by Bob Brewer
Midvale was founded in 1869 as a stage-line stop according to the historical marker that Abe was reading at the entrance arch of the town park. He read on. The town was so named because it was located about halfway between the larger city of Windsor and the state-line (each being twenty-five miles equidistant from the exact spot where Abe and Shorty now stood). Abe was obviously intent on reading the entire plaque with the picture of a stagecoach emblazoned across the top of it.
“That’s all interestin’ enough, Mr. Douglas,” McDougal interrupted Abe’s concentration after he had read only half the lengthy history. “But I’m thinkin’ we ought to be moseyin’ on into town and findin’ us a place to eat.” Abe wrapped up his reading then glanced skyward and judged the time to be six o’clock or a bit later. Dinnertime. He bowed, and with an exaggerated flourish said, “Lead on, Mr. McDougal.”
The little man returned Abe’s gesture with a mock curtsey and took on the job of finding them an eatery of some sort. Abe ambled along behind him taking in the sights as the residential streets slowly melded into the business district; a relic of the past with redbrick buildings and glass-front, green-awninged stores. Everything had the look of being weathered, windblown and neglected for a very long time.
The town had two main streets running east and west and block apart, both crossing the railroad tracks and both intersecting the two-lane highway the men had taken into town. Shorty stopped at the first street and looked down it in both directions. A variety of stores, shops and other business establishments, all of which were closed for the day, lined the treeless drive. Shrugging it off, McDougal crossed to the north side of the tracks and led Abe to the second main street that was aptly named ‘Main Street’. As they reached the intersection, the little man let out a sigh of relief. “I was beginnin’ to think the whole town had gone to sleep.” He pointed to a red and white sign a half-block away on the opposite side of the street. It stated that Carson’s Old Tyme Tavern and Chili House was open for business.
“Sounds good to me,” Abe said, taking the lead.
The little man had to quickstep to try to keep up with the hungry, long-legged Abe. The panting Irishman was a full three car-lengths behind by the time Abe reached the place where he decided to cross the street. Abe checked the traffic. There was only one moving vehicle and it was far enough away that he had plenty of time to cross in front of it.
Shorty, on the other hand, because he was so far behind, didn’t have that much time but it was evident he was not aware of it. When he reached the crossing point he stepped off the curb and started to shuffle on across.
“Stop!” Abe yelled at the top of his voice.
McDougal, who had been concentrating on where his feet were going, looked up and saw the car just in time to stop his forward movement before the machine ran him down.
Abe threw his hands up to cover his face and waited to hear the thud of the impact. When the sound didn’t happen quickly, he spread his fingers and peeked through the slits. He saw an aging, yellow station wagon puttering down the street as if nothing had happened and the panicked Shorty running full out towards him. Abe let the rucksack slide off his shoulder. When Shorty reached him, he grabbed the Irishman’s upper arms in a death hold. “You’re a lucky man, Thomas McDougal!” he shouted as he pulled the trembling little man to him and gave him a tight, quick hug.
“Ya saved me wretched life there, Mr. Douglas,” McDougal breathed out tearfully when Abe let go of the bear hug. “I’ll not be fergettin’ that, ya know?” Water welled up in both their eyes as they sat down on the curb to calm down a bit. “I’ll ferever be in yer debt,” Shorty stated as they tried to regroup their nerves in the nearing darkness.
A few minutes of solitude passed before the phosphorescent glow of neon beer lights began to lay claim to the black windows and dusty sidewalk in front of Carson’s Tavern. An under-wattage street lamp sizzled on above them. In the dim light it cast, they saw the form of a rather large, longhaired dog plodding across the street toward them. “Get yer flea-bitten body out of the street, ya mangy mutt!” Shorty yelled. The unsuspecting dog stopped dead in its tracks in the middle of the street.
Abe elbowed the little man. “You didn’t have to scream at him,” he scolded, then blew a whistling sound and held out a hand. “Come here, boy.”
The dog, which was now showing the intent to run the other way, broke into a body-wagging acceptance of the call and took a cautious step forward.
