There were battles of every sort imaginable—some scheduled, some not. Rum Creek slid coolly out of the mountains and slithered to a halt above a beaver dam, creating Hake's Pond, where loggers from up mountain whupped the hell out of every aspiring log roller and tree skinner from Stuart's Junction, who later returned the favor at horsehoes and chasing a greased pig.
Then, too, there was the kissing, which grew more uninhibited as the day wore on and people just seemed to do it whenever and with whomever they could manage. Of course, the darker it got, the easier it was to manage.
The whole affair started at ten a.m. and officially ended with the ten P.M. fireworks display, unofficially when the last roaring drunk was hauled home by his wife, still singing loudly and probably more amorous than he'd been since last Fourth of July.
Miss Abigail had brought a basket for the basket social—her way of joining wholeheartedly in the festivities. She deposited it with all the others under a huge oak tree where the bidding was always done.
She wore her daisy-trimmed hat, as usual, and a dove gray dress with matching overjacket of simple lines, which fairly clung to her skin by eleven o'clock. David Melcher, in a brown day suit, white shirt, and string tie, grew equally as hot as the sun rose toward its apex.
The two of them were sitting in the shade sipping sarsaparilla.
"Don't you drink beer?" she asked.
"I never developed a taste for it, I guess."
"Beer, as you've probably already guessed, is the drink of the day here, though I've never been able to understand why these men don't stop at their quota. On the Fourth of July they just don't seem to. Look!
Look at Mr. Diggens. He's the one in the blue shirt who is challenging that logger twice his size. Is it the beer that makes him believe he can actually beat that logger at arm wrestling?"
They watched the mismatched contestants across the way as the pair knelt on either side of a stump, and of course the smaller Mr. Diggens lost, though he came up laughing and gamely warned the huge, strapping logger, "A few more beers and I beat you good!"
"Is that so!" the logger bellowed. "Well, let's get 'em into you then!" And before Diggens could protest, the logger lifted him bodily as if he were a bride being carried across a threshhold and carried him to the beer kegs, ballyhooing, "Feed my friend here some beer, Ivan. I want to see him beat me!"
A shout of laughter went up from the crowd and the logger took off his shirt, tied it by its sleeves around his waist, and stood like Paul Bunyan himself, drinking beer beside the dwarfed Diggens, as if waiting for him to suddenly sprout up and grow bigger.
Looking on, Miss Abigail and David joined in the laughter.
"As you can see, these little duels enhance the real contest which will all take place this afternoon," Miss Abigail explained.
David's eyes scanned the area. "I've never been much at physical things," he admitted unabashedly.
"Neither has Diggens, I'm afraid."
Then, as their eyes met, they both burst into laughter again.
"I think the speech makers are losing their audience," he noted some time later. Most of the listeners had drifted away from the pondside as soon as the mayor had finished his windy oratory.
"They'd rather listen to the nonsense at the beer kegs."
Another bit of revelry had started up there. Now the hairy-chested logger who'd tied his shirt around his waist was curtseying with that same shirt to Diggens before the two embraced and began a ridiculous impromptu dance while a fiddle scraped in the background. As they spun, beer flew out of their mugs, splattering two young women, who jumped back and shrieked joyously, only to be profusely apologized to by the men. The girls giggled as the logger again made his ridiculous curtsey to them.
"Something just seems to come over people out here on the Fourth of July," Miss Abigail said, unbuttoning her overjacket, which was becoming unbearable in the heat.
"It's a beautiful spot. It makes me happy all over again that I decided to stay in Stuart's Junction. These people… they were all so nice to me yesterday. I can't help but feel like I'm welcome here."
"Why shouldn't you be? Don't you think they know that your new business is going to be an asset to this town?"
"Do you think so? Do you really think it will succeed?"
He was very transparent. At times he displayed an almost childish need of her support and encouragement.
"Can you think of a thing more necessary than shoes? Why, just look at all those feet out there." She turned to survey the picnic grounds. A bunch of little boys scuffled under a nearby tree, playing some sort of rugby game they had improvised, kicking at a stuffed bag with curled-toed boots; a mother passed by, leading a little girl who was wailing over a stubbed, bare toe; the mother herself wore down-at-the-heel oxfords, long in need of replacing. "Look at the beating all those shoes are taking. Chances are that later every one of these people will come directly to your store to buy new ones."
