“You could have a meeting at the Pretty Girl.”
“Yes, but I’m not sure we could get enough people to show up.”
“Sure you can,” Sally said. “If you had Rusty play the piano. And I don’t mean just saloon tunes, I mean . . .”
“Yes! I know exactly what you mean!” Kate said enthusiastically. “Oh, yes, that’s a wonderful idea. See, Mayor, I know they would be able to help.”
* * *
By word of mouth, news was circulated that there was going to be an attempt to call a special election. At first, only those who could be fully trusted, and counted on to help with the process, were made aware of the plans. By midafternoon enough people had been notified that Mayor Cravens, who was behind the movement, suggested that the meeting be held.
At two o’clock that afternoon a sign was put up on the Pretty Girl and Happy Cowboy Saloon informing the public that it would be closed until four o’clock that evening. That didn’t turn away too much business because it tended to be quiet in the afternoons anyway.
“Hey, Willis, somethin’ is goin’ on down at the Pretty Girl,” Clark said.
“What do you mean?”
“I was goin’ to go in ’n have me a beer, only they’ve got a sign up sayin’ that it’s closed.”
“Closed? Ha! Maybe we’ve run her out of business. That should make Atwood happy.”
“No, I don’t think she’s shuttin’ down for good. Like I said, somethin’ is goin’ on down there.”
“I’ll check it out,” Willis said, reaching for his hat.
As Willis approached the Pretty Girl and Happy Cowboy Saloon he saw that Peterson, the bartender, was standing just in front of the locked door. A couple of men approached the saloon, spoke briefly with Peterson, then left. Then, a third man approached and after a brief conversation, Peterson unlocked the door to let him in. Clark was right . . . there was something going on.
Willis watched for a moment or two longer, and he saw Peterson allow two men and two women to go inside. His curiosity getting the best of him, he decided this called for a closer investigation.
“Hello, Marshal,” Peterson said, greeting Willis with a friendly smile. “Here for the concert, are you?”
“The what?”
“The concert. You know, Rusty isn’t just a piano player, he is a concert pianist, and this afternoon he’s going to be playing classical music.”
“Why is the door locked?”
“To keep people from just coming in, in the middle of the concert,” Peterson said. He held up the key. “If you are in there, you wouldn’t want your enjoyment of music to be interrupted like that, would you? Here, I’ll open the door for you.”
“No, no, never mind,” Willis said, holding up his hand. “I heard him playing some of that highfalutin stuff before, and it makes drops of sweat break out on me as big as my thumbnail.”
“Oh, that’s too bad. Rusty is quite talented, you know. We are very lucky to have a musician of his caliber here, in Etholen.”
“I can’t understand how anyone could like that.”
“You’re sure you don’t want to attend the concert,” Peterson said. “Why don’t you come on in, I know Miz Kate would be happy to have you. I’m sure she can get you a seat right down front.”
“How long do you plan to keep the saloon closed?”
“Oh, the concert should last for about two hours, I suppose.”
“Two hours? Two hours of that caterwauling noise?”
“We’ll be open for business again by four o’clock,” Peterson said.
At that moment Barney Easter, who was the manager of the stagecoach depot, arrived with his wife. Easter glanced toward Willis, his face showing his curiosity, and just a little concern as to why the marshal was here.
“Hello, Mr. Easter,” Peterson said in welcome.
“Hello, Ray. We’re here for the concert,” Easter said. Those who had been specifically invited to the meeting had been told to use this as their password.
“I’m glad you brought the missus with you. I’m sure she is going to enjoy the music,” Peterson said. He opened the door, then glanced toward Willis. “Marshal, you’re sure you don’t want to attend?”
Willis waved his hand dismissively. “I’ll be back when it’s all over,” he said, and turning, he walked away.
Easter chuckled. “I was concerned for a moment, there. You handled that very well.”
