C. C. Phillips
C. C. Phillips
Preston led his gelding to the livery after leaving the Fischer's house. Father and son had eaten well at May Anne's. Then Luke half climbed, half crawled, unassisted, onto the back of Preston's horse. Rumour had spread and folks nonchalantly appeared along the street to witness for themselves the hero of the dipping vat, back in the saddle again. Inwardly struggling against the excruciating pain, the senior Fischer proudly rode the animal home.
Ol' Ross had already heard the news when McBain entered the pleasantly redolent barn. The stable became busy as he listened to the hostler expounding upon Fischer's past.
“One o' the best, one o' the best, he was. Could ride horses other people got hurt jus' lookin' at.”
The familiar stream of brown juice painted the feed bucket a fresh coat. “I know horses, McBain, an' I know the boys who make a livin' ridin' 'em. Fischer was a cut above all the others around here. There was some good'uns too, like Shorty Weins, Lefty Lindstrom. There were, and still are aplenty. But Luke… Luke Fischer, he was one of the very best.”
The arrival of Sheriff Dexter leading a matched pair of bays brought realization to McBain as to why the livery had become such a popular spot. “Goin' dancin' tonight, McBain?”
“Well, the thought had occurred to me yesterday. Since then, up until now, it had slipped my mind.”
Ol' Ross took the horses from Dexter saying, “McBain's been too busy rezeerectin' old cowboys to be thinkin' about dancin'.”
Several patrons nearby lingered to hear what the hostler had to say. Diamond took the opportunity to slip out unnoticed.
Back in his room, Preston chided himself for not having taken the time to visit the barber for a haircut and proper shave. He washed up, donned a clean suit of clothes from his trunk, concealed the Remington revolver in a special holster behind his back and left the hotel.
Night time lurked just beyond the darkening shadows.
Town Fathers had aspirations of a larger population when they built their education facility. The rather big-for-its-time school was normally curtained across the centre to provide two class rooms, but tonight the curtain was rolled back to convert Way-cross school into Way-cross dance hall. Preston thought of Sarah Dickens as he entered the crowded room. He wondered if she would be “dancing” with anyone tonight.
Through a maze of whirling dancers, Preston espied a group of musicians seated haphazardly at the front of the room where a long chalk board spanned the length. Two guitarists, or at least two chaps strumming the instruments, accompanied a fiddle player and, on the left side, a pianist. Beside one of the guitar men, a banjo stood propped against an empty chair. Whether the banjo would be played by one of the existing band members or awaited another player Preston could not guess.
The quartet were enthusiastically sawing, strumming and pounding on their respective instruments, the result being a recognisable tune, Preston decided, not unpleasant. The fiddle player and pianist competed for volume while the guitarists merely kept time. A hooped metal device with a mouthorgan clamped in its jaws hung round the neck of the man seated nearest the banjo.
It wasn't the New York Philharmonic.
The hall felt hot and muggy as it was a warm evening and the recent rain created high humidity. The door and those windows which had the option, were open. The dance was well attended, the milling crowd augmenting the heat. A variety of odours, chiefly perfume fragrances worn by the ladies assailed Preston's olfactory system. The floor was rapidly becoming tracked up by mud brought in on peoples' shoes.
Along the near wall to the right of the entrance, a table had been constructed of planks spanning a pair of saw-horses. Two flowered cotton table cloths were spread upon this and a veritable banquet covered the cloth. There must have been a substantial supply of egg salad sandwiches in the mix for that distinctive scent lingered with the perfume. The food supply included a host of other sandwich types, dozens of desserts, cool refreshments for everyone and coffee pots perking on Kerosene burners for the adults. Several middle-aged ladies constantly fussed over the lunch.
Preston studied the people as he shifted easily among the throng. Smaller children, not old enough to be embarrassed, were frolicking together; boys with boys, boys with girls, girls with girls; they didn't appear to have a preference. Older, more dignified lads watched girls of their own age dancing with girls of their own age. A few of these boys danced with their sisters, mothers or an auntie but most stood back wishing they had the nerve to ask a particular young lady to join them on the floor.
A similar situation existed for those in their mid teens. The ubiquitous dance-hall wallflowers pretended to ignore the nervous young men who strutted and acted like fools, pushing and shoving one another. While the females feared in their hearts that no one would dance with them, the lads feared the embarrassment of rejection. An attitude destined for failure.
Diamond barely recognized one lad with his blond hair slicked back, face scrubbed. His clothes were clean, his boots polished, but the attire was shabby. The youth screwed up his courage and asked a quite pretty young lady to dance. She turned away from him without so much as a “no, thank you”. His face grew red as he blushed to the tops of his ears. Preston circumvented the ring of dancers, surreptitiously arriving at Lonny's side.
