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Short Stories & Tall Tales
The Downfall of Ross Dent
By Lee Aaron Wilson
The sensation of flying, of being lighter than air, twisting lazily in the warm summer sun was wonderful. With his arms outflung and back arched, Ross Dent flew to meet the clouds. The sky receded. The flight came to a sudden stop as he thudded to the pounded ground in the middle of the breaking corral.
Oh my Gawd, Ross thought, I'm killed. My back. My laigs. He wanted to scream, but his lungs wouldn't work. His throat rasped when he tried to get his breath.
A pretty blond face swam into view. It was fuzzy, but by concentrating hard he got it into focus. An angel? Was he dead?
"Sind Sie . . . are you all right, Mein Herr?"
"Yeah. Yes, Ma'am." Ross forced a smile to his lips. "Shore. When they git some real tough broncs in, I take ten, twelve falls a day like thet."
Afraid to move, but driven to impress the young lady with his toughness, Ross forced his aching body to move. He rolled over. He put his arms against the ground and pushed hard. Nothing happened. He pushed harder. The corral dirt and horseshit got further from his face.
He sat up. Gingerly he climbed to his feet. Under the pretense of dusting himself off, he checked his body. No bleeding. Nothing broken. He was, in fact all right. A miracle. He sauntered jauntily, if painfully, back to the animal that had dumped him. He would get back in that saddle and he would ride it. He'd show that pretty girl.
From the corner of his eyes, he glanced toward the girl and her father. While her father, Herr Mueller, talked with the ranch owner, Les Bronson, and the foreman, Whitey Yates, she had sat demurely in the finely decorated surrey, her hands folded, not seeming to notice Ross. When he got thrown, she had rushed to him. Now she went to stand near her father.
#
Hilda watched the young man stand and walk away. His eyes said he hurt, but of course being a young man, he wouldn't admit it. She stifled a giggle. He was a fine handsome figure.
"Hilda, coma heraus," her father ordered. "Sit und vait."
He had told her to stay in the surrey. Right now he was talking business. The foreman came to her aid and helped her back into the rig. At seventeen, she was agile enough to jump down, but lady enough to wait for a hand up.
"All right, Mister . . . Herr Mueller, we'll take twenty tons of hay." Bronson offered his hand to clinch the deal.
"Ja, we gif you gut hay. The bestest you effer fed. You'll see."
"We'll want five of it delivered when it's ready; the rest we'll get as we need it. It'll weather better down in the valley."
The deal settled, the farmer and his pretty daughter left the ranch yard. As the surrey lumbered out of the ranch yard, the girl glanced at the cowboy. He was running the animal that had dumped him in a circle on a line. It still wore a saddle. He would ride it again. And again, until he controlled it. She knew it.
#
"Think he can deliver?" Whitey asked Les.
Ross, his attention mostly on the bronc, listened for the owner's answer.
"Does it matter?" Les' tone was as non-committal as his words. "We gotta start someplace." Then he nodded and added. "Yes, if any of the settlers can deliver, he can."
"Okay," Whitey said. "Guess I'm not a politician. What I wanna know is, do I put some boys to cutting an' stacking the grass on Webby Meadows, or do I graze it?"
Les Bronson grinned. "Always practical, ain't you. Graze it."
"Now, let's get the liniment and see if our bronco buster will be able to walk tomorrow."
"Long's he kin sit a saddle and chouse caows, I don't care if he can walk." The two headed for Ross.
He looked up at the saddle, then crawled up into it. "Now, walk you confounded critter, or you don't git no supper."
The animal quivered. Every muscle tensing for a spring. Ross patted its neck. "Easy, feller, easy." He nudged it ever so gently.
It walked around the corral.
He brought it back to where Les and Whitey stood, both open-mouthed. "Now whatd'ya think? I done it!"
At his loud voice the gelding let loose. Ross lasted twenty seconds and flew off again. He called it a day. Tomorrow he'd try again, and keep his voice softer.
