Harry Lascelles Burnette / /- ESH. DE CALIF. LERARY, LOS ANGELES SONS OF ELOHIM SONS OF ELOHIM BY Harry Lascelles Burnette The Elohim said, Let us make man in our im- age, after our likeness; and let them have domin- ion over all the earth. Genesis 1 :26 RANDOLPH, STERLING & VAN ESS CHICAGO, U. S. A. SONS OF ELOHIM Copyright, 1922 HARRY LASCELLES BURNETTE Copyright for Great Britain Scenario of seventy-four scenes Copyrighted under title of "The Bride of Yahkima" All rights reserved including the translations into all languages First Edition linotyped and printed at Chicago, U. S. A. CHAPTER TITLES THE POPPY GIRL. CRADLE OF THE RANGE. SENOR MIRANDO. CREATURES OF CIRCUMSTANCE. PUBLICANS AND SINNERS. JIM CRAWLEY. IN THE SHADOW OF THE SPIRE. A VOICE FROM THE PAST. THE SONG OF THE LARK. THE OLD PESSIMIST. LOST FORTUNES. "THE LORD TAKETH AWAY. THE COBBLER KNIGHT. A CROOKED SPIRIT IN A CROOKED FRAME. IF HANK HAD BEEN LINCOLN. "JEHOSAPHAT !" "HELL DOCTRIN'S o' THE CHURCHES/' THE MAN OF MYSTERY. BILLY'S SECRET. THE CONVALESCENT. BIBLE TRUTHS AND BIBLE LIES. THE HEN OR THE EGG. "You CAN ALLWUS COUNT ON ME/' DEVILS. A SHOE-SHOP SOUL. DOMESTIC SHADOWS. CHAPTER TITLES-Continued THE RESURRECTION. A CALL FROM THE EAST. "THEY SHALL NOT HANG!" "WHOM THE LORD LOVETH." "SIDE PARTNERS OF THE DEVIL/' "WHAT HAST THOU BELIEVED?" "FOR SWALLOW'S KID!" DEFEAT AND VICTORY. THE GREATER GLORY. PART II GRIST OF THE WORLD'S MILL. PART III A BROTHER IN ISRAEL. DECORATION DAY. NEW TOWN. THE HOPE OF ISRAEL. "JOHN LIED!" CONVERGING TRAILS. JIM CRAWLEY'S DINNER PARTY. THE POWER OF THE HEART'S DESIRE. THE GRAY WOLF. THE WOLF AND THE LAMB. THE MIRACLE MAN. THE END OF THE TRAIL. THE SUN OF RIGHTIOUSNESS. SONS OF ELOHIM. CHARACTERS IN THE STORY Nancy Swallow, Bride of Old Town. Pat Weatherbee, Her Father. Larrabie Harding, Power in San Francisco's Underworld. Dick Swallow, Nancy's Husband. Reverend Obed Swallow, His Father. Jack Osmond, Dick's Classmate at College. "Red Eye," a Gambler. Mike Gorin, Harding's Confederate. "Madame Gorgen," of the Underworld. Luke Waters, Pessimist of the Range. Laura Waters, His Daughter. "Parson" Raines, Village Preacher. Janet, His Sister. Hank Evans, Village Cobbler. Billy Ki-Ki, Ranger and Round-Up Captain. Burke Channing, Dick's Brother-in-law. Martha Channing, His Wife, Dick's Sister. Bessie Channing, Their Daughter. Archibald Gower, an Adopted Son. Jim Crawley, a Mining Prospector. Betty, His Sweetheart for Forty Years. Deland, Hotel Keeper. Nick Maloney, Stage Driver. Max Bronson and Tank Barlow, Range Riders. Jerry Flinn, a Cowboy. Doctor Kimball, Village Doctor. Pat Remnant, Grave Digger. Widow Powers. Johnny Powers, Her Son. Alec Lattimer, Stable Boy. Maidie Swallow, Daughter of Dick and Nancy Swallow. Mrs. Brown, Mother of a Boy by Dick Swallow. Arthur Brown, the Boy. Perry Heath, Arthur's Friend, a Cripple. Tom Payne, an Evangelist. Isaac Cohen, a Lawyer From Frisco. THE ELOHIM "Jehovah-God said, The man has become like one of us to know good and evil." This is a story of a woman's self-redemption, and of men sons of the Elohim of heaven. In the beginning, millions of years ago, the Elohim created the heavens and the earth, and created man in their image. The Story of one epoch of this earth's evolution and of a creation by the Elohim is given in the first chapter of Genesis, the first Book of the Hebrew Bible. There is no excuse for the mistranslation of Elohim as God. The Elohim are immortalized men; and one of them is Jehovah, the Arbiter of this Adamite age, Progenitor and God of the Semitic race. There can be no excuse, now, for continuing this false translation in the first chapter of our English Bible, a false- hood that for two-score centuries has dwarfed man's con- ception of the Higher Worlds, belittled the Great Plan and Purpose of human lives and checked the Divine March of manhood in its evolutionary course toward Godhood and to Membership in the Heavenly Council of the Gods. The inspired Jew, who said to every man, "Ye shall be perfect, even as your Father in heaven is perfect," touched the keynote of Divine Evolution. Every earthly man shall, some day, become equal in wisdom and power with the God of his age. Millions of men, in the countless ages through which humanity has moved onward to Immortality since the Elo- him first created this earth and made man in their image, have reached the plane of Godhood. Each has, probably, taken his turn as a Redeemer of some self-pawned world, upon one of the innumerable abiding-places in the Infinite Realm. Each in his turn, perhaps, has been a Messianic Martyr to the finite fears and treacheries of mortal flesh, even as the Man of Gallilee; and, then, succeeding to the creative power of bloodless life, each has taken a seat just below his Predecessor in the Synagogue of Heaven, in the Congregation of the Gods. "Hank Evans, "Tank Barlow," "Luke Waters," "Billy Ki-Ki," "Jim Crawley," "Nick Maloney," "Burke Channing," and other clumsy characters of my story, groping through the twilight shadows of this age, stunted and life-shortened by apostacy of church and creed, will answer, "Here!" when their right names are called by the Clerk of the Heav- enly Court of the Elohim; and each will have an oppor- tunity, in the millenniums to come, to compete for a Mes- sianic Mission to the succeeding races of this earth after the next Millennial Throne shall have judged the seed of Jehovah of the Elohim, and when the Chosen Son shall have become, in his turn, the Father of a new race of men. You, and I, and all who read my story, will then learn that the steps toward Heaven are not the man-made "hell doctrin's o' the churches," but the hopes of Eternal Life, which, secretly in the hearts of all men, help to overcome. THE AUTHOR. TO MY DAUGHTERS IRVING A CLAIRE AND ADRIELLE JEANNE SONS OF ELOHIM CHAPTER I THE POPPY GIRL Osmond's mare stumbled, throwing him rather hard to the ground. Dick Swallow, close behind on Jack's mustang, checked up short, just missing the same gopher hole. "Chloe's lamed herself," said Jack, testing the mare a rod or so by the rein. "I'll go back for the cayuse, and overtake you before you hit the beach." Dick, new in the saddle, pushed on in a reckless gallop toward The Trail which, at that time wild and rough, wound southwestwardly from the Presidio to the sea. Rounding a high sand ridge, a great field of California poppies burst upon him, their red-gold flame stretching out against back waves of sagebrush and chaparral ; and right in the heart of this sea of green and gold, was a girl in a green dress, with a yellow cap caught at her neck with yellow ribbons and hanging below a mass of blue-black hair. One arm held a bunch of pulled flowers, still wet with dew ; and as she passed on toward a small black horse, nibbling at the bunch grass, nearby, she paused, now and then, to whistle back to the birds. Dick came to a quick stop, and sat watching her. 12 SONS OF ELOHIM She was certainly young, probably seventeen, pleas- ingly small, and, except for the wealth of black hair, she might have seemed a part of the poppy field, itself. She was holding some of the blossoms to her lips. Presently, she raised her head toward the light, growing brighter and yellower in the Eastern sky, and began to sing. No words were distinguishable, only a series of bird- like trills. She paused a moment, quiet, and from a distance came the call of a field bird, a challenge to the singer who had disturbed her nest. Instantly, went back an answer from the girl's lips, so nearly perfect, the bird rose from a clump of sage- brush and circled round her. Dick clapped his hands, approvingly, whereupon she stopped, abruptly, gave him only a quick glance, and went on. He let his pony poke along to the side of the other, leaped to the ground, and waited for her to come up. "Will you pardon me for stopping at such a pretty picture?" he asked. "You had me guessing, and the birds, as well. But will you tell me if this trail goes to the seashore?" The girl slipped a hand through the loop of a quirt, dangling from the saddle horn, and turned to look at him a moment from long black lashes. He saw that her eyes were bright, and as black as her hair. Before he could assist her, she had a foot in stirrup and sprang into her saddle. The poppies, held against her bosom, deepened the red in her cheeks ; and, as she swung her pony around to his side, Dick had a sudden, selfish hope that Jack wouldn't find his cayuse. He wasn't ready to share a find like this, even with a college chum. THE POPPY GIRL 13 "Mon Dieu! Mais vous me faites rirel'she exclaimed, with a burst of laughter. So monsieur has lost his way?" Dick's knowledge of French was limited, and he was glad she spoke English, too. "I am glad madamoiselle is so amused at my help- lessness," he answered. "But this sudden, glorious pic- ture of madamoiselle among the other flowers, has made me forget everything." His words seemed to please her. With girlish im- pudence she showered the poppies upon his bared head. "You should know that all these trails go to the sea," she laughed. "There is no other place to go, monsieur, these early mornings." "And you are going there, madamoiselle Have pity upon a lost soul, and take me with you." She studied him a moment. "Yes, you may come with me, if you want to," she said, turning her pony southward. "Wait!" he called after her. "Don't you want these flowers ?" "Oh, we'll gather some more when we come back." Her horse, urged by a sharp sting of the quirt, bounded ahead. Leaping into his saddle, Dick caught up with her, and their ponies galloped, neck to neck, down the trail. "Do you live near here?" he asked, when they had slowed down to a gait that enabled him to get his breath. "Mais, non! I live in the city. I ran off to get a whole day, alone." "I'm an intruder, then, n'est ce pas, madamoiselle?" "Oh, well, if I don't like you, I'll send you on your 14 SONS OF ELOHIM way," she smiled. She struck at his horse with her whip, and again they were going swiftly along the trail. "Voila! The great ocean!" she cried. The Pacific lay before them in grandeur, challenging the clear blue of the morning sky. "Beautiful! Grand!" said he. "What a wonderful thing is the sea." "But I'm hungry," said the girl. "I've brought a bite of lunch with me. Have you?" Dick shook his head. "Not a thing." "Then I will divide with you, monsieur, such as I have to give." She slipped from her pony, and Dick followed. "Let's sit here in the sand," she said, untying the parcel she had produced from somewhere. She handed him a sandwich. "No," he said, "I'm not hungry." "Oh, take it ! take it ! and we'll get luncheon at some ranch on the way back." She threw herself upon the sand. "Let's pretend we're shipwrecked," said Dick, after he had tied the horses to a half buried spar and stretched himself beside her. "And this is an island, thousands of miles way out there in the ocean," said she. "I'm curious about you," said Dick. "You're dif- ferent from other girls Eastern girls. I'm from New Hampshire." "Where's that?" "Why, you know, New Hampshire, one of the New England states." "Oh, yes, I met a man who was from there, from THE POPPY GIRL 15 London, he said. It's a big city, bigger than Frisco, isn't it?" "Not England, New England." "Oh, pardonne, mon ami. And why are you here?" "Good Fortune is my good friend sometimes. I was out for an early ride, and I found you." She flashed him a look from her dark eyes. "I meant, why are you so far from home, little boy?" "The Goddess of Fate with heart of stone, sent me westward. But now I am grateful to her." The girl did not seem to understand. "How did you know I was coming here?" she asked, absently. He laughed. "You are interesting, madamoiselle. You brought me here, your own little self. But now, if you want to be alone, I can go back." He pretended to be in earnest, but she pulled him down beside her. "Oh, I like you or I think I shall," she said, bending over to scoop up a handful of sand. "Yes, I think I shall like you." He watched her silently a moment, as she hummed to herself the song she was singing in the poppy field. "Will you sing that for me? just as though you were all alone and only the birds were listening." "It is 'The Mocking Bird,' but I do not know the words. I hear them singing it at the where I live. But I love the birds. Do you see that meadowlark over on that tree?" He saw no meadowlark, nor any tree, where she pointed, but, as he looked, she puckered her lips and sent forth a remarkable imitation of these meadow birds. "Now, over there, is another, and he will answer." 16 SONS OF ELOHIM This time the sound from her lips seemed farther away. Then, as he listened, in wonderment, she imitated the robin, and the cat^bird, and the whippoorvrill. "Marvelous!" he cried. "How did you ever learn to do that?" "When I was a little girl I lived among the birds. They were my only playmates besides the field mice, and the snakes." "Snakes! Are you a snake charmer, madatnoiselle?" She smiled; then half closed her eyes, and laughed, metallically. "The snakes I charm, now, are not so harmless as the little ones of my childhood days." He waited for her to go on; but, instead, she let her fingers play, listlessly, in the sand. Presently, she raised her eyes and regarded him, curiously. "Well?" she questioned. "I was wondering " "About my snakes?" "About you. You have so many different selves, and they all speak with the same eyes. Your eyes are beautiful, madamoiselle. California should be glad if there are many girls here like you." "And I thought you were going to be so different from other men." There was a touch of disappointment in her voice. "It is not my eyes you are thinking about. You are wondering who I am, and just how you can get me to like you, and whether there is someone else I belong to and a lot of other things." Dick flushed. "I was thinking something like that," he admitted. "I was guessing " THE POPPY GIRL 17 "And what were you guessing, monsieur?" "That you are an only daughter, and you've always had your own way; and you're at a seminary here, in Frisco, with a lot of girls you don't like; and you wish you could run away and never go back." She let her chin fall into her cupped hands and looked off over the blue water. "You are right in a way," she said, slowly. "I don't like the girls and I do wish sometimes I could ride away way off, thousands and thousands and thou- sands of miles, and never come back. Days like these when the air is full of voices calling you " "Birds, and poppies?" he suggested. "Yes," she said, her eyes brightening again, "but you're a man ; you can't understand." "Oh, I guessed that much; and you were talking back to the poppies, and answering the birds." "But there's something you haven't guessed," she said, in a serious tone. "I am dreadfully selfish. I don't think of anyone else, at all. I do have about everything I wish, and I can do about as I please. None of the other girls has a pony. They never get away for a whole day, as I do." "No, you haven't proved your case," said he. "You're not selfish, for you've divided your last bite with a hungry stranger; and you're giving him a part of a happy day you'd set aside for yourself." She laughed up into his eyes. "You foolish boy!" said she, with a warm touch of confidence, "I'm not giving up anything; and I'm glad you came. I am really beginning to like you." "Tell me about your school," he urged, "what you 18 SONS OF ELOHIM are studying, and what you are going to do when you're through ?" She smiled, peculiarly. "Oh, let us talk about something more interesting than that," she said. "Tell me about yourself." "About me there's not one interesting thing," said Dick. "My name is Richard Swallow commonly called Dick; and I'm just from college where I flunked, too, in a way, but I'll not finish, now. I'm visiting a friend here, at Frisco, Jack Osmond, who was my roommate at college. Then, I'm off to carve my name and fame in the sands of Washington. I have a brother-in-law there, Burke Channing, with a big ranch. He married my sister, Martha; and the gov'nor says if I'll settle down he'll start me in something. Dad's a preacher, back home, and he says I'm going to be an exception to the general rule." "And what is the general rule?" "That a parson's son usually goes the same direction as whistling girls and crowing hens." "And where is that?" she asked, opening wide her eyes. "To the devil!" "Oh !" she said, with a burst of laughter, falling back and rolling over full length in the sand, one foot poised in the air. "I am a whistling girl, and you're a preacher's son." "I hadn't thought of that," he said. "For once in my life I'm glad I am a. preacher's son. We are on the same trail." "But you're going to be an exception to the rule." "Suppose," said Dick, half seriously, "suppose you THE POPPY GIRL 19 run away and go to Washington, too. We would both be safe/' "No," she said, quizzing the look in his eyes, "the devil would follow us there. He'd get us both. But, really, when are you going north?" "Not for a long time, now, I think. Am I going to see you again?" She formed an hour-glass with her hands and spilled the fine sand slowly through her fingers. "May I call at the school this evening?" he asked, after waiting for her to speak. "No, no, you can't do that!" she cried, hastily. "You see I I am not supposed to know any any strangers. I might not get out again alone." The toes of her riding boots were, alternately, pecking the sand. "Then will you meet me again, tomorrow, for a ride ?" "I can do that say at the same poppy field. But you must promise me you will never try to find me in the city. Will you promise?" "If I have to, yes. But I'd like to take you to a show, or somewhere. Can't we compromise a little?" She shook her head, convincingly. "It'll be more fun, this way," she urged. "Let's play there's a great mystery about us, and that someone is trying to find out; and we've a great secret between just us two." She clapped her hands gleefully. Dick's heart was beating, rapidly. "Make it a little earlier, then. You'll have to be back for your lessons. Why not make it in the evening?" "No, no. I couldn't make it any other time, honestly I can't. But, maybe next Sunday, if you are here till then, we can go way out into the real country, where there's a river, and birds, and field mice, and " 20 SONS OF ELOHIM "And snakes," he reminded her; "and perhaps the devil." "A man told me once," said she, "that the devil is a great serpent going about the world to swallow people. He was, I think the girls said, a preacher. 