The Williamsburg Address
By Victor Epp
Some folks might confuse the Williamsburg address with the Gettysburg address, but they wouldn’t even be close. Oh, I know it sounds political and important and historical and all that mind, but the Williamsburg address for all it’s historical importance, somehow just slipped by without so much as a blink of an eye; well, except for a few of us who didn’t quite forget. Let me tell you about it.
You could always pretty much tell how things were with Davey MacGregor by the first two or three words that came out of his mouth, not that there was usually much more to follow after. "Dang", he’d mutter; usually to himself with a nervous kind of energy. That more or less meant that everything was normal - a little sub-standard according to Davey’s measure, but what else could you expect anyway? Now when he said ‘Dang Farn’, that would be borderline cussin’ - usually meant that things were not going his way, and if it didn’t get any better soon, you’d hear - ‘Dang Farn It Poop!’
You can lay odds that whatever or whoever caused Davey to outright cuss like that was in for some misery. Davey didn’t like cussin’; thought it ruined his disposition, but sometimes, you just had to use strong language.
Now don’t get the wrong idea about Davey MacGregor. He wasn’t the gnarly old coot his manner made him out to be. Folks around here liked old Davey, and for the most part he liked them. It was just that he was very direct - no nonsense. All the MacGregors were like that, and had been for the hundred odd years they’d been in these parts. It was just accepted. People didn’t waste Davey’s time with small talk or gossip. They said what they had to say and moved on, and everybody got along just fine.
Well sir, in fact Davey was a gnarly old coot. I don’t mean his personality or his character, but what he looked like; sort of like a weathered old tree stump and just about as solid. At the time I’m going to tell you about, he would have been in his mid fifties though he looked a lot older, except when he moved. Probably running his half section mixed farm made him that way. He was clean about himself, as clean as he was about his place. Nothing fancy on either him or the farm, but what there was, was well looked after and in good repair.
I left out telling you about another side of Davey MacGregor that the local folks know about, often at their own expense. Not that I was holding out mind - I was coming to it. Whenever Davey started to say something he always put a ‘Wellsir’ in front of it. If you asked him for the time, he’d look up at the sun and tell you, "Wellsir - looks to be about twenty after nine." Other times when the mood struck him to tell a yarn, his ‘Wellsir’ sounded about the same as usual, but if you watched his eyes, and you had to be quick about it too, you could tell a whopper was coming, or maybe even a prank. He wasn’t above playing a prank on some poor unsuspecting soul now and then, and unless you read his eyes, you’d never see it coming ‘til it was too late. Now the one ‘Wellsir’ you didn’t want to hear from Davey if it was directed at you, was when it was followed by ‘we’ll see about that’. Those MacGregors all had a stubborn streak that would make a mule seem wishy - washy, and Davey was a MacGregor through and through. He didn’t have a reverse gear in his bones. Once he made his mind up about something, there was no turning back.
Bill found out about Davey’s stubborn streak a time or two. Bill, that was Davey’s eight year old quarter horse - Welsh cross who also had a bit of a mind of his own as far as horses go, but he was no match for Davey. Even so, his Welsh blood would come out to challenge Davey every so often. The two would match wits for however long it took until Bill gave up and fell back into line. It almost seemed they had to test one another. It was part of how they got along. Davey had other horses of course, but when he was working his herd of Black Angus, he’d never use any but Bill. Both were athletes, and they knew their business. When they were working there was no time for nonsense. They were a sight to see, smooth as silk, moving the herd or cutting calves, like they were born to one another.
Davey kept around a hundred twenty or so head of the Black Angus from the herd that his great grandfather had started when he first settled here. Never would look at anything else. All the new breeds that were coming in and being promoted held no interest for him. Maybe the Angus breed was smaller than the Simmentals or Charales, he ‘Wellsird’, but there was no finer beef than on a well bred Aberdeen Angus.
It was just about that very thing that he had gained the grudging respect of old man Farndham on the neighboring farm, or the country estate as Farndham liked to call it. Much as the old coot knew about getting rich in the oil business, he didn’t know didley when it came to livestock of any kind. Basically, he just lived in the big mansion and his farm managers ran the business end. He could tell how well he was doing by looking at the books; you had to give him that. The old boy was no fool. But in the main, he used the place to entertain and show off to his rich customers, especially those dang fool thoroughbreds of his. He must have had close to twenty-five of them. Davey had no use for thoroughbreds. They were all legs and no brains as far as he could tell. Oh they could run all right, but for what? Running hard to get nowhere for no particular purpose made no sense to Davey - no sense at all.