#
Hilda's father rattled along about the deal. He didn't comment on her glances back toward the ranch yard, if he saw them. "Tventy tons I haf promised, und tventy tons I vill delifer."
He slapped the near horse with the lines to step it up. "Ja. But by mienself, I cannot do it. Help I must have. Herr Ritter hat ein gut meadow, und hat zwie," he corrected himself, concentrating on speaking the language of his new country, "has two big sohns. Mit mich, und your brudder Johann, we five men have.
"Mit fife ve can it do." A wave of emotion swept over him and he hugged his daughter. "Ich denke ve can make our vay in dieses neues . . . in this new land. Und ve can haf peace mit der ranchers."
"I hope so father, I hope so." She leaned her head against his big strong shoulder.
Embarrassed, Herr Mueller concentrated on driving the team. "I did not realize a yunge madchen was so avare of politics."
#
Saturday night the people of the valley had a pot luck dinner and dance to celebrate the completion of the new school, and the agreement of the ranchers and the farmers to work things out, including sharing the school--die schule. For months afterward everyone talked about what a success it was.
Everyone but Ross Dent, that is.
That day was not a good day for Ross.
It started at breakfast when Whitey told Ross, "Our neighbor to the east found two cows down. Suspect they got into a weed that made 'em sick. You ride out along Hangman's Creek and if you see any of this stuff, pull it and burn it." He held out a funny looking piece of greenery.
"What is it?"
"Some form of loco weed. It sure don't he'p the cattle none."
Riding around looking for a funny weed is not a hard job, but it took Ross to the farthest part of the ranch. He'd wanted to clean up early and get to that social tonight. Maybe he could meet that pretty German girl. As he headed out, the feeling grew in the pit of Ross' stomach that this wasn't going to be a good day. All in all, it probably wouldn't have been such a bad day, except for the can of kerosene.
Ross carried a short hand scythe, a canteen, and a gallon of kerosene to burn the dangerous weed if he found any. The search was successful. He found some weed, but not a lot. As the day wound down, he felt it might not be so bad after all. He started working his way toward the ranch house. Then he heard a calf bawl. It was a yearling, limping badly and crying piteously. A large pus-pocket showed on the calf's right front leg.
"Too bad I ain't got any medicine. Reckon I should lance it anyway."
He roped it, went down the rope and threw the critter. He tied its other three legs together. It was a tough sweaty job. His gelding, cow-wise, kept the rope tight. A yearling, half-grown, is a good-sized animal.
A thorn had gotten embedded. Or it might be a hornet's stinger. He got out his knife and lanced it. He didn't see what might have caused it, but by pumping it, he got it emptied. And got kicked three times by the calf.
"Sure wish I had some sulfur or alcohol or, " he glanced at his mount. "kerosene. Sure!"
He got the gallon jug from the saddle and headed back to the calf.
You have to understand a roping horse. Once that lass-rope settles, he will keep it taut. He does this by siding or backing as needed. A good roping horse is an intelligent animal. But he is still a horse. And he only has eyes in front, not behind.
Ross poured kerosene on the wound to flush it. The calf magnified its efforts to escape its tormentor, and its frantic lunges got it halfway up. The gelding backed up quickly to keep the rope taut. He backed into a prickly tree.
Then he did what every horse since time immemorial has done. He jumped, kicked, and bucked. The rope loosened. The calf kicked free. He tried to shake off the rope, gave up and headed for parts north at a dead run.
The horse headed due west at a hard gallop.
Ross Dent swore, threw his hat on the ground. Then he picked it up, jammed it on his head, and started for the ranch. On foot.
Two hours later, Whitey and Bart Lazarus met Ross, footsore and angry.
"You all right, son?" Whitey asked, relieved to see the young hand upright.
"Yeah." Ross limped over to the younger rider's horse. "Gimme a stirrup, Bart."
"Sure. What happened. Ain't like you to get throwed."
"I wasn't."
Bit by bit they dragged the story out of him. Whitey nodded. "Kin happen even to the best horses. When he come in without you, I'll admit I was some worried."
"I 'member finding someone who'd tried to rope an old range bull oncet, when he was out alone," Bart said.
