The musicians arrived, the City Band of Bonneville--Annixter having managed to offend the leader of the "Dirigo" Club orchestra, at the very last moment, to such a point that he had refused his services.These members of the City Band repaired at once to their platform in the corner.At every instant they laughed uproariously among themselves, joshing one of their number, a Frenchman, whom they called "Skeezicks." Their hilarity reverberated in a hollow, metallic roll among the rafters overhead.The druggist observed to young Vacca as he passed by that he thought them pretty fresh, just the same.
"I'm busy, I'm very busy," returned the young man, continuing on his way, still frowning and paring the stump of candle.
"Two quarts 'n' a half.Two quarts 'n' a half.""Ah, yes, in a way, that's so; and then, again, in a way, it ISN'T.I know better."All along one side of the barn were a row of stalls, fourteen of them, clean as yet, redolent of new cut wood, the sawdust still in the cracks of the flooring.Deliberately the druggist went from one to the other, pausing contemplatively before each.He returned down the line and again took up his position by the door of the feed room, nodding his head judicially, as if satisfied.
He decided to put on his gloves.
By now it was quite dark.Outside, between the barn and the ranch houses one could see a group of men on step-ladders lighting the festoons of Japanese lanterns.In the darkness, only their faces appeared here and there, high above the ground, seen in a haze of red, strange, grotesque.Gradually as the multitude of lanterns were lit, the light spread.The grass underfoot looked like green excelsior.Another group of men invaded the barn itself, lighting the lamps and lanterns there.
Soon the whole place was gleaming with points of light.Young Vacca, who had disappeared, returned with his pockets full of wax candles.He resumed his whittling, refusing to answer any questions, vociferating that he was busy.
Outside there was a sound of hoofs and voices.More guests had arrived.The druggist, seized with confusion, terrified lest he had put on his gloves too soon, thrust his hands into his pockets.It was Cutter, Magnus Derrick's division superintendent, who came, bringing his wife and her two girl cousins.They had come fifteen miles by the trail from the far distant division house on "Four" of Los Muertos and had ridden on horseback instead of driving.Mrs.Cutter could be heard declaring that she was nearly dead and felt more like going to bed than dancing.The two girl cousins, in dresses of dotted Swiss over blue sateen, were doing their utmost to pacify her.
She could be heard protesting from moment to moment.One distinguished the phrases "straight to my bed," "back nearly broken in two," "never wanted to come in the first place." The druggist, observing Cutter take a pair of gloves from Mrs.
Cutter's reticule, drew his hands from his pockets.
But abruptly there was an interruption.In the musicians' corner a scuffle broke out.A chair was overturned.There was a noise of imprecations mingled with shouts of derision.Skeezicks, the Frenchman, had turned upon the joshers.
"Ah, no," he was heard to exclaim, "at the end of the end it is too much.Kind of a bad canary--we will go to see about that.
Aha, let him close up his face before I demolish it with a good stroke of the fist."The men who were lighting the lanterns were obliged to intervene before he could be placated.
Hooven and his wife and daughters arrived.Minna was carrying little Hilda, already asleep, in her arms.Minna looked very pretty, striking even, with her black hair, pale face, very red lips and greenish-blue eyes.She was dressed in what had been Mrs.Hooven's wedding gown, a cheap affair of "farmer's satin."Mrs.Hooven had pendent earrings of imitation jet in her ears.
Hooven was wearing an old frock coat of Magnus Derrick's, the sleeves too long, the shoulders absurdly too wide.He and Cutter at once entered into an excited conversation as to the ownership of a certain steer.
"Why, the brand----"
"Ach, Gott, der brendt," Hooven clasped his head, "ach, der brendt, dot maks me laugh some laughs.Dot's goot--der brendt--doand I see um--shoor der boole mit der bleck star bei der vore-head in der middle oaf.Any someones you esk tell you dot is mein boole.You esk any someones.Der brendt? To hell mit der brendt.You aindt got some memorie aboudt does ting I guess nodt.""Please step aside, gentlemen," said young Vacca, who was still making the rounds of the floor.
Hooven whirled about."Eh? What den," he exclaimed, still excited, willing to be angry at any one for the moment."Doand you push soh, you.I tink berhapz you doand OWN dose barn, hey?""I'm busy, I'm very busy." The young man pushed by with grave preoccupation.
"Two quarts 'n' a half.Two quarts 'n' a half.""I know better.That's all rot."
But the barn was filling up rapidly.At every moment there was a rattle of a newly arrived vehicle from outside.Guest after guest appeared in the doorway, singly or in couples, or in families, or in garrulous parties of five and six.Now it was Phelps and his mother from Los Muertos, now a foreman from Broderson's with his family, now a gayly apparelled clerk from a Bonneville store, solitary and bewildered, looking for a place to put his hat, now a couple of Spanish-Mexican girls from Guadalajara with coquettish effects of black and yellow about their dress, now a group of Osterman's tenants, Portuguese, swarthy, with plastered hair and curled mustaches, redolent of cheap perfumes.Sarria arrived, his smooth, shiny face glistening with perspiration.He wore a new cassock and carried his broad-brimmed hat under his arm.His appearance made quite a stir.He passed from group to group, urbane, affable, shaking hands right and left; he assumed a set smile of amiability which never left his face the whole evening.