That aside, old Farndham had decided to give Davey some friendly advice about his cattle herd one day. That was years ago when Farndham was still among the living.
"MacGregor," he said. He always called men by their last names. That was his way of commanding authority without being disrespectful. Davey didn’t mind that at all though. He rather preferred not to be too friendly with the likes of Farndham anyway.
"MacGregor," he said again, "You’d do well to get rid of those Angus and buy yourself a better breeding stock."
"Wellsir," answered Davey, "I reckon I got as good a stock as there is, as I see it."
"They’re too small; take too long to get to shipping weight, if they ever get there at all. No, you should be looking at the Charales breed. Hardy beasts they are; and heavy. Good beef too. You’d do much better. That’s my advice to you."
Davey looked old Farndham over to size up the meaning of this advice and figured it to be genuine, if somewhat pompous. "Wellsir, we’ll see about that," he said after a bit. Farndham wasn’t quick enough to notice the twinkle in the corner of Davey’s eyes.
"Tell me," he continued, "you ever eat your own beef?"
"Well of course," flustered Farndham. Naturally, he had no idea. The cook took care of buying what they needed. He just made sure she didn’t overspend. "It’s perfectly good beef too."
A rare smile flashed across Davey’s face. It changed his entire countenance and startled old Farndham. "Tell you what, Farndham," he said using the last name in addressing his neighbor. "I’d like to invite you to dinner tomorrow for a good feed of my Angus beef."
"Oh, that’s impossible," blustered Farndham, "we have guests coming tomorrow - from Brazil."
"Even better, then we’ll have dinner at your place." Davey’s eyes were sparkling now. He wasn’t going to let the old man dance out of this one.
"But you don’t understand MacGregor. These are important people from Brazil. They are very influential clients of mine."
Now most folks would have taken offence at that sort of turndown, perhaps felt inferior. Not Davey; like a chess player anticipating his opponent’s next move, he’d measured his neighbor and measured right. No less accurate was his next step.
"Farndham," he started. "About the only thing you and I have in common is honesty - not much of that to be found these days, especially in a neighbor. Now I’m sure you’ll do me the courtesy of sending your cook over for the finest steaks in the whole dang country for your dinner party and I’ll be just as happy to stay at home with mine."
Farndham was at a loss. He couldn’t think of anything to say. This was totally opposite of what he was accustomed to. Usually people were trying to get something from him. That was something he could deal with, but this - he could only stammer, "If you’re sure, MacGregor, I’ll send the cook right over." I reckon he figured that if the meat was no good, there was still time to replace it.
"Much obliged." Davey smiled again and stuck his hand out. Farndham took it awkwardly and went on home.
It wasn’t more than three days later that Farndham sought Davey out. He was just coming in from the north quarter, making another swing around the place in case their might be a stray. Usually if he encountered anyone, Davey would stay mounted on his horse, bareback or saddled. There was no place he felt more comfortable than on a horse, especially Bill. Today he was bareback - no saddle, no bridle, no tack at all and he was finished with his chores, so he slid down beside Farndham’s car and gave Bill a slap on the rump to send him off to the water trough.
"Good morning Davey," said Farndham, getting out of his Beamer. If Davey was taken aback by Farndham calling him by his first name, he didn’t let on.
"Mornin’ Mister Farndham," he returned. Using the mister was about as close as he could get to familiarity. He wasn’t sure whether the old man’s first name was really Ulysses or not, and he didn’t want to chance it. Mister was close enough, and it showed some respect anyway.
"I came to thank you personally for those fine steaks," he said. "They are the best I’ve ever had."
"Exactly," Davey said quietly.
"I’ll tell you what Davey," Farndham began, "I’d like to arrange to buy all my beef from you. How does that strike you?"
"Can’t do that, Mister Farndham,” he replied. “If you want MacGregor Angus, the only place to get it is at Sheffield and Macleod."
"You must be joking," Farndham shot back. "They are the most expensive place my cook knows."
"Exactly," Davey chuckled, repeating himself on purpose.
About this time, Farndham was eyeing Bill who had finished up at the water trough He was mulling over in his mind with some curiosity how Davey managed that quarter horse with no tack. He’d heard of it before, but never actually seen it. His thoroughbreds took all the tack you could legally muster to keep them in check and even then it didn’t always work, they were that high strung. But he wasn’t finished talking about cattle yet. It bothered him that not only had he under estimated his neighbor, but he also had been bested in the cattle business.
"Listen Davey," Farndham offered, "whatever the contract you have with those people at Sheffield and MacLeod, I’ll be glad to buy it out. You’ve somehow got the best beef I’ve ever seen, and I want it.
