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1934 Juliana, Georgia

Alfred Minette III, grandson of the original Alfred Minette, founder of Juliana, sat at his large mahogany desk in his paneled office on the third floor of the courthouse. It was technically the office of the mayor which Little Al, as he was still called even at age twenty-seven, was not. The actual mayor, Hubert Dalzell, was an outdoorsman and did not care for offices, so he let his best friend, Little Al, use it free of charge.

Little Al conducted the business of his two sawmills from the spacious, well-appointed office. He not only owned the mills and a good many properties in Juliana, but with his family inheritance had purchased nearly one hundred thousand acres of longleaf pine timberland in Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana. In spite of the rest of the country’s suffering in the hard economic times, Little Al Minette had cleared practically every acre of forest he owned and was a very rich man.

But he was not going to stay that way by sleeping on opportunities. His father and grandpapa had taught him well: how much had been sacrificed to make Juliana the town it was and how that tradition must be upheld by taking advantage of every opportunity that presented itself. Like the one that was headed his way now in the form of one Mr. Lank Stetler.

Lank Stetler was foreman of the larger of his two mills, a hard worker, and an honest family man. He was smart. Too smart, Little Al thought from time to time. He’d heard rumblings that Stetler was a union man.

“Come on in, Stetler. Have a sit,” Little Al boomed.

Stetler, dusty cap in hand, sawdust-matted hair plastered to his grimy forehead, was ushered into the office by Little Al’s secretary, Dolores, whom Little Al told to head on home. After she closed the door, Little Al leaned back in his leather chair and surveyed Stetler.

“So let’s hear it, this idea you have.”

Stetler proceeded to tell Little Al that he’d thought of a new use for the sawdust leavings they mounded in piles all around the mills and which were a nuisance to dispose of. Stetler had devised a machine that pressed the sawdust, along with a bit of paraffin, into the shape of logs. Logs that would burn longer, cleaner, and cheaper than either cord wood or coal. Logs that could create a whole new business opportunity just as the timber supply was slowing down to a trickle.

As the man spoke, Little Al’s heart thundered in excitement. He maintained a poker face, however. It wouldn’t do to give away too much.

“And how many folks have you told about this idea of yours, Mr. Stetler?” he asked.

“Just the wife,” Stetler replied. “Her and nobody else.”

Little Al nodded. He’d seen young Mrs. Stetler around town. She was a lovely girl, still fresh as she hadn’t had young’uns yet. She wouldn’t be a problem, Al thought. After all was said and done, she might even let Little Al buy her a nice dinner and a glass of champagne in Atlanta. Maybe treat her to a show at the Fox Theater, too. Who knows? She might even let Al kiss her on the neck.

He couldn’t help himself. In the excitement of Stetler’s idea, his mind skipped far ahead, to the time when he’d have the blades and belts taken out of the mill by the river and replaced with this sawdust-pressing machine. Skipped ahead to the time when he’d be making money hand over fist and would finally have a moment to look for a wife.

But there were important details to handle before that. He would pay the young Widow Stetler a nice stipend, enough to provide for her, and he had to make sure she understood that her poor dead husband’s idea had actually been Little Al’s idea first. Maybe he’d send a bit of extra cash her way. Surely that would soften her heart toward him. Maybe so much that she would let him kiss her neck . . .

Good golly, he really had gotten ahead of himself, and now he had a stiff one, right now, right under his desk, even as Stetler sat on the other side of it, going on and on about discs and extruders and water vapor.

He willed the pesky appendage down. This was serious business, offering a sacrifice. His father and grandfather had drilled that into him since he was a boy of thirteen. The three families, the Minettes, Dalzells, and Cleburnes hadn’t made a sacrifice since the original one over seventy years ago. But times were desperate. He’d cleared most of his timber. Soon, Minette Mills would have no lumber left to saw, and the town’s main industry would be gone. A sacrifice had to be made. It would turn the town’s luck around, sure as shooting. He had to be a man about this. And he had to do it quick before Stetler told anybody else.

As Stetler talked, Little Al made his plan. He would ask the man to walk with him down to the sawmill. Ask him to show Al where the machine would go. Precisely how it would make the logs. Then he would lure Stetler toward one of the great jagged saws, perhaps on some pretense of something amiss with the machinery. . . .

It would be a quick death, and Al would pay that stipend to the man’s widow right after the funeral. He would offer her his strong shoulder to cry on and perhaps suggest an arrangement. Would she dare consider him, the richest man in town, as a husband? After all, she was alone and near penniless, and Little Al was in need of a son to carry on the Minette family name.

He had to approach things careful-like, he thought. But be strong and resolute. The fortune of Gentle Juliana depended on him.