'Did you ever see him?' I asked. 'No,' said he, 'You can't see him. You only see where he's been.' 'Well,' said I, Tm not afraid of him; for I played with little ones when I was knee high to a grasshopper.' I meant little snakes ; but, of course, he didn't know that." "You're a wonder!" Dick exclaimed. "If I had known you were here, I'd have come West long ago. God knows, I wish I had!" The quick change in his voice brought her eyes to his. "What was it?" she asked, low-voiced and suddenly sympathetic. "Oh, it's all over, now. Nothing I can tell you about, really. I've come West to forget it 'to redeem' myself, Dad says. But, you see, I was a preacher's son." A womanly expression came into the girl's eyes as she studied his face. He was smooth-shaven, with a fair skin, blue eyes, and wavy brown hair, wind-tossed about his temples; rather good looking. Even to her, scarcely more than a girl, and unsophisticated, as he thought her, his sensual lips and slightly receding chin confirmed his intimation. She was sorry for him. He saw it in her eyes. "Don't pity me," he said. "I can pay the price." Neither spoke for a moment or two. "Isn't life a dreadful thing, anyway?" she began, again taking up little handfuls of sand and letting it spill through her fingers. "There is so much planning to do THE POPPY GIRL 21 things and never a chance. I have strange longings, at times, but I never tell them to anyone. I have thought that the greatest thing in life would be, to see the worst man in all the world become the best man in the world and feel that I had something to do with it." "Or the worst woman become the best," Dick amended. "I don't think about women. I don't know any I would call good. I've hated women. But isn't life a queer thing?" "It certainly is," he agreed. "And one of the queer things about my life is, that I get hungry. Can't we find a place to get some breakfast near here, some- where ?" "There's a ranch within half an hour's ride, where I stop, occasionally, on the North Trail, not much out of our way back." They shook the sand out of their clothes, mounted the ponies and rode north along the hard, smooth beach. The sun was high and hot over the California sands when Dick and the girl had finished luncheon and started cityward. When they reached San Miguel, she drew rein. "You have only to follow this road, now, and you'll not get lost. I am going to leave you here. Au revoir, monsieur." Before he could stop her she had pulled off into the sagebrush and was galloping swiftly over the wasteland. CHAPTER II A CRADLE OF THE RANGE Dick was at the poppy field before the sun showed over the Eastern highlands, but the girl was already there, and had gathered a great armful of flowers. When she saw him, she threw the poppies to the ground, and waved a greeting. She was dressed in a squaw skirt of buckskin, with breeches and leggings. Binding her hair was a band of red and yellow beads. One white, slender feather curved across a temple. Her ears were hidden by loops of hair, brought forward and netted close; while turquoise ear- rings dangled almost to her shoulders. About her waist was a silken sash of Mexican make, woven in many colors. She waited for him, and then, with a quick spring, was astride her pony, challenging him to overtake her. "Why do you pick all those flowers, only to throw them away?" Dick queried, when they were sprawled out on the ocean sand, with a tempting breakfast spread out before them egg sandwiches, olives, and grapes, that he had stuffed into the saddle pouch, and to which she had added two or three pickles, some cakes, and some Chinese nuts. A CRADLE OF THE RANGE 23 She took the few blossoms from her sash and pressed them to her cheek, caressingly. "They have been naughty, of late," she said. "I have asked them for something I want very much, and the fairies do not come." "I don't understand," he said. "These are my childhood friends of long ago," she said, smiling at his bewilderment. "I was born in a big tent, in the Western desert, and the first thing I saw, to remember, was a poppy field." "Born in a tent?" he asked, wonderingly. "My father was a railroad builder. They were build- ing the Central Pacific to Sacramento. One day the camp was moved, and we settled beside a great field of poppies. My mother had died all alone, in that old tent, miles and miles from a town or a house ; only sand and sagebrush, and snakes, and mice. Maman had told me about these poppy fields, for she had lived here in Frisco, when a girl, and had a pony, just as I have. I think my father was kind to her. It was after he took Mary that he began to drink." "Took Mary?" said Dick, perplexedly. "Mary was the camp cook when maman died. Then she became my mother. Mon Dieu! but I hated her. She was big and rough and ugh ! the smell always of grease and smoke. She would call me awful names. Then I remembered how maman had said, when she was a girl she would tell the poppies what she wanted most, and the poppies would send the fairies to do every- thing for her. So, afterward, when I wanted to cry, I told my poppies that I hated Mary, and the old tent, and everybody everyone but daddy and I told them the things I wanted to do." 24 SONS OF ELOHIM "And of course the fairies came?" She glanced up sharply. He was laughing, but she went on, seriously. "They didn't do the things to Mary, I asked them to, but they brought Tom." "Tom?" said Dick, inquiringly. "Tom Payne was a young engineer, who came to work for daddy. He had been everywhere, all over the world, I guess. He told me about the big cities, and about the stores, and school houses. He taught me to read, and to write. We had no pencils or ink, but we wrote in the sand. And then Tom went away." "Oh, then he went away," said Dick, relieved. "I never saw him again, but I missed him so much, I hated Mary, and the old tent, more than ever. I told my poppies I was going to run away from home. And the next day daddy said, 'Midget, I am going to take you away to school.' " "And is that your name 'Midget?'" "Daddy always called me that, but maman had named me, Nanette." "And you went to school ?" "Mon Dieu, no. He put me in a convent." "So you are in a convent," said Dick, not knowing whether to feel sorry or glad. "Mon Dieu, I am not! I hate them all, the sisters, and the priests, that were always watching me. They took away the pretty clothes daddy bought for me and then they sold Goalie." "Goalie?" "My pony. That is, they thought they had ; but I jumped on his back and rode away. I never saw the convent again." A CRADLE OF THE RANGE 25 "You're a wonder!" said Dick, admiringly. She smiled at 'his boyishness. "Why did they sell your pony?" "I had been there six months and they told me daddy had paid for only three. He had never come back." "And you have never seen him, since?" "No." "Poor little girl !" said Dick, putting a hand over her's. "Then where did you go after you ran away?" "The man, who had bought my pony, overtook me. I told him why I ran away how they had taken all my pretty things how I had to black shoes and scrub the floors and how I hated them!" "And he brought you here, to a seminary ? That was fine!" She looked out over the sea to the sail of a coast- line schooner, making headway, slowly, before the morn- ing breeze. "He has been very good to me," she said, slowly. "He was sorry for me, I guess; and he said it was the best thing he ever did, when he found me. He is in Japan, now." "But, Nanette, you are not happy," said Dick, recall- ing her words of the day before. "Oh, yes, I am in a way. They are all good to me. I have everything pretty I wish to buy, and don't have to do any work, unless I want to help. And that reminds me, we haven't touched our sandwiches, and I am just dying for one of those pickles." For a long time they lay there in the sand, the girl telling of incidents in the camp life of her childhood, of the Mexicans, and of the wild riding of the Indians ; and Dick, of college life, and of stories he had read. He told 26 SONS OF ELOHIM her the story of Hiawatha and Minnehaha, reciting some of the lines. "Oh, how wonderful to know all these things!" she exclaimed. "All my life I have craved to know things, and to do something something, you know, that would always make me feel, afterward, I had done my part. Don't you think that everyone is born for some purpose? It is when I get these thoughts I feel like running away to some other part of the world, millions of miles " "That would take you all the way to the moon," said Dick. "And there's a man, there, they say." "There must be a woman in the moon, too," said she. "What makes you think so?" "The man would have left, long ago." "You are right, Minnehaha, wise little maiden of the poppy field. Whisper to your fairies, and ask them if I can carry you away to a wigwam in the Northland." "In your little birch canoe. Oh! Hiawatha, young chief of the Yahkimas ! Aren't we foolish but it's fun, isn't it? I shall think of Hiawatha every time I wear this dress again. It was given me by an Indian boy, poor fellow." "Why 'poor fellow?'" "He, too, one night wanted me to run away. The next day they found his body in the bay. They told me he had shot himself. But I think he was killed. Why should a man kill himself for any girl. Anyway, I hadn't told him I wouldn't go." "Why should anyone kill him?" asked Dick. Nanette shrugged her shoulders. "Maybe he had an enemy. In Frisco some one is killed, everyday. No one ever knows why. Is it like that in England?" A CRADLE OF THE RANGE 27 "In New England! England is way across the Atlantic." "What's the Atlantic?" she asked. "Why, don't you know ? don't you take Geography ?" She shook her head. "At the convent they taught a lot of things; but I wouldn't try to remember. It was mostly about God, and Christ, and 'Blessed Mary.' Mon Dieu! I was scared, at first, every time Sister Agnes said anything about Mary. I thought she meant Mary, the cook, my lather took, after mother died." "I guess you're a little pagan," said Dick. "I guess I am whatever that is," said Nanette. "Is it something awfully bad?" "No," said Dick. "It is a kind of girl I always wanted to find. The girls I knew were all church girls." "I never have been in a real church," said she. "But I think we had better start back now. I have a lot to do today." A little later, on their ride back, Dick drew up at their meeting place. "I wonder if I could coax your fairies to bring me the good luck they brought to you," he said. "I'm going to tell the poppies something I want more than anything else in the world. "Not now, silly boy," said she. "It's only in the night the fairies come and they leave with the dew at dawn. But I'm late, and must ride fast. Tomorrow, Monsieur Dick?" "I'll be here first," said Dick. "Au revoir, monsieur." She dug her moccasined heels in Goalie's sides and galloped away. CHAPTER III SENOR MIRANDO During the fortnight that followed, Dick and Nanette were together, almost daily. Sunday had been spent at the little adobe ranch-house, where they had breakfasted the first day. He had taken from the Osmond library a copy of Tennyson's "Idylls of the King," and read to her of Arthur and the Round Table, of Enid and Geraint, and of Lancelot and Guinivere. Dick read well, and, to the girl, the story of kingly love and courageous knights was real. She seemed to live with them, as he read, and the changing expression of her eyes had offered to one more observing than he evidence of deep emotion, sympathy and indignation, blending into intense desire. Another day he read the "Merchant of Venice." It was a new style of literature for her, and she did not grasp it readily. But when he had finished, she remained quiet for sometime. "I wonder just how it feels to know that you have saved someone's life?" she asked. "There are days when I seem to be someone other than myself as though I had once lived before, and had accomplished great things. Sometimes, when I hear of some great thing a girl has SENOR MIRANDO 29 done, it seems as though I was that girl, and I had done it. Do you think we ever did live before, Dick?" He laughed at her seriousness. His heart had never held deep thoughts, nor had philosophy ever appealed to him. "Theosophists believe they have lived before as some other person, or will live again, as a bird or animal," said he. "That would be a silly thing for whoever is running this world to do. It would be like working a hundred years to build a house, then tear it down and build it into a barn." "But," said Dick, "if a person doesn't live right, in this life, he may become a cat or a monkey as a punish- ment, these people claim." Nanette shook her head. "I'll never believe that; for who is to say what is right or wrong? It is only when we realize we have hurt someone that we know we have done wrong. But it wasn't our fault. We are sorry, and say we'll never do it again. Then we do something else, and are sorry for that. No one lives right all the time, and wby shouldn't everyone become a cat, or a monkey? If I had a hand in these things I would want to give every- one greater lives to live next time if there was to be any next time." "Well, don't let us get to worrying about that, Miss Sober Face," Dick said, laughingly. And she laughed with him. So this day, and the next, and others following, brought them nearer to the parting hour. Dick was wildly in love with Nanette. He was sure of this. He was not sure just how it was to work out. 30 SONS OF ELOHIM He prolonged his visit at the Osmond's, and thought himself quite clever in concealing the real cause for not going north ; and each day found him less inclined to go. She attracted him in a different way from any other girl he had known. She was childishly confidential. Her very frankness freed her from any trace of boldness. And she really was filling up some of the rifts in his own nature with ambitious desires. He wondered just what Martha would say if he were to bring Nanette to Washington as his wife. A letter from his sister had told him Channing would be at The Dalles on business at the time he should reach there, if he started immediately. This last morning Nanette was late, and he was fear- ful that something had happened. He rode back up the trail and met her, riding hard. "I couldn't get away," she said. "Senor Mirando returned yesterday." "Nanette! You are not looking like yourself," said Dick, drawing his horse close to hers. "I didn't sleep a wink, all the night long,," she said. "I pretended to be sick, locked myself in my room, and just couldn't go to sleep." He put his hand on her pony's neck. "Let's run away!" he said. At his sudden eagerness, a smile drove some of the worry from her face. "Where would we go?" she asked. "To Washington!" "Oh, Dick!" she cried, a frightened look coming into her eyes. "Come, Nanette, let us go, now now!" He took her hand, resting on the pommel of her saddle. SENOR MIRANDO 31 Nanette leaned forward, staring at her pony's mane. "I must go tomorrow, Nanette. I can't leave you now, dear. You have never had a real home. I don't know just how we are to do it, but I know we can work it out, some way. Will you, dear? Will you come?" "Oh, Dick! If we could." "We can, Nanette. We can ! We can !" "Oh, Dick!" She was looking straight into his face now, and he saw in her eyes the wonder of hope. "Nanette, by darling! My darling! Come with me." The pressure of his hand aroused her. The light died out. Her face went white. "No, Dick, I can't do it," she whispered. "I cannot tell you why, but it cannot be." She tried to pull her hand away. He saw her teeth shut tight. "Listen, Nanette ! Listen, dear ! I love you ! I want you! You must come! Oh, you must come! You must !" He leaned from his saddle and put an arm about her. She shook her head. "Nanette! Nanette!" he cried. "I cannot give you up, now." Again she shook her head, her teeth still clenched. But he saw the tears corning. "Nanette, darling! You love me! I know it! I know it ! Tell me you do ! Tell me ! Say you will go !" "Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!" she screamed. "I cannot tell you that. I have no right to tell you that! but I do! I do! I didn't know it until last night. Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! What shall I say?" He drew her toward him, to kiss her, but she forced a hand between her lips and his. 32 SONS OF ELOHIM "You are mine, now!" he cried, fiercely. "You shall go with me. Nothing on God's earth shall take you from me now!" She gasped, and pulled the lace at her throat. He loosened his hold. With a sudden movement she balanced herself in the saddle. Then, with the quirt, which hung from her wrist, she struck his horse a cruel blow. The mustang reared and plunged sideways, throwing him to the ground. Then she cut the whip into Goalie's flank, and went through the chaparral like the wind, the mustang, riderless, galloping after. CHAPTER IV CREATURES OF CIRCUMSTANCE "Well, Richard, where've you been for three whole days?" Jack Osmond had spied Dick, just as the latter had taken a seat at another table, in the Parker House cafe. Dick's face was haggard, and so dejected his look, Osmond burst out laughing. "For heaven's sake, boy, what's the matter?" "It's a long story, Jack," he answered, with a sickly smile. "Sit down here and I'll tell you about it." "Have you lost the girl?" "What do you know about her?" he cried. His friend laughed, unproariously. "Nothing, old chap, absolutely. Only I knew, long ago, you must be caught with petticoats somewhere. Those early rides, you know, my boy; and then I used to know you at college, didn't I, eh? Now tell me all about it." He sat down with Dick and began looking over the menu. Jack Osmond was much like Dick, eyes and hair, irresolute, and slightly smaller in stature. He had been in the Eastern college longer and was, perhaps, more matured. 34 SONS OF ELOHIM This evening, as he sat beside his friend and listened to his story of the girl Dick had met, had fallen in love with, and then had lost, there was less of the sympa- thetic interest in his face than had been there two years before. There was a cynical, sinister expression reveal- ing a man of the world in development. Tonight this contrasted more strongly with his friend's boyishness as Dick told of the days he had been haunting schools and convents, city streets and country lanes in vain for a sight of the girl who had come into his life so sud- denly and, as he thought, providentially, only to disap- pear, and leave him miserable, indeed. "Well, cheer up, Richard, he said, slapping him on the shoulder. "Next week we're off for a hunt in the mountains, and you will forget your troubles. Have you anything on for tonight?" Dick shook his head. "A friend of mine just back from the Orient is to meet me here, right now. Here he comes. Wait, we'll dine together." Jack introduced his friend. Larrabie -Harding was quite the opposite of the other two, tall, well-made, dark, and good looking. Determi- nation flashed in his fascinating, black eyes, and there was a suggestion of animal strength in his cheek and chin, of pitilessness in the white teeth, exposed often by a peculiar twitching movement of his lips when he laughed. Harding had told Osmond little about himself. How- ever, since meeting him two years before on board ship from Japan, he had proved a congenial fellow, and the two had struck up quite a friendship. CREATURES OF CIRCUMSTANCES 35 "Our friend, here, seems to be out of spirits tonight," he said, turning, inquisitively, to Dick. "He's sick about a girl he met in a poppy-field. Saw her every day for a fortnight, then, presto, she disap- pears. Doesn't even know her name. I'm going to take him with me up to the woods next week. After one or two encounters with big game, he'll forget the birds." "Well," said Harding, "I can show you some city birds that should make you lose interest in mountain game. Fresh from Japan, slant-eyed and sweet, fragrant with the odor of cherry blossoms. Will you take a look?" Osmond turned to Dick. "What do you say, old man?" Dick shrugged his shoulders. "Some fellows I know just got in on the Brigadier," Harding went on. "They're going to join me here, shortly. They are lousy with gold, and crazy to spend it." They were nearly through supper when two of the men entered the cafe and joined them. "What'll it be?" asked one of them, tapping Dick's empty glass. He was a larger man than Harding, brown from travel, and with a repulsive scar across his left cheek. "Whiskey for me," said Osmond. Dick nodded. The other stranger, tall and also sun-browned, took a seat opposite Dick. He was lame. Evidently each car- ried a wound of some adventure. "Waiter, bring us a bottle of red-eye," ordered the man with the scar. Jack left the table for a few moments, and Dick, who had been glancing over the evening paper, heard the men conversing in French. Since meeting Nanette he had been brushing up his knowledge of that language, and 36 SONS OF ELOHIM now understood enough to know they had landed a con- traband cargo somewhere along the coast. The thought that Harding was a smuggler startled him. He wondered if Jack knew. He resolved to stay with them and see what he might learn. An hour later they left the hotel. About midnight Harding led the party to a three- story, brilliantly lighted building, near Portsmouth Square. It was a notorious gambling house, one of many owned or operated frequently by some of the very men who made laws to suppress them. Loud laughter mingled with the rattle of chips and whirling of roulette wheels as Harding drew back the portiers and ushered his companions into a luxuriantly furnished room. A sense of languorous, oriental ease was heightened by the smoke of burning joss sticks. Rich draperies hung at doors and windows, and gave off heavy, sensuous odors, as they were moved by the night breezes. Japanese girls, in native attire, flitted about at the ringing of bells; while, through a half- draped arch a company of men, in an adjoining room, partly obscured by tobacco smoke, were seen recklessly tossing gold pieces upon a long, green table. From some- where came the sound of negro voices. Weird and plaintive, without accompaniment of banjo or guitar, they sang, "For de angels am a comin', dere harps we'll hear a strummin', When we all go way up yondah, in de oV silber moon." A woman, prematurely age-lined, her cheeks painted, and her bosom flashing with jewels, came forward and greeted Harding, familiarly. He introduced her as "Madame Gorgen." CREATURES OF CIRCUMSTANCES 37 "Where's my little one?" he asked. "She still refuses to come down," said the madame. "She is really sick, I fear, for she is looking bad." Hard- ing's eyes grew hard. "I'll bring her down. See that my friends have a good time." Dick, at his shoulder, half intoxicated, heard him whisper that they had come to spend the night and, incidentally, a lot of money. She nodded, knowingly, and Harding left the room. His companions already had made themselves at home. Several Japanese girls, in gaudy silk kimonas, slipped in through draped entrances. The madame sat down at the piano. She beckoned to Swallow, who went to her side. "How do you like San Francisco?" she asked, her practised eye having told her at once that he was a stranger. "I'm tired of it," he answered. "I shall not stay here longer than tomorrow." "And then?" "I am going to Washington." He began to tell her, in a manner made foolishly confidential by liquor, why he had come west. Suddenly she stopped playing. Harding had come back, and stood in the doorway with his arm about a young girl, in a yellow dress, scarcely reaching her knees, black stockings and yellow, tasseled slippers. Her white neck and shoulders were partly shielded by a mass of black hair. "Gentlemen," he said, "this is Nanette." All turned toward her except Swallow, who was talk- ing on in a rambling manner to the woman; but the 38 SONS OF ELOHIM girl had recognized him. She caught at the curtain and turned to leave. Harding's arm tightened about her. "Let me go; oh, please let me go," she said, plead- ingly. "I am not well ask them, please, to excuse me." She had spoken in a low tone, but the familiar voice penetrated Swallow's drunken senses. He whirled about. "Nanette !" he cried. "My God ! What are you doing here?" The girl had quickly recovered. She drew herself up, haughtily, and looked him straight in the eyes. "And you, you! What are you doing here?" Her voice, trembling with emotion, rang out sharply on the last word. Dick was sober, now. He started toward her; then drew back and rubbed his eyes. His lips moved, but he said nothing. For a moment the room was very still; then he broke into a loud laugh. "It's all a joke, fellows!" he cried, his voice high- pitched. "It's only a joke! Fill up the glasses, every- body ! And we'll all drink to Nanette, and to the teach- ers and professors, and to all the girls in the seminary." "Just a moment," said Harding. "Nanette is to do a little dance for us. Come, ma petite, you must enter- tain my friends." He attempted to lead her into the room. She was marble white. The piteousness had left her face. "Not tonight," she said, firmly, slipping out of his arm. "I cannot dance tonight. I am going upstairs." No one stopped her. She walked out into the hall and ascended the stairs. When she reached the landing she turned. Dick Swallow, his hat crushed in his hand, CREATURES OF "CIRCUMSTANCES 39 stood in the hall looking after her. She watched him until he pulled open the door and stumbled out into the street. Then she went, wearily, to her room, entered, turned the key and sank, a yellow heap, to the floor. She did not cry ; she only lay there, limp and motion- less. Rays of moonlight filtered through the lace cur- tains, caressing her tumbled hair like fairy wands, call- ing her back to the days of childish hopes and innocence. * * * * * There is a smell of sage and chaparral. Little field mice scamper here and there playfully, not fearing. In the distance, a big tent, dirt-stained; and ropes, laden with things drying in the sun. A roughly-dressed woman, bent over a tub, washing, careful not to waste the precious water. The scent of the sage is gone. There's a stench of smoke and grease, as the woman turns about, and a coarse voice screams, "Hey, you ! Where ye bin ? Peel them spuds, this minnit. Don't ye see the shadders? Git to work, you!" Teams, uncountable teams, hitched to great iron scoops, drag wearily through the sand, piling ridges of yellow earth for miles and miles. From the chaparral comes the call of a meadowlark. Again and again it pierces the afternoon air, calling her back to play. She puckers her lips to answer, but the woman wheels about to hang a wet garment on the rope; and, instead, her eyes go back to the bucket of spuds at her feet. She is only a child. Her hands are small and brown, as are the well-turned wrists, working energetically to fill a great iron kettle with peeled potatoes. She does not know she is pretty. She knows only that her eyes are 40 SONS OF ELOHIM large and always wanting something. And her face is brown, like her hands what she can see of it in the mirror that had been her mother's, now broken, and but partly there not large enough to frame all her bushy, black curls. A cloud of dust, in the distance, catches her stealthy glance and out of the dust comes a big white horse with a large man on his back. In great leaps he comes, straight to the tent, and to her. Daddy! Daddy!" she cries, throwing her knife and pan of parings to the ground. "Yes, yes, Midget, I'm home agin, an' it's glad I am to be back. How've ye been behavin', gal, these three last days?" He is on the ground, leaving the horse to care for himself; he sits on a nail keg, beside the tent, and she climbs on his knee. "Daddy, I want something very, very much. Can I have it, daddy ?" She pats his rough face, and he softens at the pressure of the slender arm about his neck. "Not another pony, is it, Midget? Shure ye haven't given up findin' Goalie yet?" "No, daddy. He was brought back yesterday by a boy from Bartlett's ranch." "What is it, child, ye want now, then?" "I want an education, daddy." "And' where'll I be buyin' ye an eddycashun, gal ?" "At a big schoolhouse somewhere, daddy, like Tom told me about." "Wall, wall, child, I'll see. An' now git back to them spuds, fer it'll soon be time fer the men." They are leaving the camp, the rough, big, good- CREATURES OF CIRCUMSTANCES 41 natured man on his white horse, and she on Goalie's back, on the way to learn some of the wonderful things of the world. The convent the black-robed women the black- frocked priests the coarse shoes and plain dresses the months of pain, of home-longing, of hate in her heart. "We have sold your pony!" No, no, not Goalie! It can't be ! It shan't be that ! On his back barefooted bareheaded, hardly any clothes but away they ride, never to go back. Anywhere, anywhere, but never back there. Then the man, dark, handsome, smiling at her, his teeth wonderfully white and even, behind those twitch- ing lips. And kindness, gentleness, the first in her life. Money to buy whatever she likes. Pretty clothes, thick, soft carpets, curtains of lace, earrings, bracelets, rings that flash in the light as the fishes flashed their speckled sides in the sunlit brooks where the men went for water for the camp. And music ! the weird, plaintive melo- dies of the negro singers, stirring her with a strange feeling of sympathy and new desire and the poppy field and the great blue water stretching out to other lands thousands of miles away and Someone shook the door, then tried a key in the lock. She lifted her head and listened. The door was pushed hard ; but the bolt held, and she heard steps going away. Again all was quiet. She rose and went to the window. The moon had gone out of the sky ; the darkest hour of night was over the city, the hour of dark deeds, of blacker crimes in the black haunts of men. It had been such a beautiful dream, when he thought her a school girl! How gloriously wonderful the world 42 SONS OF ELOHIM became, as they talked of life's possibilities, improbable as they had seemed to her; and of great cities beyond the mountains and across the seas, in other lands. How thrilled she had been as he read to her that day of a great and good king who had never done wrong, about whose Table Round had gathered fair women and brave men men who cared for life only that they might give it freely for some woman's love. She recalled the story of Guinivere, 'King Arthur's queen, her pity for the king, her indignation and horror as she learned of a woman's faithlessness. She did not understand it all, perfectly, but she had cried out making him smile at her earnestness that this queen was a wicked, wicked woman, this Guinivere, who had turned away from the love of a great, good king, to become well, she had felt, herself, that she had rather died. Yes, in those days, when the curtain of a different and unthought life had been lifted for a moment, she had forgotten herself, her hopelessness and her helplessness. Then he had asked her to go away with him, to be his wife. Oh, why had that awful something risen up within her that morning when he had told her he loved her a something that crept into her senses, chokingly up into her eyes blotting out the joy of that sudden new-born hope screaming, "You cannot go! You cannot go!" And she had fled, back to this place, to this useless, hated life! She struggled for breath, a' throbbing, dull pain in her throat. Reactively, the pent-up passion burst its bond. She snatched at the gaudy, yellow silk, and tore it from her. She threw it to the floor, under her feet, then put on a dark, plain dress, threw a long cape about her shoulders, and, with her face hidden by the hood, stole cautiously down the stairs, out into the night. CREATURES OF CIRCUMSTANCES 43 She had in mind no destination. She wanted only to get away from the past, to run away once more this time away from the gaudiness, the lights, the revelry from civilization, as she had found it away from it all, and go back to her childhood world, where the great mother, Nature, would give back the birds and the sun- shine, the flowers and the little field mice. She walked mile after mile on through the dark streets, vaguely reasoning that down at the docks were the boats ships that went to some other world. Through the in-creeping mist she saw the red and green flickering lights of the shipping. She could hear the water slapping the wood. Suddenly a form appeared close in front of her. someone had turned the corner, and was almost upon her. She drew back, fearful ; and the man, walking swiftly, his head low, nearly knocked her down. As she cried out, he grasped at her to keep her from falling. Her hood fell away. "Nanette!" It was Dick Swallow. She saw his haggard features dimly in the light of a nearby lamp, and tried to pull away. He tightened his grip on her arm until she gasped from pain. "Nanette! My God! What are you doing here? Where are you going?" "Please let me go!" she choked, "I am going away. I am going to the docks." "No, no! You shall not go. Oh, my God! My God! What does it all mean? Why were you there? I had been looking for you everywhere." He let go of her arms and pressed his temples hard with his hands. 