The boy's dejection evaporated instantly. “Hello, Mr. McBain.”
Preston turned as if he had not noticed the lad before, especially during the dance refusal. “Oh, hi Lonny, I hadn't anticipated meeting you here.”
“Well, Pa said I ought to get out an' mingle with my own age… trouble is, my own age don't want to mingle with me.”
From the corner of his eye McBain noted that the girl who had refused to dance with the Fischer boy was now blatantly staring. Her mouth hung half open like she had developed a severe mental disorder. Lonny Fischer was chatting with the man whose name was on the lips of everyone in town!
Preston clapped Lonny lightly on the back as if they were old pals. “It's because they aren't good enough to associate with you. Deep down, they are ashamed of themselves.”
“I think you got that backwards, Mr. McBain. I'm the one who is ashamed…”
Preston shook his head imperceptibly. Speaking just loud enough for Lonny to hear above the music, he said, “You have nothing to be ashamed of and a whole lot to be proud of, Lonny. Your father is a good man, I bet your mother came from good stock too. That tells me for a fact that you are a good lad. It's in your blood, you have no choice. Whether you carry on the pride of the Fischer name, that is entirely up to you. But you have the roots.”
“Well…” Lonny scuffed a toe on the floor, then brightened, “If things turn out like we talked about at supper, I'll be proud.”
Preston noticed that staring at Lonny Fischer had caught on with the line-up of wallflowers. “It's time to start being proud right now Lonny. A man has no greater asset than himself… Now, why don't you go ask one of those pretty girls to dance with you?”
Diamond's didactic comments bolstered the youth's confidence. He grinned, “Maybe I'll just do that.”
“Remember this, Lonny: It is not what people think of you. It's what you think of them.”
Lonny didn't quite reach the wallflowers before one of them stepped in front of the girl who had first refused to dance with the ragged Fischer boy. “Are you ever going to ask me to dance, Lonny Fischer?” The girl tapped her foot in mock vexation.
Without looking, Diamond watched for a moment. Lonny didn't know how to dance, but had a good start on learning. The boy recognized rhythm.
Preston mingled. While talking with Carver Ward for a few minutes, the Way-cross banker, Patrick O'Malley, sidled up to join them. Preston spoke only briefly to George Kirwin who had his wife at his elbow; there was no sign of their daughter Barbara. Dexter came along and steered McBain over to a table where the sheriff's wife was seated. The sheriff, unabashedly bursting with pride, introduced his “bride of nearly twenty years.” Samantha's beauty was reflected in her mother's features and Preston found Edith Dexter to be a very rare and genuine personality. Mrs. Dexter's failing eyesight wasn't quite as bad as the banker had described; though her near sight prevented her from sewing a fancy stitch, she could probably poke a broom handle through a wagon hub.
Dexter excused both he and his wife when a particular tune the couple enjoyed began. Preston watched in admiration as the pair glided around the hall. Dexter, the irascible overweight sheriff, could be light on his feet when buoyed by the woman he so obviously loved. He evinced no sign of pain in his damaged hip.
Preston danced with several available young ladies. A few refused, possibly fearing his gun reputation, maybe warned off by their parents. “The stranger,” or “the gunman,” or “that McBain fella,” as Way-cross's population referred to him, obtained permission from Carver Ward and Dexter in turn, to ask their wives for the pleasure of a dance. There was an informal queue, to Preston it seemed the length of the hall, awaiting to sweep Samantha out onto the floor. Sam never found time to sit; incomparably beautiful, if Aphrodite herself appeared, she would have been runner-up.
Near the entrance, a space opened and a miniature clamour erupted when the flamboyant Governor Rittinger surprised the masses with his attendance. Of course, the man had chosen his time perfectly: during a momentary respite for the four member band. Preston witnessed a repeat performance of the previous evening at the lounge in the Grand Hotel as the showy political figure pontifically bestowed the blessing of his presence upon everyone.
The intermission had proven propitious for Diamond as well. As he escorted Mrs. Dexter to her seat, Samantha escaped her suitors and all three arrived at the Dexters' table simultaneously. Preston and Samantha were engrossed in cheerful conversation when the music recommenced. Rittinger's smiling face came between them and he whisked the lovely lady away from a disgruntled Preston Diamond.
Preston tore his resentful gaze away from the elegant couple. Sweeping the room he noticed and ignored several meaningful glares directed his way. Quite obviously, the male contingent did not willingly accept the concept of foreign competition chatting with the Way-cross beauty queen. “Jealous fools,” Diamond muttered.