He beamed at the thought, spinning visions of the future, but at that moment they were approached by a giant of a man wearing the familiar logger's uniform of loose-slung britches, black suspenders, and a red plaid shirt.
"Hey there, Melcher, you're the man I'm looking for!" A huge, hairy, friendly paw was extended.
"Michael Morneau's the name. I hear you'll be needing some timber for a building you aim to put up. I'm the man's got just what you need. I brung you a beer so we can talk about it friendly like."
David Melcher found himself pulled to his feet and a beer slapped into his hand.
To Miss Abigail, the amiable logger said, "Hope you don't mind, lady, if we mix a little business with pleasure. I'll bring him right back." A big arm circled David's shoulders and herded him away. "Come on over here, Melcher. Got some people I want you to meet."
Miss Abigail saw how David was rather bulldozed into drinking that beer. It was more than a drink—it was the symbol of goodwill among those men who swilled together in great camaraderie. Even from this distance she could tell when they talked business, from the forgotten way the mugs hung in their hands.
But when some point was agreed upon, up in the air went the beers before everyone, including David, drank.
She watched his brown shoulders buffeted along among the mixture of shirts: red plaids, white businesses, even some yellowed union suits, and into each new group came fresh beer. Once he caught her eye across the expanse of meadow and made a gesture of helpless apology for abandoning her, but she shrugged and smiled and swished her hand to tell him not to worry. She was fine. She sat contentedly watching all the commotion around her. David was concluding more business arrangements and gathering more goodwill among the beer swillers than he could garner in a fortnight of selling quality shoes or beating the boardwalks downtown.
So Miss Abigail wandered off to watch the children's sack races.
Rob Nelson came running past but shied to a halt when he saw her.
"Howdy, Miss Abigail."
"Hello, Robert. Are you entering the sack race?"
"Sure am."
"Well, good luck to you then."
There was something different about Miss Abigail today. She didn't look like she just ate a pickle.
"Thank y' ma'am," the boy said, spinning away only to screech to a halt and return, squinting up at her, scratching his head, something obviously on his mind.
"What is it, Robert?"
"Well, y' know them there straws I brung you that time for that train robber?" He watched for danger signs, but she looked kind of young and pretty and her mouth kind of fell open and she touched her blouse where her heart was.
"Yes?"
"Did they work?"
"Why, yes they did, Robert, and I want to thank you very much for getting them."
"What'd you do with 'em?"
To Rob's surprise, Miss Abigail smiled and leaned down conspiratorially. "I blew soup into him," she whispered near his ear. She straightened then. "Now run along to your race."
But Rob didn't move. Just stood there slack-mouthed, in wonder. "
You
blew soup into a
train robber
, Miss Abigail?" he asked incredulously.
"He wasn't a train robber after all."
"Oh," Robert said shortly, then looked thoughtful before stuffing his hands into his pants pockets and saying, "You know, he really didn't look much like a train robber in those pajama pants."
Now it was Miss Abigail's turn to go slack-jawed. Horrified, she spun Rob about by the shoulders, controlling the urge to paddle his little backside. "Robert Nelson, don't you dare repeat that to a single living soul, do you hear? Now git!"
And the impetuous child ran off toward the sack race, trailing a burlap bag as he ran.
But when he was gone she crossed an arm upon her waist, rested her elbow upon it, and lightly covered her smiling mouth. Her shoulders shook mirthfully as she recaptured the picture of Jesse stumping around in pajama pants much too short for him.
"Is something funny, Miss Abigail?"
"Oh, Doctor Dougherty, hello. I was just enjoying the children's sack races."
"I've been meaning to get up to your place and thank you for all you did. You sure helped me out of a pickle."
"I was only too happy to help."
"Did that man behave himself and put that gun away? I sure didn't mean to put you in any ticklish spots by returning it to him."
"Oh, it's all over and done with now, water under the bridge." But she refused to meet his eyes, squinted into the sun instead to watch the races now in full swing.