44 SONS OF ELOHIM She went to him and, reaching up, clasped her arms about his neck. "Dick! Oh, Dick! Don't!" she whispered. He pushed her away, fiercely. "Why were you there in that place?" "He took me there." "Who?" "Senor Mirando." "Who is this man Harding?" "Senor Mirando. He has many names. He took me there when I ran away from the convent." "And the seminary?" "Your seminary not mine was there. I did not lie. You would have it so." . "Are you his wife?" "No, Dick, we we were never married." He turned away from her a moment, and staggered against the building. She crept up to him again, and this time he let her hands stay. "And then when you wanted me to run away I couldn't tell you," she whispered. "Oh, why did you come there? Why? Why?" "My God ! Oh, my God !" he cried, piteously. He caught her in his arms. "Oh, Nanette! Nanette! I love you! I love you! You are mine now! You are better better than I am in the sight of God!" He felt her tears on his neck. "Listen, dear!" he, whispered, his lips caressingly touching her hair. "You shall be my wife, and your CREATURES OF CIRCUMSTANCE 45 wish shall come true, Nanette, my darling. The worst man in all the world will be your husband ; and with your help he shall become the best. Kiss me, now, dear." He lifted her face, and their lips met in the purest kiss he had ever known. No better than she. No worse. Just creatures of cir- cumstance, groping through the mysterious purpose of human souls. "Come," he said; and they went back through the night, leaving behind them the lights, and the ships, and the water. CHAPTER V PUBLICANS AND SINNERS The stage coach from The Dalles, drawn by six horses, swung into the main street of Old Town, where, as usual, almost every man, woman and child of the village were waiting its arrival. Burke Channing was there; for part of the year he helped in the store in which was the postoffice, and the opening of the mail, twice a week, was the chief event of the town. Burke was a type of rough, made-to-order ranchmen, browned by the prairie sun, the fierce aspect of his black drooping moustache set at nought by kindly-twinkling, brown eyes. "Hey, Luke!" he yelled to a grizzled rancher, who had limped up to the support of a post. "Got some rheumatiz medicine coming?" Luke spat out a mouthful of tobacco. "Medicine be damned 1" said he, "an' the rheumatiz, too. 'Taint done me nothing but make me poor. I'm sweatin' in the hay now. Jinks Cruppin says it cured him." A large stallion, ridden by a brown-skinned ranger, typical of the cowboy fraternity of those days, came to a halt, front feet striking the air. Then with a snort and a whinnying challenge to a dozen or more lariat-tied PUBLICANS AND SINNERS 47 horses about the door, he pawed the sand. The ranger, twisting to a comfortable position in the saddle, scruti- nized the crowd. "Hello, Billy!" said Burke, coming forward. "Just in time to see our youngster from the states . The kid's married, too some girl in Frisco. Couldn't have known her more'n a week or two. Here they be!" William Carruthers Billy Ki-Ki, as he had been familiarly nicknamed by his associates saw a young woman being helped to earth from the driver's seat by a young man whom Burke was slapping, western-like, on the back. The girl shook out her skirts, adjusted her hat to a proper tilt, and looked around, curiously. Billy's big horse caught her eye. "Oh, Dick, isn't he handsome !" she cried, turning all eyes toward the ranger. And they saw Billy Ki-Ki gasp, his elbow slip from its resting place on the animal's neck, and, with an effort, right himself in the saddle. But Nanette wasn't looking at him. She had run forward, and was patting the stallion's neck. "Oh, you big, black boy !" she cried. Then, glancing up at the ranger, she said, "Will you let me ride him sometime, Mr. Cowman? I've ridden a pony all my life, but I have longed to ride a big, wild horse like this." Billy sat staring at her, speechless; then he heard Burke say, "This is Dick's wife, Billy. Ain't she a wonder?" The crowd laughed. They had all been hit breathless at the impulsive action of Nanette. Burke introduced them to the crowd. "My brother-in-law, men and women, Dick Swallow, from the States. And this frisky little critter is his wife. 48 SONS OF ELOHIM Take a look at her, an' tell me if she ain't some addition to this little old village." Nanette laughed, gaily, as the men pulled off their sombrerros and yelled a greeting. But Billy Ki-Ki, without a word, jerked his rein and, digging a spur in the stallion's flank, bounded away. "Wasn't he funny?" said Nanette, turning to Dick. You'd think he had never seen a woman before." "That's his way," said Burke. "But he's a fine fellow when you get to know him." Luke Waters bit a fresh mouthful from his plug. "Reckon he's seen all too many wimmin folks afore now !" he muttered, and limped into che store. In the crowd was a young woman, fresh-cheeked and pretty, though roughly dressed, whose enraptured eyes had never left Billy Ki-Ki's face. Laura Waters had for years cherished secretly a woman's hope. Once, when she was a child only five years back, for she was now but seventeen Billy had saved her from the fury of a large rattlesnake. Stepping aside, in the chaparral, to let the ranger pass her on the road, she had unknow- ingly disturbed the snake. As she stood watching Billy's approach, suddenly she saw him jerk his shooter from his belt and fire almost directly at her. Startled, she turned to run, but drew back with a scream. There, at her side, the great rattler was writhing and coiling in a death struggle. Billy's aim had been true, and the very fangs of the serpent had been torn away. Since then, whenever Billy visited Luke Waters' ranch to consult him in matters concerning the round-up for Billy had been round-up captain for half a dozen years, and Luke had more horses and cattle on the range than any other one owner Laura had crept in, PUBLICANS AND SINNERS 49 as near as possible, to hear his voice and build up day dreams that never were to come true. Now, watching Billy's face, wondering if he would see her in the crowd, she heard Nanette exclaim, and saw her run to Billy's side. "What'd she say, Miss Raines?" she asked a woman, dwarfed and crooked in back, who was at her side. "She's a brazen hussy ! if she is Martha Channing's sister-in-law!" said the humpback. "Says she, 'What a handsome man!' and goes right up to Billy Ki-Ki and asks him if she can ride his horse." Laura looked at the woman, her lips apart, incred- ulously. "Oh, Miss Raines! You misheard her! You cer- tainly did! No woman could do a thing like that, Mis' Raines." "Humph! I've lived in the States. You don't know what a woman does in the States." Peeved by Laura's incredulity, she pushed her way into the store. Burke took Nanette in his arms and kissed both her cheeks. "You're my sister, little gal," he said, "and I've got to do my duty." He called to a boy standing in the store doorway. "Alec, you see the mail's handed out, and keep your eye peeled on Injun Pete. He's lookin' at them yaller blankets like's he might walk out with one. Tell Nick to drive 'round to the house with them trunks and things." "Where's the baby?" Nanette asked. "Dick said there was a baby." "She's at the house with her ma. Ain't walking yet. Come on, they're waitin' for you." 50 SONS OF ELOHIM Martha came down the path to meet them, baby in her arms. She eyed Nanette curiously, and kissed her. Nanette coaxed the baby to her. "Oo, 'ittle tootsie-wootsie blue-eyes," she said. "I'm your auntie, and oo's going to love me awful lots." "See you're practicing up on baby talk," said Burke, looking at Martha from the corners of his eyes. "Burke's a great pester er Mrs. Swallow." "Nancy Swallow," said Dick. "Nanette" was to be the other girl, the self that was to be forgotten. They had decided upon that on the stage. "You've got a right good name, sister," said Burke. "Ye must 'a picked it out specially to please Martha. That's her favorite name." "And did you name the baby that?" asked Nancy, not daring to look at Dick, for fear she would scream with laughter. "No, we called her Elizabeth Mary Jane, after her two grandmothers," said Martha. "Burke's mother's name was Mary Jane." "If I ever have a baby I shall not call her 'Mary,' that's as sure as I'm knee high to a spring chicken," said Nancy. Burke chuckled. "You didn't beat a chicken by more'n a running chance," said he. "How old be ye, Nancy?" "Seventeen." "Oh, my! Oh, my!" exclaimed Martha. "Whatever could your mother have been thinking about, to let you marry at that age?" "Her name was Mary, and she always had the smell of griddle cakes and bacon, so I left home," said Nancy, her eyes dancing as she looked at Dick. PUBLICANS AND SINNERS 51 Dick, catching his sister's horrified look, quickly explained. "Nancy had no real mother, Martha, since she was a little girl. Her own mother died, and Mary was her stepmother." "Come on in and get off your duds," said Burke, slyly taking Nancy's hand and giving it a squeeze. And little Nanette, on the threshold of wifehood and woman- hood, knew she had found another friend. * * * * * At the same moment a man who had left the stage down in Parker Bottom limped in among the thick brush that edged the river bank a man with a white beard and thick, white hair, in unnatural contrast with his face and hands, browned from oriental suns. He crawled into the welcome shade and lay down. "An' so she skipped married the feller, sure'n hell !" he muttered, with a hoarse laugh, looking off toward Old Town. "Harding'd give something to know what was 'longside o' me all the way from The Dalles. Well, don't know as it's any o' my business if the feller's satisfied; and he knows what he got, that's certain; and she'll be a heap sight better off, I guess." Chuckling softly to himself, he removed his wig, jerked his false beard from his face, and stretched out for a sleep. CHAPTER VI JIM CRAWLEY Down at the postoffice Alec Lattimer was distributing the mail. "Who's Jim Crawley?" he asked, holding up a thick letter in a brown envelope. A large man, with florid face and a crop of bristling, red whiskers, rose from a soap box. Alec recognized him as a newcomer on the stage. He gave him the letter. Crawley sat down and read the several sheets labori- ously. Then he sat staring into space, while others came and went. Presently there was left a group of men arguing over the various problems of pioneer life. Crawley rose and joined them. "Men, my name's Crawley Jim Crawley," said he. "I'd like summat to do. I've just come in, hoping to find good news waitin' me, but this 'ere letter tells me I'm dead broke and busted 'igher'n a kite in 'ot weather. I'm goin' to be desperit 'ard pushed till things hease up a bit. I'd be powerful glad fer a bit o' work that's lasting awhile." "There ye be, Luke," said a lanky rancher, shooting a stream of tobacco juice into a box of sawdust six feet JIM CRAWLEY 53 away. "While ago ye was cussin' fer not being able to git help to separate them thousand sheep." Luke looked Jim over from head to foot. "Can ye ride a horse?" he asked. Jim shook his head. "Honly 'orse I ever 'ad was a saw 'orse, and I haint sot eye on that fer forty year. I've been a miner, mostly, and I can dig." "Well," said Luke, "mebbe I can use ye, even at thet. Last wind we had hereabouts lifted 'bout a hun- dred ton o' sand from my south 60 acres and piled it over 'gainst old Jerkwater's cowbarn. He says I got to move it, or he'll have the law agin me." "How's he make out ye're to blame for that, Luke?" asked Hank Evans, the village cobbler. "Sez as how my cussin' did it. Night afore, Bronson rode in and told me he saw more'n a hundred o' my longhorns over nigh the Reservation ; and Jerk he might 'lowed I had a right to cuss, knowin' as them damn redskins '11 have steer meat till next Christmas." "Wall, Luke, ye got a right to cuss, an' ye got a right to pay fer the damage ye did," said another rancher. But he was the only one to laugh at his wit. "Wat's Jedge Lattimer say about it?" Hank asked. Mr. Lattimer was the notary public, justice and legal adviser for the village, having at one time studied law in the States. Luke turned on Hank. "Wat's it yure Good Book says about lawyers, Hank? Don't it say 'Woe unto 'em,' or suthin like thet? An' ye sendin' me to 'em? Might just as well move thet sand as pay fer lawyers." He turned to Crawley. "Jim Crawley's yer name, hey? Wall, Jim, ye can crawl 'long 54 SONS OF ELOHIM home with me, an' I'll see w'at I can do fer ye." He rose, and after testing his leg a moment, set out for his ranch, a mile distant, Jim following slowly behind. "Did ye see Burke's relashuns, Hank?" one of the ranchers asked. "Not yit," said Hank. "Who be they?" "Brother o' Mis' Channing, an' wife. Jest a kid, both on 'em. Bet that gal knows suthin about horse- flesh. Sh'd 'a seen her spy put Billy Ki-Ki's horse fust thing. Billy got het up 'cause she didn't notice him fust, and he rode off 'thout his mail." "Now, lookee here, Bat, ye know Billy better'n that," said Max Bronson, a cowpuncher. "It's because the gal comes from the States. He's sot agin women, an' spe- cifically if they got city airs. I reckon some gal onct put a spike in Billy's liver." "Can't be so long ago, neither," said another cowboy. "He dropped a paper in Hank's shop onct, when I war thar waitin' fer some peggin' while Hank war at grub. Not knowin' as it war his'n, I looked at it. Thar war a pictur' o' some pretty gal an' it says, 'taken at Boston, 1864.' 'Long comes Billy an' asks did I find a package, an' I give it to him. 'Pictur' o' my mother,' sez he, and he know'd he wus lyin'. Billy war about twenty-six him- self, then, and the gal warn't more'n that if she war a day." " 'Twant right fer ye, Lanky, to read that," said Hank, moving toward the door. "Ye should a give it to me, seein' as ye found it in my shop. More'n that, ye c'ud 'a kept from blabbin' about it." CHAFER VII IN THE SHADOW OF THE SPIKE The village did not see much of Nancy during the remainder of the week. Burke, previous to Dick's ar- rival, and in line with a suggestion from his father-in- law, had secured an option on a vacant building in the village, and was to take Dick into partnership in another general-merchandise store. So while Burke went to The Dalles to order a stock of goods, Dick began re- modeling the building to get it in attractive shape, with the idea that a store more modern and after the manner of metropolitan stores would, more readily, get a share of the town and ranch trade. The second day after their arrival, an old rancher, named Kirby, had been found dying from knife wounds. It became at once the village sensation. Nancy heard Burke telling Dick about it, and little did she dream that, some day, she would learn how strangely a Mysterious Hand works out the perplexities of life. Nancy had resolved to win Martha's affection. She insisted upon helping with everything, that she might learn something about housework. Martha had begun to like her better, when an incident 56 SONS OF ELOHIM occurred that caused Nancy's castle to fall like a house of cards. Saturday morning, Thomas Raines, the village preacher, called to arrange with Martha about the Sunday services, and was introduced to Nancy. He was a bachelor, living with his sister, Janet, who had been a cripple since her birth. Martha, being a minister's daughter, took the chief part in the religious activities, and was a great help to the "parson," as they called him. The organist the only person in the whole village, excepting Martha, who could play an organ, had not returned from The Dalles, and so Parson Raines had come to see if Mrs. Channing could take her place. Un- fortunately, Martha, helping Nancy get a box upstairs, had sprained her left wrist. Raines turned to Nancy. "Probably Mrs. Swallow will help us out?" he questioned. "Oh, I would like to so much," she said, "but Dick and I promised a man, who rode with us from The Dalles a Mr. Crawley that we would go fishing with him. He was such a funny, big man, and he told us about Betty, his sweetheart, in England or New Eng- land, who had been waiting for him for thirty years. It is only on Sundays you hold these meetings?" Then she saw the astonishment in Martha's face. Feeling she had made some blunder, she flushed deeply, and turned back to Mr. Raines. "I can play the organ, a little, but I never was at a real church in my life. Maybe Dick can fix it with Mr. Crawley for some other day." IN THE SHADOW OF THE SPIRE 57 "Never been to church !" exclaimed Martha. "Where on earth have you lived, all your life?" A defiant spirit rose in Nancy's breast. But, through the window she saw Burke coming up the path, and the words at her very lips gave place to a comforting thought that he was some sort of a sinner, too. She looked at the parson, with a frank countenance, smiling prettily. "I was left an orphan when I was less than six years old and, until I was put in the convent, my education was sadly neglected. "A convent!" Martha gasped. "Are you a Catholic?" Nancy giggled. "Not a very good one, I guess. I ran away. All I heard about from morning till night, was God, and Jesus Christ ; but I wasn't getting anything new. Almost