The Governor hoarded the company of the lovely girl for two dances before giving her up to Preston. Had he been paying closer attention, the Way-cross stranger would have noticed a decided drop in temperature within the dance hall as he and Samantha gracefully whirled around the room. The couple must have saved their very best for this opportunity. Folks who were not fraught with envy, stopped to stare; several actually gawked; Mrs. Dexter, her vision sufficient to follow them, positively beamed with pride as the handsome man and beautiful lady commanded the floor. The musicians took note as well for they quite deliberately smoothed the rough and rusty edges, presenting a polished piece of music beyond their capability. The quartet obligingly ran two more songs into a medley. Partners bowed out, others stepped in, but Preston and Samantha danced alone. Their eyes locked, their bodies moved as one, their feet left the ground and they danced on air.
An instant or an eternity? Time played second fiddle.
The ring of hopefuls closed in. Snatching Samantha from Diamond's hands, they kept her on the floor until the musicians played the last waltz. The belle of the ball had reserved this one for Bradley McBain.
Samantha asked McBain to join the Dexter family during the buffet lunch. While Mrs. Dexter bubbled with energy, Moody was uncharacteristically mute throughout the meal. Samantha surprised them both by inviting McBain to the ranch tomorrow for Sunday dinner.
Preston accepted.
The crowd began to thin as folks ventured out to their rigs or down to the livery for their horses. Preston purposely marked two or three young men who had become openly belligerent toward him. They had been spoiling for a fight, probably fuelling their courage with rot-gut out behind someone's wagon. No doubt, for Preston had seen this more than once in the past, the boys would be waiting for him when he exited the hall. He sighed; it had been such a fine evening.
McBain waited until the Dexter family had taken their leave before making his way to the school-hall entrance. He didn't wish for Samantha to see his fighting side again. Following along the wall so as not to be observed by someone on the outside peering in through the door, Preston neared the exit. Just as Carver Ward put his hat on, Diamond stepped close behind him and slipped through the lantern lit doorway on the heels of the big rancher. Two steps outside, Preston vanished behind a team and wagon that had been drawn up to the school, presently loading up with, well, a wagon load, of boisterous laughing people. Two sleeping youngsters were passed up from hands below to hands above.
Eyes quickly adjusting to the darkness, Diamond padded silently through the dew soaked grass until he located the toughs —there were three of them— who had ventured too close to the edge of abusive. They were concealed, or so they believed, behind a fancy high-top buggy. Undetected, Preston eased into their midst.
“Where the hell is that goddamn cowboy? You sure he didn't come out before us, Johnny?”
“No, damn it! I seen 'im in there after Sheriff Dexter and that good lookin' daughter of his come out.”
There was a slosh of liquid, a quite audible glugging sound, then a third voice said, “God! That Sam Dexter, she sure is a looker! I'd like to…”
“Who are we looking for?” McBain interrupted in a hoarse whisper.
The trio shared an instant of perplexity then jumped away in unison. The man with the rot-gut tripped and fell, the whisky bottle flying from his grasp. He was the only one to respond. “Well, I guess we was lookin' for you,” he said embarrassedly, climbing unsteadily to his feet.
McBain spoke amicably. “Trust me,” he said, “you don't want anything to do with a guy like me.”
The man belonging to the first voice said, “If you weren't wearing that damn Colt, we'd…”
Voice two said, “Shut-up, Johnny! He ain't wearin' no gun… at least not one that I can see.”
A silent stand-off electrified the air briefly. The drunken cowboy shifted to retrieve his bottle, nearly lost balance, then straightened up swaying slightly. “You been fair here with us, McBain. You could've pistol-whipped us all and never said a word. So I reckon we best mosey off a piece and leave you alone. Three agi'n one sticks in my gullet anyway.”
At that moment the owners of the buggy arrived. Without further discussion, the would-be toughs and McBain went their separate ways.
Strolling back to the hotel Preston reviewed the rather eventful day: Time spent with the Fischers had been worthwhile —Diamond appreciated the opportunity to work with hand tools other than a shooting iron— the warm recollection of Luke Fischer settling into the saddle brought a smile to Preston's face; possibly, if plans materialized, the visit would have lasting positive effects for Luke, Lonny and Preston.
The social gathering, owing to Samantha's presence, had turned out to be thoroughly enjoyable. Diamond had been surprised to see Governor Rittinger at the community dance. Maybe the politician felt compelled to make a social appearance, although Preston couldn't guess why. Perhaps the Governor had no companion for this evening. His visit to the hall had been brief and the man only danced with a few ladies other than Samantha Dexter. Preston noted that none of Rittinger's dance partners resembled the lady he'd seen in the hotel doorway during the storm.
Diamond's thoughts returned again to the intoxicating beauty he had held in his arms on the dance floor. Tomorrow he would be seeing her again. Sunday seemed a long way off though it was almost midnight. More than he wanted to admit, Preston looked forward to her company.
All-in-all, he concluded, it had been a very good day.
The Chief's huge bulk loomed in front of him.
<<<Chapter 13 Chapter 15>&tg;>