Inspiration can come from the most unexpected situations. - MCM
Everyone in town knew Wynn Rainey, but no one really knew Wynn Rainey.
Even today, in and around Downey Bluff, the Rainey name will get folks to talking. As far away as Norwich, people still remember him. Everyone has a story, and more importantly, an opinion.
Depending on who you talk to, some will say Wynn Rainey was a man of means. The Wenberg family, who owned and ran the local savings and loan, did a lot of business with him, if stories are to be believed. Oddly enough, there never seemed to be an active account in his name. The same people who told these tales were the same ones who’d tell you that assets are better than cash.
Wynn Rainey always seemed to have the latter. Usually at least a pocketful.
Some would tell you he was loose as a goose with his money. Some would tell you he could squeeze ten cents out of a buffalo nickel’s ass. Lots of the old timers will share stories of Rainey paying everyone’s tab at the local tavern on Christmas Eve.
There is some disagreement over which Christmas Eve.
There is considerably more disagreement over whether Wynn actually paid.
Long story short, Wynn Rainey was always happy to help someone out, provided he got something he wanted in return.
He always seemed to get the better end of the bargain.
No one seemed to know where he came from. No one knew his age, his family, or where his money came from. Some folks say he came down from Canada. There are variations of this particular story that declare he was a man on the run. Some said he killed a man. Some say he robbed a bank. Some say he was a confidence man.
Some would even say he’d never been in Canada.
A case of mistaken identity.
There was supposedly a newspaper clipping that proved the bank robbery story. Nobody seems to remember which newspaper. According to one version, it was from somewhere in Ontario. Another placed the robbery in Vermont. Still another insisted the bank was in New York and Wynn had escaped across the Canadian border afterward.
The clipping itself has never surfaced.
This has never stopped anyone from quoting it.
A lot of folks said, or at least assumed, he came from a wealthy family. Landowners. There were rumors of ranches in Oklahoma and oil fields in Texas. Once I even heard his family owned a coal mine in West Virginia.
Just as many folks would tell you a sob story and say he came from nothing. He worked hard and made his own way. One old fellow swore Wynn had been orphaned before he could walk and raised by an aunt somewhere in Kentucky.
He couldn't remember the aunt's name.
Or the town.
Or who told him.
If we’re being honest, nobody knew the truth and Wynn Rainey wasn’t about to tell an honest story to anyone, at least not without getting something in return.
Old Miss Beasley always swore Wynn Rainey sold her some elixir that cured her gout. She swore she never had even the slightest twinge after.
At that time, there was always somebody pushing some potion, elixir, salve or ointment guaranteed to cure everything from rheumatism to baldness. Some of the older folks would tell anyone who’d listen that’s where his money came from. They said he was a snake oil salesman.
Others would disagree.
According to Miss Beasley, the bottle didn't even have a label. Wynn told her it was an old family recipe. Depending on when she told the story, the recipe came from his grandmother, a Cherokee medicine man, a doctor in St. Louis, or a Chinese gentleman Wynn met while working on the railroad.
Nobody remembers Wynn Rainey ever working on a railroad.
Miss Beasley didn't care.
Her gout was gone.
There were those who pointed out that gout has a habit of coming and going all by itself. Miss Beasley would become angry at this suggestion and inform the doubter that she'd had gout for thirty-seven years and knew considerably more about her own foot than they did.
She lived to be ninety-two.
For the rest of her life, she kept the empty bottle on a shelf in her kitchen.
After she died, nobody knew what became of it.
That, naturally, led to more stories.
If Wynn Rainey could do anything, he was best at getting folks riled up and arguing. Some thought he was a saint. Some had other, less flattering adjectives.
Around the time Wynn Rainey’s name first started popping up in local mythology, it wasn’t unusual for people to move around.
A lot.
Especially adventurous and industrious young men looking to make their fortune. This was probably why no one ever knew much about his family. Simply put, one day no one had ever heard of him. A short time later, everyone knew who he was, and that’s how it stayed.
Wynn Rainey had found his place in the world.
Or, at least, in Downey Bluff.
One would think that such a young man would be a most eligible bachelor.
Of course there were rumors.