"Got no contract," Davey replied matter of factly.
"Then what’s the problem with selling to me?"
“You’re word any good?” asked Davey.
"Any good," old Farndham blustered like a wounded bull, "any good? I’ll have you know my word is my bond! How else do you think I got to where I am?" You’da’ thought he was going to pop a blood vessel.
“Wellsir, Mister Farndham," reckoned Davey, "then I figure we got two things in common. Tell you what. If Sheffield and Macleod ever go out of business we’ll have a talk."
Reluctantly, Farndham cut the visit short. He had things that needed attending to. He’d be back though, next week perhaps. Maybe they could talk more about the merits of the Aberdeen Black Angus.
Maybe they might, allowed Davey.
It turned out to be prophetic that they shook hands on parting. They would never meet again because three days later Ulysses Farndham died of a massive stroke. ‘Shame,’ thought Davey. At least you could talk to the old man, not like that arrogant excuse for a son of his.
Well, that was three years ago and after a while, Davey never much thought about old man Farndham except when he passed the place. Young Stanley Johnathan Ulysses had taken over the farm since packing his mother off to some retirement home. The company he kept was a lot different than the old folks. The livestock had changed too, and for the worse. There were no cattle on the place anymore, only thoroughbreds. Thoroughbreds and trainers and jockeys and, well who knew what all else. A person could be nothing other than disgusted at such a collection of no good. The place, by Davey’s measure anyway, was going down hill. At least the former manager had kept order, given what he had to work with, but Davey kept his own council and minded his own business. He expected the same from young S. J.
That might have been the way of it too, had it not been for an incident that started Bill on a path that not even Davey could have imagined in a thousand years. Fate, it seemed, had decided to put Davey to the test this one bright August morning, just to see if he was getting old.
He’d got out to the small corral behind the barn where he kept the horses so they would be handy for him for his morning chores only to find Bill was missing. Bill did that sometimes. Small though he was, he could jump if he had a mind to. He would take off to wherever or whatever he was curious about and once he was satisfied, come back in his own sweet time, waiting at the gate to be let back in. Funny thing was, he would never jump back over the rails but would just stand there as if to let Davey know he’d been away and could do it any time he pleased.
'Dang fool horse,' Davey muttered under his breath as he took stock of the situation. He liked the feel of Bill’s bare back first thing in the morning when he went to check his herd. Nothing was colder than an old saddle to start his morning rounds.
"Dang," he said again, as he pulled the gear out of the tack room and flung it over Belle’s back.
Davey headed over to the north quarter for no particular reason. The cattle weren’t there, but it was where his land joined Farndhamses place and maybe he wanted to admire its rolling beauty in the early morning sun before going about his business - or maybe he might be looking for Bill. The sight that caught his eye as he approached the fence line wasn’t anything he might have expected, and for most folks, it would have been a pleasant, lazy morning scene. There, right against the fence, Farndham’s men had stacked a load of fresh green alfalfa, and there, right against the fence was Bill, munching at the back end of it.
I don’t know how many ways you can split a second, but in about the smallest split there is, Davey had seen the whole picture, wheeled old Belle around, and dug his heels in hard enough to bring her to full gallop in the first step. "Dang Farn it" Davey yelled, not realizing the volume of his voice. "Dang Farn it Poop!" - And Belle got another taste of his heels. He was still yelling when he hit the house, totally oblivious to his own sounds.
"Where’s the sauerkraut, Olive?" he yelled, even though she was right in front of him.
"What?"
"The Sauerkraut, the Sauerkraut! I need the sauerkraut, Dang Farn it woman!"
Olive opened the pantry and handed him a jar.
"That’s all there is?" he demanded. His eyes rolled in frustration.
She handed him another.
"Bring Belle to the north quarter," he ordered and headed straight to the tractor shed, still Dang Farning it.
Olive didn’t remember ever having seen Davey that excited in all the years that she’d known him. There must be some powerful thing going on out there to get him so riled up. When he’d come charging in, his pale blue eyes blazing, she was just in the act of slipping her dress over her head after stepping out of the shower. She had dropped it on the floor to get him his sauerkraut. He hadn’t even seen her. His mind was transfixed on sauerkraut. ‘Wellsir.’ she aped his mannerism with a sparkle in her eye when he had run out, ‘we’ll see about that!’ She left the dress in a heap on the floor where it had fallen and got up on old Belle.
