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  Berea, Ohio, March, 1873
  
  He arrived at the sandstone quarry one spring day, his floppy black hat in his hand, and asked for a job. He was broad in the shoulders and slim at the hips with a grim face that showed little evidence he ever smiled. His voice was deep like thunder on the horizon and there seemed to be an earnestness about him.
  
  "Had any experience?" the foreman asked.
  
  "No sir," the man murmured.
  
  "You're big alright, and you look strong, but what makes you think you can do the work?"
  
  "I've been working as a woodcutter for the last three years, sir, wielding a five-pound double-bit ax from sunup to sundown bringing trees down and splittin' 'em for rails."
  
  "And you did that for three years?" the foreman asked.
  
  "Six days a week I did it for three years. Yessir, I did."
  
  "Where?"
  
  "Up in Michigan, sir."
  
  The foreman offered his hand. "Congratulations," he said as he clasped the woodcutter's hand and felt his iron-hard palm. "Your hand testifies that you're tellin' the truth. I've never felt a harder hand. You're hired."
  
  When they'd asked his name he'd told them it was Grit Milburn. His real given name... well... he hadn't used it since he was six years old and kept the secret of it to himself. It was the only legacy from his mother... and he detested the name because he'd been teased unmercifully about it when he was younger.
  
  "Never heard of a man named Grit," the office clerk said.
  
  "It's not common, sir," Grit said.
  
  "Anyone ever asked if you had true grit?" the clerk asked with a chuckle.
  
  Grit hesitated before saying, "No sir. You're the first person clever enough to put those two together." His jaw clenched at the lie he'd told. He'd heard the joke dozens of times, and he lied because he needed the job and the money so that he could buy food to eat.
  
  The man glanced up to Grit, suspecting he was being sarcastic, but there wasn't a hint of it on his face. "We'll put you on the payroll as True Grit Milburn."
  
  "No, that would be wrong," Grit said. "Just put Grit Milburn if you please, sir."
  
  "Okay, you can get to work," the man said. He watched Milburn go out the door, and he doubted he'd ever seen anyone so profoundly grim and somber, but Milburn looked like he could work, and that's all the job required. He spoke seldom, but he seemed respectful and courteous when he did speak.
  
  His shirt was homespun, and he appeared a little undernourished. His cheeks were hollow and he seemed all muscle and sinew with not a smidgen of fat anywhere on his body. His thick brown beard and full head of hair made him look both older and younger than his 23 years.
  
  When Grit climbed down into the quarry, they handed him a spike maul and said, "The object is to hit the drill while it's being held by your little partner there. He'll rotate the drill between each strike. Don't miss or you could break his arm."
  
  "Okay," Grit said. He picked up the maul and slammed it down on the drill, harder than anyone the foreman had ever seen do it, and Grit hit the drill accurately time after time. The foreman, whose name was Henry Newman, was more than a little impressed. He'd never seen an inexperienced man do what Grit had just done. He was a marvel of hand-eye coordination. And Newman soon found that Grit and his partner could drill holes in the sandstone far faster than any other crew.
  
  His partner was a young boy named Paulie Samson, who seemed a kind lad who sometimes got teased about his surname. Grit knew all about getting teased about names. He guessed Paulie was maybe 15 or 16, but he hadn't asked because it was not his nature to inquire into other people's business, but Paulie was a slight lad with a nice laugh.
  
  Grit settled right into the work, coming day after day and doing the nine-hour shifts as regular as clockwork six days a week and never slacking off like some of the other men. When each week was over, he climbed out of the sandstone quarry, drew his pay and left. Nobody had any idea where he went.
  
  Fact was Grit had found an elderly lady living on Bagley Road who'd long ago moved from a small cabin into a larger house. He was passing by one day, and it was obvious that no one was living in the cabin behind the house, for a rusty old wheelbarrow with flowers blocked its front door.
  
  So Grit had knocked at the house, and when the woman opened the door, he said, "Good morning, ma'am. My name is Grit Milburn, and I'm lookin' for a place to stay. I don't need much, but I'm wondering if I might stay in the cabin behind your house. I'd be happy to do some chores around the place on my day off if you'd consider it."
  
  "Well I... I don't see why not," she said. "I'm Mrs. McCaskey, and I could use a little help around the place. I used to live in the cabin and was quite comfortable, but my husband built this house for us before he died. I haven't been in the cabin in a long while. You'll have to clean it up."
  
  "I'll do all that, ma'am, and I won't give you any trouble a'tall."