A wife and kid somewhere back east. Some said he was a widower. Lost his wife on the journey across the plains. One version had her dying of fever. Another involved a wagon accident. A particularly dramatic version had her drowning during a river crossing while Wynn stood helplessly on the bank.
Nobody could ever name the river.
As much as other people talked about it, no one could ever confirm Wynn Rainey discussing the subject.
That didn't stop anyone from discussing it for him.
There were women, of course.
There were always women in stories about Wynn Rainey.
Mrs. MacMurtry swore until the day she died that Wynn had been caught behind the church with the deacon's wife. According to her, this resulted in several members of the sawmill crew running him halfway to Norwich.
Mrs. MacMurtry was not at the church when this allegedly happened.
Neither was the sawmill crew.
The deacon denied it.
The deacon's wife denied it.
Wynn Rainey, so far as anyone remembered, neither confirmed nor denied anything.
This was considered proof by nearly everyone.
Another woman claimed Wynn proposed marriage to her sister, only to disappear three days before the wedding. There was apparently some dispute as to whether a wedding had actually been planned. Her sister never mentioned an engagement and eventually married a hardware salesman from Norwich.
Years later, she supposedly admitted Wynn had once kissed her behind a smokehouse.
That was enough to keep the story alive.
He was as popular with some folks as he was unpopular with others. There were tales of him helping folks settle debts large and small. To some, he could do no wrong. To others, he was lazy, shiftless, and not to be trusted.
One old tale tells of Wynn Rainey stealing a guy’s good overcoat when a sudden storm popped up.
The man’s wallet was in the coat too, along with his weekly earnings.
There are several versions of this story.
In one, Wynn returned the coat the following morning but claimed the wallet had never been in it.
In another, the coat was found two weeks later hanging from a fence post outside Norwich.
In still another, Wynn hadn't stolen the coat at all. The owner had lost it in a poker game and invented the theft to avoid telling his wife.
This final version was generally considered ridiculous.
If Wynn Rainey had ever done a day’s work, real work, it wasn’t in the vicinity of Downey Bluff.
It’s been said his hands were as soft as the inside of a baby’s arm.
Nobody could explain how a man who never worked always had money.
This troubled people.
Wynn occasionally disappeared for days or weeks at a time. When he returned, he might have a new suit, a new watch, or considerably more money than when he left.
Once, according to local legend, he returned driving a nearly new automobile.
Nobody had seen him leave in one.
When asked where he'd gotten it, Wynn supposedly said he'd won it.
Asked what he'd won it playing, he smiled and said, "Poor judgment."
Nobody ever figured out what that meant.
A month later the automobile was gone.
This, too, generated theories.
Some believed he'd sold it. Others said the rightful owner had finally found him. One man claimed to have seen Wynn lose the car in a card game at Cass's Hideaway.
Cass himself denied that story.
Cass also denied that gambling ever took place in his establishment.
Nobody believed Cass either.
There used to be a photo hanging behind the bar at the old tavern, Cass’s Hideaway, out on the old York Road. It was a typical photo of the time. A slightly grainy black and white of a group of men, smiling and hoisting their beers in a mock cheer.
This was the only known photo of Wynn Rainey.
There was only one problem.
People later argued as to which man in the photo was Wynn Rainey.
No one ever seemed to be able to agree.
Some said he was the dapper gent near the middle, well-dressed and sporting a thin mustache. Others said Wynn was the bulky man on the far left who looked like he could wrestle a bear and come out winning.
A few insisted he was the short fellow seated in front.
One woman said none of them were Wynn Rainey.
She claimed Wynn had taken the picture.
Someone else pointed out that Wynn couldn't possibly have taken it because Wynn was standing second from the right.
There was no man standing second from the right.
This resulted in an argument that lasted considerably longer than it should have.
The photograph disappeared sometime after Cass's closed.
Some say Cass's son took it when the place was sold. His son denied this. Someone else remembered seeing it at a flea market in Norwich sometime in the 1970s. Another claimed it ended up hanging in a bar three counties away.
A photograph matching its description occasionally turns up.
It's never the same photograph.
There used to be an old house in the scrub between Downey Bluff and Norwich that people said had been Wynn Rainey’s place.
Some said it burned down.
Others say it eventually fell from time, neglect, and storms.
The only thing anyone could agree on was that no one had ever stepped foot in it.
Some doubt Rainey ever lived there.
