“And have it said the Lorrigans can’t give a dance without having it end in rough-house!” Lance interrupted. “Cut out the idea of fighting that bunch. Keep them out of the house and away from the women, and let them have their booze down in the grove. That’s where I’ve seen a lot of them heading. Come on, boys; it takes just as much nerve not to fight as it does to kill off a dozen men. Isn’t that right, dad?”
“More,” said Tom laconically. “No, boys, we don’t want no trouble here. Come on in and dance. That’s yore job––to keep ’er moving peaceable. I’ll fire any man I ketch drinking Jumpoff booze. We’ve got better at the ranch. Come on!”
He led the way and his men followed him,––not as though they were particularly anxious to avoid trouble, but more like men who are trained to 163 obey implicitly a leader who has some definite purpose and refuses to be turned from it. Lance, walking a few steps in the rear, wondered at the discipline his father seemed to maintain without any apparent effort.
“And they say the Lorrigans are a tough outfit!” he laughed, when he had overtaken Tom. “Dad, you’ve got the bunch trained like soldiers. I was more afraid our boys would rough things up than I was worried over the stews.”
“Shucks! When we rough things up, it’s when we want it rough. Al, he was kinda excited. But at that, we may have to hogtie a few of them smart Alecks from town, before we can dance peaceable.”
Mary Hope, Lance discovered, was already in the schoolhouse. Also, several of the intoxicated were there, and the quadrille was being danced with so much zest that the whole building shook. That in itself was not unusual––Black Rim dances usually did become rather boisterous after supper––but just outside the door a bottle was being circulated freely, and two or three men had started toward the cottonwood grove for more. Duke, coming up to Lance where he stood in the doorway, pulled him to one side, where they could not be overheard.
“There’s going to be trouble here, sure’s you’re knee-high to a duck. Dad won’t let our bunch light into ’em, but they’ll be fighting amongst themselves inside an hour. You better slip it to 164 the women that the dance breaks up early. Give ’em a few more waltzes and two-steps, Lance, and then make it Home-Sweet-Home, if you don’t want to muss up your nice city clothes,” he added, with a laugh that was not altogether friendly.
“Mussing up nice city clothes is my favorite pastime,” Lance retorted, and went inside again to see who was doing all the whooping. The chief whooper, he discovered, was Bill Kennedy, the man whom he had very nearly thrashed. Mary Hope was looking her Scotch primmest. Lance measured the primness, saw that there was a vacant space beside her, and made his precarious way toward it, circling the dancers who swung close to the benches and trod upon the toes of the wall flowers in their enthusiasm. He reached the vacant space and sat down just in time to receive Bill Kennedy in his lap. But Bill was too happy just then to observe whose lap he landed in, and bounced up with a bellowing laugh to resume his gyrations.
“Don’t dance any more, girl,” Lance said, leaning so that he could make himself heard without shouting in the uproar. “It’s getting pretty wild––and it will be wilder. They must have hauled it out in barrels!”
Mary Hope looked at him, but she did not smile, did not answer.