A well-weathered wagon, its sun-bleached wood gray and splitting, emerged from the barn, drawn by a single mule. The driver of the wagon, the driver of the hearse, and Lisenby took the coffin, closed now, from the hearse and set it, none too gently, into the back of the wagon.
“Dewey, get the hearse back in the barn. Mick, the grave is already open and Al is out there. Take this carcass out there and get it planted.”
As Dewey drove the hearse back to the barn, Mick drove the wagon down the street toward the cemetery with one of its wheels squealing in protest as it made its solitary journey.
“How was the funeral?” Millie asked when Matt and John returned to the newspaper office.
“No tears,” John answered.
“Did you expect them?”
“Not really. What is that?” John asked, noticing a story Millie had just finished setting.
“It’s a story about the Firemen’s Ball this Saturday night.”
Because it was already set to print, the typeface from John’s perspective was backward. Nevertheless, he was able to read it as quickly and easily as the average person could after it was already printed.
“Good story,” John said. “Two m’s, one t in commitment,” he pointed out.
“Aahh, I knew better than that,” Millie said. She made the correction. “Are you going, Mr. Jensen? It sounds like it is going to be fun.”
“Oh, yes,” Matt replied. “I don’t want to miss this.”
Chapter Twenty-five
To show that he was a magnanimous man, Denbigh let it be known that on Saturday night he would open the tollgate free of charge to anyone who wanted to come to town to attend the Firemen’s Ball. As a result of his action, small ranchers and farmers, and their families, doubled the population of Fullerton on the night of the ball.
The firemen were using the ball as a means of raising money to buy a new pumper. In order to make certain that the people got their money’s worth, they hired a band all the way from Bismarck. Making the trip in a rented carriage the Fullerton Fire Department supplied them, they arrived in mid-afternoon, and went straight to the hotel ballroom to set up.
Green Fowler and several of his friends, boys that he went to school with, were looking upon the afternoon and evening as a great party, and it was a party not only for the young people but for the adults.
Even before the dance started, the band began practicing, and the high skirling of the fiddle, the low thump of the bass viol, and the melodic strum of the guitar could be heard out in the street. Monroe Avenue had been thoroughly cleaned of horse droppings, and now resembled a carnival midway. There were booths where women were displaying their quilting projects, and Kenny Perkins, ever the entrepreneur, had spent the last two days prior to the dance making doughnuts, tarts, cookies, and fudge. Today, he had a booth where he sold the confections, as well as coffee and lemonade. For the occasion, he had hired Jimmy Smith and Becky Carson, one of his classmates, to help him.
Green and the other boys were running up and down the street, darting in and around the booths. One of them suggested that they play the game of “Shooting Ollie Butrum,” and they did so with relish, Green winning the coveted role of portraying Matt Jensen because he had actually met him.
At Ma Perkins’ Boarding House, the boarders were all gathered around the supper table when Lucy came into the dining room, obviously dressed for the dance.
“Mrs. Black has baked a wonderful apple pie tonight,” she said. “And Mrs. Mouser has graciously offered to serve.”
“My, oh, my, Mrs. Perkins, if you don’t look lovely tonight,” Proffer said. “Why, if I were thirty years younger, wouldn’t I be squiring you.”
“Why, thank you, Mr. Proffer,” Lucy said, beaming at the compliment.
“Where is Mr. Jensen?” Mrs. Gibson asked. “I thought he would dine with us, tonight.”
“I believe John and Millie Bryce invited him for dinner,” Lucy said.
“Well, I am sure he will be at the dance. Please tell him we missed him tonight,” Mrs. Gibson said.
“If I see him, I certainly shall,” Lucy said.
The ball was well under way, and Matt was standing against the back wall enjoying the music and the movement and swirl of the women in their butterfly bright dresses, and of the men, uncomfortable in their unaccustomed suits as they danced. He watched as one of the cowboys walked over to the punch bowl, took a quick look around the room, then, as unobtrusively as possible, poured whiskey into the bowl. Matt chuckled, because this was the third cowboy within the last fifteen minutes to make such an addition to the fruit punch.
He saw Lucy Perkins the moment she came in. She was clearly the most beautiful woman in the room, and though Millie had told Matt that Lucy was thirty-one years old, which was three years younger than Matt, she did not look a day over twenty-one. Lucy was greeted warmly by several of the men and women, and after returning their greetings, she walked over to the punch bowl, where she picked up a stem of crystal. Matt reached her just as she picked up the ladle.
“I wouldn’t drink that if I were you,” he said.
“Oh, tish,” Lucy said, flashing a big smile. “You think I don’t know it has been spiked? This isn’t the first ball I’ve ever attended, you know.”
Lucy turned to Matt and saluted him with a full glass. “It’ssonicetosee you here, Mr. Jensen,” she said.
Lucy took a swallow of her drink, then immediately lowered the glass and coughed. Putting the glass down on the table, she made a fist, then hit herself in her bare chest, just above the cleavage her dress displayed.
“Oh, my!” she gasped. “What is in that? Kerosene?”
