years in the civil and criminal courts. He is retired and enjoys golf, fly-fishing, reading and traveling. He has published two novels, Seismic and Irish Lit.

Book preview

1

It is 1938, late spring in Dodge City, Kansas. Mitchell Bridges, a senior in high school, was to play a baseball game for his high school team against a team from Kansas City, for the State Championship.

The nation is still experiencing one of its worst disasters, dust clouds covering Nebraska, Kansas, Oklahoma, and Texas, and creating a condition nationally called The Dust Bowl. The drought is in its fifth year, having started in 1933. People that have lived in—what some people have called—this god-awful place, have survived the most miserable conditions one could imagine. All of their crops ruined, all of the topsoil misplaced because of the wind. However, life goes on for the unfortunate few who have stayed in the Midwest. In the hopes it would be a nice day, free of dust, the game was to be played on a dirt field at the high school in Dodge City. Mitchell’s team was made up of farm kids from outlying towns: Cimarron, Ensign, Bucklin, and a few other burgs. They were to play three games against Kansas City, and Dodge City only had two pitchers: Mitchell and Richard Bobo Riley. Mitchell, the Better of the two pitchers, would pitch two games: the first, on Saturday, and the second game of the double-header on Sunday. He was by far the best athlete on the team, the best pitcher and hitter. The best they could hope for was for Mitchell to win the first game and make the next two respectable.

Saturday morning came, and the skies were hazy, like most days, with dust covering the bleachers, the bases, and eventually, most of the players.

Mitchell was an imposing figure for a senior in high school, six one, only one hundred seventy-five pounds, but very coordinated, great hand-eye ability, and as fast as the wind.

In the first game, as the Dodge City pitcher, he struck out two of the first three hitters and retired the first inning without a hit. Bucky Grandahl singled to center, and Mitchell, the third hitter, tripled to right-center. He scored on a ground out to second. Two-nothing Dodge City, and that’s the way the first game ended. Mitchell would go on to get two more hits and finished with a complete game allowing only three hits.

That night, Mitchell and his team, along with his parents, celebrated at the local diner. Sitting in the back booth, observing this all, was a gentleman with grayish hair and glasses, taking in the celebration.

The next day was a completely different story. Kansas City took the first game 14-3, when Grandahl was hit hard. Since there was nobody to mop up after Kansas City had scored eight runs in the first four innings, he had to finish the game. Fortunately, the manager for Kansas City took pity and put in several reserves. Mitchell accounted for all three runs with a single, double, and a two-run home run.

The nightcap, a seven-inning affair, which was played at two o’clock, was a cliff-hanger for five innings, tied at one apiece. Mitchell was getting tired and gave up a home run in the sixth. Kansas City went on to score two more runs and won 4-1. Mitchell got two more hits and wound up going eight for eleven for the three days.

Dodge City’s players were in a somber mood after the game, but the coach brought out some ice cream and cokes, and all was well.

The next day, at school, there was a buzz about the play of Mitchell against a more mature and talented Kansas City team. He was not much for the adulation heaped upon him by his fellow students, but was polite and humble in response.

Next week was more of the same. Since there were no animals or growth of any greenery, there were no chores to do on the farm . . . just more school and working as a soda jerk three days a week, getting ready for graduation.

Sunday morning, he was riding his bike through town and spotted a girl he knew from school, Rebecca, and they went over to the diner where he worked. Rebecca impressed him by buying hamburgers for the two of them, and they sat there for several hours while she made google eyes at him. He always wanted to see how far she would go, but she never gave him the chance. On the way home, he looked northward where the skies began to darken. He had seen this before, but thought it was a thunderstorm forming so he stepped on the pedals a little bit. The next thing he knew, he was engulfed in a familiar dust storm and could not see two feet in front of him. He got off his bike, put his shirt over his mouth and nose, and walked the rest of the way, a half mile, and arrived home. It was as if the whole world were about to end.

A few days went by and everyone was in a state of disbelief. The whole town of Dodge City, as well as Southern Kansas, Oklahoma, and Northern Texas, was under feet of dust and dirt. The stories that surfaced in the dailies were that of an apocalypse—the end of the world.

2

Melvin and Sally Bridges met in their hometown of St. Louis while they were in high school. Sally Medford grew up in the upper part of St. Louis, the daughter of a prominent banker; Melvin, on the South Side, his father a dockworker. He followed in his father’s footsteps, working on the docks until he was drafted in the army and sent overseas to France toward the end of World War I. He served for two months and received a leg wound and was returned to the States. He reunited with Sally, and they were married the following year, 1919. He worked on the docks of the Mississippi for a well-known textile businessman who traded in wool from the South. He made good money on the docks, working six days a week. The work was arduous, but he felt he was getting ahead of the game.

