Rest for the Traveler
We travel a lot with our book signings and storytelling, and we take for granted the reserved room at a hotel or motel, hot food and hot showers, and the privacy of a room to ourselves where we can rest and feel safe. We live across the street from a historic inn, which gives us an idea of how it must have been long ago. There are lots of tales about peddlers and old inns, but this one illustrates the conditions we imagine.
In the old days, hotels and motels did not dot the landscape of our country like they do now. Now when we travel, we take these luxuries for granted, but this was not always the case. In early times, traveling salesmen (or peddlers, as they were often called) could not call ahead and reserve a room for the night. They had to depend on the hospitality of people who lived along the route they traveled to put them up for the night. This practice usually worked out well for all concerned. People living far from town welcomed a chance to buy things they needed from the peddlers, and they enjoyed the company and the news that the peddler passed on. The peddlers appreciated the food and a place to sleep, whether it would be a bed inside the house or a bed in the hay in the barn.
Naturally, there could be complications. Sometimes a peddler would encounter an unscrupulous host who would notice the peddler's money from prior sales. After offering the peddler a bed, the greedy host would wait until everyone was asleep and take action. He would kill and rob the unsuspecting peddler and dispose of the body somewhere nearby. Since there were no records of these travelers, the murderer would say that the peddler had left early or maybe never came by at all. Such disappearances were rarely pursued or solved.
The large farmhouse set among the trees was a happy sight for the peddler. He had done well so far, but he was getting too tired to go on to the next town. He stopped and showed his wares to the occupants of the house, and was pleased with his sales there. When his host extended an invitation for him to spend the night, the peddler gladly accepted the offer. He was especially happy to have shelter that night because a nasty storm was brewing, and he didn't want to be caught in it trying to get to the next town.
The farmer's wife hurried to get supper on the table before the storm hit. She didn't like having her hands in dishwater when lightning was in the air for fear it would shock or strike her. She was relieved that they finished dinner and the dishes just as the storm arrived in full force. The lightning danced on the rooftop, and the rain poured down in sheets.
It was a great night for sleeping, so they all retired early. The farmer's wife made a pallet for the peddler on the floor in front of the fireplace. He placed his pack beside him on the floor. The farmer had seen quite a lot of money in it when he paid him earlier.
“You should rest well here,” said the farmer. “We will try not to disturb you, but my wife will insist that we go to the cellar if the storm gets worse. She is afraid of storms.”
The peddler assured the farmer that he would be fine. They said goodnight, and all went to sleep except the farmer. He lay awake thinking about all the money the peddler was carrying.
That money would pay off all my debts if I had it, he thought. A wicked plan began to form in his mind.
While the storm continued, the farmer slipped out of bed and crept into the living room. The peddler was sleeping peacefully on the floor, his pack beside him. If he heard the farmer's footsteps, he probably thought it was the family going to the cellar. The peddler's rest was undisturbed until the farmer picked up the poker and bashed in his head with one blow.
With his actions covered by the noise of the storm, the farmer dragged the peddler's body to the cellar. He hid it in an old rug, knowing it would not be discovered until he could take it out and bury it later. He made a second trip to get the peddler's pack with his goods and money, and hid the pack in a trunk in the corner of the cellar. He cleaned the poker and went back to bed. Sometime before dawn, the storm moved on.
The next morning, the farmer's wife was surprised to find the peddler gone. She had expected him to stay for breakfast.
“Where is he?” she asked.
“He left as soon as the storm let up,” her husband told her. “He said he wanted to get an early start.”
She knew that peddlers did want to get an early start sometimes, so she thought no more about it. Soon after, while the wife and children were visiting neighbors, the farmer took the body and the trunk with the money out of his cellar and buried them where only he would know where to look. He figured he could get whatever amount of money he needed from the trunk when he needed it.
The farmer was shrewd enough not to pay off all his debts at once. He did not want to make anyone suspicious. He justified his killing the peddler by telling himself over and over that he had worked hard all his life and deserved some good luck, even if he had to create it for himself. Now all he had to do was wait and spend the money a little at a time. Nobody would suspect a thing. He would not have to pay for this crime.