by Paul Bagdon
As Ben headed back to Burnt Rock, he saw two horses approaching him from that direction. Even before he recognized the riders, his heart dropped. The tall, coal-black horse could only be Slick, and the gray riding next to him was Chowder, carrying Duncan Warner. As they drew closer, Ben’s eyes darted to Warner’s heels; there were no spurs attached to his boots.
Lee looked beautiful. Her cheeks were red with the cold, and the whiteness of her teeth flashed as she smiled and called out a greeting. Her hair tumbled down her back in wonderful disarray, its inky darkness framing her face. Ben felt an uncomfortable lump in his throat.
“You getting cabin fever too, Ben?” Lee asked, stopping Slick a few feet from Snorty.
The preacher offered a smile. “As much as I love my little home, I felt like the walls were closing in on me. My Sunday sermon isn’t even half-written, but I had to go outdoors before I started talking to my furniture.”
“I try to get out on Snorty every day for an hour or so,” Ben responded. “My office gets awful small when there’s nothin’ much to do.”
“Oh, Ben—let me tell you about the church social and dance,” Lee said, a smile lighting up her face. “It’ll be a cure for the winter boredom of all of us.”
“Go on an’ tell me then. I can use some of that cure,” Ben said, returning her smile.
“Well, it’ll be in Grange Hall next Saturday evening. We’ll have a potluck dinner, and we’ve already got a fiddler and a guitar picker, and Doc’s going to play piano. It’ll be great fun. It was Duncan’s idea. He thought a midwinter break might do us all some good.”
“We’ll put some flyers up around town,” Warner added. “I think we’ll have a real fine turnout.” He smiled at Ben. “You’ll be there, of course?”
“Sure.” Ben forced the words from his mouth. “I wouldn’t miss it.” ’Course, I haven’t danced since my third-grade teacher held a lemonade social.
“Great. See you then. Lee—shall we get on with our ride?”
Ben’s eyes met with Lee’s. For a moment she looked flustered. Her gaiety seemed forced when she said, “I’ll save lots of dances for you, Ben—and you haven’t been out to supper in months. Please come by soon.”
“I’ll do that.” He did his best to put a smile on his face, but his muscles wouldn’t respond. He tipped his Stetson and cued Snorty as Lee and the preacher headed out.
The coffee in Ben’s office had spent a bit too much time in the pot. It gave off a harsh, acidic scent, and when Ben poured himself a mugful, the tarry liquid moved thickly and slowly from the spout, flowing more like library paste than coffee. He sat behind his desk and drank it anyway.
He felt like he was under siege. He had a killer who may well have died in the storm—but he had no way to be sure the man was dead. If the killer had survived the weather, then he was a fugitive and it was a marshall’s job to hunt him down and bring him in. But where can I look for him? Scout all the caves and caverns of the foothills? Impossible. Wait until spring and see what’s left of him? That doesn’t make sense either.
And Lee. What was happening with her? She was right; it had been almost three weeks since he’d ridden out to the Busted Thumb for a visit. Not that he hadn’t tried, though. Ten days ago, he’d bought himself a bath and a shave at the barbershop, changed into fresh denim pants and a brand-new shirt, knocked the manure and mud off his boots, and spent a half hour polishing them. He’d gotten within a couple hundred yards of Lee’s home when he saw Chowder standing at the hitching rail near the front porch. He had cut a tight U-turn and asked Snorty for speed before anyone saw him riding up. He’d spent that night playing checkers with Doc at the café.
The image of Lee earlier in the day with her red cheeks and her broad smile brought a pain to Ben’s chest. When his mind replayed Lee and Warner riding off, his hands closed into fists. He didn’t own Lee—he realized that. He hadn’t even courted her properly. Instead, their lives had merged, and his feelings for her had grown, until he loved her more than he’d ever loved anyone in his life. But he didn’t know if he could give her what she wanted and what she deserved.
He sighed deeply. “Ya know, Lord,” he said out loud, “sometimes things get real tough. I’m feelin’ like a kicked hound, an’ I sure would appreciate some of your help.”
When Missy Joplin came bustling into the office, she didn’t, for once, barge through the door like a runaway locomotive. Ben’s eyes snapped open from a semidoze, and he pulled his heels from his desk and stood, a smile on his face.