every horse, the men drove, had names like that. My father built the Central Pacific Railway. "Oh," said Martha, recovering slightly, "You did have a father?" Burke had halted in the kitchen, and was listening. He came to Nancy's aid. "You've heard about Patrick Weatherbie, the con- tractor? Sure you have, Parson! He built most of the Central Pacific, Dick says. That's Nancy's father." Burke's imagination was working rapidly. Parson Raines had been studying Nancy, the corners of his mouth twitching into a smile. "Suppose you walk over to the hall with me and look over some hymns we are to sing." Nancy hesitated, till she saw Burke looking at her with one eye shut. He was telling her to "carry on." She went down the path at the parson's side. 58 SONS OF ELOHIM "Oh, Burke!" Martha cried, putting an arm around his neck, as though for protection. "She has never been to church, nor to Sunday School. And she had promised to go fishing on the Sabbath day! What would mother say They went into the kitchen, and Burke helped pre- pare the noon day meal. "Martha," said he, when he was through luncheon, and she had accompanied him to the front gate, "don't you worry yourself about Nancy. It's my opinion Dick has caught a prize of solid gold. That girl's got stuff in her." Meanwhile Parson Raines and Nancy had a long talk together in the hall above the undertaker's shop, which was their "church" on Sunday, and the village auction room, court room and dance hall on other days. Of course, Nancy knew none of the hymns, but she had learned to play the organ at the convent. After- ward, wanting nothing that money could buy, she had had one in her room in San Francisco, and had learned to accompany her songs very well, indeed. But her tunes were not like Old Town church tunes. "I am so sorry I can't help you," she said, "but I'll learn. I'm going to be just like all the folks here, so that Martha will be good to me." Raines smiled. "I am afraid you will find it difficult to change your- self to that extent," he said. "You don't need to be like the others. I wish there were more here like you. There will be work for you, and God knows we need help. Do you sing?" Nancy swung about on the organ stool and rapidly adjusted the stops. Raines saw her fingers pressing the IN THE SHADOW OF THE SPIRE 59 keys, and settled back in his chair, with half-shut eyes, waiting for her to begin. Out in the road two little boys were playing with a broken wagon. Beyond the street, in the broad valley, a herd of cattle moved slowly across the range, followed by two range riders, swaying lazily in their saddles. Beyond the valley, among the wooded slopes, smoke from a wayfarer's camp curled up through the tree tops, to be lost against the blue background of the hills. Along the tree-lined river bank the low waters of the Yahkima purred and swirled about the clean-washed roots of water willows, and rippled down the stony shallows to the deeper pools. Birds flitted from branch to branch above the stream, while others bathed and fluttered in the sunlit water's edge. In the camp among the hills someone was singing. A woman's voice, blended with the singing of the birds, the rippling of the waters. Even the cowboys heard it, and halted to join their voices with the musical mur- muring coming from the hills. And now the little boys were singing, too, and their faces, turned toward the open window, were black, and the hair on their heads, black, kinky wool. It was not a wagon they had there, but a harp-like instrument, strung to the melody of birds and to the murmur of the stream. The words were quite distinct, now, plaintively rich with the accent of the South: Stealin' 'along o'er the moonlit Southland, Night winds a coaxin' de myrtle to rest; Hush, baby, hush! dar's a cry in de woodland: Robins am callin' dere birdies to nest. Stars are a gleamin' away up yondah; 60 SONS OF ELOHIM Whipporwills call from de sycamore trees. What's it de jasamin's sayin', I wondahf Glad dey is rid ob de ol' bumblebees. Hush, baby, hush! don' you heah de win' a moanin'f Soun's like de debbil am a groanin', an' groanin' ; For de angels am a comin', dere harps we'll hear a strummin', When we all go way up yondah, in de ol' silber moon" Nancy glanced at the minister, leaning forward, tensely still in his chair. He was not handsome, but there was more than physical beauty, something stir- ringly spiritual in his expression, his high forehead, the dark, brown hair, thick and early dashed with gray. As she mentally noted these things, a peculiar thrill came into her heart, hope merged with reality, a great, overwhelming desire to do something, to make some sacrifice, just as he, this man of goodness and mercy, was hoping he might do. It gave her a wonderful feel- ing of new strength. Turning again to the organ, she sang the words of that song now known throughout the world, but at the time new, and never before heard by the parson of Old Town; a song written to the accompainment of count- less aching hearts that in the late war had longed for peace : "We are tenting tonight on the old camp ground ; Give us a song to cheer." She sang the verses through with pathos and soul- longing. When she had finished, and the last note had hushed away, Raines came to himself with a start. "Wonderful ! Wonderful !" he cried, estatically. IN THE SHADOW OF THE SPIRE 61 "What a wonderful voice for just such wonderful songs !" "I learned them where I lived, in San Francisco, from hearing them sung by negroes. They sang them so musically, and only with the humming of their voices as an accompainment. I know several of them, if " A slight movement caused them to turn toward the door. Three cowboys, sombrerros in hand, had come in quietly and had been listening. Realizing the music had ceased, one of them, "Tank" Barlow, known to be a bad character about the village, moved toward them, trying to make as little noise as possible with his clanking spurs. "Parson," he said, in a husky whisper, blinking the moisture in his eyes, "Jim wants to ask will she sing that again?" A sudden thought came to Raines. "Will you come to meeting tomorrow, Tank you and Jim if she will sing it for you then? This is Mrs. Swallow, Burke's new sister-in-law." Tank nodded toward her, and twisted his sombrero. "I'll come, sartin sure," said he huskily, "so'll Jim. Thankee, Mis' Swallow." He turned to join the others, then stopped. "What we come for, Parson, was to ask if ye'll go over to the Kirby ranch this arternoon, and say suthin' at the funeral, 'fore they plant him. It'll have to be sartin sure today, sez Jenks, er he'll be rottin'." "Have they found out anything?" "Wall, no, not fer sartin sure. Nick Maloney says as how an old man came up on same stage, time Jim Craw- ley came, and got off at Parker Bottom. Hain't been seen since. Nick says he had a game leg. Jenks sent 62 SONS OF ELOHIM a posse o' the boys to both ends o' th' Valley, but no one hain't seen the critter." "Alright, Tank; I'll come." "Thankee, parson. Jim'll drive ye over in his buck- board." "Mrs. Swallow," said Raines, when they were alone, "you have done more than you can possibly know today. You have opened my eyes. We'll have a different kind of service tomorrow, and there'll be more cowboys at the meeting than have attended church in Old Town in the past five years." Nancy, on her way back to the Channing home, was stirred with a new feeling. Just what it was she didn't know ; and she couldn't possibly have told why she went straight to her room that day and cried. Parson Raines was alive to many new thoughts as he went through the village streets to his home. Possi- bilities, which for five years he had overlooked, now crowded his brain ; and it had taken this godless, church- less, carefree, and, probably, purposeless girl of half his age to open his eyes and put understanding in his heart. He recognized Mrs. Channing to be a conscientious Christian ; in fact, a genuine orthodox churchwoman, one who must be a leader in the church to which she belongs. She could not change her creed; neither could she give up church. Herself leader of the religious ele- ment in Old Town, her husband's indifference to church matters was notorious. It was necessary, of course, for a church to have members of Martha's type. But to understand God, to want to help humanity, required not words of brain, but the silent language of sympathetic hearts. IN THE SHADOW OF THE SPIRE 63 He smiled as he walked along thinking of the mor- row's meeting, and the surprise in store for the regular, orthodox portion of his congregation. "She's a genuine child of the West," he said to him- self, "and much nearer than she knows to the Kingdom of God." CHAPTER VIII A VOICE FROM THE PAST Arriving home at dark from the funeral, he found Nick Maloney, the stage driver, awaiting him. Every- body knew Nick, short, red and wrinkled, with nose beaked, eagle-like, downward ; his chin curved noseward. His lips, drawn tight over shrunken gums, covered a few remaining teeth, just enough to save his peculiar brogue. Nick was a bachelor, living alone a part of each year on a ranch near the village. The balance of the year he stayed with DeLand, proprietor of the hotel. "Can I see you, private like, Misther Raines?" he asked. "Come right into my study, Nick, and I'll have Janet bring us a bite to eat and a jug of cider. I was over to Parker Bottom, holding service for the rancher who was murdered." "It's thot I coom to see you about, Misther Raines about the killin' of Kirby." Nick looked about cautiously. The parson stirred the embers in the open fireplace, and put on some sticks to give mofe light than was offered by the one oil lamp. It was the large sitting room of the log house occu- pied by Raines as a parsonage. Guns, fishing tackle, A VOICE FROM THE PAST 65 bowie knives, a long hair rope, quirts, lassoes, strings of snake rattles, cartridge belts everything imaginable a rancher might think would please the parson was strung about the big fireplace of smoke-stained logs. Although few of the ranchers ever came to his meetings they sent the women folks they wanted him to feel they were friendly, and had presented him with these things. "By th' by, Misther Raines," said Nick, rubbing his hands together, "have there been a reward offered fur the man thot kilt ould 'Kirby?" Raines turned quickly and met Nick's shrewd glance. "I have heard of no reward, Nick. Do you know anything about it?" "Oh no, no, no, Misther Raines, shure not. I wor only thinkin' ye might know. He wor murthered, thot's certain sure. An' someon' knows. But, my gootny me ! I don't know." At that moment Janet brought in their supper and waited to serve them. When they were finished, Nick took out his pipe and smoked in silence for a moment or two. After Janet had left, he glanced cautiously around, then moved his chair closer to his host. "Misther Raines," he began, in a lowered voice, "I've somethin' to ask ye, thot's bothern' of me, d'ye moind?" "Is it about the killing of Mr. Kirby, Nick?" "Not entoirly, now, Misther Raines. D'ye know who did it?" The Irishman's small eyes were alert. "Nick," said Raines, solemnly, "whatever I may have learned about that affair was told me in confidence, a confession, you might say, before he died. I cannot say any more, and you would not wish me to, I know, any more than if I were your confessor." "My gootny me, Misther Raines! Shure not. It 66 SONS OF ELOHIM wor not thot I'm askin' ye; but, d'ye belave in ghosts, Misther Raines? Ghosts, d'ye moind?" The parson laughed. "Tell me about it," he said, pushing the tobacco nearer Nick's elbow, and pouring out some cider. "Well, Misther Raines, it wor loike this, now: The noight afore we left The Dalles, on the thrip w'at brought th' Swallows and Jim Crawley, d'ye moind, I wor goin' to bed at Riley's when, all av a suddint, a mon stood afore me in th' room, w'at wor kilt here, a long toime agone, in Skinner's saloon. I wor thot scared at sight av him I couldn't move or speak a wurrud ; but he speaks out an', sez he: 'Nick, I'll be afther goin' to Old Town wit' ye tomorry, an' I'll be wantin' ye t' kape a place fur me in the stage,' sez he." "Go on," said Raines, reassuringly, as Nick paused to make sure the doors of the room were closed. "Well, as I wor sayin', the dure wor locked, an' I niver heard th' click o' th' lock whin he come in. Whin he spoke, I dhropped me candle, an' out it went, an' whin I lit up again, thar wor nobody thar at all, d'ye moind. 'Nick,' sez I, 'ye've had a dhrop too much,' sez I ; an' wit' thot, I got into bed, but not afore thryin' the dure, an' it wor locked." "Well, Nick, I can explain it only in this way," said Raines. "You probably saw someone during the day that looked like this man you knew, and, while you did not recall the resemblance at the moment, it came to you later; and this man was he some one who lived here?" "He wor Larry Gorin, old man Gorin's boy, w'at lived on the Kirby ranch, afore. He wor kilt in Skinner's saloon, an' bur-ried in the cimeterry, beyont. I wor thar, an' see him bur-ried, d'ye moind." A VOICE FROM THE PAST 67 "Did he ride with you to The Dalles occasionally?" "My gootny me, yis. Ivery month he would go down, on me first thrip, an' coom home on the second wan; an' he allus said th' same thing: 'Kape a place fur me in the stage, Nick, fur I'll be afther goin' back wit' ye tomorry !" "Well, Nick, it is probably as I have explained it: someone resembling him, or some voice just like his voice; and this caused a peculiar flash of memory, and brought back in a second's time one of the former scenes you have described." Nick shook his head, slowly. "Well, Misther Raines, I dunno; I dunno. It war botherin' me iver since, an' some'ow or ither, I'm thinkin', if they find the ghost, they'll find who kilt the ould man Kirby." He rose to go. "Nick, there's going to be a very interesting service at church tomorrow, and I want you to come." Nick shook his head. "No, thankee, Misther Raines. I've niver been to church since me mither died God rest her soul!" He pulled a leather bag from his pocket and opened it. "I'll be afther given ye a donation now fer the new church. Jest heard, as I coom along; that Tank Barlow an' Jim Cooney be afther raisin a pile o' money fer the new meetin' house. 'Nick,' sez I, 'if Tank is goin' to pass the conthribution box tomorry, ye'd better hand yure donation in ahead'; an' here it is!" "No," said Raines, "I will not accept any donation from a man who will not come to church. If you will come tomorrow you will hear Mrs. Swallow sing." 68 SONS OF ELOHIM "Shure, didn't she sit 'longside o' me all the way from The Dalles?" said Nick. "Tonight, Tank sez, sez he, 'That gal sings like a bir-rd.' 'You're a liar!' sez Jim Cooney. 