The house itself was apparently nothing special. Two stories, depending on who remembered it, with a sagging porch and a small barn or shed behind it. It sat far enough from the road that you couldn't see much through the trees during summer.
Children were warned to stay away.
Naturally, children did not stay away.
Generations of kids claimed to have visited Wynn Rainey's house long after Wynn himself had disappeared. They found bottles. Coins. Playing cards. A rusted pistol. Women's clothing. Medical instruments. Railroad timetables. A wedding ring. A human tooth.
Not all on the same visit.
Probably not even in the same house.
One boy claimed he found a box containing several hundred dollars buried beneath a loose floorboard. When asked what happened to the money, he said his father took it.
His father said the boy was a liar.
The boy grew into an old man and continued telling the story.
His own children said he was a liar too.
There were stories that Wynn kept money hidden in the house. Other stories said he kept money buried somewhere on the property.
People searched.
Of course they searched.
A man who never seemed to work, always had cash, and disappeared without explanation was exactly the sort of man people expected to bury money.
No treasure was ever found.
At least nobody admitted finding any.
The property changed hands several times. None of the owners found evidence that Wynn Rainey had ever lived there. No deed bearing his name has ever surfaced. No tax record has been found. There wasn't even a Rainey listed in the old county directories.
This meant nothing.
Everyone knew it was Wynn Rainey's house.
Official records have never stood much chance against a good story.
There was also the matter of the horse.
Nobody agrees whether Wynn owned a horse.
Several people distinctly remembered him riding one.
Several others distinctly remembered that Wynn hated horses.
One story has him buying a magnificent black stallion from a traveling livestock dealer for almost nothing because the animal was considered unmanageable. Wynn supposedly walked up, whispered something into its ear, climbed into the saddle and rode it through town as docile as an old plow horse.
It's a wonderful story.
Unfortunately, another equally popular story has Wynn being thrown from a mule behind Wenberg's and refusing to go near anything with four legs afterward.
Both stories were told by people who claimed to have witnessed the events.
Wynn also may or may not have owned a dog.
The dog may or may not have been named Jack.
Jack was either a hound, a shepherd, some kind of terrier, or didn't exist.
There are limits to historical research.
The longer Wynn stayed around Downey Bluff, the more stories accumulated.
He was said to have stopped a runaway wagon.
He was said to have caused a runaway wagon.
He supposedly rescued two children from a creek after a flood.
Another version said there was only one child.
Another said there were no children and Wynn fell into the creek drunk.
He allegedly loaned a farmer enough money to save his land after a bad harvest.
The farmer's descendants denied it.
Their neighbors insisted it happened.
Wynn once supposedly gave a widow fifty dollars because she couldn't afford to bury her husband.
Another account says he loaned her the money at interest.
A third says he won the fifty dollars from the dead husband two nights before the man died.
Depending on the storyteller, Wynn Rainey was generous, greedy, heroic, cowardly, sober, drunken, charming, vulgar, brilliant, stupid, honest, crooked, religious, godless, wealthy and perpetually broke.
Sometimes all in the same afternoon.
There are stories about Wynn and the church.
Several churches, actually.
He was said to attend services regularly, although no two people seemed to remember him attending the same church. The Baptists thought he might have been Methodist. The Methodists thought he was probably Presbyterian. The Presbyterians didn't remember him at all.
One particularly offended Baptist insisted Wynn was Catholic.
There is no evidence Wynn Rainey was Catholic.
There is no evidence Wynn Rainey was Baptist either.
One preacher supposedly refused to allow him through the door.
Another supposedly invited him to sit in the front pew.
Wynn, according to both stories, laughed.
The reason changed depending on who told it.
There were even stories that Wynn could quote scripture better than most preachers, although the same people who said this also claimed he used biblical knowledge primarily to win arguments and irritate respectable people.
That part seems plausible.
Then there was the time Wynn Rainey died.
This happened more than once.
The first report came from Norwich. A man answering Wynn's description had been killed in some sort of accident. Depending on the version, he was struck by a train, crushed beneath a wagon, shot during a card game or kicked in the head by a horse.
Downey Bluff mourned.
Or celebrated.
Again, accounts differ.
Several days later Wynn walked into Cass's Hideaway and ordered a drink.