Davey was already out of view on the big Massey Ferguson. By the time Olive had got to where she was headed, the sight that confronted her told the whole story; green, fresh alfalfa - colic - horse and cattle killer. Davey had the forks on the Massey up over Bill with the sling he used to move the big round hay bales under his belly to keep him upright. Bill was still eating, even though he was grunting, in obvious pain. Davey in the meantime was prodding his belly with his fists and shoulders, muttering under his breath, the two big jars of sauerkraut now empty on the ground.
"Looks like a bit of colic," Olive offered, still in the saddle.
"A whole mountain of colic," answered Davey. "I just barely got this winch on him before he went down. Don’t know what I’d do if he weren’t as crazy for sauerkraut as he is for green alfalfa. That ought to blow the gas out of him." For the first time Davey looked up.
"My God woman," he shrieked. "You’re stark nekkid! Are you out of your mind? What if somebody sees you like that?"
Olive paused; a look coming over her face that Davey knew was his undoing every time. "Well, bless me," she drawled, "so I am - same as I was when you came screaming into the house. Don’t think anybody saw me then; especially you."
"Besides," Olive continued, "a good woman always serves her master - no questions asked. Ain’t that right Master Davey? You just told me to bring Belle over here. You didn't say anything about getting dressed." She leaned over in the saddle and flashed one of those famous smiles of hers.
Davey was done - bested, and he knew it. The icy blue eyes began to dance and a grin crossed his weathered face. "You just sit up there where you are for a short spell Lady Godiva," he said softly. "I just got a little bit of teaching to do with this Dang Farn bag of bones. Then I reckon I got a little bit of learnin’ to do my own self."
He kept prodding at Bill’s bloated belly, and slowly the sauerkraut started to work. Taking his time, Davey hauled out his pipe and began stuffing it, all the while listening to what was happening inside the horse. By the sound of things, it wasn’t going to be too long for what he had in mind. Fishing his pipe lighter out of his pocket, he unsnapped the clip that held the winch under Bill’s belly. He flicked the wheel on his lighter to see the flame shoot out sideways as it does with those kinds of lighters. As the roar of methane gas began to leave Bill’s body, Davey turned the lighter to where Bill’s tail was lifted and ignited the stream in a brilliant blue flame like the business end of a rocket. Waiting just long enough for Bill to get a whiff of the singed hair on his tail, Davey slapped him on the rump and yelled, "Fire!" as loud as he could. Bill took off in absolute terror, tail straight up in the air out of the way of the flame, which was exactly what Davey had in mind. The only way to get rid of the colic was to run it off.
The fact that he was a one-horse stampede was just a bonus.
Davey turned his attention toward Olive.
It must have been at least a couple of hours later that Bill finally showed up at the corral. He was all covered in sweat and lather. Mind, he had slowed down some on the way home because a lot of it was already drying on him. He seemed in good shape though, none the worse for his colic, and was probably clean as a whistle inside. Anyway, he was out of rocket fuel, and his wild eyes had gone back to normal sort of - for a quarter horse.
"Wellsir," Davey said out loud while giving Bill’s shoulder a poke with his fist, "I reckon you might ‘a learned somethin today. I suppose that calls for a rub down." He clicked his tongue and turned heel to the tack house. Bill followed along of his own accord. He knew the drill. That was one thing about Bill you could count on. He had quick grasp of things once you explained it to him in language he could understand. The trick was learning the language, and that was what Davey knew. The only thing Davey regretted as he worked over the horse was that he hadn’t been on his back on that wild run. That would have been some ride. A wild thought crossed Davey’s mind. He glanced over in the direction of the green alfalfa bales and smiled. ’Wellsir’, he said quietly to himself, ‘well see about that,’ - and for extra measure, ‘we’ll just see about that.’
It must have taken about two weeks or so before Bill would take off like a rocket on Davey’s command. The first couple of times he’d laid on a stirrup cinch and light bit, just in case.
Davey had no such thing as fear himself, but he was no fool either. Horseman that he was, he knew he’d better have something more than mane to hang on to on a ride like that. He sat easily on Bill’s back, taking a twist of horse hair from around the corral fence in his hand and putting his lighter to it, stuck it under Bill’s nose as he lay down flat and wrapped his fingers and the reign through the mane and whispering "Fire!"
Wellsir, it was the kind of a ride where Davey figured he could have used goggles to protect his eyes, that was the speed of it. Bill never lost his footing or his presence of mind either as they streaked around the whole perimeter of the half section. A fallen tree in their path flashed underneath them as Bill gracefully took to the air as though he had wings and was gone. Even the cattle had almost no time to see them, let alone react.
