The pleasant aroma of hair oil and lotion filled the barbershop. Rosie sat down in the chair, and the barber put a white cloth under his chin.
“Be right careful with that razor, Shorty! I can’t spare to lose no blood.”
Shorty Masters, who stood over six feet four, was indignant. “It ain’t my habit,” he grumbled, “to cut my customers up.”
Rosie looked up with his innocent expression. “Well, I’m a little more particular than most, Shorty. See, I’m taking a special blood medicine I imported from Chicago. It’s stuff that cost five dollars a bottle, and I can’t afford to spill none of it.”
Drake Bedford, who was waiting his turn, laughed aloud. “You spend every dime you get on those patent medicines, Rosie. You ought to invest your money wisely—like I do.”
Rosie lifted his head and gazed at his friend. “I don’t call that white lightning you drank last night a good investment.” He wagged his head despairingly. “It could rot your insides. I keep telling you, Drake.”
“Each man to his own poison,” Drake said.
Rosie leaned back.
Taking the brush, Shorty lathered his face with thick white soap. Then he took a straight razor and expertly stropped it several times. He began to shave Rosie. “What kind of blood disease you got?”
“I don’t know exactly if there’s a name for it,” Rosie mumbled through the suds. He waited until Shorty raked all the shaving cream off the left side of his face and had rather roughly turned his head the other way. “The ad said this here medicine would rejuvenate an Egyptian mummy, and it also promised that anyone who took it on a regular basis would never die of no blood disease.”
“Five dollars a bottle—that’s a pretty expensive way of staying alive!”
“I know,” Rosie agreed. “But I ain’t worried about it. I think my heart will give out before my blood quits. That is, if my lungs don’t stop working first.”
A laugh went around the barbershop, for Rosie’s ailments were well advertised.
Soon talk turned to the war, and one customer awaiting his turn said, “Looks like Rosecrans is going to take the whole Union army down to Chattanooga.”
“I don’t reckon they need them anymore in Vicksburg,” Shorty answered. “Now that Grant’s whipped the Rebels down there, we can get on with this thing.”
“I don’t see how those Rebels hold out!” another customer observed. He laid down the paper that he had been reading. “They just keep on losing men they can’t replace. They ain’t no quit in them, is there?”
Rosie waited until Shorty finished shaving his upper lip. Then he said, “That fellow Grant, I seen him once. He looks like all sorts of a feller!”
“What does he look like?” Drake asked curiously. “Can’t tell much by his pictures.”
“Well, he’s just a little feller, but he’s got kind of a stubborn look,” Rosie observed. “To me he looks like a feller that’s just decided to lower his head and run it through an oak door. Whatever he sets out to do, I reckon he’s going to do it.”
“Well—” another customer, a Southern sympathizer, grunted “—he may have won a battle at Vicksburg, but he never run into Bobbie Lee and his boys yet. It’ll be different when he does.”
Shorty finished shaving Rosie, doused strong-smelling lotion over his hair, and then parted it exactly in the middle, as Rosie liked it.
“Now,” Shorty said with satisfaction, “you look good enough to go to the opera!” He took the coin that Rosie handed him. “Drake, you’re next!”
Drake Bedford undraped himself from the cane-bottom chair that he had tilted back against the wall. He sauntered over and plopped himself down in the barber chair.
“Just a little off around the sideburns. Do a good job, Shorty!” He grinned, and his white teeth flashed against his tanned face. “I’m going courting tonight, and I want to look good. And don’t put any of that French perfume on me like you baptized Rosie with!”
“Why, that’s the most expensive stuff I got in the house!”
“Well, it smells like perfume. Don’t use it on me!”
Shorty carefully worked on the haircut. Drake had crisp brown hair that took a cut nicely. “You going to the box supper tonight?” the barber asked.
“Where’s that?”
“Why, at the community hall. The parson got it up. The gals are all coming, bringing box suppers, and all the bachelors get to bid for their supper, and they get to eat it with the gals.”
“What are they going to use the money for?” Drake asked idly.
“Oh, some missionary in Africa, I think.”
Drake’s eyes brightened. “I just might go to that!” He smiled around at the other customers. “The rest of you fellas might as well not get in the bidding on Miss Lori Jenkins’s box. I kind of got her staked out for myself.”
Grins went around the barbershop, and Shorty said, “I don’t think you’ll get much competition out of this bunch. The way you pounded Darrell kind of tipped off the rest of the fellas. I don’t reckon Miss Lori’s had another gentleman caller since you done that!”
As Rosie and Drake left the barbershop ten minutes later, Rosie said, “I think I’m getting some kind of a disease in my brain, Drake. Maybe I better go see the doc about it.”
Drake laughed at his friend. “Just give me the money you’d pay him, and I’ll treat you as well as he could. Save your money for that box supper. You’ll want to buy you a good meal with that Reilly girl you’re so sweet on.”
“Ain’t sure I’ll live through the day!” Rosie moaned. He looked hale and hearty to Drake in the fresh morning air, but he insisted on stopping by for his almost daily visit to the doctor.