When told everyone thought he was dead, he supposedly looked around the room and said, "Some of you seem disappointed."
That story was repeated for years.
Whether it actually happened is another matter.
Later came another report that Wynn had died somewhere out west.
Then another from back east.
One person received word he'd died in Texas.
Someone else heard Mexico.
A traveling salesman claimed he'd seen Wynn alive and well in Kansas City several months after one of these reported deaths.
Nobody could confirm any of it.
At some point, however, Wynn Rainey really did disappear.
There was no announcement.
No farewell.
No body.
No grave.
One day he was around.
Then he wasn't.
People assumed he'd return because Wynn had disappeared before.
A week passed.
Then a month.
Then several months.
Someone heard he'd gone to California.
Someone else said Canada.
A woman from Norwich insisted he'd married a wealthy widow in St. Louis.
There was talk of Texas again.
There was always talk of Texas.
Eventually the stories about where Wynn Rainey had gone became stories about where Wynn Rainey had been seen.
A fellow passing through claimed he spotted Wynn at a train station.
Someone's cousin saw him in Chicago.
A soldier swore he'd met him overseas.
A woman claimed she'd received a letter from him but couldn't produce it because she'd burned it.
Years passed.
People who couldn't possibly have known Wynn Rainey began remembering Wynn Rainey.
Children heard stories from their parents and later told them as though they'd been there. Details changed. Dates moved. One man's story became another man's memory.
Wynn got taller.
Then shorter.
Richer.
Poorer.
Meaner.
Kinder.
His mustache appeared and disappeared.
His hair changed color.
He acquired scars.
He lost them again.
He became whatever the story required.
By the time anyone thought to ask whether the stories could all possibly be about the same man, it no longer mattered.
Wynn Rainey belonged to Downey Bluff.
Facts had very little to do with it.
There are people today who will swear their grandfather knew him.
There are others who will swear their grandmother hated him.
Someone always has an uncle who drank with Wynn, an aunt he courted, a relative he cheated, a neighbor he helped, or a friend who once punched him square in the mouth.
Nobody seems to remember Wynn losing a fight.
Nobody seems to remember Wynn winning one either.
He simply survives the telling.
That's the curious thing about Wynn Rainey.
The less anyone actually knew about him, the more there was to remember.
Ask ten people about Wynn Rainey and you'll get twelve stories.
Ask for proof and they'll look at you like you're a fool.
Maybe Wynn Rainey was wealthy.
Maybe he was broke.
Maybe he was a salesman, gambler, thief, philanthropist, con man or something considerably less interesting.
Maybe he cured Miss Beasley's gout.
Maybe her gout simply got better.
Maybe he stole the overcoat.
Maybe the poor bastard lost it in a poker game.
Maybe Wynn lived in that old house between Downey Bluff and Norwich.
Maybe he never set foot inside.
Maybe he's one of the men in that photograph.
Maybe he took the photograph.
Maybe the photograph never existed.
The only certainty is that people remembered him.
Or remembered stories about him.
After enough time, there isn't much difference.
Wynn Rainey became the sort of man who could have done almost anything because nobody could prove that he hadn't.
And around Downey Bluff, that was more than enough to keep a man alive for generations.
I first heard his name while tending bar at a little dive joint just outside of Norwich. It was a Tuesday afternoon, and not particularly busy. Just an old guy, one of the regulars, nursing a watered-down highball and two younger fellows sitting at the bar.
The one claimed to be a piano player, I think.
He was telling his companion a story about going to a funeral with a young lady he was dating at the time. He didn’t know the deceased, or anyone else at the funeral. At the graveside service, the preacher rambled on about the deceased’s life. It sounded vague enough to have been compiled from rumors. The piano player’s mind wandered, and he looked around at the other tombstones. One in particular caught his eye. All that had been inscribed on it was:
FORGET WYNN RAINEY? IT CAN’T BE DONE!
No date of birth. No date of death. Just the inscription.
The piano player chuckled a bit, and started into some lighthearted conjecture about the late, great Wynn Rainey.
The old guy, upon hearing Wynn Rainey’s name, almost spilled his cocktail. He turned to the younger men and all but shouted, “Wynn Rainey?! That sonofabitch still owes me $12!”
copyright notice © 2026 Michael C. Metzger
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