Now it turned out there was more to the green alfalfa at the fence line than just accident or thoughtlessness. The one thing that Davey MacGregor and J. S. Ulysses Farndham had in common was a dislike for one another. In fact, they couldn’t stand each other. When the old man was alive it wasn’t too bad. They just gave each other a wide berth, but now that J. S. was running the place, it was a different story. He was just a nasty, vindictive kind of little man, by Davey’s reckoning. The alfalfa was just one of many things that seemed suddenly to appear out of nowhere to cause annoyance and consternation to Davey. He never put two and two together until one day he got a call from some lawyer in New York who said he represented the Farndham Holdings and he wanted to know who Davey’s lawyer was so they could discuss a business deal.
The very hair stood up on Davey’s neck but he kept his calm and said if the lawyer wanted to discuss anything, he could come to Davey’s place and talk face to face with him. The lawyer told him that was not the way things were done, but after a while when Davey’d had enough and finally told him to go pack salt, he seemed to change his mind. Two days later he was sitting in Davey’s workshop, about as uncomfortable as could be. This was Davey’s ‘office’ where he did his business, and since they were discussing his business, this is where it would be done. The lawyer never did get to see the inside of the MacGregor home.
Wellsir, when they finally got down to it, what all the hullabaloo was about was that J. S wanted to buy Davey out, lock stock and barrel - wanted to turn the place into condominiums for race horse types. Davey didn’t even hear what price he was offering, that’s how mad he was. What the lawyer and most other people didn’t know was that when the Good Lord made heaven and earth, he also made MacGregor land and when he gave them commandments to Moses on the mount, Moses forgot to write down the two most important ones - don’t interfere with MacGregor livestock and don’t infringe on MacGregor land.
All in all, it was a bad meeting for the lawyer. He was accustomed to dealing with tough, sophisticated negotiators, but nothing had prepared him for a bull headed Scot whom he could neither control nor get a read on his thinking. Mind you, after that, things didn’t get any better for Davey either. That lawyer didn’t give up so easy. More offers followed. When they didn’t work, town-planning meetings and even community hall meetings were held to try to sell the development concept to the whole area. Pressure was mounting to oust Davey from his place.
Finally he’d had enough. "Olive," he said grimly, "It’s time to take over the Farndham place."
You could have knocked her over with a feather. Had he lost all his marbles all of a sudden? "How in the world are you going to do that?" she wanted to know. "We can’t afford to buy a place like that!"
"I didn’t say buy, I said take over," he replied.
Her face was pale with fear when she’d listened to what he had in mind. Olive was a MacGregor only by marriage, but as close as she and Davey were, her fierceness about the MacGregor place made her one - even more than Davey himself. "My God Davey, we could lose the place," she whispered hoarsely, wringing hands. Davey knew that when Olive was wringing her hands, she was truly upset.
"Wellsir, he allowed, trying to be positive about it, "the only other way I know to get that nasty little creep off our backs would mean my spending the rest of my life in jail, and that would be even worse.
The MacGregors may have lost a battle or two in their time but never" he paused to emphasize the point, "never have they ever backed away from a fight for their own."
"Then you’d better call Billy Bucknell to make sure you get everything in order," she told him.
The meeting took place at Billy Bucknell’s law office on the following Tuesday at ten in the morning. All that J. S. and his high priced lawyer knew was that it was to settle the deal on the MacGregor farm. "Once and for all" was what Bucknell had said. "By the way," he had asked, almost as an afterthought, "You got a deed to your place?"
J. S. said the lawyer did.
"Bring it." Billy hung up the phone.
There was a stack of papers on the table in front of each chair. "Read these, and sign them," Bucknell said simply. Of course Davey and Olive already had so they initialed every page and signed on the last one, putting them in front of Bucknell beside the deed to the MacGregor farm which he had already placed on the table.
"What kind of a trick is this?" the New York lawyer demanded, wondering how J. S. was going to react to paying for a wasted trip all the way out here.
"No trick," offered Davey, fixing his steel blue eyes on the high priced lawyer, "Just a simple way to get things in order real quick. J. S. don’t want us as neighbors, and we sure as shootin’ don’t want him as neighbors neither. Come Saturday, we’ll run a race at the community track by the stockyards there, and the winner takes both titles. What could be simpler than that?
"This is nuts," the lawyer said with a withered look and started to get up to leave. J. S. motioned him to sit down.
