by Paul Bagdon
“Ben? What’re you gawking at? Have you been paying attention?” Doc turned and saw Lee approaching. “I see,” he said, making an unsuccessful attempt at hiding a grin. “She’s a stunner, all right. Well, I’ll see you a little later.” Doc patted him on the shoulder and moved toward a group of ranchers discussing the merits of the fancy new Angus breed versus the longhorns.
Lee stopped a few feet from Ben and took a long look at his suit. “You look so handsome,” she said. “That’s a fine suit—makes you look like a teacher or a lawyer.”
“You’re the one who’s looking real good, Lee,” Ben said. “Like Doc just said, you’re a stunner.”
Lee laughed easily. “That Doc is a flatterer. Everyone knows that.”
“Still, what he said is the truth.”
“The truth? Did I hear someone mention the truth?” Duncan Warner came up from behind and smiled at Ben and Lee, taking and releasing Lee’s hand and then shaking Ben’s. “You’re looking glorious tonight, Lee,” he said. “May I bring you a cup of punch?”
“Please do, Duncan. Something cold will taste good.”
Ben watched as the preacher turned and strode toward the largest table, stopping every few feet to greet someone or to respond to a greeting. His suit, properly dark in line with his calling, fit him perfectly. Where Ben’s coat gapped at the back of his neck, Warner’s rested smoothly. Although Tremont had removed quite a bit of fabric, Ben’s trousers still hung loosely. His boots almost sparkled with polish, but he noticed that the preacher was wearing actual shoes that caught and flashed the light from the dozen or so lanterns hung about the room.
Lee must’ve been following his eyes. “It’s not the clothes, Ben. It’s the man who wears them that counts. Duncan has spent time in cities and you haven’t, but I’ll tell you this: You’re the best-looking man here.”
Ben’s face colored. He didn’t know what to say. “And you’re the finest and prettiest lady, Lee,” he finally said, looking into her eyes. “Do you want . . . no, I mean, may I have the pleasure of your company for dinner?” The line sounded contrived to his own ears, but Lee’s response was worth the embarrassment.
“You may indeed. It’d be my pleasure, sir.”
When Ben saw the preacher headed their way with a cup of punch in each hand, he touched Lee’s arm and gently guided her to the table where the plates, utensils, and napkins were waiting. She didn’t see Rev Warner stop midstride and watch her, or the quick ember that flared in his eyes, but Ben did—and it made him feel good.
* * *
9
* * *
The young girls of Burnt Rock hauled the empty bowls, platters, plates, cups, and utensils to the sink in the rear of Grange Hall. They chatted with one another as they found unnecessary tasks to do nearest the tables where the young boys sat with their parents.
The adults, sated and happy, drank coffee and visited, watching the musicians assemble their equipment around a somewhat battered old piano on a slightly elevated platform in a rear corner of the open room. The only members of the church missing from the crowd were Carlos and Maria, who’d taken advantage of a break in the weather to visit their son, daughter-in-law, and first grandchild.
The guitarist, a tall, muscular fellow with long, graying hair, sat on a wooden chair, tuning his instrument. The left leg of his trousers was pinned up to just above where his knee would’ve been—he’d lost a leg to a Federal charge at Second Bull Run. Next to him stood the fiddler, sliding his bow carefully across a lump of rosin. He too had fought at Bull Run—as a Union sharpshooter.
The guitarist picked up what appeared to be a metal frame from the floor next to his guitar case and fit it over his head. He took a C chord harmonica, slid it into the frame directly in front of his mouth, and blew gently into it. Heads of those nearby turned toward him. The sad moan like that of a midnight train cut through the talk and quiet laughter of the crowd.
Rev Warner approached the musicians, a mug of coffee in his hand. He nodded to them, smiling. “My name’s Duncan Warner,” he said. “I’m the preacher here. We’re very grateful to have you. I’ve heard great things about your music.”
“Caleb Goode,” the guitarist said, offering his hand. “And this here is Hank Dalton,” he added, gesturing to the fiddler.
“Pleased to meet you,” Warner said. “I understand you’re just passing through Burnt Rock.”