'I heard her, an' it wus like gold moon- light, all dhry like, an' siftin' through the clouds to the tune o' angels' harps.' Et that Lanky made as if to cry, an' Jim coom nigh to wallopin' 'im, if Burke Chan- ning hadn't coom along. But I'm afther going now. Tomorry? I'll see, Misther Raines." Replacing the wallet in his pocket, he departed. CHAPTER IX THE SONG OF THE LARK That Sunday meeting was a starting point for new things in Old Town. Long before the villagers had blown out their lights the night before, someone of the family, or a neighbor, had brought in word that Dick Swallow's wife was to sing at the meeting. Dick, himself, was very proud, and insisted that she walk about the town with him before dark. Quite with- out knowledge of his purpose, she was pointed out by the villagers to the ranchers and cowboys who flocked in on Saturday nights. The plan had been successful, for the meeting hall was packed to the doors. Even old Luke Waters was there, but as far back as he could get, alongside of "Lanky" and "Hicky Bill," both of whom were so self- conscious they put on and took off their "Skinner night hats" every moment or two. The term "Skinner night hat" was a substitution in Old Town for the much used "Sunday-go-to-meeting" term, these cowboys and plains- men being accustomed on Saturday nights to put on their best sombrerros and ride in to Skinner's saloon to gamble and drink till Monday morning or until their cash gave out. It looked much like a bad day for Skinner. Indeed, 70 SONS OF ELOHIM calculating on a quiet morning, he had sent his wife and daughter. They, like the cowboys, were taking their cue for proper behavior from others. Laura Waters, in a front row, kept turning her head to watch the incomers; but finally, with disappointed eyes, settled down to listen to the parson's invocation. Billy Ki-Ki was not present. Neither was Jim Craw- ley, nor Nick Maloney. It chanced, though, that all three were that morning engaged separately in matters which concerned, to a remarkable degree, the young woman who had drawn the others there. Raines explained the absence of the organist, and selected such hymns as were commonly sung and well carried without accompainment. Then he asked Hank Evans and "Judge" Lattimer to take up the collection. This was a happy thought, as was evidenced by the full baskets turned in. It occurred to Raines that this would also be an opportune moment to plead for help in building the new church. "The splendid attendance this morning," said he, "shows how greatly a real church building is needed. Now I am going to give everyone here an opportunity to show how much they have at heart the welfare of our little town. While Mrs. Richard Swallow plays the organ, everyone who desires may come and put their offerings on the platform. However, if there are any here who have no intention of coming to meeting again, I do not want them to contribute." Nancy rose and went toward the organ. As she passed the minister she heard him whisper, "Play as you played yesterday." So, as she pressed the keys, and the melody began to fill the room, first one rancher then another, and then THE SONG OF THE LARK 71 two or three together, clanked their high heels over the wooden floor to lay some gold pieces at the parson's feet. Luke Waters, alone, sat defiant and resolute, feel- ing he had already compromised himself enough. After the collection, Nancy looked toward Raines. He gave her a signal, smilingly, and she adjusted the organ stops. The words came low and tremulous at first, then growing strong and clear: "Mid pleasures and palaces, though we may roam, Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home." It was a song all there had heard many times. But the sweet, untrained voice of the young woman made it now a living thing. Raines rose. His voice trembled slightly. "We have much to be thankful for this morning, my friends," he said. "I am thankful, especially, because so many of you have brought me new encouragement to go on with this work. This young woman, whose song of home has touched our hearts, has opened my eyes to new and wonderful possibilities. It is not so much with our lips as with our hearts that God is praised; and it matters not so much what the words may be if they but waken in our souls a desire to be of more help to our fellowmen, and to become stronger in our own lives. Mrs. Swallow will sing, again, after we have joined in prayer to our Father in Heaven for His love and protection." All bowed their heads, reverently, as Raines prayed. Then all eyes went again to Nancy. She turned to the organ, adjusted the stops and sang "Tenting on the Old Camp Ground," the song that had 72 SONS OF ELOHIM softened the brute nature of the three cowboys the day before. The silence was intense for a moment, after the organ ceased. Mrs. Powers, whose husband had been killed on a Southern battlefield, burst out crying, whereupon Luke Waters arose and, with a grunt and a snort, tramped out of the hall. Afterward, "Lanky" was ready to make oath that "Luke's eyes were mussy, and he got out fer fear they'd get him to the mourning bench." But Luke declared, with a string of cuss words, that "the hull damned thing was planned to git the contributions not as I hold any- think agin the parson, fer thet's his business." However, not another man moved till the sermon was finished, and Nancy sang again, this time a new song of the Southland, soon to Become dear to every heart while the world lasts: Swing low, sweet chariot, Comin' for to carry me home; Swing low, sweet chariot, Comin' for to carry me home. Just as Raines stepped forward to give the cus- tomary benediction, the door opened and Alec Lattimer dashed in. "Crocker's barn's afire!" he yelled. The men sprang to their feet, and the next moment the congregation was on a stampede. No one cared much about the loss to miserly old man Crocker, but the Widow Powers had been keeping some calves there, and as the smoke and flames rose into the air, drawing all the villagers to the scene, word THE SONG OF THE LARK 73 flashed from lip to lip that Johnny Powers had gone in to get out the calves, and had not come out. Suddenly, Hank Evans darted out of the smoke, bear- ing the boy in his arms. He pushed through the crowd and ran with all his might to the widow's home, which was next door to the Channings. Johnny was a handsome little fellow, ten years of age, the widow's only child. Nancy had become much attached to the bright little chap. Sometime later, Nancy and Martha were entering at their gate, when a woman called to them : "Johnny's burnt, awfully, Mrs. Swallow. He wants to see you." Martha followed Nancy into the cottage. On a bed, in a corner of the darkened room, lay the boy, moaning and convulsively clutching the bedclothes with one blackened hand. The other was in a bandage. Doctor Kimball had been in the crowd, and had given first aid. The mother ran about the room in dazed distraction, paying no heed to the neighbor women, who were trying to be of assistance. "He's burned, ma'am, most burned to death!" she screamed, wringing her hands. "Oh, dear! Oh, dear! He'll die ! she is here, Johnny, Mis' Swallow she's come." She paused long enough to bend over his bed. "Oh, my boy, my boy! Come here, ma'am; he wanted you. Oh, Johnny, why did you go? He went into the fire into the barn. He wanted to get out the calves and they're burned, too. Oh, dear, oh, dear! The doctor says he's afeared he can't live. Oh, whatever shall I do?" 74 SONS OF ELOHIM She began walking around the room again, wringing her hands and crying. Nancy sat down by the bed and, taking Johnny's hand, spoke to him softly, kissing the dirt-stained fingers. "I wanted you," the little fellow whispered, painfully. "I'm burned ter'bly, Mis' Swallow. My eyes are burned, and I guess I'm goin' to die." Doctor Kimball was looking at her, and Nancy saw in his face there was no hope. "What can I do, Johnny?" she asked, gently. "Whistle for me, like I heard you once, when you made me think it was a meadowlark." Holding his hand in hers, she whistled the notes of the meadow birds. Then she whistled the song of the blackbird, and the robin. Johnny lay quiet, his fingers pressing hers. "I won't ever see you again, will I?" he said, as she paused to wipe away the tears that were blinding her. "Oh, yes, you will, lots of times, Johnny, when you are well. But now, you must not talk; just keep quiet and I'll sing for you." "Oh, ma'am, sing a hymn !" cried the mother. "Sing that one about the 'Home of the Soul/ " Nancy had never heard that song; but she sang another, a song that was not a hymn as they in Old Town knew hymns; a lullaby to the spirit that was going soon away the words of that homely Southern air, "Old Black Joe": "I'se a-comin'; I'se a-comin'; An' my head is bending low ;" just as she had heard the negro quartet sing it at Madame Gorgen's so many times. THE SONG OF THE LARK 75 Madame Gorgen's! A sweet, sympathetic note amid discordant revelry, to reach through the desert and over the mountains to this grief-stricken home, and lessen the sting of death. "Tell him about heaven, and God," said the mother, softly, calmed and strengthened by the song. Nancy looked at the women, in a dazed sort of way, then at the bandaged head on the pillow. "Heaven? God?" she repeated. "What can I tell him about God?" The boy's lips moved. "Sing that again, Mis' Swallow, please," he pleaded. His voice was fainter. The doctor leaned over the bed. Nancy tried to form the words, but her lips trembled. With an effort she whistled again the notes of the birds. Twice, thrice, she repeated the call of the lark. . . She felt the fingers loosen. . . . There was a silent convulsion. . . . The boy was dead. "No God! No heaven! No prayer!" said Martha Channing, in an awed whisper, to Parson Raines, who had come in and stood silently listening. He raised his eyes to hers. "But God knows the song of the lark," he said. CHAPTER X THE OLD PESSIMIST Nancy Swallow, through her sweet, sympathetic voice, had reached the heart of Old Town all except Martha Channing. Martha declared that it had been far better to have had no singing at all, than those songs which never had been intended for church, and took the thoughts of the people away from God. She gave her opinion in no uncertain words to Janet, the parson's sister, who, she hoped, would, and who did carry her words to Raines. Martha was secretly fearful that Nancy was going to surplant her in the work of the church, and she had been too long the leader of that congregation to be shelved without a struggle. However, she decided to bide her time, and say noth- ing to cause unpleasantness while Dick and Nancy remained in the house. One morning Nancy went for a ride on the pony Dick had bought for her, his first gift after their arrival in Old Town. Two hours later, riding leisurely back to town, she passed a man who was walking with shoulders bent, pausing occasionally to lean on a knotted stick. 77 "Get on my pony, please," she said, slipping to the ground. "I am tired of riding, and would rather walk." "No, child, no. Thankee jest the same, but I can't get on fer my game leg." "What happened to it?" she asked, walking along beside him. "Wall, twar one o' them gopher holes thet did the mischief to begin with. I war ridin' arter a young colt, an' my cayuse stepped in one o' them durned holes. He stumbled, o' course, an' I went over his head, an' the crittur fell on my leg. Smashed it flatter'n a fritter. It's g'in me a heap o' trouble ever since." "Did it hurt the pony?" "Broke her leg, po'r crittur, an' I had to shoot her. She war as smart a cayuse as ever war lass'd. I can't see, to this day, how she come to do it." "She must have been blind," said Nancy. "She might ha' been. I hadn't had her long, but I think I would ha' noticed it. Now, who did I git thet cayuse of.? Let's see ; it war Injun Pete, I'm purty nigh sure. I bought two lots o' hosses same time, an' I think that crittur war Injun Pete's. He's a tricky devil, an' would ha' shoved her off on me quicker'n any other siwash I know." "I would be willing to bet she was blind," said Nancy. "I never knew a range pony to step into a gopher hole. A horse might do it; but not a range pony." He looked her over sharply. "Guess ye're 'bout right. Nice little crittur ye got thar." "Yes, I like him. My husband selected him from a lot an Indian brought up the day we came. He doesn't 78 SONS OF ELOHIM seem at all tricky. I have named him Goalie, after another pony I had. He is dark, too, for a cayuse." "From the States?" he asked, eying her suspiciously. "Oh, no; from California." "Californy'll do; but ye want to be shy o' people from the States. But, shucks! it won't be no time, now, till this 'ere valley '11 be run over with whites from the States. An' then's the time ye'll see me crawlin' back to the hills." He shook his head, dolefully, as if he were prophecying an Indian outbreak. "Now," he continued, "let me tell ye w'at Burke Channing did, er tried to do. Tried to git someone to plaster his house. How c'n the air git in if it's plastered up tight? Jest answer me that! The man's crazy!" "His house isn't plastered, though." "No, he couldn't find anyone to do it, nor nothin' to make plaster of. Now, jest mind w'at I'm tellin' ye. One bird don't make a summer; but it tells ye mighty plain thet summer's comin'. Channings air the fust uns. It won't be no time till the others flock in. The hull valley '11 be mapped out in little ranches, with water that war put in rivers w'ere it belong, atricklin' through them pesky ditches. Beyond the river, over thar, it '11 be irrigated. Look at them hills, where they git purple not them elephant backs, but beyond. There'll be whites a huntin' gold in them hills. The nigh ones may be irrigated no tellin' w'at they will do an' clear up to the base o' the mountains '11 be little farms. Ye can't stop 'em." They walked along in silence for some distance, Nancy waiting for him to go on. "Mis' Swallow," he continued, his voice trembling with suppressed feeling, "I war the fust white man to THE OLD PESSIMIST 79 strike this Valley. Then others, sheep an' cattle men an' miners, straggled in from Californy and Montanny. We ranched it 'long the river, got some cattle goin' on the range, an' didn't have no trouble with the Injuns. It war when too many o' them come thet the Injuns kicked up a row. I don't blame 'em. Old Town grew up jest as ye see it today. It's big enough. It don't no ways spile the Valley to my eye. Git away up in the hills an' look down, an' it's jest a speck in thet stretch o' sand Thar's plenty o' room left fer the cattle an' the ponies, an' cowboys. But jest wait! Some fine morning men'll come over the hills yonder, an' they'll go about drivin' pegs in the ground an' arskin' questions, but not answerin' none. Then, purty soon injines and cars '11 come thunderin' through the valley, an' it'll be all up with us!" "Is there talk of a railroad?" "Not yit, not serious talk; but them Easterners ha' got a smell o' our Valley, an' they won't rest till they've spiled it. It's allus the way. Let a handful o' people git contented livin' the way 't war intended they should, an' it's the very handful w'at gits picked out fer betterin', w'ich gener'ly means the linin' o' some corporashun's pockets." "It would be a shame to stir this place up," she agreed. "I liked it the moment the stage rounded into the Valley through the Gap, and I saw all those funny box-like houses, like big soap boxes standing on end. The next morning I was up early to see the sun rise. The mists were just lifting from the Valley and settling in long, white clouds among the hills. The smoke was pouring up from all the chimneys. I guess the people 80 SONS OF ELOHIM were getting breakfast, for the smoke stopped all at once. I wondered how their fires went out so quickly." "Burnin' sage brush," he explained. "Oh, that was it. I wondered. The snow on the mountain peaks was red. I never saw a more beautiful sight." "I reckon ye didn't think, as ye come through the South Gap, how them two hills war fortified to keep back the Injuns in the last raid. I'll have to tell ye about it some day. The Injuns air quiet enough now, po'r critturs, an' the people here air in peace. All ha' got their alfalfa patches an' gardens an' fruit trees 'long the river, an' cattle an' sheep on the range; an' all doin' well. Once an' awhile thar be trouble over some feller a ventin' another feller's brand; but the cowboys settle that among themselves, which air the best way to settle disputes. Everybody's gittin' 'long well." When they arrived at the Channing gate, Martha was standing in the doorway. "Won't you come in and rest awhile?" Nancy asked him. "No, no. I'll be goin' on," said the old man, limping on his way. "We intend to build, a little further on, shortly, and you must come and see us," she called after him. "Mebbe, mebbe," he answered, without looking back. "What in the world are you talking with that dis- reputable old man, Waters, for!" Martha exclaimed. Don't you know he is the worst old profligate? I heard him swearing most awfully once. But, of course, you didn't know," she added, fearing she had spoken too severely. "I didn't notice anything wrong with him. He seemed 81 just like any old man might be. He told me some very interesting things. I'll put up Goalie, and then I'll help with the lunch." "Why don't you leave Goalie to Dick? Lunch is ready. I was only waiting for you." There was a note of irritation in her voice. "Oh, I don't mind tending Goalie," said Nancy, taking off the saddle. Perhaps not, but you must not spoil Dick," insisted Martha. "A husband is just as you start in with him, Nancy ; and though Dick is my own brother, I must say he has his faults. You must train him right from the beginning." "Train him? How funny! Why, I don't think I could make Dick any better than he is." "Of course, you don't, now. All wives think so at first ; but after a time you will find that first love changes into a common-place, different kind of affection, and then it isn't so easy to have your way. I know just how it is, Nancy. At first Burke was ready to do every- thing my way, but now he frowns and fusses. In time you will see that I am right.." "Then I think it is perfectly horrid to be married!" exclaimed Nancy. I never really wanted to be married till Dick asked me. The only two married people I ever knew were quarreling and fighting all the time." At this moment Burke came into the yard, whistling. "Well, sister, saw you coming up the street with Luke Waters. Suppose he told you everything about Old Town, past, present and future. Did he want to buy your pony?" "No, but he told me about his cayuse breaking her 82 SONS OF ELOHIM leg, and that he had to shoot her. Can't he afford to buy another?" "Afford it!" Burke laughed loudly. "Why, he's got more money than any man in the Valley. And that pony he told you about broke her leg ten years ago." "But he says he's got a game leg from the pony falling on him, and I tried to get him to ride Goalie into town. Has he been lame ten years?" "He's got rheumatism got it about a year ago, and lays it to that accident. He's got more horses on the range than any man 'round here; but he always walks into Old Town since he got rheumatism. Gives him a chance to complain, and to tell the story about his horse falling into the gopher hole." Nancy was beginning to learn some of the peculiari- ties of the human race. CHAPTER XI LOST FORTUNES "You remember Jim Crawley, who came on the stage with you?" Burke asked, when they were at the dinner table. "I had forgotten all about him!" said Nancy. "He's working in Doc Kimball's garden as I came past." "I must go and apologize to him for missing that fishing trip," Nancy whispered, when Martha had gone to the kitchen. Sometime