"So do I," Whitey said. "Why I was worried."
"Hey, Ross," yelled a slicked-up, dressed-to-kill ranch hand. "You trying to git outta going to the social?"
Bart took delight in telling the tale, embellishing it as only a cowboy can. The crew, still laughing at the story, rode out while Ross was trying to get hot water so he could shave. When Ross came out of the cook shake, only Whitey waited for him.
#
When the two approached the new schoolhouse, no one was visible under the trees or on the wide veranda. Whitey glanced at Ross.
"They cain't still be making speeches."
"Listen." Ross held up his hand.
Whitey's brow wrinkled. "Thet don't sound like to stomping music t'me."
"Tain't. It's a waltz."
"Is thet dancing?"
They piled off their horses.
Inside, the tables lined one wall and the center of the floor contained a handsome blond youth who guided a town girl, one of Ross's favorite dance partners, in the waltz. Everyone else watched.
"Show off," Ross muttered. The dislike was instant. Ross had a jealously guarded reputation as the rowdiest, wildest cowboy in the valley, and the best dancer. He always had the prettiest partners. Tonight he limped painfully to the punch bowl, filled a cup and sank into the nearest seat. His feet throbbed from his long walk in riding boots.
The demonstration ended. A voice called, "A'right, now. Everybody grab a partner and try it."
Couples quickly filled the dance floor. Sheriff Vance Yates, Whitey's brother, got a cup of punch and stood near Ross. "Hear you got tired of riding and took a walk today."
Ross snorted. "I bet Bart's version wouldn't recognize the facts if they was introduced."
Whitey arrived in time to hear the retort. He just grinned. Then the two men stepped aside as a pretty blond girl, the one who had been to the ranch, came to the punch bowl. How come no one had asked her to dance? Ross wondered.
"Evening Miss Hilda. How ya?" Vance asked.
"Hallo." She answered, then smiled at Ross. "You're the horse trainer."
"Miss Hilda Mueller, may I present Mr. Ross Dent," Vance made an exaggerated bow. He added, in a loud aside, "Be careful, Miss. He's the wildest cowboy around. Also the best dancer."
Ross stood. "Ma'am . . . Miss Hilda."
Hilda smiled at Ross. She asked Vance, "Do you think he'll ask me to dance?"
Ross put down his cup of punch. "Miss Hilda may I," his feet ached just from standing up, "get you a glass of punch?" he knew his voice sounded lame.
"Yes, thank you." Her voice sounded like music, but a trace of disappointment showed in her eyes.
Whitey came to Ross' rescue. "He had a little accident today. I don't expect his feet feels much like dancing tonight."
"I'm sorry. You injured are? Please to sit down."
"I'm all right, mostly my pride." He filled a cup for her and gestured toward a bench to one side. "Want to hear a funny story?"
"If you'd like to tell me."
"Wal, this is what happened . . . ." This time Ross could laugh at his mis-adventure. If his story bore no resemblance to the one told by Bart, it was no accident. It was at least as far removed from fact.
Her delicate laugh was pure delight to Ross.
#
He is so nice, she thought. A wonderful smile and he can laugh at himself. I wonder what really happened. She'd heard both versions.
The three men making music started the Blue Danube. Could Ross stand to use his feet long enough to dance with her? It was such a beautiful piece of music.
Johann grabbed her arm and tugged, demanding her attention. "Come," he said. "We must this waltz demonstrate."
Oh why did I promise with him this number to dance? "Johann, please. Not now."
He took her hand and put his fingers on her back possessively.
"The young lady is talking to me," Ross said. The light fun tones were gone. He sounded dangerous. Vance started toward the boys.
Johann laughed. "It all right is, I will her not long keep. But for this number, I must her for a partner have."
Before Hilda could explain that she and her brother had been a dance team at festivals in the old country, Johann swept her away. On the floor she moved stiffly.
"What is wrong?" he asked. "You yourself are not."
"You were rude."
"You like him? But you can go back after this dance."