* * *
“There ain’t nothin’ goin’ on down at the Pretty Girl except a concert,” Willis said when he got back to the marshal’s office. “Rusty Abernathy is goin’ to be playin’ some of that highfalutin music this afternoon.”
“And you mean they’s actually some people that will come to listen to that of a pure purpose?” Clark replied.
Willis laughed. “You’d have to tie me to a chair to keep me in there this afternoon.”
* * *
Inside the saloon Mayor Cravens greeted those who had come, and explained how the meeting would be conducted.
“For reasons I’m sure I don’t have to explain, we need to keep this meeting secret,” Cravens said. “That’s why we are using the concert as our cover, and we’ll actually conduct our business between each song.”
“They aren’t ‘songs.’ ‘My Wild Irish Rose’ is a ‘song.’ I will be playing opuses, symphonies, and sonatas, all compositions of renowned composers,” Rusty said with a chuckle.
Many of those present laughed.
“All right, then, between each, would it be correct to say musical offering?”
“Yes, that would be correct,” Rusty said.
“Very well, between each musical offering, we will discuss our business,” Cravens said. He looked toward Rusty. “If you would, maestro, play your first, uh, selection.”
Rusty’s first number was Prelude Number 15 Opus 28 by Chopin. The conclusion was met with a round of applause, then Cravens stepped up to conduct the first bit of business.
“I want to thank all of you for being here,” he said. “What we do at this meeting may be the first step in getting our town back.”
“Mayor, as I understand it, we are going to have some kind of an election,” Fred Matthews said. Matthews was one of the partners of Foster and Matthews Freighting.
“That’s right. We’re going to have a special election.”
“How are we going to get an election called without the city council approval?” Matthews asked. “I know every one of those men, and I know that none of them are going with this.”
“We don’t need the approval of the city council,” Mayor Cravens replied. “All we need to call, and to establish, a special election is a petition signed by ten percent of those who voted in the last election. There are forty-nine people present in this room right now. Three hundred and ten voted in the last election, so that means we’ll need at least thirty-one of you to sign the petition. And while you are thinking about that, Rusty will play something else for us. What are you going to play this time?”
“My next presentation will be Symphony Ninety-Four by Haydn,” Rusty said.
* * *
Just as Rusty began to play, Willis walked by the front of the saloon and, hearing the music, shrugged, then walked away. If there were some people in town who actually wanted to spend time listening to such boring music, let them. He walked down to the Bull and Heifer Saloon, which seemed to be a little fuller than normal this afternoon.
“You’re doin’ a good business today,” Willis said.
“Yeah, well, with the damn taxes you people have put on us, I need to,” Blackwell said. “Don’t know why I’m so busy though.”
“It’s ’cause they’re havin’ a concert down at the Pretty Girl,” Willis said. “Rusty Abernathy is playin’ some of that kind of music that just seems to go on forever. I reckon he’s drivin’ some of their customers away.”
Blackwell laughed. “Well, I hope he plays all afternoon then.”
* * *
&nbs
p; Back at the Pretty Girl, the meeting continued.
“Tell me, Mayor, what do we do with this petition, once it’s signed?” Barney Easter asked.
“We’ll file it with Judge Boykin, and he will have no choice but to schedule the election,” Cravens explained.
“Ha! A lot of good that will do. He’s on Atwood’s payroll, same as Willis.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Cravens said. “We are going to make a certified copy of the petition and file that with Judge Turner, in the federal court. Since the right to vote is a federal law, he will be able to exercise authority over Boykin if Boykin denies the vote.”
“How do we get a certified copy?” someone asked.
“It will be certified when Miss Delores Weathers signs it,” Kate said.
“When who signs it? Who is Delores Weathers, and why would it be certified just because she signs it?”
“That would be me,” Dolly said.
Everyone looked toward Dolly, who was sitting to one side with the other Pretty Girls that gave the saloon its name. And, as the other four Pretty Girls, Dolly was dressed in a way that emphasized her feminine attributes.
“You? How does your signing it have anything to do with it?”
