Gathering on Dance Hall Road Read online

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000 (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/).

  Published by The Hartwood Publishing Group, LLC,

  Hartwood Publishing, Phoenix, Arizona

  www.hartwoodpublishing.com

  Gathering on Dance Hall Road

  Copyright © 2018 by Dorothy A. Bell

  Digital Release: June 2018

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Gathering on Dance Hall Road by Dorothy A. Bell

  Dull, home lovin’ Van Buxton set out on an adventure and found more than he’d bargained for—trick-riding Melody McAdam traveling incognito. Neither of them have a clue how to carry on a courtship. To bring the romance to its obvious conclusion, friends and family take a hand.

  Chapter One

  1899, Pendleton, Oregon

  Pendleton, a cattle town of nearly four thousand inhabitants, filled the draw formed by the Umatilla River like an over-industrious, overpopulated ant colony. Van Buxton, avoider of crowds, weaved in and out of the foot traffic in the street. Dodging freight wagons and riders on horseback, he stayed close to the walk, leading his nervous bay gelding, Ranger.

  The sun, directly in his face, tortured his eyes, blinding him with a white-yellow blast of heat and light. Relief came when the fiery ball started to sink behind the rolling, dry grass-covered hills to the west. Cast in the deep shade, restless and desperate Saturday night revelers shoved aside anyone and anything foolish enough to get in the way of their thirst for debauchery and excess.

  Stuck down here in the river bottom with a swarm of crazed people held little appeal to Van. In his opinion, they milled around for no good purpose other than to raise hell and indulge in mindless entertainment. He didn’t care for whiskey. The hurdy-gurdies and saloon pianos, in competition with the shouting, raucous voices of the crowds, pounded out their tunes like a hammer right over the eyebrows. He didn’t gamble. Throwing his hard-to-come-by cash down on a card table amounted to the same thing as tossing it into the shit-pit of an outhouse privy.

  The jostling, staggering, jabbering people, many of them speaking strange languages, spooked him. And everywhere the frightened horses, eyes rolling, chomping at their bits, fighting the traces of the fancy buggies and the freight wagons had Van itching to punch the handlers in the nose.

  A minefield of hawkers promised bargains and delights. Their greedy hands and grinning faces dared him to approach. The shocking, barely clad, grasping, bawdy women clawed at him like wild things. But the homespun types who gave him the evil eye scared the crap out of him.

  He had to get out of here before full dark. But where to go? The high cliff to the south of town blocked his escape. To the north, across the river, steep rolling hills would only lead him to more of the same. And to the east loomed the Blue Mountains and the tantalizing prospect of hiding in the forest, but they were too far away. Tugging his hat down low to shade his eyes, he made his way west out of town. He should’ve known better than to head for a big city.

  Right after Christmas, he’d gone with the family to Portland to support his sister, Jo, during the trial of the Payasos gang, which included Ira and Ester Jones, Jo’s former employers and proprietors of The Cherry Grove Ascension School for Young Ladies. The Jones and the other members of the gang were accused and convicted of human trafficking and train robbery. Jo had given her testimony. Her new husband, Pinkerton Agent Ryder McAdam, presented all of his documentation, and as a consequence, the members of the gang were justly served harsh sentences. The trial lasted a full two weeks in the dead of winter. And for two weeks, worried about the stock and the weather back home at the hot spring, Van wished he’d never agreed to come along. He hadn’t cared for the big city of Portland then, and his opinion of big cities held right up to the present moment.

  But they had extra hands at the house and the ranch now, so he didn’t have an excuse to stay home all the time. He could go away, and the place wouldn’t fall apart, at least that’s what his father had assured him.

  He’d wandered into Pendleton the night before and hit a couple of the saloons. He’d even ventured down into the tunnels. Sober as a judge, the fumes of the kerosene torches, the smell of the opium dens, and the sweet smoke of hundreds of cigars and whiskey-soaked bodies assaulted his senses. He retired before midnight to the orderly and clean boarding house on the east end of town.

