Authors: Robert Vaughan
BECAUSE THE FAMILIES LIVED SO FAR APART, SATURDAYS
became great social events. The men would come into town and take care of their business at the blacksmith shop, or the hardware store, or whatever other store they needed, then gather at the saloon, called the Cattlemen’s, but the management was neutral enough that the sheep herders didn’t feel uneasy. This was especially true on Saturdays, when there were nearly as many sheep ranchers and their Basque hands as there were cattle ranchers and cowboys.
The women used these opportunities to take care of their shopping, then to visit, often gathering at Vi’s Pies, a pie house run by the widow, Violetta McGraw. There, the women would talk about babies, exchange recipes, and discuss the latest dress patterns.
Tomas hitched up the wagon and Ian drove it, taking
himself, Cynthia, Hannah, and Hawke into town. His wheelchair was in back of the wagon.
Cynthia and Hannah were excited about going into town and they talked during the ride in about what they were going to buy.
“Mama, do you think Mr. Beasley will have any peanuts?” Hannah asked.
Cynthia laughed. “I should have never taught you how to make peanut brittle,” she said. “If you had your way, you would make it just about every day.”
“But you said you had it all the time you were growing up.”
“I grew up in Georgia. We always had peanuts and molasses. Out here, everything has to come by train and it is much more expensive.”
“But if he has some, will you buy them?”
“I don’t know, honey, there are things we need more than peanuts.”
“Buy some peanuts,” Ian said. “I like peanut brittle myself.”
Cynthia laughed. “I hate it when the two of you team up on me.”
“The three of us,” Hannah said.
“Three of you?”
“I know Mr. Hawke likes peanut brittle. So he probably wants some too.”
“How do you know he likes it?”
“You said you knew him when you were a young girl,” Hannah said. “That means he grew up in Georgia too. And if he grew up in Georgia, he likes peanut brittle.”
“Well, I do like it,” Hawke said, laughing. “But you aren’t going to get me drawn into this.”
Ian came into town, then stopped the wagon in front of the Farmers and Ranchers Supply Company. A sign out front read:
SUPPLIES FOR ALL MANKIND.
NO ORDER TOO LARGE TO FILL
NO ORDER TOO SMALL TO APPRECIATE
Ian pulled his watch out of his pocket and looked at it. “It’s three o’clock,” he said. “Will three hours be long enough for you ladies to get all of your gabbing done?”
“Hah!” Cynthia said. “Like you and the other men won’t be gabbing away down at the saloon.”
“Whatever gabbing we do can be done in three hours,” Ian said. “What about you?”
“Three hours will be plenty of time,” Cynthia answered.
“All right, then Hawke and I will meet you at the City Pig restaurant at six o’clock and we’ll have supper before we start home.”
“Oh, we get to eat out,” Hannah said. “How wonderful!”
Stepping down onto the boardwalk, Cynthia and Hannah watched the wagon drive away before they went inside. In the store, a large sign advertised:
WE WILL HAVE BUNTING FOR THE FOURTH OF JULY
Jesse Carlisle was riding into King Hill with his brother and three other men from the Carlisle Ranch. Just as they came into town, Jesse saw Hannah Macgregor and her mother stepping down from the wagon in front of the Farmers and Ranchers Supply Company.
“You fellas go on,” Jesse said. “I’ve got some business to attend to.”
“Will you fellas listen to my little brother?” Johnny said. “He’s got some…business…to attend to.” Johnny set the word business apart, dragging it out mockingly. “We
know what your business is.” Johnny laughed. “You ever seen an old hound sniffin’ around a bitch dog? That’s the way you are, sniffin’ around that little sheep girl.”
“Ease up on the boy, Johnny,” Ralph said. “If he’s got ’im a girl he likes, what’s the harm?”
“What’s the harm?” Johnny asked. “I’ll tell you what’s the harm. It’s a matter of family. Somebody needs to tell him that cows and sheep don’t mix, and if Pa won’t tell him, I will.”
“Who I see or do not see is none of your concern, Johnny Carlisle,” Jesse said. “Now you and the others go on about your business and leave me be.”
“Baaaa,” Johnny said, imitating a sheep as they rode away. The others laughed.
Jesse dismounted in front of the store, tied off his horse, then went in. He walked over to the gents’ furnishings table and started looking at denim trousers. Across the store he saw Hannah and her mother.