later, Crawley, who had been bending over bothersome little ditches, letting the water trickle slowly in from the main ditch, heard a low whistle. He straight- ened up with an effort and turned his perspiring face toward the street. Dizzy from stooping, he was puzzled for a moment on beholding his acquaintance of the stage coach; then wiping his hands on his overalls, he shouldered his hoe and crossed the garden patch to the fence. "Howdy, howdy," he said, with a broad grin. "Didn't know as I war ever to get in speakin' distance o' ye agin, as the sailor said onct." "That's what I stopped to speak with you about. We couldn't go, my husband and I, for, you see," speaking 84 SONS OF ELOHIM lower and glancing back of her to see that no one over- heard, "church people never go fashing on Sundays." Crawley looked perplexed for a moment, then he recalled the arrangement they had planned coming over from The Dalles. As he had seen no more of them, he had forgotten about it. "They are the queerest people, here, about some things," she went on. "Monday they wash clothes ; Tues- day they iron ; Wednesday they do odds and ends ; Thurs- day they mend and darn ; Friday they sweep and dust ; Saturday they scrub, and they bake a lot of things, and Sunday they go to church. At least that is what Mrs. Channing does. She's my sister-in-law, you know." Crawley rested his hands on his hoe and regarded her curiously. Then he laughed till his fat sides shook. "Ye've got 'em sized hup pretty well, I'm thinkin', as the paper hanger said onct," he answered. "That's about the way o' church people, well's I remember. An' so your folks wouldn't go fishin'?" "Oh, my, no," said Nancy. "It's a sin." "I never noticed 'at it made no difference to the fish. Seem to bite Sundays jest the same as hother days. They'll get hover it. People don't keep their religious notions long in these diggin's. Your folks haint been 'ere long I 'ear." "No," said Nancy. "I wanted to tell you, we are building the cutest house at the end of the street, here, and next week we are going to The Dalles for furniture. After we get settled in our own house, then we'll go fishing any time you say." "Then your husband aint agin it?" "Dick? No, indeed. It's just because we are staying at his sister's, that he thought we'd better not go LOST FORTUNES 35 because she thought it so dreadful. You must come to see us when we get moved in. Are you going to stay in this queer little town? Isn't Mrs. Kimball nice, though ? "Yes, I 'opes I'm staked hout fer keeps, as the 'orse said to the 'osier ; an' I guess I knows hev'rybody, w'ich haint sayin' much so fur's numbers go. Mis' Kimball certainly be a fine woman a reg'lar jew'l, as the young man ha' said onct." At this point he pushed his hand down into his trouser's pocket, and carefully worked out a small leather bag which he laid on the top board of the fence. It was grimy with age. He fumbled awkwardly with the leather drawing- strings till Nancy relieved him by untying the knot. "Guardful!" he said, as the pouch flattened out, dis- playing what seemed to be a dozen, or more, rough pebbles. "Di'monts an' nuggets all 'at's left o' three fortun's." He touched the little rough bits, lovingly. "All 'at's left o' twenty-five years diggin'." "Are they valuable?" she asked, curiously balancing one on the tip of a finger. "I've seen a great many nuggets, but I never saw any diamonds like these, before." "They air waluble to me. Now you mightn't see at a glance, any walue to 'em; but ye see I knows w'at's hinside the crust. There's Mis' Kimball, fer example; she ben't the kind w'at shines; but the right stuff's in 'er, as ha' been said time an' agin, I guess." "What are you going to do with them?" "'Keep 'em. Mebbe they'll stake me agin; who c'n tell? That 'un," touching a nugget the size of a small hickory nut, "I picked up years ago in South Africky, 86 SONS OF ELOHIM my first find. I kep' it fer luck, meaning to have it made into a ring fer Betty." "Is she coming to Old Town?" "Hain't written her yet. I must make my fortun' first. Mis' Swallow," tapping the largest nugget affec- tionately, "I war 'alf starved many a time, w'en it seemed I must part wi' that nugget, to save my life. But I ha' held on't, an' went 'ungry, an' kep' diggin'. Wall, I ha' gone to Brazil, a year or two arterward, and fer a long time everythink war agin me. Then I ha' struck a bit o' luck in di'monts there. That's w'ar I got these little fellers. I war about to write to Betty w'en smash, bang, went hev'rything in the revolution, an' I war glad to get hout wi' a hull skin, as some 'un ha' said onct." "My, that was hard luck! And did you write Betty?" "Wall, no, I 'adn't the 'art to write 'er. All I had war these little nuggets an' a big one w'at I 'ad to let go fer passage money to Hostralia. There, I took 'eart agin, and start's fer 'ome, arter sendin' a letter to Betty. Wall, afore we got in San Francisco, the ship lost 'er steerin' gear in a storm, an' wind blowed us fer miles an' miles out to sea. We finally fetched up with a steamer w'at took us in tow, an' prospects war good to gettin' in safe, w'en if the bloomin' ship didn't spring a leak hoff Horegon, an' we 'ad to take to the boats, all 'ands. Didn't 'ave time to say 'Jack Robinson !' w'at's more to git me luggage, an' down goes my fortun' ker plunk, in the bloody sea. I war glad to get to shore alive, if I didn't 'ave but two an' sixpence in me pocket, aside from these nuggets. I had been diggin' twenty-five years. An' I'm still diggin' so fer as that goes, an' Luke's sand pile is w'ere Jim Crawley begun to dig out another fortun'." LOST FORTUNES 87 "Oh, look!" cried Nancy. "Your ditch has broken out and is flooding the potatoes." "Caesar's 'ighways!" exclaimed the one-time mine owner, as he hastened, hoe in hand, to the place where the bank had broken through. He bent down and pressed the soft earth against the break, stopping the flow; then he surveyed the flooded potato patch in dismay. "I'm so sorry," she called out. "But don't forget to come and see us ; and," lowering her voice, "let us know, sometime, when you are going fishing." CHAPTER XII "THE LORD TAKETH AWAY" Nanette Weatherbie had been at one funeral when her mother died. She had a misty recollection of candles burning around a long black box; of her father kneeling before that box, eyes closed, and mumbling something she could not understand. Then the big tent had been crowded with men, who, on other days, had handled the iron scoops; and a man, dressed very much like Mary, the cook, holding up a cross and saying something in a kind of song. Mary had lifted her up to see what they had in that long black box, and it was a white a very white face, with eyes closed, and motionless. Then they took the black box away, and Mary said they had taken maman to heaven. Today Nancy Swallow, for the second time in her life, was to take part in a burial service this time a small white box and a white, still, little face that seemed asleep. As she looked into the coffin, the realization came that never again would he be seen running about the streets ; never would his mother hear his voice. Why should there be such calamity as death? What strange freak of nature was this? To bring into being this mysterious, awful thing, life, and then snatch it away "THE LORD TAKETH AWAY" 89 in so horrible a manner? It couldn't be that there was any directing Hand behind it all, working out some wonderful plan, creating these marvelous beings only to destroy them before they had an opportunity to do their part. She had often felt there must be for her something, some part, to be worked out so that in her last years there would come what surely should be a source of joy, the thought that she had made the world better for having lived. Not fully conscious of what human opinions had decreed as right and wrong, nevertheless, from her child- hood she had often thought that there must be a mistake, someone making mistakes in this mysterious plan, and that the responsibility could be traced to men and women who did not seem to think of others, nor to care whether they had any part, except to be happy for the moment. But why should men and women be like this? Surely if she could have a part in this great plan she would want to do things to make others happy. Maybe she was a part of that plan ! Maybe that part was to help change human hearts! Surely she had done what she set out to do, in a way. She had never been satisfied that she was doing the right thing. Now, she was happier than she had ever been. The obscuring mists had suddenly parted, as curtains drawn aside, revealing new and wonderful opportunities, and her heart was getting very full of fresh desires, and of plans to be worked out, here, among these rough, simple people. Yet there was the little white coffin, with only a lifeless body, soon to be put into the ground. And there was a heart-broken mother, who was never to see that boyish face again. Why? Why? 90 SONS OF ELOHIM Raines was talking. He had been talking for some time, though her thoughts had made her deaf to his words. He was saying something about "God having taken the loved one to be with Him in heaven." And then he said, "The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord ! Let us pray." During the prayer, Nancy's thoughts played riot with her heart. "The Lord taketh away! Blessed be the Lord!" And He had taken Johnny Powers, this fine, promising little fellow, this only son of a poor, widowed woman, whose husband had given his life that others might live free. And the Lord had done that, too had brought together those thousands of men to hate each other and slaughter each other upon the battlefield, so that He might take them away! Now she heard her name. The minister was speaking. "Mrs. Powers has asked that Mrs. Swallow will sing the song she sang to Johnny, just before he went to be with God." Nancy went to the organ, which had been brought from the meeting place to the widow's cottage. But her heart was in a revolutionary mood ; and in the spirit that rebelled against this Lord, who "taketh away," there came to her a negro mammy's longing for the boy the slavers had taken away. It was a wierd thing, a low, murmuring chant rising to a whining moan of the wind, as she had heard it sung by the negro quartet in Portsmouth Square. Now, with heart-deep sympathy for the sorrowing mother there, she sang it as perhaps it had never been sung before: "THE LORD TAKETH AWAY" 91 Oh, goody Lawd! goody Lawd! what has you been doin', To let 'em take my li'l boy 'way? Bey's stole him from my bres', an' now he'll never res', A cryin' fer his mammy all the day. Oh, goody Lawd! goody Lawd! my po' heart am achin', For de li'l boy I'se loved so many years; Nevah mo' I'll heah him say, "Keep de debbil man away!" Nevah mo' c'n I kiss away his tears. Goody Lawd! goody Lawd! you giv' dat li'l fellah, Jest to fill my po' old life with joy. So I ask you goody Lawd, what has you been doin', To let them take away my li'l boyf The song ended, she glanced toward Raines. He was sitting very still, his elbows on the table, his face hidden in his hands. There was death-like silence in the room, except for the weeping of the sorrowing mother. Then Martha Channing rose. "Let us sing one of God's precious hymns, now," she said, and began alone : There is a fountain filled with blood, Drawn from Immanuel's veins, And sinners plunged beneath that flood, Lose all their guilty stains. Several rose and joined with her, but Raines sat, with face covered, until they were through. Then he stood up, dried his eyes with his handkerchief, and went slowly to the coffin. He turned his face upward, extended his hands, and cried, "Father in heaven, forgive us. Forgive me, for I have been blind. In the name of Jesus, and in the name of this little boy, the only son of a sorrowing mother, this boy from whose little inno- cent body a cruel, devilish hand has torn the spirit thou 92 SONS OF ELOHIM gavest him, I thank thee that thou has deigned to reveal, in this wonderful hour, what has been kept so long from thine unworthy servant. Comfort this afflicted mother, in her grief for the little boy who has been taken from her. Make her to realize that his little spirit is now in thine own safekeeping until she come." They bore the coffin of little Johnny Powers to the bleak cemetery, barren of trees, of flowers, of grass. But that unmarked grave was, for years, to be an inspiration in the life of Parson Raines, that led him to a remark- able career. CHAPTER XIII THE COBBLER KNIGHT A day or two later Nancy, returning from the store, struck her boot against a nail in the old plank walk, tearing a hole in the leather. She turned about, and went to the shop of Hank Evans, the shoemaker, for repairs. Hank was one of the characters of Old Town. He was a man of sixty years, stubbly beard, stubborn hair, kindly gray eyes, and good natured; a sort of homely philosopher, and liked by everyone, especially the chil- dren. Everyone in the village, except Luke Waters, addressed him as "Mr. Evans." Luke called him "Hank." What had made him of considerable importance was, that (according to village rumor) he was the youngest son of the youngest son of the son of an English noble- man; but Hank's lot, from childhood, had been cast with uneducated though honest people, and he had fallen into a provincial speech that was decidedly pioneer- American. He never spoke of his transatlantic birth, unless urged to do so. "Mr. Evans," said Nancy, after she had curled up in one of his big chairs, her shoeless foot under her to hide a hole in her stocking, "will you tell me why you came way out here in the West to live, when you could have lived in a big castle, and have beautiful parks, and serv- ants, and hounds, and a Table Round, and and other 94 SONS OF ELOHIM things, in England?" She remembered the stories Dick read to her, the mornings they had gone together down the old Presidio trail to the sea. Hank put the little boot down, tenderly, and let his expression of sympathy relax into a broad grin. "Sho, now, Mis' Swallow ! Who ha' told ye such non- sense? It war my lady, now, I'll warrant ye." When he spoke of Mrs. Evans, he always called her "my lady." Nancy hastened to release "my lady" from all respon- sibility in the matter, as, indeed, she had heard it, with considerable exaggeration, from the children of the village. Hank, trying hard to match a bit of leather to that of the small hole, proceeded: "I calc'late some fellers might ha' done different," he said. The truth o' the matter war, Mis' Swallow, I sort o' lost ambishun, so to say, afore I got the notion to make a fight fer my rights in them estates." "What made you lose ambition?" she asked, prompt- ing him, for he took a long time to squeeze a last into the injured footgear. "Wall, about the time I got to countin' up the line o' succession to the throne, so to say, an' calc'late as to w'at the perspections war o' my gittin' my hand in, some day or 'nother, I finds my lady waitin' fer a perspect of 'er own; an' thinkin' as how a bird in the hand is wort' two in the bush, as she ha' said to me time an' time agin, since, I makes her my lady." "That was a long time ago, wasn't it?" "Natur'ly, yes," said Hank. "But I'll say this for my lady, and fer her relashuns as I haint got nothin' agin, now, po'r critturs: none on 'em knew as how I had any English rights till arterward. Then they sort o' tuk THE COBBLER KNIGHT 95 a noshun as how it war an honor to live 'longside o' me, w'ich, o' course, ended up in them livin' inside my income. Makin' the long and the short o' the story, fer nigh on to seven year I had the hull mess o' six on 'em, picnackin' under my rooftree, so to speak, ma an' pa, and three dukem-flickem girls w'at war worse 'n the feller, an' he war worse 'n nothin'." Hank paused, and held his breath, while he rubbed a sharp blade carefully against the jagged hole in the leather. "These be dainty-like fer Old Town," he said, glanc- ing toward a miscellanous collection of invalid shoes belonging to some of the village housewives. "Oh, I've got a heavier pair than these, Mr. Evans; these are my house shoes. I just ran down to the store on an errand. And did your wife's folks stay with you, seven years?" "They did that; for seven hull years. An' all that time my lady an' her ma war a speculatin' as to w'at they c'ud do in Lonnon sassiety if I would only assert my English rights. Lor' bless ye, Mis' Swallow, w'at c'ud a man assert w'en workin' nigh two days in one to buy grub an' decent necessities. An' thar's w'ere I lost it." "Lost what?" she asked. "My ambishun," said Hank. "In seven year it war clean gone as ye c'n well suppose. Then the old feller tuk sick an' passed in his checks. It war just as well, fer he warn't much good, nohow; and my lady's ma she bawled like all git out fer awhile; then she ups an' marries the old doctor w'at war tryin' afore to keep her from bein' a widder. Rest o' the brood tuk a noshun to go an' see ma one day, an' same time I tuk the Western 96 SONS OF ELOHIM fever, an' me an' my lady puts out fer here. But sho! it war all gone, then!" "What was gone?" "My ambishun," said Hank, as he gave a tug at the last and brought it out of the shoe. "Then, arter we had been here a spell, my