“Missy, seems like we haven’t talked in a month of Sundays. Come on an’ sit. I’ll put some coffee on. What I’m drinkin’ here is swill, but it won’t take a minute to brew a fresh pot.”
“You do that, Benjamin. I’ll jist warm a bit by the stove. These ol’ bones can’t take the cold no more like they used to.”
“You’ll outlive the entire town, Missy.”
“I sure hope not. I’m ready to go when my time’s up. These winters try me terrible.”
“Texas winters try everybody terrible. You’re not the only one.”
“No,” Missy said with a grin. “I guess not. You goin’ to the big social an’ dance, Ben?”
Ben grunted noncommittally.
“Don’t you grunt at me, boy. You’d best be there if you don’t want to see your woman fly away.”
“Missy . . .”
“And don’t you Missy me neither. Lookit here, Benjamin Flood: Rev Warner is a fine man, an’ he’s sure got his eye on Lee. But Lee’s heart is with you. You gotta do somethin’ soon or she might jist give up on you.”
“Do what? I ain’t a preacher or even a gentleman, for that matter. Rev’s got me outclassed.”
Missy considered that for a moment. “You can’t weigh dogs an’ cats in the same scale,” she said with a wave of her hand. “You’re different kinds of men. Sure, Rev’s smoother and prettier than you are, an’ he talks just so, an’ he always knows what to do to make a person comfortable. That ain’t your way though, Ben. You’re the type of man who won the war an’ come West to open the frontier.”
She sighed and then went on. “I done some thinkin’ on this. Rev has become real important to me as a friend an’ as a minister. I got a big place in my heart for him. When I first started seein’ Lee and Rev together, I thought maybe it was a good thing. But then I got to thinkin’ about how you an’ Lee are together, an’ that felt better to me. There ain’t a thing I got ’gainst Rev, but you an’ Lee seem right. See what I mean?”
“I dunno.” Ben shrugged. “Are you sayin’ the frontier needs both gunslingers and preachers?”
“Hush with that talk! You’re no more a gunslinger than I am. What I’m sayin’ is that you’re a fella who gets done what needs to get done. It makes me right sad to see you let your gal get away.”
Ben’s shoulders drooped. “Makes me sad too, Missy. But I don’t see that there’s much I can do about it.” “There is, you know.”
Ben placed the refilled coffeepot on the stove. “What?” he asked without turning to face her.
“You gotta quit mopin’ an’ start givin’ Rev Warner some competition. The church social is comin’ up—get you a fancy shirt an’ a new pair of pants an’ shave yourself smooth as an apple an’ put on some bay rum an’ dance Lee’s feet offa her. Fetch her punch an’ cookies an’ pay all your attention to her. Make her feel right special, Ben—’cause she is.”
Ben’s face reddened. “I’m not much of a dancer, Missy. I never really learned it.”
“Square dancin’ ain’t nothin’ but learnin’ a few moves an’ listenin’ to the caller. The waltzes an’ so forth can get a mite tricky, but once you learn ’em, all you gotta do is shuffle round. You don’t need all that fancy stuff. An’ the truth of it is, three quarters of the men there will lumber round like wounded buffalo. You can’t be no worse than they are.”
“I suppose Rev knows dancin’.”
“I ’spect he does.”
“U
hh . . . Missy? Since you know all about it, I was kinda wonderin’ if . . . well, if you ain’t too busy, maybe you could teach me a little?”
“Now you’re talkin’, Benjamin Flood! ’Course I’ll teach you some steps. You come by my place tonight after dinner, an’ we’ll get to it. You’ll pick it up in no time.”
“I’ll do that, Missy. An’ I’m gonna do somethin’ else too. I’m goin’ over to Scott’s to buy me a suit of clothes. ’Bout time I had one, anyway.”
Missy’s face was suddenly that of a little girl who’d just gotten a fluffy kitten for her birthday. The lines that the years and the elements had etched into her skin seemed to be gone, and her eyes glowed. “You jist do that. Find you a nice suit that fits good an’ polish up them ol’ boots, an’ Lee’s heart will set to poundin’ so loud you’ll hear it over the music.” She moved to Ben and took his hand. “Like I said, you an’ Duncan is both fine men. But I’ve known you for some years, Benjamin. An’ I know how Lee feels about you. In my heart, I’ve always seen you an’ Lee together . . .” She moved closer to him. “Put your arm round my waist an’ just move with me. We’ll start your dancin’ lessons right now.”