"Because you are my brother does not mean you own me. Don't do such a thing again. I am not a little girl to be dragged around."
Ross was gone when the dance was over.
#
As the mass of people surrounded the couple on the floor, Ross stood, hobbled to his mount and headed home. "That damn horses' ass," he mumbled. "Ordering her around as if he owned her." His lower jaw protruded another inch. "And she let him!" Ross pounded the saddle horn.
#
Stowing hay in big mows is not the worst job on a ranch. But it's unpopular because it requires a cowboy to get off his horse. Add to that having to work shoulder-to-shoulder with farmers and it put quite a strain on a cowboy. Ross grit his teeth and held on fairly well until after the noon meal. Then the final straw fell across the camel's back. Or in this case, down Ross' neck.
The cowboys joshed and teased, but did not include the farm boys. Mostly it was simply because they didn't know them well enough yet. In Ross' case, it was because one of them was the handsome blond youth he had heard Hilda call Johann.
Then the forkful of hay caught Ross just rising up with a forkful of his own. The angle was perfect, slightly behind and above Ross, so that most of it ended up down the neck of his shirt. Before anyone could stop him, he stabbed his fork into the ground and vaulted onto the wagon.
Eyes closed, blind with anger anyway, it was Ross' third blow before one connected. Johann responded. They swatted, pawed and struck each other for about five minutes before Ross lost his balance and jumped to the ground rather than fall.
Before he could set himself to jump back up, Johann came off the wagon in a dive right at him. Ross threw him off and the two went at it some more. When two men who know what they are doing tear into each other, someone is going to get hurt. Neither of the boys was dangerous, so the hands stood back and cheered one or the other on.
Soon Ross had the beginnings of a black eye, a split lip and a loose tooth. Johann's left eye was swollen half shut already, and his nose was bleeding. A bruise on his jaw suggested he might have trouble eating for about the next week.
They backed off, glowering at each other and panting hard, after fifteen minutes. Whitey had seen enough. He got both with one bucket of water. "A'right you two hot heads. No more." He walked between them and pushed both backwards.
"Ross, you get busy and shape up the mow. The rest of you go git another load."
That night Ross asked Bart about it. "Did I win?"
"Well," Bart mused, "I'd say it was getting to the point where I s'pect you'da won, if'n he didn't beat you up first."
Ross went out to the corral to get away from the hooraws of the rest of the hands in the bunkhouse. He owed that handsome blond farmer. Hell, he was almost pretty. How the girls stand to be seen around him?
#
Saturday afternoon, after they got paid, Ross took his "drinking money," and with Bart and Pete set out to drink the town dry. They were in the Long Barn singing to the applause and jeers of those at tables trying to play poker when Johann came in and asked for a beer.
"Are they dying?" he asked the bartender solemnly.
Bart and Pete suspected how terrible they sounded, but kept singing to keep Ross company. Ross thought he was pretty good, and ignored Johann's comment. Bart tried to explain.
"We're practicing for the cows. Why, I've seen the time cowboys could stop a stampede. Jist by singing." He blinked his eyes, both at once, like a wise old owl.
Johann threw back his head and roared, the deep guttural laugh of the German. "Perhaps your singing would be by them appreciated. You should with them your time spend."
Most of those in the bar grinned agreement. It was typical cowboy banter by any casual observer. But the words had been spoken by Johann.
Ross heard in them the thin iron thread of sarcasm. He didn't feel like talking. It was time for action. He took two swift strides to bring him face to face with Johann, and swung. Open-handed. Slap. Slap.
Once on each cheek with an open hand. Then he fell back a step. This was a challenge, no mistake. He didn't want his actions misunderstood. The two had fought with their fists and settled nothing.
Now they would settle it once and for all. Ross was just drunk enough that the full import of such an action was secondary to his anger. His hand dropped to his side, by his holstered pistol.
Johann slowly raised his hand to his cheek. At first his face was without expression, a cold mask. Then he smiled, but that, too, was cold. It touched only his lips.
"It seems I have to a duel been challenged."