Hannah had seen Jesse come in to the store, and she started moving, slowly, toward him, examining items on the notion table. She picked a spool of thread, then looked in his direction. He moved from the gents’ furnishings to the feed and seed part of the store; she moved from the notions’ table to the ladies ready-to-wear. He moved to the hardware department, and she moved to the carpet department. Finally, they met.
“Good day to you, Miss Macgregor,” Jesse said.
“Good day to you, Mr. Carlisle,” Hannah replied.
“I heard of your father’s accident,” Jesse said. “I hope he is doing well.”
“It wasn’t an accident, Jesse,” Hannah said.
Jesse nodded. “I know it,” he said. “Hannah, I hope you don’t think that I, or my father, had anything to do with that.”
“I don’t think you had anything, directly, to do with it.”
“What do you mean, directly?”
“It’s this whole cattle and sheep thing,” Hannah said. “That’s what’s behind it…that’s what caused my father to be hurt.”
Jesse sighed. “Hannah, why does your father have to raise sheep? Why couldn’t he raise cattle like everyone else?”
“Why does it matter?” Hannah said. “Shouldn’t he have the right to raise anything he wants?”
“It’s just that…this is cattle country,” Jesse said.
“Before it was cattle country, it was silver mining country, and before that it belonged to the Indians and buffalo,” Hannah replied. “It’s a big country, Jesse, plenty big enough for cattle and sheep.”
“Cattle…sheep,” Jesse said. “That shouldn’t have anything to do with us.”
Hannah made a big show of making a critical examination of Jesse.
“What are you doing?”
“You’re right,” she said. “It doesn’t have anything to do with us. Despite what my papa thinks, you don’t have horns and a tail.”
Jesse laughed.
“May I help the young lady and gentleman?” a store clerk asked. “Are you interested in buying a coffin?”
“What?” Jesse asked.
Looking around them, Jesse and Hannah saw that, in this large store, they had met in the coffin department. They both laughed out loud.
“Really,” the indignant clerk said. “I see nothing humorous about coffins.”
“Hannah, dear, would you come help me for a moment?” Cynthia called.
“I’ve got to go,” Hannah said.
“I’ll see you around,” Jesse said.
Returning to the gents’ furnishings section, Jesse fingered through items as if he was interested in them. In fact, the only thing he was interested in was Hannah, and he watched her until she and her mother left the store.
After Cynthia and Hannah were dropped off, Ian and Hawke made a couple stops of their own. Leaving the wagon parked at the livery, Hawke got the wheelchair out of the back of the wagon and helped Ian into it. Then he pushed Ian along the board sidewalk, stopping in the hardware store, where Ian bought more nails to replace the ones he and Hawke had used in repairing the roof. He also bought a pair of work gloves.
“What do you say we go into the saloon and have a couple of drinks while we’re waiting on the ladies?” Ian suggested.
“Sounds good to me,” Hawke said.
When Hawke pushed Ian through the bat-wing doors, nearly all conversation stopped as the patrons of the saloon looked toward them. It was obvious that many had never even seen a wheelchair before, and if they had, it was certainly not in a saloon. The piano player had been grinding out a song, but he stopped in mid-bar as Hawke and Ian entered. The saloon fell into silence and everyone stared.
“Well, I don’t normally get that kind of a salute when I walk into a place, gentlemen, but I appreciate it,” Ian said jovially, and several in the saloon laughed.
“Push me up to the bar, Hawke, and let me buy you a beer,” he said.
Hawke complied, but because Ian was sitting in the chair, he was too low for the bar. Also, the chair couldn’t get close enough.
“Ian,” Chris Dumey called. “Come over here and join us.”
Chris was sitting at a table with Mark Patterson, Allen Cummings, and Ed Wright.
“Roll me over there, Hawke,” Ian said, and, obligingly, Hawke pushed Ian to the table.
One of the girls came over to get the order and smiled flirtatiously at Hawke. Ian ordered two beers, then teased Hawke.
“Too bad he’s with us,” he said. “I do think that young woman was taking a shine to him.”
“Ian, have you been married so long that you can’t remember?” Hawke responded. “Women who work in places like this take a shine to everyone.”
The others at the table laughed.
“Mr. Hawke?”
Looking up, Hawke saw that the piano player had come over to the table.
“Yes?”
“My name is Dexter Manley, Mr. Hawke. I’m the piano player here.” He extended his hand and Hawke took it.