Sally had gotten pregnant at the end of their high school year, and she was the talk of her class. Her father and mother were distraught that she would still marry Melvin when he returned from the war, and they disowned her. She was unable to work and became anxious that Melvin might be killed in the war. When he returned, and they were married, she was the happiest woman on earth. But something was wrong with Melvin. He became agitated and disagreeable, with her and most everyone. They sat down one evening and hashed everything out. He told her that although he liked his work and was making good money, what he really wanted was to have a farm; to grow crops and live a more sedentary life.

It was June. He had a week’s vacation coming, and so they decided to take a ride into Nebraska and Kansas and see if there was something that appealed to him. He could check out what the farming community was all about.

When the time came to leave the train station, he told her they were going to make a side trip to Dodge City. Sally knew he was a great fan of the Wild West. She confronted him and said it would have wasted two days of a seven-day trip; that he must not be serious about changing his career—it was pure folly. He told her no, it would be for just one day, and that they would still head up to the Corn Belt in Nebraska, and maybe Iowa.

After a five-hour trip from St. Louis, they arrived in Dodge City and Melvin was like a kid in a candy store for the first time. They visited the famous saloon where the likes of Wyatt Earp, Bat Masterson, and Doc Holliday convened. He roamed the streets and imagined how it was back in the days of the Wild West. They sat down in a diner and a gentleman approached them. He told them he was a real estate developer and salesman; that Dodge City was booming, and he showed them some brochures and paraphernalia. Melvin looked them over and told him he wasn’t really interested in settling in Dodge City, that he was moving north to Nebraska or maybe Iowa. The gentleman could see a bit of scorn in Sally’s eyes and brought out a picture of a piece of property with a nice little three-room house, and some property behind. He informed Melvin that he and Sally might want to look at the property out of town; that he might be able to make them a good deal if they were interested.

Melvin knew that Sally was becoming extremely irritated with him, so he asked the gentleman if he could have a few minutes of privacy to discuss this matter with Sally. After their talk, they decided they would go out there with the salesman.

The ride was a half mile out of town. Melvin noticed lots of cattle as they rode in the salesman’s car, and the salesman told them that Dodge City was indeed a cattle town, but there were lots of opportunities for farmers to subsidize themselves with wheat and sorghum, a wheat-growing plant. When they arrived at the farm, suddenly Sally fell in love with the house and Melvin with the six acres of wheat. Melvin asked why the price was so low, and the salesman told him of the family that owned it. The father had a bad gambling habit and ran up some debt that he couldn’t repay, and they abandoned the farm last year. He told Melvin that the bank was tired of serving the debt and could he—the salesman—please take it off their hands.

Melvin always had good sixth sense. He grabbed the salesman by his sleeve and took him over to the side. He asked him again why the price was so low. The salesman said nothing. Melvin squeezed on his arm a little harder. Why is the price so low? The salesman told him again that the owner had lost a large sum in a poker game; that the man, a World War I vet, had come looking for him at his house, an argument ensued, and the man took out a gun and shot to death the owner, his wife, and two children.

Sally was still not satisfied until the salesman told Melvin and her they could have the farm and house for $600. Melvin told him he would take it. They bought the farm, returned to St. Louis, and settled in Dodge City within the month. Melvin began to learn about farming, and Sally gave birth to Mitchell at the end of the year.

The first two years were not bumper crops, but they broke even. Melvin studied the history of Dodge City and became a greeter for the city and its environs. He learned about the Santa Fe Trail, Ft. Dodge, which guarded the city from the Indians, and the famous Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe railroad. In town, on Front Street, stood a barbershop, a dance hall, two grocery stores, and the Longhorn Saloon. He made $200 a year—in addition to his farming—that helped his family.

In 1921, Donald Bridges was born, and in 1925, Elizabeth Bridges joined the family. Everything went well until the crash of the stock market in 1929 that sent the whole nation into an economic spiral, from which they would not recover until the late ’30s. Melvin’s savings began to dwindle, and in 1933, the Great Dust Bowl developed. There were dust storms seemingly every week, until their whole farm was one big dust bin. There was no food for the cattle, and nobody wanted to raise them. Life would go on . . . but for how long?