"Hold on a second," he started, realizing that he could pick up the MacGregor place by simply winning a horse race. "Lets look this over again. I believe old Davey may have just suckered himself into losing his farm. Why he hasn’t even got any real horses, just those quarter horse mules he uses for working that measly herd of his. It says here he will ride his Welsh cross - called Bill," J. S. stopped to chuckle at such a stupid name. He would lose just on the basis of bad naming, "and I can pick a horse and rider of my choice from my stable. But sixteen
Furlongs; that seems a bit far Davey don’t you think; for a quarter horse?"
"Your horses not up to it?" Davey shot back.
"I was thinking about yours’" J. S. lied. He was a little worried about the fact that old Doc Morrison who would start and oversee the race would also check the horses before and after the race for doping. That only left two of his horses that might not fail the test. Any doping of the horses would forfeit the race. But his concern was fleeting. After all, what did MacGregor know about racing? And a crummy quarter horse stood no chance against a thoroughbred anyway.
"If it’s all legal," he instructed his lawyer" lets sign. You can start making plans for our development."
When they had left, Billy Bucknell confronted both Davey and Olive, saying, "Are you two agreed on this? It’s a big gamble you know. Your old man would wrap my hide around my ears for this if he were still alive."
It was Olive who spoke up. "We’re agreed. Our war chest is full. The agreement calls for land and buildings only - not personal things or livestock and equipment. And I’ll tell you another thing Billy. Old Pop MacGregor would wrap our collective hides around our ears if we didn’t do this. There’s no shame in losing, only in running away from a fight."
By Saturday morning, the whole town knew about the goings on at the stockyards. Even the local paper had billed it as ‘Davey and Goliath - Race of the Century!’ The whole town was deserted. Everyone was at the track. It was even more crowded than at the annual county fair and auction. It wasn’t just about the horse race. It wasn’t even about this horse race. It was about the battle between Davey MacGregor and J. S. Ulysses Farndham, and that was the whole of it.
Well sir, they were going to get a show on this day like none they’d never seen before, and it was about to begin. Both riders were coming on to the track toward the starting gates. Mickey Flanders, who was the jockey J. S. had hired to ride ‘Whiskey’s Pride’ was wearing the Farndham blue and scarlet silks. The way that big black mare was prancing toward the gate you’d think she had already won the race. The two of them did look impressive, though. Even so, the crowd booed. They were pulling for the underdog. You’d think when Davey showed up on Bill, there would be a roar of encouragement. Instead, there was a prolonged and deathly silence, then a mournful groan. Here, aboard old Bill sat the most outlandish figure one could imagine in a modern age. Bare feet hanging down out of the stirrups, there sat Davey in full MacGregor regalia - kilt with sporran in place, a great sash in the MacGregor tartan thrown across his shoulder, and matching tam. In his hand there was what appeared to be a long wooden lance and in the corner of his mouth, of all things, was his pipe.
But the fact that he looked like an apparition out of the dawn of time didn’t bother Davey none. This was a serious enough matter that he’d dug out the MacGregor colors. He’d even found a white silk shirt that had been the old man’s. Win or lose, Farndham would have no doubt with whom he was dealing. The only thing that he was uncomfortable with was the kilt. Well, it wasn’t really the kilt itself; it was the height of the stirrups. Even with the sporran in place, he didn’t want to put his feet up into them and give the crowd a whole different kind of show.
Mickey shook his head and guffawed at the sight as he and the handler approached their gate. Davey, stuffing his pipe and re-lighting it, rode instead to the rail beside the gates to where Olive was standing. With a mighty thrust of a warrior, he rammed the lance into the ground just outside the rail, draped his sash over it, and with a last puff, handed his pipe to Olive. Then he headed over to his gate.
There was no fanfare - no big to do about it. Horses and riders just slipped into their gates, were locked in, and waited for the starting gun. Mickey and Whiskey’s Pride stood there poised, as natural as could be. They had been at the gate many times before and knew exactly what to do. Davey, his eye on Doc Morrison sat stock - still, mouth clenched in a tight - lipped grimace for what seemed like forever, and held his breath.
Doc moved up to the starter’s platform. Davey lay down on Bill’s back, his head resting low on the animal’s neck. Doc raised his arm straight up in firing position and Davey, whose face was absolutely purple by this time, blew a waft of smoke from the Three Nuns pipe tobacco mixed with horse hair past Bills nose. At the very second the gun exploded and the gates flew open, Davey screamed "Fire!" in Bill’s ear. The horse remembered perfectly. Nostrils flaring from the burning horsehair smell, wild eyed, he shot out of the gate - more like a cannon ball than a horse, leaving Mickey and his mount in his dust.