“Yep,” Hank answered. “We come to see my niece an’ eat a score or so of her fine meals on our way by. We got some jobs lined up for us down the road. When Julie—she’s my niece—asked us to stay on an’ play her social, why, we leaped at the chance.”
Caleb was sliding his left index finger into an amber-colored cylinder about three-and-a-half inches long. Warner watched curiously. “What’s that?” he asked.
“It’s part of the neck of a whiskey bottle. It’s called a slider. I can get some great sounds outta my guitar when I press it against the strings.” He settled his guitar in his lap, finger-picked a few chords, and then eased the slider down almost to the base of the neck. The resulting music went from the gentle patter of melodic rain to an earthy howl and then back. “See what I mean?”
Warner smiled. “I’ve never heard anything like that. Is it your idea?”
“Nope. Was the slaves who first used a slider, playin’ their work songs an’ spirituals an’ such. Some of them men can make a guitar talk an’ tell the saddest stories in the world. It’s from them I learned about usin’ a slider.”
The smile on Rev Warner’s face faded. “You won’t be playing any of that slave racket tonight, will you?”
Caleb met the preacher’s eyes. “We sure are. Fact is, right before we do some of them songs, we’ll tell the crowd you requested ’em.”
“The war’s long over, sir,” Hank added.
“Of course it is,” Warner said. “No offense, gentlemen.” He turned away and almost bumped into Lee and Ben.
“I hope you’re not too full of dinner to do some dancing, Duncan,” Lee said. “I saw you packing away Harriet Shippet’s cake and ice cream.”
“A man can never be too full of fine food to dance,” Warner replied. “And I’d be very proud if you’d allow me the first dance of the evening.”
“That’s a great offer, Duncan, but I think Ben . . .”
“You go right ahead, Lee,” Ben said. “I’ve already promised the first dance to a right fine lady, an’ she was kind enough to accept.”
Lee’s eyes narrowed. “I see,” she said.
“Yes ma’am, Missy Joplin tol’ me she’d do me the honor if I promised to keep my boots off of her feet.”
Lee laughed prettily. Warner chuckled too. “I didn’t realize you were such a dance floor sort, Ben.”
Ben held his smile. “There’s lots of things you don’t know about me, Rev.”
Ben was awkward for the first few moments on the dance floor, but the gentle rhythm of the music soon captured him, and he and Missy moved almost effortlessly through the simple steps he had learned.
“You’re doin’ jist fine, Ben,” Missy whispered. “I’ll allow that it was kinda like teachin’ a one-legged calf to walk when we started, but you done good.”
Lee and Rev Duncan glided by as if their feet weren’t touching the floor. They moved to the music so naturally that other couples missed steps as they watched. Ben tried not to notice.
The first square dance was a simple one, beginning with the men lined up side by side, with the ladies a few feet away, also side by side. Doc called out the steps and moves in a voice he reserved only for such duties—loud, penetrating, full of fun. The second dance was considerably more complicated, and a few times Ben and several other men found themselves standing alone, outside the rhythm, wondering what to do next. But the orphans soon found their way back into the caller’s instructions.
After an hour or so of dancing, Caleb sang a few English ballads, accompanying himself on his guitar. “Barbara Allen,” a frontier favor
ite, held the audience enthralled with its simple but poignant lyrics. “Old Blue,” a Kentucky hunter’s song about the death of a good and cherished dog, had the men choking back the knots in their throats and the women reaching into their sleeves for their handkerchiefs. The next two songs were at the opposite end of the scale: “Froggy Went A-Courtin’” and “Chuck Wagon Stew” restored the air of festivity and fun.
It was when the musicians took a break that Ben smelled the first sign of trouble. As he filled his and Lee’s punch cups, the thick, woody scent of whiskey reached him. He looked around the room but saw nothing amiss. He handed Lee’s filled cup to her. “Did you . . . ?” he began.
“I smelled it too,” Lee said, nodding her head. “Everyone knows the rules.”
“Yeah. I better circulate a bit, see what’s going on.”