Drake arrived early at the community hall, a building also used at times for voting and for meetings of the county board. He saw that several musicians had brought their instruments. He borrowed a fiddle, and soon music filled the place.
Rosie wandered about, looking over the young ladies that had come with their box suppers, and encountered Sarah and Royal.
“How are you, Miss Carter?” he asked. He eyed the box in her hand and said woefully, “I’d like to bid on that box you got there, but I done spent all my money at the doctor’s office. Besides, a pretty gal like you, that box will probably go for fifteen dollars. My loss!”
Royal was smiling happily. He had missed this sort of thing in the army, and the music and the voices of happy people sounded good. “I’ll be glad to lend you some money, Rosie, but you may be right about Sarah here. The last time we had a box supper, the boys got into a bidding war before I even left home. I think Clem Judson and Ira Feathers just about busted themselves—it took ’em six months to work themselves out of debt, but Clem told me it was worth it.”
Royal put an arm around his sister and gave her a squeeze. “Just to eat your fried chicken, Sis.”
Sarah smiled back at him but said, “You go ahead and bid, Rosie. I’d be glad to have supper with you.”
Royal searched the room until his eyes lighted on Lori Jenkins, talking with two other girls. “I guess Miss Lori’s got my supper ready.”
Rosie lifted both eyebrows. “You ain’t aimin’ to bid on Miss Lori’s box?”
“I sure am!”
Rosie shook his head. “Don’t reckon that would be the wise thing to do. You know what the Good Book says—‘A wise man looketh well to his going.’”
A puzzled look came over Royal’s face. “What do you mean? That’s what this is—a box supper. You’re supposed to bid!”
“Was I you, I think I’d pick some other girl. Look over there at that one, the redhead. Now, she would do right well. Her name’s Irene Campbell, and I can tell you she’s a good cook. I et with her folks once, and she done the cooking. I’d advise you to bid on Irene’s box.”
“Rosie, I’ve got my mind made up to eat with Miss Lori.”
Rosie scratched his head, and his homely face was mournful. “Wouldn’t be very healthy!”
“You mean she can’t cook?”
“I don’t know about that, but the truth is—well, Drake’s got his head set on eatin’ with her. He kind of hinted that it wouldn’t be prudent for anyone else to try to buy Miss Lori’s box supper.”
A stubborn look came over Royal’s face, but he only said politely, “Well, it’s for a good cause, and if Lori offers a box supper, anybody’s free to bid.”
Now Sarah looked troubled. “They’re lots of pretty girls here, Royal!” she said. “Just choose one of them.”
“Nope, it’s Miss Lori for me!”
Ten minutes later, the mayor, Alvin Buckley, stood on the low platform and called for silence. “It’s time for the bidding here. I know you young fellas are hungry, and these girls have got some delicious suppers packed. Now, who’ll start out?”
He waited until a young lady blushingly came and stood beside him. Then he said, “I suppose you all know that Janie Hart here is famous for her fried chicken and apple pie. Wouldn’t be surprised that’s what’s in this box. Ain’t a man in the house that wouldn’t like to join Miss Janie for supper. Now what are my bids? One dollar—two dollars—four dollars!”
Janie was soon claimed by a short, pudgy young man, who paid six dollars for the privilege of eating supper with her. He came forward for his prize, the two went off, and the mayor started the bidding for the next box.
Royal stood quietly beside Sarah, watching as girl after girl stood by Mr. Buckley. Finally Lori Jenkins came up, and the mayor said, “And now, here is our visitor from Tennessee. What are my bids, fellas? Come on—start high!”
“Five dollars!”
Every eye turned toward Drake Bedford, who was standing slightly away from the crowd. He was wearing a light gray shirt, dark blue trousers, and highly polished boots. He looked very handsome and confident.
The news of his warning had evidently gotten around, for there were no further bids.
And then Royal said, “Ten dollars!”
A murmur went around the room, for this was a rather high bid.
The smile faded from Drake’s face, and he glared at Royal. “Fifteen dollars!”
“Twenty!” Royal shouted back.
Drake seemed about to make another bid but then shook his head. “Let the soldier have the honor,” he said, but there was a warning tenseness about his lips.
Royal paid for Lori’s box, then took it from her hand. He said, “Now I’m going to see what a good cook you are.”
Lori looked a little worried.
As they were at a table, beginning to eat, she said, “You heard about Drake?”
“Aw, I heard a little, but I’ll risk it,” Royal said. He bit into a fried chicken leg, and his eyes brightened. “This is good! Somehow I just knew you would be a good cook.”
They ate and sat at the table talking until the musicians struck up a brisk tune.
“There’s going to be a square dance,” he said. “I know you can cook—let’s see if you can squaredance.”
For the next hour the floor was filled with square dancers. It was a time of release and enjoyment for those who had been worn down by the war. The older people lined the walls and watched the younger folks go back and forth to the calls of the tall, thin fiddler. The girls’ bright dresses lent a festive air, and most of them were expert square dancers.
Royal put Drake out of his mind and enjoyed himself. He and Lori sat out some of the dances, and during those times he found that she was as witty and charming as she was pretty.