"That's right." Ross' voice was taut with his anger. The full realization of what his anger had led him to forced its way through. He was angry, of course, but had not thought of killing someone. If Johann choose to fight, this could mean his death. It was too late to take it back. But the German youth didn't have a pistol.
"Can you git a gun, farmer?" Bart asked. "I'll loan ya mine."
Johann's eyes flicked to Bart's face, then back to Ross. "I believe that as the one challenged, I have of weapons and place, the choice."
"What?" In Ross' world, a challenge was given and answered in an eye blink. Only one weapon was used, pistols. Only one place, here. And the time was now.
"That's right, boys." Sweat stood out on Jake, the bartender's brow. "It's Johann's choice of time and place and weapons. Ross challenged him." He didn't want to see a killing. Was there a chance it could be stopped? Give them time to cool off.
"I will with me weapons bring. Out front in fifteen minutes." Johann's voice was cold and hard.
"I've got--." Ross began.
"His choice of weapons," Jake intervened again.
The others nodded. Jake said, "It's common to keep a pair of dueling pistols in the family. The challenged provides them. The challenger gets first pick."
As cowboys and Johann stood there, Jake described the procedure. "They stand back to back, at the count of the referee, they each take ten steps turn and fire. If both miss, an affair of honor is settled. If it's a blood challenge, they reload and keep firing, both are one-shot pistols, at the referee's call of 'Ready' and 'Fire' until one is down or quits."
Johann nodded. He was the only one still smiling.
"It ain't fair. I never shot no dueling pistol."
"I have never a revolver drawn and fired," Johann responded. "However," he continued, "we do not pistols have."
He let that hang a moment. "We have dueling swords."
Before the others could speak, he turned to Jake. "Mein Herr, you seem the principles to understand. Will you referee?"
All eyes turned to Jake.
"Yes. I will." His eyes suggested he might get hold of Vance and try to stop this before one of the boys got killed. Ross knew he was in trouble.
"Gut," Johann said. "I vill my second send to meet with your second for details." He turned and walked out.
"That means he'll send one of his friends to meet with Ross' choice of a trusted friend to settle any questions or details."
"How about me?" Bart asked. "I'll make sure you get a fair shake, and a right nice funeral. You ever used a sword, Ross?"
#
Hilda was making bread when she saw Johann hurry into their house. He stood for a moment looking up at his father's displays of courage. The medals and weapons of the old world gleamed dully against the black cloth where they hung on the wall. He reached up and removed one dueling sword, then the other.
Her face pale, Hilda stared. "Wha-what are you doing?
When he turned, his face looked stern. "I am to teach that wild young cowboy a lesson in manners going."
"He knows not how to with a sword fight."
"I vill him teach." Johann ran his thumb along to razor sharp edge to the duller point. From a sideboard, he removed the long slender transporting case and carefully set each sword into its place.
"You cannot do this thing."
"I vill."
"If you kill him, you'd better not come home."
"Father vill not--."
"I vill kill you."
He stopped. He stared at her. Always he had been the leader. The older sibling, and the son. "Hilda, he is an arrogant--."
"Vhat are you? You insulted him when I was talking to him."
He reached out a hand to touch her cheek. She clawed his hand. When he jerked back, she turned and ran. She must find her father.
"Mutter, vo ... where ist Fatter?"
"Leibechen vas ist los?" What was wrong?
Hilda had no time to explain to her mother. "Fatter?"
"Er hat nach dem burg gegangen . . . to town he went."
Hilda ran.
#
Ross might have been the drunkest an hour ago. Now he was cold sober. Bart whooped and yelled and told everyone in sight about the shore-nuff sword duel. He was just drunk enough that the prospect of death did not register. It seemed it was going to be a big event.
Big to everyone but Ross, that is.
Johann's second, one of the farm boys who had helped with the transfer of hay, arrived with Johann Mueller. Johann stood, arms folded, on one side of the street, while Bart and the farm boy talked in the middle.
Ross paced on his side of the street.
Bart came back chuckling.
"What's so dang funny? I could git killed out there."