  »»•««

  After enjoying the nice breakfast his landlady had served, Van wandered around town and bought a new hat for himself, a pair of gloves for his father’s bride, Idella, and a pair for his father, Buck. He looked at the saddles but shook his head at the prices. He needed a new pair of boots, but again the price discouraged him, and he ended up with two pairs of socks and some woolen underwear. He did indulge though; he purchased a whole pound of chocolate walnut fudge. But to really enjoy it, he needed a quiet place to light.

  At the corner, where he’d tied off Ranger to the hitching rail, a Chinese vendor turned half racks of pork ribs over an open pit. Grinning, the man urged him forward. He flopped a cut of tender ribs on a sheet of brown paper, scooped a couple of helpings of rice over the top, folded the paper into a neat package and thrust it at him, nodding and grinning. More out of politeness than hunger, Van reluctantly accepted the offering, tossing the vendor a dollar. The grateful vendor, hands together, bowed and chattered in delight. Van backed away leading Ranger, making a hasty retreat. He stopped at the stock cribs on the west end of town, sat down on the edge of a water trough to fill his canteen with water from the pump, and gave Ranger the opportunity for a drink. He took his bearings and had a bite of fudge.

  Wiping the sweat from the inside rim of his hat, he contemplated his three-day stopover in Cherry Grove to visit Jo. He’d been curious to see how she was getting on in her new role as administrator of a school for young ladies.

  Popping another piece of fudge in his mouth, he sat in contemplation, in no hurry to move. He’d met Jo’s husband during the trial. Van couldn’t get past the fact McAdam had purposely put his sister in danger in his quest to capture the members of the Payasos gang and the shifty, slimy, purely evil Jones. Yeah, she’d escaped unharmed, but he thought his new brother-in-law careless and irresponsible. If Van hadn’t realized how much his sister loved McAdam, he would’ve bloodied the bastard’s nose for taking advantage of his sister’s intrepid, pliable nature.

  Nope, he didn’t see how in the hell Jo could be happy locked in a marriage with an absentee spouse.

  “Oh, he’s off on a case,” Jo had said, hustling around her kitchen to get him something to drink and a plate of cookies. She rattled on and on about the case he was on, where he was, and what he’d told her the last time she’d heard from him.

  She shrugged her shoulders and waved her hands at his unspoken disapproval. “I have plenty to keep me busy. The girls are arriving for the fall term. Twyla-Rose Longtree and Grace Buttrum from Laura Creek have returned
. This will be their last year here. They’re dear girls and my friends. We’ve put them in place as assistants to us teachers, and they’re doing a wonderful job. We miss Ryder’s sister, Melody, of course, but she needed to go out on her own. He’s worried about her. She’s not a big letter writer. All the girls keep me from getting lonely.

  “I had Ryder to myself for most of the spring,” she said, finally taking her seat. “We had a lot to do. We renovated the administration office into a residence for the teachers. Miss Ott, you should’ve seen her, Van, she’s never had a whole house all to herself. She vowed she’d never leave the school.”

  Startling him, she popped up again to cut slices of lemon to put in their glasses. “And Miss Ames, Mrs. Hobbs now, Janet, our other teacher, she’s married and lives in town above the mercantile. Her husband owns the store, you know. She’s very happy. I don’t expect to lose her very soon. Although, they may want to start a family, of course.” Jo tipped her head and bit her lip, shrugged her shoulders. “But, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.

  “I thought it important to improve the cabins, modernize. Start new, inject some color and homey touches into the cold austerity left behind by the horrible Joneses. The pastor from the Congregational Church agreed to officiate a service for us on Sundays if we supplied him with Sunday dinner. Seemed a very cheap and reasonable price to pay. And thankfully, he’s not of the fire and brimstone set of religious thinkers.”

