“Winnisook was seven feet tall,” Arch would whisper dramatically, his hand drawing the height above his own head, “and he was proud, but most of all, he was in love with Gertrude Molyneaux, a white girl, the daughter of one of the early settlers.”

The story of Winnisook and Gertrude was a classic story of regret and anguish and, finally, romantic sacrifice.

“Now, Gertrude Molyneaux loved Winnisook, also, but her parents would have none of that,” Arch would explain. “No, not that. Not a white girl married to an Indian. They forced her instead to marry a man named Joe Bundy.”

Arch would pause and his face would contort into a snarl and a growling sound would vibrate from his throat. “A mean man,” he would say, dragging the word mean across his store.

We, his listeners, knew the cue. We would answer with a chorus of hisses.

“Beat her,” Arch would add. “Treated her like a dog. Even worse.”

More hissing, stopped by Arch’s spreading hands.

“But one day, Gertrude had had enough and she ran away with Winnisook, ran away to live in the woods with his people, with the Indians. They were married in an Indian ceremony and she became the mother of his children.”

“And where was Joe Bundy?” someone would always shout.

More hissing.

“Ah, Joe Bundy,” Arch would reply profoundly. “Joe Bundy was still around, hating Winnisook. Hating him worse than he hated anything, and Joe Bundy was a man who made hate his profession. And then one day, years later, in a fierce battle between the Indians and the settlers, Joe Bundy saw Winnisook—he was hard to miss, being seven feet tall, as he was—and he raised his rifle and fired and shot Winnisook in his great chest. Winnisook slipped away, blood pouring from him, and hid in the hollow of an ancient pine tree.”

In a whisper that had the sound of wind with a voice, Arch would add, “And there Winnisook died, standing up. And there he was found by Gertrude, who buried him under the shade of the tree. And there Gertrude lived the rest of her life, with her children, near the grave. That place is now called Big Indian.”

When he told this story—when he performed it—the power of his melodrama would always bring cheering, and Arch would go behind the counter with a pleased smile and announce, “Half-price on the malts.” The story of Winnisook became known as the “Half-Price Story.” We urged him to tell it as often as he would.