“I’m a notary public. The petition will be certified as soon as I notarize it.”
Mayor Cravens smiled and nodded. “That is true, ladies and gentlemen. Miss Weathers is, indeed, a notary public. If we are successful here, we can hold a vote next Tuesday that will repeal every tax applied to our citizenry since Willis became marshal. Rusty, you’d better start playing again, just in case Willis sends someone over here to check on us.”
“All right,” Rusty agreed.
Rusty’s next selection was Symphony Number 6, Opus 68, by Beethoven.
The music not only provided cover for the meeting, it provided entertainment, and even those who were not used to listening to such classical selections found themselves enjoying the musical interludes between the business part of the meetings.
“Mayor, a moment ago you mentioned Willis. What about Willis and all his deputies?” Pete Malone asked.
Allen Blanton chuckled. “Tell me, Pete, do you really think those men have such a devotion to civic duty that they will continue to serve if they aren’t getting paid?”
“They’ll still be gettin’ paid,” Cletus Murphy said. “They’ll be gettin’ paid same way they are now, by Silas Atwood.”
“Yes, but it must be putting a drain on him, or they wouldn’t have introduced this draconian tax schedule,” Blanton said.
“What kind of tax schedule?” Cletus asked.
“Did you read my editorial?” Blanton asked.
“Yeah, and you used that word in there, too. What does it mean?”
“Burdensome,” Blanton explained.
“Well, why didn’t you say so?”
“So, what you’re sayin’ is, all we have to do is sign our names on a piece of paper, have that pretty little girl over there sign it, too, ’n we can call this election?” one of the men said.
“That’s all we have to do,” Cravens said. “And by my count, there are forty-nine of us here, so there shouldn’t be any problem.”
“Mayor, didn’t you say you need ten percent of the people who voted in the last election?” Smoke asked.
“Yes.”
“Well you can’t count Pearlie, Cal, or me.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Cravens said. “Nor can I count women who are here.” Cravens made another quick count. “There are fifteen women, and you three, that means there are eighteen here who can’t vote, and that leaves . . . oh, my, we are right up against it, folks. That means that every one of you who is eligible to vote is going to have to sign. We can’t leave anyone out.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
“Say, Joe, I hate to bring this up . . . but supposin’ we sign this petition ’n get the election called, but it don’t pass. That’ll mean that Willis ’n his deputies is all still deputyin’, ’n they’re likely to come after those of us that sign, ain’t they?” The questioner was Dave Vance, who worked at the R.D. Clayton stock barn.
“I won’t lie to you, Dave,” Cravens replied. “We may all be taking some risk in signing this.”
“Some risk? Seems to me like we’ll be takin’ a lot of risk if we sign it.”
“Dave, you’ve got to sign it,” Cletus said. “You heard what the mayor said. We need thirty-one people to sign it, ’n thirty-one is all we got here.”
“Just ’cause we all sign it, that don’t mean it’ll pass,” Vance said. “If I was for sure it was goin’ to pass oncet we hold the election, why I wouldn’t think nothin’ a-tall ’bout signin’ it. But it seems to me like iffen it was goin’ to pass, there ought to be more people here at the meetin’.”
“Not necessarily,” Blanton said. “This meeting was called on a spur of the moment, and we got nearly everyone we were able to contact. Besides which, the ballot will be secret, which means nobody will know how anyone voted, and can you think of anyone who might decide that they would want to vote for more taxes?”
“Yeah, well, that’s all well ’n good ’bout it bein’ a secret ballot ’n all. But oncet we put our names on this here petition the mayor is trying to get, why, that won’t be no secret. Anybody who wants to know who signed it can just see our names there.”
“They won’t have to look up the petition to know who signed it,” Blanton said. “I intend to publish every name in the paper.”
“Why would you do a damn-fool thing like that?”
“Because I think it is a way of honoring those who are willing to do it.”