3

It was early spring in 1938, and Mitchell had no plans. His father, Melvin, had died during the school year. During the storms of the past few years, he had taken in too much dust trying to save the farm and had died of lung disease. He was afraid that his mother would not be able to attend the funeral. She was emaciated and weak and could hardly stand up. His family was almost destitute. He had lost his job as a soda jerk, his father lost his job as a town greeter, and he could not see where any money would come from. He rode his bike into town to see some of his classmates at the soda shop. Then he walked over to the post office to post a letter to Sally’s mother. He walked in and stood at the counter and looked into the back room where Mr. Morrison, the postmaster, was kneeling down and opening his safe. The dial was big, but he could not see the numbers as Morrison opened the safe. The first thing he noticed, however, was a large pile of bills right in front. Morrison put something in and closed the safe. At that moment, a ringer on the door rang, and a woman came in the store. Morrison jumped up and came back out front.

Mr. Morrison, could I get a stamp to post this letter?

Just drop it right there, Mitchell. I’ll take care of it.

Thank you, sir.

Mitchell looked at the woman, someone he didn’t recognize, and said, Good day, ma’am. He walked out the door and was walking over to the soda shop when he realized that Mr. Morrison had not relocked the safe. He met some of his buddies over at the shop, and they reminisced about their school years and what they were going to do after they graduated.

That night he lay in bed, wide awake, and looked at his watch. 9:30. He looked over at his brother, who slept in the same room, along with his sister, and noticed they were fast asleep. Quietly, he got out of bed, walked over to where his clothes and shoes were, grabbed them and his coat, then crept out of the bedroom. He walked over to the door, reached down, petted the dog, and slipped out into the night. He walked the half mile into town and noticed the Longhorn Saloon was busy, then walked over to the back door of the post office. He looked around, and, not seeing anyone, reached in with his key-knife and wiggled the lock until it opened. With his gloves on, he opened the door and entered. The safe was on his right. He knelt down and said to himself, Please don’t be locked. He turned the handle, it clicked—and opened. He reached in the safe until he felt the bills, grabbed them, locked the safe, and went out the same door he entered, relocked it, and stole into the night.

On the way home, his heart was pounding like never before. He wanted to count the bills, but there was not enough light. He noticed a light coming down the road, so he turned and ran into a ditch. He hoped the driver had not seen him, or anyone else, for that matter.

Once he got home, he entered the house like a mouse; no sound, nothing. He reopened the door to his room, took his clothes off, and got back into bed—hoping no one had heard anything. All of a sudden, his brother, Donald, whispered, Where’d you go?

Surprised, Mitchell said, Go back to sleep. I’ll tell you in the morning.

The next morning, Mitchell asked Donald to take a walk with him. His sister, Liz, asked if she could go, too, and Mitchell told her they were talking family matters, boys’ stuff, and maybe next time. As they walked through the dusty acreage of their farm, Mitchell told his brother that he would be graduating next week, and that he might have to look for a job in a few weeks, he didn’t know where; that Donald would be the big man in the house and would have to help look out for their mother and sister.

Donald was shocked and upset. Mitchell had always taken care of things in the past. Donald was only fifteen, and times were tough. Mitchell didn’t know if Donald was up to it, but he assured Donald that his leave would only be temporary. The family needed money, and he’d have to go work for it. This seemed to assuage Donald for the moment, and they walked back to the house.

Mitchell looked in the paper for any news of a burglary at the post office. There was nothing reported, or at least in the twice-weekly newspaper. Maybe Mr. Morrison didn’t notice it. No, that could not be the reason. The reason was there was a dead end; no leads—at least not to him.

The graduation ceremonies took place in the gym. There were fifty-six seniors graduating. Mitchell was in the middle of the class, although he knew he was smarter than that. There was a party after that, everyone telling their plans: Three going on to college, some leaving the city, and most noncommittal. That was Mitchell, noncommittal. Funny as it may seem, Rebecca began to come on to Mitchell, couldn’t keep her hands off him while dancing, and wanted to get together with him for a date. How ironic, he thought. She felt nice to dance with, and after three or four, he invited her to sit down.

Rebecca Walters, the daughter of Bill Walters, one of the wealthiest people in town, had a ranch a mile out of town filled with cattle. The Dust Bowl had hit him hard. There was no food for the cattle, and he eventually had to sell them. He had some investments in Kansas City and was able to defray a lot of his business in Dodge.

They sat down over in the corner and began to discuss their plans for next year. Rebecca was one of the three going to college, the University of Nebraska, so he wouldn’t be seeing her anyway. Mitchell finally got serious and leaned into her and said, Rebecca, I might be going away sometime soon, and I need somebody I can trust.

She looked at him, surprised, and said, Why would you leave Dodge? Your family is here. Your brother and sister need your guidance. They look up to you.

Yes, I know. I need to get a job someplace out of this dreary environment; something substantial.