Ben moved easily through the crowd, speaking to a friend here and there, his eyes constantly in motion, seeking out faces he either didn’t know or didn’t expect to find at a church social. His first concern was weapons. As far as he knew, he was the only armed man in the hall. Church rules stated that no side arms or concealed guns could be carried at any function, and the men in attendance had complied, just as they always did. But as Ben walked around the dance floor, he passed through several waves of alcohol-tainted breath that clashed with the scents of coffee, lilac water, and ladies’ powder.
He found at least eight intruders and perhaps a couple more. Two cardsharps from the Drovers’ Inn smiled with red-rimmed eyes, their gaudy gambler’s suits and oiled hair setting them apart from the farmers and merchants. Several cowhands who’d hung on in Burnt Rock after their herds were shipped moved through the room. The lumps pressing against their shirts at the waistband were as obvious as a mountain cat on a dance floor.
After Ben had circled the room twice, Doc approached him with Rev Warner a foot behind him. Lee followed the two men. “What’s going on, Ben?” Doc asked, his voice lowered.
“Must be a dull night at the Drovers’,” Ben replied. “That place has been as quiet as a tomb for weeks. Looks like business is pickin’ up, and a few of the lowlifes decided to come an’ pay us a visit.”
Doc sighed. “They’re not here to do-si-do. What’re you going to do? Should I get some of our men together?”
Ben shook his head. “We’ll have a pitched battle here if you do. They’re carryin’ guns and they’re drunk. I’m gonna try to reason with them, maybe talk them into leaving. There’s no reason for a fight here. If they stayed in that swill-pit down the street where they belong, we wouldn’t have this trouble.”
Rev Warner put his hand on Ben’s shoulder. “Marshall—let me go around and talk to them. I’m sure I’ll be able to get at least some of them to listen to reason.”
Ben shook his head. “They won’t listen to you. Most of them are afraid of me—maybe they’ll back down. You don’t know men like these, Rev. They came here to—”
“They’re here because trouble is what they live for,” Doc interrupted. “There’s not a one of them who wouldn’t stomp on a wildflower just because it’s pretty.”
Lee stepped closer to Ben. “Why not let Duncan try? It might help, and it can’t make things any worse than they are.”
But Ben had already started moving. “Won’t work, Lee. This thing feels like it’s right at the flash point. I want you to find Missy and then both of you get out. Do it as quick as you can.” He hurried to the stage, opening the buttons on his coat as he did so. He took his badge from his pocket and pinned it on his chest as he stepped up onto the platform, rapping sharply on the top of the piano with his knuckles.
The room fell silent except for a raucous burst of laughter from three men standing together at the rear of the dance floor. Nervousness and apprehension spread through the congregation like poison in a water-hole. All eyes locked on Ben.
“There are a few boys here tonight who don’t know our rules,” he called out to the room. “This here’s a church social. There’s no reason for a man to be armed, and we don’t allow alcohol. I’m gonna have to ask you boys who’ve been drinkin’ and carryin’ guns to leave. I don’t want trouble, an’ these good people don’t want trouble. There won’t be any if you men leave now. Go on out the door, an’ we’ll forget the whole thing.”
“What if we decide to stay?” a rough voice shouted out. “What then?”
“We jist come to do a little dancin’ an’ Bible readin’, Marshall,” another voice shouted. “Maybe have a glass of your nice punch, though some of us, we like our sarsaparilla straight. Nothin’ wrong with that, is there? Say, and ain’t you Bible-thumpers always tryin’ to drag people into your church? Sure you are. An’ now that we come, you get all testy on us. Jist don’ seem fair, Marshall.”
Hoots of laughter and frightened glances between members of the congregation filled the room for a moment. Ben pushed the side of his jacket back behind his holster and put his right hand an inch from the grips of his Colt.
“I’ve got nothing else to say, an’ I won’t stand still for you mocking these people. I want you out—now!”
The lantern hanging above and behind Ben exploded as he finished his sentence. Burning kerosene cascaded to the floor and puddled there, its flames reaching hungrily for more fuel. Two other lanterns, hung directly on the walls rather than from the rafters, showered the room with flaming shards of glass as gun shots echoed through the hall.
“Out! Everyone out!” Ben bellowed.