"Yup!" he agreed, following her eyes to the jumping, writhing boys, some now sprawled out on their stomachs, struggling to regain their feet. "I heard you got paid real well."
Her eyes snapped to him. Only the doc would have the temerity to come right out with a thing like that.
"Everybody in this town hears everything," she said.
"Yup," he agreed, "and what they don't hear, they damn well guess at."
"I hear Gertie got back from Fairplay," she said quickly, changing the subject.
"Yeah, she's got my office running slicker'n a greased pig again. And I heard you were all over town yesterday introducing that Melcher around and blazing trails for him to open up a new business."
"That's right. This town owes him that much, I think."
"Why so?"
It was an odd question. She gave him a puzzled look. But Doc had drawn a penknife from his pocket and was calmly cleaning his nails as he went on. "Seems to me we owe Jesse something if we owe anybody. Folks around here were mighty nasty about even letting him off his own train in our midst. If it weren't for you he could've rotted right there on it, for all they cared. And all the time it's his railroad that's brought new prosperity to Stuart's Junction. Just goes to show how wrong about a person you can be."
Doc didn't so much as glance at Miss Abigail, just snapped his penknife shut, tucked it away in a baggy pocket, and glanced out toward the sack races, where a lad lay humped up on the ground clutching his stomach. "Well," Doc murmured, as if ruminating to himself, "guess I'd better go see if I can get the scare out of him and the wind back in." And he shambled off to the rescue, leaving Miss Abigail to wonder just how much he guessed about her relationship with Jesse.
As she watched Doc moving toward the boy, she remembered the night she'd had the wind knocked out of her, and of the things which had followed, and she thought about Doc's words, "Just goes to show how wrong about a person you can be."
"Miss Abigail, I've been looking all over for you," David said, making her jump. She gasped and put a hand to her heart. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you."
"Oh, I was just daydreaming, that's all."
"Come. They're going to auction off the baskets now. You've been standing here in the sun too long.
Your face is all red."
But it was memories of Jesse which had heightened her color, and she was grateful that David could not read her mind. He took her by the arm to where the crowd had gathered under the huge, sprawling oak for the pairing off and picnicking. He continued to hold her elbow as the auctioning began, and she could smell the yeastiness about him from the beer he'd drunk. Now and then he'd weave a bit unsteadily, but he was apparently sober enough to recognize the napkin that matched her kitchen curtains peeking out from under the lid of her picnic basket. When it came up for bids, he raised a looping arm and called out,
"Seventy-five cents!"
"Way to go!" Someone slapped him on the back and he barely retained his stance. Then some unseen voice hollered, "That's Miss Abigail's basket, Melcher. Bid 'em up!"
Laughter, good-natured and teasing, went up, and her cheeks grew pinker.
"A dollar!" came the second bid.
"A dollar ten!" called David.
"Hell, that ain't no way to pay back a lady that saved your life! A dollar twenty!"
David rocked back on his heels, grinning quite drunkenly.
From the crowd someone hollered, "Melcher, you ain't too drunk to see Miss Abigail's colors flying from under that there basket lid, are you?"
"A dollar and a quarter!" Melcher thought he shouted, only he hiccupped in the middle and it came out,
"A dollar and a quor-horter!" raising a whoop of laughter.
The auctioneer bawled, "Anybody got more'n a dollar and a
quor-horter
for this here basket?" Laughter billowed and so did Miss Abigail's blush.
"Sold!"
The gavel smacked down, and from all around rose catcalls, whistles, and hoots. David just grinned.
"Give 'er hell, David!" someone encouraged as David made his unsteady way forward to get the basket.
As he passed Michael Morneau, a hand steered David and steadied him while the lumberman laughed,
"We got all that business taken care of. Time for a little fun now, eh, Melcher?"
Miss Abigail thought David would never make it to that basket and back again, but soon he returned, offering an arm, leading her proudly. She was as red as a raspberry by now, moving through the crowd, being watched by the entire town while he plunked the basket down in the shade of a nearby tree. Finally the bidding resumed and drew people's attention away from them for the time being.