The Illusion of Plurals

The cluster of buildings that was MacKensie sat in its cleared patch of forest in its valley all hemmed about by ridges, the sky immense overhead, the stars galling with their glow and twinkle. The new highway had gone north through Santiam Pass. The old highway became, then, simply Main Street, the town truncated, kept small by circumstance, cut off within its loops of river and ridge. With the welcome cold settling down from the ridges, displacing the hot day, with fog rising from the pond, with the midnight darkness complete save for a small pool of light shining through the shaded windows of the Crosscut Cafe and from the bare bulb above the post office door, MacKensie slumbered.
Across the street from the cafe, flickering loops of red neon proclaimed Bights Saloon; and just below that, a yellowed white sign that read LOSED. West down Main Street, three ravens strutted toward the old W. P. A. bridge. Trash from an overturned barrel decorated a small park. Tattered flagging hung limp from the eaves of Wagnall's service station. The 4th of July loomed. And so did the outcome of a bet between two of MacKensie's rather iconoclastic citizens.
Joe Murchison and Willard Crenshaw had been feuding for weeks. Now Murchison has to climb Grants Mountain by the 4th or leave town. If the mountain is climbed, Crenshaw is out lock, stock, and barrel. The outcome turns on a surprising change in the weather and an equally surprising change of heart.