  She paused to take a breath, and Van held back the urge to grab her and hug her to shut her up. “We dug two more privies,” she said and poured lemonade out of a pitcher into his glass.

  Hands to her flushed cheeks, she shook her head. “The kitchen, Van, oh, my goodness, we had a lot to do in there.” She took a sip of her lemonade, made a face, got up and fetched the sugar bowl and added more sugar to both their glasses.

  At last at rest in her rocking chair, she gazed into her cool drink, stirring it with her finger to dissolve the sugar swirling around in the bottom of the glass. Head up, meeting his gaze, he would never forget the sad, wistful little smile on her pretty face. “Ryder found us a brand-new stove, and a sink and pump for the community kitchen so we could have water inside like we do here in the house.”

  She continued giving him a list of improvements. “This used to be the Jones’ residence, you know. It smelled of them. The abuses the students incurred here under their tenure.” She shuddered. “I, with Ryder’s help, we erased all remnants of their occupation, thank goodness. I couldn’t stay here if we hadn’t.”

  His sister normally listened and commented. She didn’t rattle on like a clapper in a gale. Something wasn’t right. She was far too effusive. Four days ago, he’d left her with a bad feeling in his gut, but he couldn’t do anything for her. He’d see her again at Christmas, and if her husband didn’t show up, he’d put a bug in his father’s ear, and they’d have a talk with her.

  The McAdam clan and friends from Laura Creek were expected to gather together at Hoyt’s Hot Spring and join the Buxton clan to celebrate the coming of the twentieth century. Van dreaded the idea, but his father and Idella were absolutely beside themselves in anticipation. Buck had even gone so far as to order fireworks.

  Van’s sabbatical away from his father and his bride Idella, the hot spring, the guests, the work, came as a timely excuse to get away from all the planning, plotting, and the latest communications between the two families. If he could stand it, or find something that interested him, he’d extend his escape for another week or two. But he wasn’t going to find it in Pendleton; he’d already made up his mind about that. No big cities. He’d stick to the mountains. Maybe do some fishing and hunting.

  He spotted a wagon and a campfire up on the crest of the hill. Maybe they wouldn’t mind his company while he enjoyed his evening meal of tender ribs and rice. If it proved unfriendly, he’d find another spot to camp. But he had to press on, in another half hour he wouldn’t be able to see his hand in front of his face.

  Chapter Two

  Melody McAdam slowed her beautiful horse, Maji, bringing the showy mare to a standstill out of sight on the far side of the rise. She stood up on the mare’s back to see over the ridge and into town. It took but a second to confirm they were about to receive company. The man started up the hill, proceeding at an angle and moving toward their wagons. Leading his horse, he moved slow and easy, his long legs taking long strides. He stopped to look back at the town. He could be the sheriff.

  Neither of the two thugs who’d cornered her behind her wagon after her performance the other night was tall or clean. She’d describe them as short, stocky, and dirty. “My brother and me, we think you stole this here mare,” said the smellier of the two. “We’re thinkin’ no runty Injun squaw has any need of an animal so fine. Ain’t that right, Lyle,” said the bully, shoving her out of the way to get to her horse.

  Turning his shoulder to her to block her protest, the other thug, the one dressed all in black from his hat to his boots, black hair, and whiskers had said, “She’s a purebred. Where’d you get her? Bet you stole her. We could turn you in to the sheriff. She needs to be put to a good stud. It’s a damn waste the way you use her. She’d sure make us a lot of money, wouldn’t she, Donny? Tell you what, we’ll take her off your hands. Give you a dollar cash money for her, and we don’t go to the sheriff and let him turn you over to the Indian Affairs.”

  Maji had tossed her head and rolled her eyes, ears back when the smelly thug reached out to stroke her nose. Melody had stood her ground and refused to blink when the one dressed in black put his dirty hand on her shoulder, leaned down, and got into her face. His voice a low growl, he said, “Here’s the deal, squaw girlie, we give you two dollars, you give us a bill of sale and the horse, and we don’t slit your throat.”