Rebecca, ever knowing and straightforward, said, And how can I help you?

I want you to act as an intermediary for me. You are the only person I think I can trust. He smiled at her. Besides, after tonight, I really think I could like you.

She smiled back. You are pretty good looking, you know.

He leaned over and gave her a tender kiss.

Three men sat over in the corner in the diner. One was Tom Morrison, the postmaster in Dodge. Sitting next to him was James Bradley, the district postal inspector from Kansas City. The third member was Jack Butler.

James, this is Jack Butler. Mr. Butler is a former Pinkerton detective, and he will be assisting me in my investigation.

Glad to meet you, Mr. Butler. I’ve always been a fan of Pinkerton’s.

Well, I enjoyed my time with the agency. To assist in any way would be my pleasure.

Bradley looked at Tom Morrison. You know, Tom, this doesn’t look too good on your résumé. No witnesses, no prints, no leads—nothing. I’ve read your report, and it doesn’t make sense. You stated you remember putting the money in the safe, that a young man asked you for a stamp to mail a letter, that several people came in and did business, and that you locked the door and left for the day. Anything else you haven’t put in your report we should know about?

No. I have tried to go over the timeline and, for the life of me, I can’t figure out what happened. The last I saw of that money was the day before I missed it.

Bradley stood up and said, Well, I’ll be returning to Kansas City in the morning. You keep in touch. He looked over at Butler, gave him a nod, and left the diner.

Bradley sounded pretty serious, Tom, Butler remarked.

He sounded pretty stern, too.

You’re right, there. Let’s go over this scenario one more time. You put the $1,200 in the safe, Butler said.

Yes, I distinctly remember doing that, Morrison responded.

Did you lock it?

I think—wait a minute! I was about to lock it and the young man, who was standing there by the counter, asked me for a stamp.

And you came forward and gave him one. Did you go back and lock it after that?

I don’t know.

Who is this young man?

His name is Mitchell Bridges. He lives about a half mile out from Dodge proper. I don’t think Mitchell is capable of—

You leave that up to me, Tom.

The next morning, Mitchell told his brother he would be gone for most of the day and wouldn’t be home until sometime that night, and for him and the folks to not worry. Around noon, when he was in his room by himself, and only his mother in her chair in the big room, he walked over to a corner of the room, reached down, and pulled up a floorboard near the corner. He reached in and picked up the wad of bills, counted out $30, returned the rest, replaced the floorboard, and pounded the nail shut.

Mitchell, is that you?

Yes, Mom, he said, just tapping a nail down.

He knew the next freight train that came through Dodge was at 1:10. He looked at his watch. It showed 12:30. Time to get a move on, he thought. He walked to the door, told his mother good-bye, and sprinted onto the road. After walking at a brisk pace, he arrived twenty minutes before the train would leave for Hutchinson and Topeka. In the 1930s, during the Depression, there were many people and families who rode the rails in freight cars: mostly between cities, sometimes between states, for jobs. Most were dirt-poor; a term that aptly described the people in the Southern Midwest.

Mitchell walked over to the end of the tracks, away from the main station, and looked to see if there was any track men or anybody involved with the railroad around. Seeing no one, he walked over to an empty freight car, lifted himself up to the door, quietly removed the bolt, opened it just ajar, got in, and closed the door ever so softly. He looked around, saw no one, went over, and sat down in a corner and thought about the times they would ride this train on the weekends. Sometimes they rode it all the way to Topeka; sometimes they were kicked off. He hoped today would be a good ride.

Nobody got in the car he was in while stopping in Hutchinson, and another hour later, they were in Topeka. He waited for five minutes after the train stopped, then quietly opened the door. He peeked out both ways, jumped down, and walked across the tracks toward the city. He took a left at the first street, walked down two blocks, and remembered there was a general store there. He walked in, grabbed a basket, took out his sheet, and started down an aisle. He reached over and picked up five pounds of potatoes, five pounds of flour, three pounds of sugar, two pounds of coffee, two pounds of bacon, and five loaves of bread. He wished he could have bought some eggs, butter, milk, and meat, but they needed to be refrigerated and could be picked up in Dodge.

When he walked to the register, the man said, Is this your first time in Topeka, son? I haven’t seen you before.

Mitchell was taken aback with the question. He stuttered. Ye-s-s, sir. We moved here about two months ago. My mother and father aren’t getting around too well, so I found your store.

Well, bless you, son. That will be $5.56. Do you need something to carry all this?

Yes, sir. Please.

He reached down and pulled up an empty fifty-pound gunnysack and gave it to Mitchell.

Mitchell walked out of the store