Missy hummed a slow dance and pulled at Ben to follow as she executed a basic box step. Ben moved woodenly, as if his boots were planted in buckets of cement. Dots of nervous sweat appeared at his hairline.
“See? This ain’t so bad, is it?”
“Well . . .”
“Just speed it up a little. Kinda ease me into followin’ you. Good. Now I want you to turn me—you ease me along with your hand an’ the arm round me, an’ I’ll go right round you. Ready?”
Ben hauled on Missy’s waist as if he were bulldogging a steer, dragging her hand in his at the same time.
“Not so—ouch! Ya oaf! You ain’t unloadin’ sacks of grain, Ben!” Missy disengaged from his grasp and stood rubbing her hip where it had struck the corner of Ben’s desk. Then she broke out into laughter. “Don’t worry—I’m all right, an’ you’re doin’ fine. I gotta run now ’cause I got a cake in the oven, but I’ll see you tonight. A couple lessons an’ you’ll dance like you been doin’ it all your life!”
As Missy spoke she surreptitiously rubbed her hip.
Scott’s Mercantile was the biggest store in Burnt Rock, and it carried everything a person could need. The diversity of the stock—from patent medicines to books to plows to saddles—fascinated Ben. As usual, the wooden floors were perfectly swept, and the glass-front displays of handguns and hunting knives, husbandry equipment, pocket watches, and penny candy gleamed, spot and fingerprint free. The wooden stocks of rifles and shotguns glowed with polish, and the pleasant scent of gun oil hung in the air. The smell of good leather and neat’s-foot oil around the dozen or so stock saddles set on sawhorses was fresh and clean and brought a smile to Ben’s face. Bits were arranged in a display case, in graduated sizes and types from the basic bar bits to snaffles and cutting-horse bits with copper ports that helped to generate saliva in a working horse’s mouth.
Ben stopped in front of the patent medicine display to read a few titles. Lydia Pinkham’s Compound for Women was a big seller, and Mr. Scott kept a few dozen bottles on hand at all times. There were cures for catarrh, nervousness, cancer, goiter, toothache, general debilitation, alcoholism, sleeplessness, headache, myopia, trembles, sadness, and a number of other problems and diseases Ben had never heard of. Each potion claimed to be 100 percent effective when used as directed, and each was a compound of “special” ingredients found in no other medication. Ben picked up a bottle of Dr. L. H. Dupont’s Positive Cure for Smoking and Craving of Tobacco. Its price was eighty cents. Ben himself had given up the habit, but he wondered why a man who enjoyed a cigarette or pipe or cigar would spend almost a dollar trying to quit something as harmless as smoking. The fact of it was that Bull Durham and other tobacco, cigar, and cigarette makers spoke of the healthful and relaxing effects of the habit.
Tremont Hildebrand hustled up behind Ben. “Not feeling well? Anything I can help you with? I’m sure something here will take care of what’s bothering you.”
Ben turned and shook hands with the head clerk and mercantile manager. “I’m just lookin’, Tremont. I’m feelin’ fine. What I’m after today, though, is a good suit of clothes that won’t cost me too much.”
Tremont Hildebrand was the sort of person who appeared to be moving even when standing still. He was thin, clean-shaven, and impeccably dressed, as always. His shoes were polished until they reflected light as well as any mirror, and the crease in his trousers was sharp like the blades of the German-steel straight razors he sold.
“There’s no better investment for a man than a good suit, Ben. You’re in luck too. I just got a shipment of men’s suits all the way from Rochester, New York. They’re quality goods, and I’m able to give you a good price on one.”
As they moved toward the back of the store, Tremont flicked bits of almost invisible dust from items on shelves. He crouched in front of a bundle of spades and shovels and used his white handkerchief to erase a finger smudge from the blade of a long-handled manure scoop. The aroma of mothballs and fresh fabric welcomed them to the long line of men’s suits hung on wooden coat hangers from a stained and polished threequarter-inch wooden dowel. Tremont stood back from Ben, appraised his size, and selected a suit.