  She spit in his face. He grabbed her by the hair and twisted her head around. “So, you want to play rough. We can play rough, can’t we, Donnie.”

  Melody, tired of playing around with Lyle, slammed her fist into his crotch. He buckled and lost his grip on her hair. Donnie grabbed her, cursed her and raised his hand, but that was all the farther he got. Maji reared up on her hind legs and came down hard, scraping his back with her hooves.

  Back arched, his shirt torn and flesh bleeding, Donnie yowled. Jerry, Ollie’s husband, and his two boys, Mick and Jim, waded in and gave the attackers a beating.

  The last Melody had seen of the nasty pair, they were face down by the river behind the feed store. Ollie’s husband, Jerry, assured her they weren’t dead, but he’d moved their camp up here on the hill, where they could keep a lookout.

  And she’d kept a lookout yesterday and all day today, expecting the sheriff or the thugs to show up. Either way, she’d lose Maji. Ollie might’ve seen the man coming up the hill, but Melody couldn’t take the chance she hadn’t. Ollie had to be warned a stranger was approaching. Melody sent up her practiced war whoop and spurred Maji over the crest of the hill, charging the stranger to spook him. As hoped, he looked right at her. The remnants of the golden glow of the setting sun reflected in his eyes. His clean-shaven face in the spotlight, it struck her, no mortal man could be that beautiful.

  ∙•∙

  Mind wandering, Van stopped on the crest of the hill to admire the view of the town below. A yodeling scream behind him snagged his attention. He looked westward into the last rays of the blazing sun. The terrifying war-whoop sounded again, high pitched and frightening. Ranger’s reins went slack in his hands when he raised his arm to shade his eyes. Out of the fiery light, a dappled gray and white horse, charcoal mane flying, charged straight at him. Mouth agape, pulse pounding, he lost his grip on the paper package of ribs and rice he’d planned to have for his evening meal and jumped to the side.

  Ranger, the damn fool horse, bolted and joined the chase. The dapple mare, her pale eyes wide and wild, veered off, running northward on the crest of the hill, Ranger tearing up the turf on her flank.

  He got a fleeting look at th
e horseman—a youth, an Indian. His long black hair caught in the wind exposed his grinning face. He wore a pair of torn and patched dungarees and an oversized blue plaid shirt. Elbows bent, the rider hugged the mare’s powerful neck, his hands gripping her mane. Riding bareback, bare feet tucked up against the horse’s flanks, they moved as one.

  Van conversely admired the rider’s form and guts and cursed his recklessness. Standing stock still in shock, he watched Ranger and the mare disappear over the hill, the sound of their thundering hooves growing faint. The woman tending the campfire raised her hand and her voice at the kid as he passed, but it did little good.

  The woman at the fire, dressed in trousers and a big brown plaid shirt, the sleeves rolled up to the shoulders, looked formidable in size and demeanor. Unease mounting, Van looked around, expecting to see her man come round the end of the wagon holding a gun on him.

  The ribs lay in the grass, the rice scattered, and the paper, carried by the gentle evening breeze, somersaulted down the hill behind him. Having second thoughts about approaching the camp, he paused and plucked the ribs out of the tall, dead grass at his feet.

  It crossed his mind he’d be safer in town with the cutthroats, harlots, and gamblers rather than isolated up here with a band of gypsies. Probably the kid had seen him coming and deliberately spooked his horse to steal it. He considered turning back, but his temper got in the way of good sense, and he headed for the woman who tended the fire and whoever else haunted this remote, suspicious camp.

  The woman, in men’s baggy trousers, straightened and waved at him. “I saw what she done. Too bad there ain’t nobody around to take her to hand,” she said with a shake of her head. Her multiple chins wobbled, the pink skin under her fatty arms flapped, and she swiped at the coil of carrot red hair hanging down the side of her ample, sunburned cheek with a freckled, chubby wrist.