Bart shook his head. "Just, lissen." He explained the rules.
"When Jake holds up his hands, you go to where he points for you to stand, and so will Johann. Jake will let each of you take a sword from the case. Then he'll ask if you're ready.
"When he waves his kerchief, you have at it. When he drops it, you back off. You got thet, Ross?"
Ross stared dully into the street. Like most boys he had played at sword fighting with willow wands, and he had been the best. But this time it was with real blades. Maybe if he pretended to be real clumsy, he could get Johann off guard.
"I said, you got thet?"
"Yeah." Ross moved forward at Jake's signal. Johann's second opened the case and offered Ross first choice. Ross hesitated, but his pride wouldn't let him back off and run away. He took the nearer one.
Johann accepted the other. He had a small scar on his left temple. Ross had seen it before. Now, holding a sword, he knew where Johann had gotten it. He had been to the University in Heidelberg, Germany, and fought. And survived, with the scar to show for it.
Jake waved his kerchief and the duel was on.
Johann lunged and swayed, and cut and blocked, advancing and retreating gracefully. He used the edge of the blade to cut, not the end to stab with. That was not so hard to defend against.
Ross kept his blade in front of him, and batted the other's weapon aside whenever it came at him. But he had no chance to take a cut at Johann. He pretended to stumble, and Johann backed off a second.
Johann frowned at the stumble.
Ross swung hard at him. Johann, moved his wrist a trifle, and Ross' blade was pointing down the street.
#
Hilda found her father and the sheriff talking with Ross' foreman, Mr. Yates. "Fatter, you must quickly come."
The men, sensing from her tone that something serious had occurred, turned to her. "Johann vill kill him," she gasped out.
"Who? What?" The sheriff asked.
"Vas ist los?" her father asked. "What is wrong?”
Pete found them about then. "You gotta come quick. Ross challenged Johann to a duel."
"Oh, God, them two hot heads again," Whitey said.
"To a gun fight?" Vance asked.
"No. Yes. Ross meant gunfight. The German got some dueling swords."
Mr. Mueller glanced back at his daughter. "This is vhat you fear?"
"Yes. Come quickly."
"Swords!" the Sheriff said. "My god!"
"I guess we better git there pronto," Whitey said.
"Ve should go," her father agreed, "but not to hurry. It all right will be."
"Fatter!"
"Come, Liebchen. Ve go."
#
After several minutes, Ross realized Johann far outclassed him. He was not even trying to kill him. He was playing with him. Suddenly his blade shot out, and Ross felt a twinge of pain on his right temple.
He had been cut.
He jumped back.
Johann stepped back and lowered his blade.
Ross wiped his forehead. Blood. He lunged at Johann, who had backed away. His face wrinkled as if he were puzzled.
"Stop I said. You blind?" Jake grabbed Ross' arm.
Jake pointed. The kerchief lay on the ground. "It's over."
"The hell it is." Ross raised his sword and lunged at Johann, slashing ferociously. The German had drawn blood, and Ross was going to show him what that meant to a range hand.
The explosion of a .45 shattered the quiet, and a slug whined from almost in front of Ross' feet. Another kicked up dirt in front of Johann.
"That will be enough of that in my town." Still holding his pistol, Vance stomped up between the two young men.
"It's over," Jake agreed.
Johann nodded.
"What?" Ross asked.
"He drew first blood. He wins." Jake glowered at Ross. "If you're so dumb you ain't had enough you kin challenge him again. But this time it's over."
Challenge him again? Ross stared at the German youth. He stood back, his cocky grin gone. He had won, but Ross' violent attack after Johann had drawn blood had shaken the victor.
"If'n you don't put down that sword," Whitey growled, "I'll have you building fence the next six months. You wanna pound fence posts and string wire 'til your old and gray?"
Ross put down the sword.
Mr. Mueller, with Hilda beside him, hurried up. "Johann, you did not my permission to use my swords ask."
"But Fatter . . . ." Johann carefully wiped his sword and placed it into the case.
"Enough. Gehe nachhausa . . . go home and stay there."