“But puttin’ our names on the thing means we are puttin’ ourselves on the line, don’t it?”
“Are you familiar with the Declaration of Independence?” Blanton asked.
“Well, yeah. Fourth of July and all that.”
“The men who signed that document mutually pledged to each other their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor. Can we do any less?”
“No, by damn!” Cletus shouted.
“Dave, I know your history. I know that you put your life on the line at Antietam. You were there, weren’t you?”
“Yes, but this ain’t like that,” Vance replied. “Then we had an army. We wasn’t alone.”
“You aren’t alone here, Mr. Vance,” Smoke said. “My friends and I have no intention of leaving here until Atwood and his men are no longer a threat to the town.”
“There’s your army, right there,” Cletus said. “They’ve done took down seven of Atwood’s men, all by themselves. Come on, I’ll sign my name right next to yours, ’n I’ll make my name bigger.”
Vance paused for a moment, then he chuckled. “I didn’t say I wasn’t goin’ to sign it. I was just com-mentin’ on it is all.”
“Rusty, perhaps you could honor us with another song . . . uh, I mean opus, while everyone is signing,” Mayor Cravens suggested.
“Symphony Number Five, Opus Ninety-Five, by Antonín Dvoák,” Rusty said.
As the music filled the saloon, Mayor Cravens sat behind a table and invited all the men to come up and sign the petition. Vance was the last one to sign, and several stared at him accusingly until he signed, making the total of signatories thirty-one, the minimum amount needed to bring about the desired result.
Mayor Cravens had them sign three copies: one to file with Judge Boykin, one to file with the state, and one to keep back, “just in case Boykin or Willis decided to destroy the petition.”
Once Rusty’s final presentation was completed, a smiling Mayor Craven held up the piece of paper.
“Gentlemen, enough signatures have been collected for the election to be held on Tuesday next,” Mayor Cravens said when all had signed. “And this is the amendment for which you will be voting.”
Clearing his throat, the mayor began to read:
“The ordinances and laws establishing the taxes created by the Law Enforcement Capitalization Act are
hereby repealed. Only such taxes as the sales and property taxes that were enacted on August 1, 1877, concurrent with the establishment of the community of Etholen, will stay in force.
“This repeal will take effect immediately following the ballot count upon the day of the election.”
“Yes!” someone shouted, and again there was loud and enthusiastic applause.
“Now, gentlemen, your task will be to contact as many men as you possibly can, tell them of the election coming up next Tuesday, and make certain that they vote for it.”
“Why do you address only the gentlemen present? And why do you limit the contact to the men only?” Kate asked.
“Mrs. Abernathy, I don’t mean to be exclusive,” Mayor Cravens replied. “But, in the interest of expediency, we must concentrate only on those who can vote.”
“Joe Cravens, do you really think that the women of this community have no influence over the men who do vote?” Kate asked.
Cravens laughed, then raised his finger. “You have made an excellent point, Kate,” he said. He looked back out over those gathered. “Ladies,” he said, coming down hard on the word ‘ladies’ “and gentlemen, contact everyone in town, men and women alike, tell them of the election, and suggest, strongly, that they vote for this amendment.”
“Mayor Cravens,” Blanton called out to get attention. “I will write an article about the meeting for the Standard, but in order to be assured of maximum publicity, I think I should also print off circulars advertising the election and post them around town.”
“I think that would be a great idea, Allen. Tell me how much that would cost and I’ll have the city . . . no, wait, there is no way we’ll be able to get the city council to approve it. I’ll pay for it out of my own pocket.”
“We can take up a collection here to pay for it,” Dave Vance said. “I’ll put in my part.”
Blanton shook his head and held out his hands. “Gentlemen, it isn’t going to cost you anything. The cost of the paper and ink is negligible. All I need from this august body of community-oriented souls is your permission.”
“I think, without fear of objection, that you have the universal approval of all of us,” Cravens said. “As well as our appreciation.”
Brutal Night of the Mountain Man Page 24