about my words.
She smiled broadly and said, “I do appreciate your confidence. And your enthusiasm, Mr. . . .”
“Speed. Joshua Fry Speed. The new sole proprietor of A. Y. Ellis & Co.,” I added hastily and not altogether truthfully, but I was eager to continue the conversation any way I could. “Right over there, with the navy-blue facade. The finest general store in Springfield, if you have got any needs.”
She laughed out loud. “I’m sure it is. I’ll keep it in mind. Well, it was nice to meet you, Mr. Speed.” She turned to leave.
“And you as well, Mrs. . . .”
“Harriman. The ‘Widow Harriman,’ more properly,” she said, adjusting the pin holding her mourning bonnet in place. She opened her mouth again and paused for a moment before adding, “As it happens, I too run a general store, out in Menard.”
When I shouted in surprise, she continued: “You say you’re new to the trade. I’ve been in the business for a few years now. If you ever find yourself in Menard, knock on my door and perhaps we can exchange a story or two.”
As I stared after her receding form, I wondered how long decency required me to wait before making the trip to Menard, a small frontier settlement that was several hours’ ride north of Springfield. I had settled on three weeks when I went to meet up with the fellows.
We gathered that evening in the stables, tossing horseshoes at the stake. Usually my focus held until the hour was late and my bottle almost drained, but I was off my mark from the start.
“I wish you’d had such poor aim last week when I was opposing you,” complained Matheny, who was playing on my side that evening.
“Guess I’m preoccupied,” I said. The image of the Widow Harriman’s figure kept floating in front of my eyes where the stake was supposed to be.
“Whatever’s on your mind, it can’t be as important as beating these two vagrants.” He gestured bitterly at Herndon and Hurst, who’d already amassed a nearly insurmountable lead.
“I wouldn’t be sure of that.”
Two days later, I set off for Menard at dawn. Hickory and I trotted directly away from the rising sun, the supple, muscular horse resolutely pursuing her own elongated shadow. After a few blocks, the street grid of Springfield petered out and we passed through a number of the farms that ringed the village proper. Then the farms gave way and we were alone on the warming prairie.
The sun was nearing its apex and Hickory was breathing heavily when the plateau on which Menard was set came into view. I had ridden by it before without stopping on the way to Peoria. I now saw the heart of the settlement comprised two dozen structures arranged in a semicircle and facing the village commons. These included a blacksmith, stable, and two public houses, along with a one-story building with a bold-lettered sign perched on the roof proclaiming “Harriman & Co., Public Provisioners.” I tied Hickory to the post and walked in.
The store was laid out similarly to A. Y. Ellis & Co., with a small public reception area in front and neatly ordered rows of goods resting on wooden shelves behind a polished counter. The Widow Harriman was standing at the counter and attending to a customer, an old woman in a faded ruffled skirt that fell to the rough-planked floor. When I entered, the widow glanced up, and a look of surprise flickered across her face. But her attention remained focused on her customer until the transaction had been completed and the woman bustled past me, carrying several folds of coarse-woven fabric.
“Good day, Widow Harriman—” I began when we were alone.
“Call me Rebecca,” she said, and my heart raced.
“Am I in time for the lessons in frontier shopkeeping?”
“You’re a little early, actually,” she said with a smile, “but I think I can make an exception in your case.”
The following hours passed too quickly. Rebecca patiently explained her merchandise and business methods, stopping only to banter and bargain with the customers who entered periodically. My ardor grew steadily as I watched her mind and figure at work. Before I knew it, the sun was low and I found myself unwilling to leave.
“Your lessons were all most illuminating,” I said sincerely, “and most impressive. I think I owe you dinner, at the least.”
“You don’t owe me a thing,” she said, “but the ale Johnson brews next door isn’t half bad. And Mrs. Johnson’s beef stew is