Pistol fire continued from the dance floor, and three more lanterns spewed kerosene. Again Ben shouted, but the warning was ineffectual; his voice was swallowed by the screams of women, the shouts of men, and the hiss of the conflagration. A cowhand took aim at a lantern, and Ben dropped him with a single shot.
The fire was a voracious, living thing, glutting itself on the wooden structure. Lanterns assaulted by tongues of flame detonated like bombs, accelerating the propagation of the inferno. Thrashing, screaming knots of people jammed against one another at the front and rear doors of Grange Hall. Ben ran to the door closest to him and began dragging men and women away from the door frame as if he were pulling and throwing away dried corn stalks in a field. After clearing away the people to the safety of outdoors, he stepped back inside, looking across the room through the sheets of flame. Doc and a couple of other men were hustling people through the front door.
On the far side of the room a gambler aimed a derringer at one of the two remaining lanterns. Ben ran toward him, and his hoarse bellow caused the gambler to spin around. The gambler’s single-shot pistol swiveled toward Ben, but a slug from Ben’s Colt put the gambler on the floor.
Ben knew it was too late to do anything about the building. The roof was on fire. He looked around the room frantically, his eyes smarting and tearing from the thick, acrid smoke.
Doc’s voice reached him from across the room. “Get out, Ben! Everyone’s out!”
A rafter dropped onto the top of the piano with a whoosh. The last thing Ben saw before he plunged through the door to safety was a finger of flame emerging from the sound hole of Caleb Goode’s guitar.
A head count outside revealed that everyone except the outlaws Ben had traded shots with had gotten out of Grange Hall. There was a halfhearted attempt to form a bucket brigade, but it was clear that buckets of water would have no effect on the blaze.
The flashes of orange and red and cobalt blue bursting forth from the collapsing structure seemed eerily cheerful; the sparks and embers rising into the inky blackness of the sky flashed like Fourth of July rockets.
Women, their long dresses singed and burned, their faces smudged with soot and tear streaks, stood wide-eyed, clutching children in iron grips. The men stood about silently, their Sunday meeting suits stinking of smoke and panicked sweat. Some brushed with their hands at the ragged scorch holes in their clothing. The children seemed numb with shock. A few of the toddlers—and a few of the grade-school children—screamed hysterically, hiccupping and gasping.
Lee, Missy, and several other women stood huddled together. Ben, eyes streaming tears and still gasping from the smoke, stepped in front of the group.
Lee met his eyes with a level, frigid gaze. “You should’ve let him try, Ben, but you had to bull ahead and get up on the stage and incite those animals to start shooting.”
Ben had no idea what was she was talking about, but then the preacher’s plea came back to him. “He couldn’t have done a thing!” he choked out. “What happened in there,” he nodded toward the fire, “was planned. Those drunken fools came with the idea in mind to shoot up those lanterns. Rev Warner would have gotten a few punches or maybe a few bullets for his trouble, and the outcome would’ve been the same.”
“You don’t know that.” Lee’s words were coming fast now. “You could’ve let him try. But you had to pin on that badge like it was a shield of a knight in armor and take everything into your own hands!”
Ben looked into Lee’s eyes and again saw an expanse of arctic ice. He turned wordlessly and strode to where his horse was tied. Some of the horses had bolted in panic—one hitching rail was torn away, and a pair of broken reins hung from the top rail of the fence of the grange’s small corral. But Snorty, breathing as if he’d just completed a hard run, had stood his ground where his master had left him. Ben swung into the saddle and rode toward town.
Main Street was dark except for the yellow light issuing from behind the batwing doors and the front window of the Drovers’ Inn. Ben tied Snorty in front of his office, unlocked the door, and stepped inside. He didn’t bother lighting a lantern. The subtle glint of moonlight on the rack of rifles and shotguns gave him all the illumination he needed. He tugged a Remington twelve-gauge double-barreled shotgun from the rack and jerked open the drawer at its base so hard that the drawer pulled free of its tracks and spilled handfuls of 30.06, 30.30, and 44.40 cartridges at his feet. He loaded the shotgun’s twin barrels and picked through the ammunition on the floor, stuffing six or eight shotgun loads into the ripped pocket of his new suit.
