It had all started when her parents died some five years earlier in one of the periodic mini-epidemics that surged through all big cities. As a sixteen-year-old orphan of poor parents the only respectable options open to her were to work for minuscule wages in a factory or, if she was very lucky, to get a job as a maidservant in some richer household. Becky was in luck; the pastor of her parents' church, the Reverend Jones, needed a girl to keep house for him as his wife was sickly after having seven pregnancies in as many years. Her time with then was happy, for the pastor was that rarity in America in the early nineteenth century, a truly good and godly man, and he treated her kindly. The work was hard, keeping a house neat and tidy, looking after an invalid and the three surviving children, preparing meals for then all, and cleaning the pastor's church, but she managed quite well once a routine was established.Then, just after her twenty-first birthday, a mild epidemic of influenza. They just lined up at the bar and placed an order. Every one but one ordered a beer, and the one exception ordered a whiskey. The normal routine was throw the whiskey down your throat in one gulp so that you did not have to endure the god-awful taste of the rotgut usually served at four-bits per shot. But, this time, the whiskey drinker, whom the marshal advised us was the foreman, just stood with the glass in his hand until all of the ranch hands had finished their beer. At that time, he threw down his drink.Instead of setting his shot glass on the bar, he threw it as hard as he could into the mirror behind the bar. This was bad enough, but all of the hands threw their beer mugs into the racks of whiskey bottles behind the bar. Of course, this made one hell of a mess with spilled whiskey all over the floor behind the bar. The foreman then grabbed a beer mug from a bystander and threw it at a kerosene lantern in a fixture behind the bar.The fixture broke and dropped the kerosene.
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