"Jesus!" cursed J. S. as Bill rounded the first turn, just barely missing the rail at the breakneck speed he was going.
Billy Bucknell, who was sitting close to him in the stand next to a white faced Olive, offered sarcastically, "Ain’t no use callin’ on the Lord for help when you’re up against a MacGregor." That was probably close to the truth.
"Well," J. S. opined, "he’s going to run out of steam before the finish line at that pace. That’s a quarter horse, and after a quarter mile, he’s done."
Normally that would have been true too, at least for a pure - bred quarter horse. But when you mix that with a Welsh breed though, that could be a whole different can of worms. Thoroughbred people don’t know about that kind of thing, what with being so preoccupied with their bloodlines and all.
By the fifth lap around the quarter mile track, Bill and Davey were pulling up on Mickey on their sixth time around, still at full gallop, although a bit slowed by now. Mickey was no rookie. He was letting Davey catch up. At the right moment he would edge him into the rail and disqualification. It would be over. J. S. could read what was coming, and a wry smile crossed his thin lips.
Bill, on the other hand, had figured out what this was all about, and by now the terror had left his eyes. He was just working for his master, going full out as was his custom. Covered in lather and sweat, he was nowhere near running out of steam or determination for that matter. It was his job to get ahead of that other horse, pure and simple, and he knew it. Drawing within half a length of Whiskey’s Pride, he held his ground in the middle of the track. Davey gave him his reign since he knew this was a horse tactic, and it was not for him to guide Bill’s instincts.
At this moment, Mickey began pushing his mount against Davey and Bill. He had them just where he wanted them. The sheer superiority of weight would force Bill into the rail. It would have too, if Bill hadn’t almost stopped dead in his tracks. He neatly ducked around the other side and took off again like he’d been shot. Whiskey’s Pride narrowly missed being the one crashing into the rail.
Mickey had his hands full trying to stay on board and get his horse’s mind back on the race. In a fit of rage, he put his crop to the big mare and charged straight at Bill who was now on the inside rail.
Instinctively, or as a response to the pain in her rump, she took off in a burst of power. Davey saw her just in time. "Fire!" he screamed at the top of his lungs, and twisted his fingers into Bill’s mane. Whiskey’s Pride missed them by a hair. In fact, it’s a miracle she didn’t get a hoof in her chest as she crashed headlong through the inside rail, falling in a heap somewhere in the middle green.
The roar noise coming from the crowd was tumultuous. You’d think it was V. E. Day the way they roared. Little Davey had beaten the mighty Goliath. Bill on the other hand was non plussed by the whole thing. He sensed a victory though, and took up a canter like he did at home when he’d cut a day’s worth of steers; kind of arrogant and pleased with himself.
"Clear the track,” shouted Davey to the people who were now milling around to congratulate him. "I got a race to finish!" And finish he did. When he had crossed the finish line, he rode over to where his lance was thrust into the ground, draped his sash over his shoulder and dismounted. He threw the reigns at Doc Morrison and ripped the lance out of its moorings.
"Billy," he said, "you take care of business. I got to get home right now, this minute! I’ll be by to your office on Monday." Then, "Olive, where’s the pick up?"
She offered him the keys but he moaned, "No, you drive, I can’t."
Olive looked at her husband, alarmed. He was white as a ghost and drenched with sweat. "My God," she said, "we’d better get you to the doctor! You look awful."
"No doctor," groaned Davey, "the bathroom, and fast!"
Davey had been in the bathroom for about four hours when Olive finally heard the shower running. She had kept calling to see if he was alright, but the only answer she got was the sound of his retching. All she knew was as long as she heard that, he was still alive. Finally he emerged, gaunt and pale, but with a little smile on his face.
"Feeling better?" was the first thing Olive wanted to know.
"I will," offered Davey meekly, "soon as I get the horsehair smoke out of my system. I couldn’t help but inhale some of it while I was waiting for Doc Morrison to fire his fool cannon. That dang farn stuff still makes me as sick as it did when the old man made me smoke it one time. Now I’ll probably never take up the pipe again either."
"Hm," Olive mused, "caught you smoking and wanted to teach you a lesson, did he?"
"Something like that."
Wellsir, there was a whole lot less excitement around these parts after the big race. Folks just more or less went about their business as usual. They’re like that around these parts. Whenever something exciting comes along, they’ll hoot and holler right along with the best of them, but when it’s over - its over and life goes on. In fact, S. J. and his outfit slunk out of there in record time so as nobody would notice. No one knew much about where he went and cared even less.