“Come on, fella,” Abe coaxed. “We’re not going to hurt you. Come on.”
With that encouragement the dog lowered its body somewhat and approached Abe’s hand. He sniffed it then rolled his droopy eyes up to look directly into Abe’s. “Sorry, old fella but I don’t have anything for you,” Abe apologized. “But if you’ll wait right here, I’ll get you something.”
The dog shifted his gaze to McDougal who was still seated next to Abe. Although the dog was mostly long red hair and very little meat, he stood half the height of the little man. Shorty scooted back then shot to his feet and shook a finger at him. “Don’t ya be lookin’ at me with them hungry eyes!” he warned. To show their was a mutual understanding here, the dog let out a short, soft ‘woof’ then returned his attention to the man who didn’t seem to want to harm him.
Abe repeated his promise about getting the dog some food as he and McDougal entered the door of Carson’s establishment. The door had been partially blocked open by a bucket of sand, but it was still nearly as dark inside as it had been on the street. Dark and not too busy. The tinny sound of an ancient country song drifted out of the jukebox and the yeasty smell of beer mixed with hot peppers wafted through the place. To Abe and Shorty it was like walking through the gates of heaven.
“Two of the largest lagers ya’ve got,” Shorty ordered when the barkeeper cut short his conversation with the only other customer in the place and asked what he could do for them.
The barman leaned his elbows on the counter and gazed hard at the two lowly looking newcomers. “You got money?” he asked gruffly like he didn’t believe they did.
McDougal stuck a hand inside the neck of his plaid shirt. He fished around for a second then pulled out a brown snap-purse that he had tied to a string and safety-pinned to the underside of his collar. He opened it, found a twenty-dollar bill and waved it in front of the bartender.
“Two drafts coming up,” the barman said with a changed attitude.
“And two raw hamburger patties,” Abe added.
“Raw?” the barman double-checked to make sure he had heard right.
Abe nodded a yes.
The man shook his head. “Thought I’d heard everything.” He mumbled the words as he turned to fill the odd request. He was still shaking his head when he set the two paper plates of red meat on the counter, one in front of Abe, the other in front of McDougal.
Abe picked up both plates and emptied one on top of the other. “For my dog,” he clarified, and started to take them outside.
“Your dog?” the barman said, and began to laugh.
“Had you going there, didn’t he, Bill?” the other customer butted in on the joke, and began to breakup with laughter as well.
Abe and Shorty snickered and the place began to liven up.
The old dog had sat down in the doorway with his graying nose stuck inside. When he saw Abe coming toward him with something in his hand, he stood and started his body-wiggle again.
“Here you go, boy.” Before Abe could set the plate down, the dog snapped up both patties and swallowed them whole. “Gees!” Abe screeched, and jumped back. The old dog quivered then sat on his haunches and ‘woofed’ lightly. “Could I have two more?” Abe called to Bill who was still chuckling about mistaking the first order.
Bill contained himself enough to say, “Sure.”
The starving old dog was more civil during the second course. This time he waited for Abe to set the plate on the floor and slide it over to him with a foo
t before gulping it down. “That’s it, fella. There’s no more,” Abe said when the dog looked back up at him and cocked his head. “That’s all you’re going to get. It’s my turn now.”
Shorty was downing his second glass of beer when Abe rejoined him at the counter and took a long draw from his own mug. “Here’s to a long and lasting friendship, Mr. McDougal.”
The Irishman touched his glass to Abe’s. “And here’s to the bottle without a bottom.” With a twinkling in his eyes he finished off the last half in his glass.
“Give ‘em another round on me, Bill,” the man at the far end of the counter said.
“No, no, no,” Bill said, raising a hand and shaking his head. “It’s on the house. It’s been a long time since I had a laugh like that.” He slapped himself on the thigh. “For my dog!” he repeated, and started chuckling again. He drew two more glasses and set them in front of Abe and Thomas. “How about a bowl of the finest chili this side of Juarez?”
Abe took his hat off and set it on the stool next to him. “I’m ready,” he said heartily.
“And plenty of crackers and butter, if ya don’t mind,” added McDougal.