“You’d look good in this one,” he said.
“It’s kinda . . . well . . . bright, isn’t it? Kinda shiny?”
“That’s the style. All the rage in Paris.” They moved a few feet, and Tremont selected another. This suit was dark and had a very simple cut. “Try on the coat,” he instructed.
Ben pulled the garment on. The sleeve length was approximately correct, but the material seemed to hang on him, the shoulders loose and the lapels narrow and limp. Ben shrugged his shoulders. “Leaves me room to get to my pistol,” he commented.
“Always a consideration, of course. It’s a conservative suit. Stylish yet understated.”
“Awful dark is all.”
“But excellent for legal duties and so forth.”
“Excellent for an undertaker too. Let’s try one that’s a bit more cheerful.”
Tremont moved down the line of suits, his hand cupping his chin as he studied the colors and fabric. “Here it is! This is called a pinstripe. It’s the newest thing. Lots of famous men wear this style—William Cody, politicians, and the like. Try on the coat.”
The suit was a somewhat dusty-looking color with faint chalky stripes. The coat fit Ben a bit better than the earlier one had, but it still seemed to balloon out from his shoulders.
“Put the trousers on to get the full effect,” Tremont suggested.
Still wearing the coat, Ben walked into the changing room, pulled the door shut on the tiny cubicle, and tried on the trousers. They sagged at the rear, but the waist fit snugly. He went back to the selling floor. “Can you take up the rear, Tremont? Looks like I’m carryin’ a sack of coal back there.”
“Of course—it won’t take but a few minutes. You like it, then? Is this the one you want?”
“I like it well enough, I guess. How much is it?”
“As I said, you’re in luck. You can have the suit for fourteen dollars. I’ll do the alterations for free.”
Ben began removing the coat. “Too rich for my blood, Tremont. I’ll go change out of the pants.”
“I want you to have that suit,” Tremont protested. “It’s perfect for you. How much were you thinking to spend?”
“I figured maybe a total of eleven dollars, includin’ a good shirt.”
The head clerk looked aghast, as if he’d been cruelly insulted. “A suit like this for eleven dollars? Impossible. Absolutely impossible. Mr. Scott paid more for it than that. But look—as our lawman you deserve a discount. I’m giving away my profit, but you can have the suit for thirteen dollars.”
“Twelve including the shirt.”
“Twelve fifty. And I’m robbing my own employer at t
hat price.”
“Done,” Ben said. “Let’s take a look at your shirts.”
Grange Hall looked as it always had from the outside: a wooden frame structure painted white, without even a suggestion of a frill to break up its stark linearity. It was a large building, big enough to contain grange offices, with a large, open, wooden-floored area used for events such as speeches, demonstrations of farming techniques, cattle and sheep shows—and church socials and dances.
Inside, there was nothing left of the raw function-over-form of the place. Cloth streamers in a range of gaudy colors hung from the rafters and moved with the breeze that snuck in with every arriving person. A fire roared in the stone fireplace, sending waves of heat through the central open space of the building. Long tables had been set up for the meal, and each was laden with what looked like enough beef, ham, bread, potatoes, cakes, jams, jellies, and miscellaneous treats such as corn fritters, honey-drenched cookies, taffy, and thickly frosted cupcakes to feed an artillery division. There were four large coffeepots suspended from the support in the fireplace, and a massive punch bowl rested on the main table, filled with a mixture of sarsaparilla, candied fruits, and fist-sized chunks of ice.
Children ran about as children do, laughing, hollering to one another, the boys paying special attention to the table with the cookies and taffy. Older youngsters—most in their early to midteens—stood around in self-imposed segregated clusters of boys and girls.
The women of Burnt Rock wore whatever finery they owned, with long, petticoated skirts swishing around them as they walked. When Lee entered the room, shaking the light snow from her hair, Ben found he couldn’t answer Doc’s question about the quality of the past summer’s hay. The ebony sheen of her hair fell well below her shoulders, cascading down the whiteness of her dress. Her face was red from the cold, and she was laughing at something Missy had just said. The black-diamond luster of Lee’s eyes seemed fathomless. For a moment Ben felt as if he could fall into them and never return to the surface. He had heard of a person’s heart skipping a beat, but he’d never experienced it before. Now he knew what it felt like.