“It’s very nice to meet you,” Hawke said.
“No, sir, it’s my pleasure to meet you,” Manley replied. “I’ve heard of you, Mr. Hawke. I know that you are a real pianist…not just a piano player.”
“I may have been at one time,” Hawke said self-deprecatingly. “But now I just play the piano like you and thousands of others.”
Manley shook his head and snorted what may have been a laugh. “No sir, there is no way you are like thousands of others,” he said. “I understand that you played it the other day when I was gone.”
“Yes,” Hawke said. “I apologize for such presumption.”
“No, sir, I’m only sorry that I missed it,” Manley said.
“And I was just wondering if you would do me the honor of playing it now?”
“Well, I’m with my friends here and—”
“Play it, Hawke,” Ian said.
“Yes, play it,” Ed Wright said.
Hawke nodded. “All right,” he agreed.
“Ladies and gents,” Manley called out.
“What are you talkin’ about? There ain’t no ladies in here. There’s just a couple of whores is all,” a big man at one of the tables shouted. There was a smattering of nervous laughter in the saloon.
“That’s Johnny Carlisle,” Ian said under his breath. “He’s Rome Carlisle’s son, and nearly as big a troublemaker as Lonnie Creed.”
“Ladies and gents,” Manley said again. “I am honored to introduce to you Mr. Mason Hawke. Mr. Hawke is a wonderful pianist, and I have presumed upon him to play a number for us.” Manley looked over at Hawke and held out his hand. “Mr. Hawke?” he said.
“Thank you,” Hawke said.
There was absolute silence as Hawke walked over to the piano. Except for the bartender, there was not one person there who had heard him play before. A few, however, had heard about his piano playing, as well as hearing how he had disarmed Lonnie Creed.
Hawke stood beside the piano for a moment before he sat down.
“This piece is especially for the ladies,” he said pointedly, looking at Johnny Carlisle.
Hawke sat at the piano for a moment, then began playing “Lorena.”
Though nobody knew quite what to expect when he first sat down, this was a song that all of them recognized. Many of them remembered it as a haunting ballad from the Civil
War, and a few, recalling those dark and dangerous days, and perhaps where they were then, turned their heads away in embarrassment as they wiped away a tear or two. When the song ended, Hawke stood and shook Dexter Manley’s hand again, then returned to the table.
“You know,” Ian remarked, “all the time we served together, I never heard you play the piano.”
“Yes, well, the war didn’t exactly put me in a playing mood,” Hawke said.
“I understand,” Ian replied. He lifted his glass of beer and looked at the others around the table. “Boys, I know that some of us fought for the North and some for the South. But we are all united in our memories. I wonder if you would all join me in a toast to all our friends, those that are separated from us now by distance, and those who gave their last full measure of devotion.”
“Hear! Hear!” Wright said. Ed Wright had been a sergeant in the Pennsylvania 9th.
“I’d be glad to,” Hawke said, touching his glass to Ian’s.
Everyone at the table touched their glasses, then took a drink.
“Bartender!” Johnny Carlisle shouted then, his voice booming out over everything. “Bartender. How about getting the smell of sheep shit out of the saloon?”
The several conversations halted again as everyone looked first toward the big man who had issued the challenge, then toward the table of sheep herders to see what they were going to do.
“Bartender, did you hear me?” the big man called again. “I asked you to get the smell of sheep shit out of the saloon.”
“Johnny, why don’t you just calm down and enjoy your drink?” the bartender replied.
“Enjoy my drink? Now you just tell me how’m I going to enjoy my drink with the smell of sheep shit in here?”
“Honey, don’t go causin’ any trouble in here now,” one of the bar girls said, coming over to put her hand on his shoulder. “We’re having a peaceful afternoon here.”
“Hey, whore, when I want to hear from you, I’ll ask you,” Johnny said. “Bartender, this is the last time I’m going to ask you. Either you get the smell of sheep shit out of here or I’ll do it myself.”
“Excuse me for a moment,” Hawke said, getting up from the table.
“Hawke, let it go,” Ian said, reaching for him. “This isn’t your fight.”
“Oh? I thought it was. Isn’t that why I came?”
“Perhaps it is, but you need to pick your fights. I mean, look at the size of that son of a bitch. You don’t want to get into a fight with him now.”
“I’ll be right back,” Hawke said, holding up a finger.