"Ja, Fatter." Johann bowed his head respectfully.
"Father?" Ross croaked. "You mean he's her brother?"
Whitey turned on him. "Why, you young ... . Git yourself patched up and git fer home." He threw his hat in the dirt. He glanced at Johann, who despite the scolding, wore a small smile. "He knew. Ross, you been out flim-flamed. You better git to be friends with that guy."
Hilda backed away, turned and walked quickly toward the family surrey. Ross watched her go. Would she ever speak to him again?
#
Three weeks later, Ross dismounted in front of the school house. He got an old rag from behind his saddle and wiped the dust from his boots. At the water trough, he dipped the tips of his fingers into the water, then slicked his hair into place.
Inside, Ross unbuckled his pistol and holster and was handing it to Vance when he saw movement. He whirled. Johann waved at him.
Johann offered a tentative smile. Ross waved, but did not go over to talk to him. Then Johann's eyes flicked to Vance, who was staring at Ross.
Ross got it. He smiled at Johann. "How are you?"
"Gut. Und you?" Johann glanced again at the sheriff. "Er ist not sure you and I vill not again fight."
"Guess we better make nice."
"Make nice? Oh, be peaceful?"
"Yeah."
"I have heard," Johann's words were carefully enunciated, as if he had practiced this speech, "that the vay to become friends is for one person to ask of the other a favor." He did not look at Ross' face.
"Huh. You got nothing I can ask you for."
"Perhaps I do. Or perhaps I can of you one ask."
"You've got your--" Whitey took a step toward them. Ross took control of his anger. "Okay, what is it?"
"I do not take well to a plow using. Herr Bronson threatened to have you make fence. Even this to me would better than farming be."
Ross stared at Johann. Had the German lost his mind?
"Your word is respected. Would you to hire me, your employer ask?"
Ross started to refuse him, then he remembered the hoorawing a new hand always went through. That was a revenge Vance couldn't stop. "I'll ask him," Ross promised.
"Danke . . . Thanks."
Johann wouldn't think it was such a favor later, Ross thought. He headed for the punch bowl. He made it a point to not even look for Hilda through the first four waltzes. One-by-one he danced with former girlfriends. The fifth dance was a Virginia Reel, and he found Hilda in his arms.
Her eyes sparkled like stars. Her smile was radiant as she threw back her head and let him hold onto her while they whirled round and round. He'd never seen her look so beautiful. He'd never seen anyone look so beautiful, he thought.
He walked outside and tried to roll a cigarette. On the third try he made it. All he could see was Hilda's radiant smiling face. Twenty minutes later, the sheriff came out.
"You all right, son?"
"Yes. No. I'm in hell."
"Well you better get back inside. They're starting the moonlight special. They're dimming the lamps."
Ross stepped inside and there was Hilda. She smiled. He wanted to run. But she was getting closer, which was funny, since she wasn't moving.
"Hello, Ross," she gave him a wide smile.
"Come," Johann said, taking her arm, "we must show--."
"No." Her chin lifted and her eyes flashed. "I told you not to do that again. This dance is Herr Dent's." She looked into his eyes, as if afraid he might refuse. "Isn't it?"
"Yes," he said. "Please."
Johann took a step backward.
The music started and she was in Ross' arms. One or two lights stayed on while couples moved out onto the floor. She looked up, then freed her hand. She touched his scar.
"You look like a schtudent at the unversitadt," she said. "Is it tender, still?"
"No." Ross' voice was barely a whisper. He looked at her and thought, "the sun pales beside your smile. The stars from the sky have fallen into your eyes. Your hair is like cornsilk. You're so beautiful."
"Herr Dent. What were you doing out there so long? You sound as if you'd had too may sips from the jug."
The last lamp went out. He wondered if he was glowing.
He had been saying it aloud. "Maybe I should . . . Could I try again of an evening at your home?"
"Please do. We don't need to talk anymore." He looked down into the pale oval that was her face. It was closer. Her lips were so soft and so sweet. She was right. They didn't need to talk. Not right now.
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