Of course, life was just starting for Olive. A dream that only a few weeks ago had been as far away as heaven itself now lay at her feet, waiting to be fulfilled. A Bed and Breakfast, and a Tea Room - that’s what she’d dreamed of for years. Until now, it had only been something to daydream about, to pass the time in idle moments, so to speak - nothing more than a pleasant diversion. Now it was a reality and the way she went about organizing the whole thing, you could tell that the blueprint was stuck there, right in her head. If Davey was annoyed at the way she ordered him around to get this and get that; build this and build that, he never let on. You couldn’t tell whether he was pleased for Olive, or just so glad to get rid of his nuisance neighbor that he didn’t notice. Before you knew it, the whole place was humming like the dream it was. Maybe that was it. Once Olive’s work was done, Davey’d be able to go about his own business without any more truck and bother.
That was just what he did too. There were a few things that needed to be put right about this place and by gum they would be. The first thing he did was fence off a pasture for his cattle. Old man Farndham would finally smile to know there was a herd of the finest Aberdeen Black Angus on his land. He tipped his weather-beaten hat skyward in a gesture.
Now it was in Davey’s nature to give credit where credit is due. It was time to give Bill his so the next thing he did was to make a big sign out of some rough lumber he had around. He spent a lot of time at it and when it was finally finished he was proud of his handiwork. What the sign said was 'Bill’s Place.' Davey figured it was fitting to hang on the gate to replace the old Farndham sign. After all, it was Bill’s strength and savvy that had won the place as much as anything; well that and the Sauerkraut.
He was just in the process of removing the old plaque so as to make room for his new one that was leaning against the fence when Olive came by. "There," he said, pointing proudly at his work. "That ought to put things right with Bill." It never struck him that she might have another opinion.
Now in all fairness to Olive, it has to be said that she was right on line with Davey in paying proper respect to those deserving it. It was just that her taste in these matters was somewhat different than his, especially since she was the one who had started to remodel the Farndham place.
"If I was you Davey," she said in that particular tone of voice, "I wouldn’t think of putting up that new sign."
Now as you’ve seen before, once Davey set his mind to something, there wasn’t much that could stand in his way, but there were places that even Davey wouldn’t go. That tone of voice was one of them - not that doing Bill out of his rightful due had crossed his mind. This situation though, called for some diplomacy.
"Well then my dear," he smiled, with a full understanding that he would do exactly as she directed in the matter, "if you was me, what would you do instead?"
"What I would do," she smiled back, "is give old Bill the dignity old Farndham would have given him. Don’t forget this was a classy place before J. S. took it over. Since it was Bill that got it for us, this is his place as much as ours. It should be named proper."
What in blazes was she going on about? “I thought that’s what I was doing.” replied Davey.
"Your sentiments might be right Davey," Olive answered, "but your words are wrong. Since this is going to be a bed and breakfast, we need a dignified address that impress people and make them want to come here."
"And if you was me," Davey ventured, "you’d -”
"And if I was you," she broke out in one of her broad smiles, "I’d order a great big wrought iron sign that says ‘The Williamsburg Address’ and I’d have it put up right up there over the center of the crossbar when it arrives this afternoon about two o’clock."
"My God woman, you already ordered a sign!"
‘The Williamsburg Address’; what kind of a name was that for Bill’s Place? He sure didn’t like the uppity sound of it, and neither would Bill if he could read. ‘Dang Farn it all.’
"And," said Davey with a familiar bit of sarcasm, "if you was me, what would you do with this sign I worked on so long and hard?"
"If I was you," Olive teased, "I’d use it to build a big bonfire and cook some of your sauerkraut on it."
That did it. Nobody, but nobody - not even Olive was going to hang a high falutin’ uppity sign on the best cutting horse in these parts - not as long as Davey MacGregor had anything to say about it. Wellsir, "dang farn it, we’ll see about that," he said loud and clear so Olive would be sure to get his drift.
Wellsir, that all happened a good long time ago. Olive got her way and named the place ‘The Williamsburg Address' and ran a real good Bed and Breakfast and Tea Room for years. Davey - well Davey just went on about his business as though nothing out of the ordinary had ever happened. You’d think that for once his ‘Wellsir, we’ll see about that’ finally got it’s comeuppance. Some of us know better.
Sure enough, if you visit The Williamsburg Address, out on the south quarter where the two neighboring farms join together, you’ll see a little knoll where old Bill is buried, and there, like a small cross, is a wooden plaque that simply says, ‘Bill’s Place.’ Guess Davey seen about that after all.
Did you like this story??? Check out these great ebooks! Stories by Karl May & Victor Epp
