A Killing Snow by David Hoing

Author:David Hoing
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penmore Press LLC
Published: 2016-10-26T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTY

WELCOME TO PARADISE

Friday, April 22, 1887

Herb Goss brought in a professional brass quintet from Yankton to play for the county seat ceremony. Two trumpeters, two trombonists, and a tuba player sat on the left side of the podium that had been erected in front of Goss’s newly donated courthouse.

Clyde Hartwig and Hank Moehler performed preliminary songs, with Vicky Woolridge accompanying on piano. Hank perched on a stool on ground level, directly beneath the flags and banners, his violin lowered while he waited his turn. Mrs. Woolridge played the introduction to “God Bless Our Glorious Land.” Hartwig stood behind the piano, facing the audience. He came in on precisely the right count and pitch, his powerful bass voice deep and luscious.

Governor Pierce’s representative, whose name Mariel had already forgotten, occupied the chair of honor next to the Gosses in the center of the podium. While he smiled like a man pretending not to be bored, Goss beamed as if securing the county seat was the culmination of his life’s work.

Mike Hammon, Frank Chamberlain, Marshal Woolridge, and Deputy Dalton, having been named official dignitaries for the occasion, sat on the other side of the Gosses. Mike looked alert, Frank pleased, Trippledy sleepy, and Woolridge like he’d rather be mucking an outhouse.

The weather had cooperated with a fine, sunny day, temperatures warm but not too hot. Mariel and Phoebe stood about halfway back in the audience. Randall, still hobbled, had been given a seat in front of the crowd, as had Peg Moehler because of her advanced age. The Blackfords were not present, nor was Liam’s cousin Carter Cowan.

On the song’s second verse, Hank played harmony above Hartwig’s melody. It was lovely, and again Mariel marveled at how filth like Hartwig could produce such beautiful sounds.

Nobody is just one thing, she thought, and that idea nagged at her for the remainder of the song. When it was over, the audience responded with polite applause. Mrs. Woolridge waited for the clapping to subside, then launched into “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” The program indicated it was to be an instrumental featuring Hank on violin, but the crowd was unable to refrain from singing. As if attending a performance of “The Hallelujah Chorus,” the dignitaries on the podium rose. The brass quintet came in with powerful rhythms, harmonies, and countermelodies.

Excitement pulsed through the crowd. Even Mariel, who couldn’t care less about the county seat or the ceremony proclaiming it, was swept up by a feeling of good will. Her heart raced as she sang, her spirit soared. She’d heard and sung the “Battle Hymn” a hundred times before. She didn’t know why it seemed so special today, but when its truth went marching on toward its rousing finale, she was overcome with emotion. Everyone was experiencing the same thing, and the last triumphant chord brought waves of cheers and applause.

“My goodness,” Mariel said, “where did that come from?”

“I don’t know,” Phoebe panted, “but I wish it’d come around more often.”

Mariel glanced at the program.

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