They had started back to the floor when suddenly somebody bumped into Royal, staggering him. He looked around and saw Drake Bedford. He also saw that Drake’s face was flushed and that he wore an angry expression. “Sorry, Drake!” he said. “I guess I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
Drake wasted no time. “Come on outside—I’m going to mop up the ground with you!”
“Why would you do that?”
And then the music went silent, and everyone was listening. Somebody far back in the crowd said, “Drake’s gonna whup that soldier boy! I heard him say that any man that bid on that gal’s supper, he would stomp.”
Mayor Buckley came up. “Now we don’t want any trouble here—”
But Drake ignored him. “If you’re any kind of a man,” he said to Royal, “you’ll come out and fight.” He gave Royal a shove, sending him backward.
A mutter went around the room.
Lori said, “Drake, you’re drunk!”
“No, I’m not drunk! I just want to see what kind of a sissy you’ve been dancing with. Well, are you coming, Royal, or not?”
Royal felt every eye upon him. He was not a young man who liked to fight. As a matter of fact, he had not been in a fight for years, but he knew suddenly that he could not back away. If he backed down from this fight, he would be labeled a coward from this day onward.
“All right, Drake. It’s a mistake, but I’ll come.”
A smile crossed Drake’s wide mouth, and he turned and walked out of the hall.
Royal felt Sarah’s hand on his arm.
She whispered, “Don’t do it, Royal.”
“I’ve got to, Sis,” he muttered, then threaded his way through the crowd.
The spectators made a half circle about them, and Drake said, “Anytime you’re ready. I’m gonna teach you a lesson, Royal!”
“It’s up to you, Drake. I don’t want this fight.”
Drake shook his head. “You should’ve thought of that before you tried to steal my girl!”
“I’m not your girl!” Lori protested.
Even as she spoke, Drake lunged forward, fast. His fist caught Royal high on the head. The impact knocked Royal back, and he sprawled in the dust.
“This won’t prove anything, Drake!” Lori cried.
Drake looked at her and grinned. “It’ll prove what kind of a man Royal is—which I don’t think is much.”
Royal got to his feet, his head pounding. He put his fists up and advanced, once again thinking how he hated to fight.
He struck out at Drake, who easily dodged and smashed his right fist into Royal’s mouth, drawing blood. A woman’s voice cried out sharply, and Royal could not tell if it was Sarah’s or Lori’s. Then he found himself being hammered backward once more. He swung again and again, but his blows were ineffective. And Drake, an expert with his fists, landed one after another.
As from a distance Royal heard Rosie say, “I wish Drake wouldn’t do stuff like this. It ain’t fittin’!”
He heard Sarah cry out, “Can’t you stop it, Rosie!”
“I won’t let it go on too long. Drake ain’t really mean. He’ll only go so far.”
But this time Drake seemed intent on punishing Royal, and soon the soldier had been knocked to the ground three times. He got up slower each time, his face flushed and bleeding. He knew he had no chance at all. Everyone could see that.
Drake advanced to continue the fight, but just then Rosie stepped out. “I reckon that’s enough, Drake!”
Drake turned angrily to face him. “Maybe you want to take it up, Rosie!”
Rosie looked like a shambling, ineffectual figure, but he was as well-known for his fists as Drake himself. He said almost lazily, “That’s your say, Drake. You done proved you can outfight this soldier boy, and that’s as far as it goes. If you want more, then I guess I’ll give you the best we got at the ranch.”
Drake stared at Rosie, as though considering lunging at him. But then he laughed. Slapping Rosie on the shoulder, he said, “No, I don’t guess I will.” He looked back at Royal, who stood dazed, not fully understanding what was happening. “Stay away from my girl, Royal, and it will be all right!”
As Drake walked away, Lori came up to Royal. She touched his bleeding mouth and said quietly, “Come inside—I’ll help you clean your face.” She led him through the crowd, still buzzing and humming with talk and excitement.
She sat him down in the back room where the county board usually met privately. There was a pitcher of water on a table, and she filled a basin quickly. Then, using her handkerchief, she bathed his face.
“Well!” he said ruefully. “I guess I showed that I’m not much of a man.”
“Don’t be silly!” Lori said. “You showed that you’re not a brawler or a prizefighter.”
But Royal felt ashamed of his poor showing. “I couldn’t stand up against him, Lori.”
“You haven’t spent your life picking fights,” she said. She dabbed at the cuts on his face and then cocked her head. “Well, are you still going to come calling on me?”
There was a challenge in her voice and in her eyes.
Royal grinned, though it hurt his lips. “I guess I will. Sure, I will! How about supper at your house tomorrow? I didn’t get enough of your cooking.”
Lori smiled. “You come. I’ll make it right with my uncle and aunt.”
On the way home, Sarah said to Royal, “You’re not going to see Lori again, are you?”
“You know I am! A fella can’t hide in a hole because another man tells him what to do.”
“What will you do if he beats you up again?”
“I don’t know. But I know one thing—I’m going to see Miss Lori. Whatever it takes!”