lady gits word that one o' the family had tuk sick an' died. Fore she got over the shock, 'nother one war gone. It's the climit that's doin' it,' my lady sez; an' she writ a long letter, tellin' 'em about the beauties o' Washington, an' fer to 'set sail an' steer westward ho,' immegitly. Owin' to an unfortunit chance o' fate ; my lady ha' give me the letter to mail, an' I clean fergot to post it. A month or more arterward, 'nother one o' the sisters had gone to jine t'other, po'r thing, an' I thinks o' the letter; but o' course I daren't say to my lady as I had missed to post it. Fore I thought on't agin, her ma, she war gone, too ; an' the paper, w'at ha' come to us, ha' said as how the old doctor war tight in jail fer arsnickin' the hull family. It told as how the other wife o' the doctor war also tuk off, suddint like. But, sho! Wat's the use o' lockin' the stable door w'en the 'orse is tuk?" "And what happened then?" "Wall, the old feller got a sentence o' 'not guilty,' bein' as how he testified he had to have arsnick 'round fer his patients, and warn't to blame if some of 'is family tuk it, instead. It war said, too, that he ha' thought as how it war that my lady's ma would fall heritage to a rich old uncle's pile. My lady's brother, who ha' tried the case, wrote as how the doctor war a pretenshus member o' some secret sassiety, that war powerful influ- enshul thar, like the KuKluxbe now in the South." "And what did you do, then?" she asked, as Hank THE COBBLER KNIGHT 97 stopped to squeeze the patch critically between his finger and thumb. "Fust thing I did war to post the letter, an' my lady goes humpin' back east to the old home, to see if thar war anythink left fer her. Tuk all I had at a pop that time." "All your ambition ?" "All my money," said Hank. "Sho! I hadn't had no ambishun fer long afore that ; though I war a bright lad w'en I war a young un, I hearn tell went to school, an' Sunday School, an' war a good youngster. That war in England. Then father an' mother tuk a noshun to come to Americky. They war here a month or two, w'en both tuk sick, an' I war left an orphun." "My, that was awful !" said Nancy, sympathetically. "And what did you do then?" She pushed her foot into the repaired boot, and held it out for the shoemaker to button up. "Aint it suitin' ye?" he asked, beginning to pull it off. "Yes, yes; button it up, please, Mr. Evans." She laughed like a school girl as Hank, first looking to see there was no one in sight, proceeded to fasten the buttons. "Don't use them feet much, d'ye?" he said, holding the small foot in his hand, while he gently stroked the new patch. "Sh'ud think they'd be like walkin' on stilts." "I never walk when I can ride my pony, Mr. Evans. But you haven't told me about your castles, and hounds, and the estates; and now I must go home, or Dick, my husband, '11 scold, oh, my! if he gets home and finds I haven't got supper ready." "Sh'udn't think he'd ever want ye to go 'way," said Hank. "Ye'd better bring t' other shoe in, fust time ye 98 SONS OF ELOHIM can; it's 'bout to bust out, thar on t'other side." "And then you must tell me the rest about your English rights," said Nancy, as she went out. "Come airlier next time, Mis' Swallow," he called after her. Then he sat for a long time, staring into the pile of old shoes. "Feller's got her, 's got ambishun, or I'm a goat !" he exclaimed, aloud. Then he shut up shop, and went home to "my lady." CHAPTER XIV A CROOKED SPIRIT IN A CROOKED FRAME During the first few weeks, Dick had been working early and late, inventorying the stock and assets of the General Merchandise Store, and in overseeing the build- ing of the new house. Nancy complained some, in a girlish way, that he had forgotten how to be the lover he formerly was. But as her household duties were not great, and the vigorous spirit of her childhood days had returned, tempting her to the river and to the hills, she spent a part of nearly every day on her pony's back. Dick loved her as young men of his nature, love. He was proud of her. But, having secured the worshipped prize, he took his victory as a matter of fact. His soul had never been stirred by ambition, except for things that meant the satisfying of his desires; while Nancy, the opening blossom of a once marred and stunted flower, her soul invigorated by the very naturalness of village life, began, unknowingly, to feel a longing in her breast, a straining at her heart, thirsty for the water of life and hungry for the co-operation of some other person who saw and felt as she did. Not for a moment had she any thought that her love for Dick was not the love a wife should have. She did, at times, find herself wondering if this unstirring, un- 100 SONS OF ELOHIM stirred feeling in her heart, was the whole of that great thing called, love. In the week following the funeral of Johnny Powers, Nancy had cause to lean more upon her husband. Janet Raines came over to the Channings, for an after- noon, bringing her sewing, and her disposition to gossip. Janet was, as has been told, a hunchback, having been born crooked and weak, a pitiful form in which to work out, with credit, any purpose for the Creator of human life. Why, or how these tragic things happen, what it is that shakes the hand of the Potter and deforms the clay shell of the human spirit, is a great mystery one that will, some day, be understood. What we do know, however, is that man's attempt to right the wrong by so-called scientific methods, is a horrible experiment; and for each "successful" opera- tion countless suffering, hopeless spirits are forced from the shells of earthly habitation. Like many others whose lives are cramped in crooked frames, Janet had a tendency to see the evil of things, and to overlook the good. This afternoon she found Martha in a receptive mood. Raines was going crazy. She was sure of it. To think of permitting these common, unholy, vulgar songs to take a place among their accustomed hymns at the Sun- day meetings! Ignoring the remarkable increase in the church attendance, she was not awake to the interest many of the ranchers' wives were showing in charitable work about the village. Not seeing this, she was not seeing, at all, the importance of this co-operation between Nancy Swallow and Parson Raines. So there was scarcely any A CROOKED SPIRIT IN A CROOKED FRAME 101 bond of fellowship, longer, between Martha and her brother's wife. "Mrs. Swallow not home?" queried Janet, when she was comfortably settled. "She is at the store, helping Dick do something or other," said Martha. Janet hitched her chair slightly toward Mrs. Chan- ning's. "Let us be glad she is helping her husband!" she said, in a meaning tone, that caused Martha to regard her, questioningly. "Since Mrs. Swallow came to Old Town sorrow the day, I'm thinking at times my brother is a changed man," Janet went on. "He talks about nothing but Mrs. Swallow, and," in a whisper "he is now calling her Nancy. Yesterday, in his room, he took out from his drawer a glove, and I'll swear he put it against his lips. Afterwards, I looked, and it was a woman's glove Mrs. Swallow's I'll warrant." "Yes," said Martha, musingly, "I heard Nancy say she had lost a glove. He must have found it." "Such goings on !" said Janet, letting fall her needle, and dramatically holding up her hands. "I know she's leading him on I know it; and where it's all to end, the Lord only knows." Martha had never had such a thought as this about Nancy. She scarcely knew what to think, now. Her amazement left her dumb. "I never told you, Mrs. Channing, what she did, first day she came," Janet went on. She spied Billy Ki-Ki on his horse, and she says, soon as she got off the stage and set her eyes on him, 'Aint he a handsome man!' Worse yet, she went right up to him and says, encourag- 102 SONS OF ELOHIM ing like, 'I want a horse just like yours sometime.' Billy was so disgusted he never answered, but rode right off." "Oh, no, Janet!" protested Martha. "You must be mistaken, for Dick was with her, and she wouldn't dared have done that!" "She did, Mrs. Channing. I'd swear she did. Luke Waters' girl was there, and heard it, too." "It's best we do not talk about it any more," said Martha, fearfully. She was really frightened at the thought that it all might be true. After Janet had gone, Martha resolved to tell Dick. When Burke was on his way back to the store it being his turn for night work she asked him to tell Dick she must see him alone, immediately. When her brother came, he found her more convinced of Nancy's guilt. "Dick, you must know that everyone's talking about the way Nancy is carrying on with Parson Raines." "Why, Martha what do you mean? How dare you say such things?" "I'm only telling you what others have said to me. I wouldn't have believed it, myself, if Janet Raines hadn't told me it, right here in this room, today." "Told you what?" he asked, too astonished to com- prehend. She repeated what Janet had said. "It's a lie! a damned lie, Martha! And you know it! You don't like Nancy. I have seen it. So has she, I know, for she says she will begin to be happy when we get into our own house. Nancy never said that to Billy Ki-Ki. I heard what she said. So did everyone else except Janet. She said, 'What a handsome horse !' A CROOKED SPIRIT IN A CROOKED FRAME 103 that's all. You're just making trouble. You can't help it. It's your damned religion! Your Christianity!" Martha's hands went to her ears, horrified. "Dick ! Dick ! don't swear. Wherever did you learn to swear ? After you married her, no doubt. You never did before!" "You, and your lying scandal-mongers, and your Christianity can go to hell !" he cried. He jerked the door open, went out, and slammed it hard. Before he went back to the store, he walked up one street, and down another to think, to cool off. Then he resolved to tell Nancy what he had heard. "Dick, don't you mind, dear," she said. Don't you feel that way toward Martha. Poor Janet, she doesn't feel like other people like us, in that crippled body. I'll stop going to church, and I won't see Mr. Raines again, alone, anywhere. Then it'll come out all right." CHAPTER XV IF HANK HAD BEEN LINCOLN Hank Evans, the Old Town shoemaker, was telling Luke Waters, a "Lincoln" story. Even then had begun what was later to become an epidemic of stories, the origin of which was to be attributed to the martyred president who, no doubt, would have enjoyed hearing some of them, himself. Men of the North liked to talk familiarly of Lincoln under any pretense, and these ques- tionable anecdotes of doubtful origin were to become the medium through which the lesser citizen might feel he had a share in the revered memory of Nancy Hank's remarkable son. "They tell as how Lincoln war in one o' them big cities 'lectioneering. He never war sot much on style ye know, Luke, jest stopped splittin' a rail an' answered the call o' his party. He war standin' on a corner, waitin' to git a hoss car. Nearabout was a frisky young heifer a skylarkin' with some fellers, a histin' her dress an* kickin' at a feller's hat, w'at he held up. Wen she ha' spied Lincoln, she ha' gone up to him an' sez, 'Hello, Uncle Rube, ha' ye seen anythink o' my cow hereabouts?* 'No,' sez Abe, 'I haint seen nothin' o' yure cow, but I reckon I ha' seen a couple o' likely calves o' yourn, minnit or two ago.' " IF HANK HAD BEEN LINCOLN 105 "D'ye think the war had to be, Hank?" Luke asked, after shifting about a few times to get his rheumatic leg in a comfortable posture. "Wall, Luke," said Hank, vigorously cleaning his shoe knife after the old rancher had used it to separate a liberal piece of tobacco from his plug, "Lincoln war right w'en he sez a nashun divided agin itself can't stand fer long. My concepshun air that this 'ere nashun be jest as divided now as afore, an' allus will be, 'count o' havin' the war. Ye can't make busom friends o' the childurn by killin' their dads ; an' ye can't count on them Southerners eatin' out o' yure hand jest cause ye turned the niggers loose on 'em. I haint sayin' as I be n't jest as loyal as t'other feller, but I ha' thought, Luke, it warn't sympathy fer the niggers that ha' started the war." "Wat ye sayin' it war, Hank ?" "Same thing that ha' started all wars, Luke. T'other rich feller hain't got suthin' 'nother rich feller's got, an' in order to scare him away w'ile he grabs it, he'll start a hellabaloo one way or 'nother. Thing w'at starts most wars air a love fer money by them fellers w'at's buyin' an' sellin' fer profit. I haint sayin' as I'm fer slav'ry o' any kind o' critturs, niggers er white, but my noshun be that if slaves could ha' been stole from Rushy or Chiny, w'at could ha' lived in the North, thar wouldn't ha' been no war." Luke squinted at Hank through his half-shut eyes for a moment, his jaws working up and down to the beats of Hank's hammer on the sole of a boot. "Ye aint no more a copperhead 'n I be, Hank, on that pint," he said, as Hank paused a moment to rest his hammer on his knee. "Them Union fellers couldn't git 106 SONS OF ELOHIM down to toothpicks with the South w'en it come to per- doocin'. W'en ye can git work done fer most nothin' ye can sell it fer less 'n the feller w'at's doin* it hisself. Ye'll see the niggers '11 stay South an' work jest as cheap. The chance the North ha' took agin the cheap perdoocin' air that the nigger's a lazy crittur an' now's he's free he won't work 'slong's he's got two bits." "P'raps so." "W'at'll the South do, Hank, with all them niggers now that they got to give 'em same kind o' chanct as any human bein'?" "Wall, Luke, I ha' been thinkin' 'taint so much w'at they got to do now as w'at they'll have to do w'en they git more on 'em. Niggers '11 multiply like rabbits now they air free to go here an' thar as they like. Then, Luke, they air goin' to make a heap o' trouble fer the gov- er'ment 'count o' wantln' to have a say in politics ev'ry- w'ere they be. I ha' thought time '11 come w'en they'll have to gi'n 'em a state an' let 'em run it theirselves. I ha' thought might be great thing to buy hull north end o' Mexico an* turn it over to the niggers an' let 'em have their own pres'dent an' congress an' sech. Mexico air goin' to make us trouble agin sooner or later an' p'raps time haint fur away w'en the U. S. will be makin' 'em give us a new treaty. Mexico '11 allus be poorer 'n a church mouse, an' '11 be glad to sell off enough land to make a big nigger territory bigger 'n some o' our states be, now. W'udn't be a bad thing, Luke, to have sech a kentry between us an' them onery greasers, w'at '11 be allus makin' us trouble on the border. It 'ud make them niggers more valuable to this gover'ment if they git a chanct fer runnin' theirselves." "W'at 'ud the South do 'bout sech a thing, Hank? IF HANK HAD BEEN LINCOLN 107 They got to have work done an' they'd holler to keep the niggers from goin'. It 'ud be like pickin' thistles out o' a sore spot to try to take the niggers away from 'em." "Wall, Luke, it 'ud be better to git the thistles out w'ile ye can hold the feller down, 'stead o' waitin' till he's got sore spots all over him. The hull South air goin' to have more'n one sick spell 'count o' the niggers bein' free, an' time is goin' to come w'en the niggers '11 leave an' go to other states w'ere they haint wanted. Then the hull kentry '11 have sore spots an' ev'ry nig- ger '11 be like a pricker. As I see it, Luke, if this gov- er'ment o' the United States don't take the chanct w'ile they got it to 'stablish the hull caboodle o' niggers by theirselves an' learn 'em how to be cit'zens o' 'a land o' the free,' as the Jedge sez, the hull kentry some day'll be like a feller broke out with the smallpox w'at ha' got to be put away by hisself to save the rest o' the people." "How ye goin' to learn 'em, Hank? They got 'bout as much sense as a flea some on 'em?" "A flea ha' got more sense 'n some fellers, Luke, fer same reason ye can learn the niggers. Ye got to give 'em respons'bility. Now the gover'ment ha' got the yoke o' slav'ry off their necks they got to be tolt there haint no sech thing as a yoke, or the p'or cusses '11 be tryin' to put their heads in it agin, like they allus war. Never war no man, black or white, w'at the Lord God c'udn't give sense to if the feller got to hankerin' to know suthin' ; an' the more sense the Lord gives him the more powerful his brain'll git to do big things." Luke reached out his knotted stick, got a hook-hold on the sawdust box and drew it to him. "Ye be a wonder, Hank," he said, after depositing his 108 SONS OF ELOHIM derelict quid in the box. "Ye s'hud be president o' this kentry so's ye c'ud make houn' dogs into b'ars, an' canary birds inter American eagles. Ye ha' been lookin' at the bottom o' fellers boots fer so long ye think the hull world's upside down standin' on their heads. 'Fore the gover'ment o' this kentry gits the sense w'at ye got 'bout them niggers an' sech, the worms '11 be playin' hide an' seek among yure bones an' mine, too." Then, grin- ningly, with the aid of Hank's knife he filled a cheek with fresh tobacco. "Wall, Luke, p'raps ye might be a slave yureself this minnit if it warn't fer w'at some feller ha' thought on an' said it afore he passed in his checks; an' the worms ha' et him fer quite a spell afore the world ha' tuk notice. A poet feller ha' said onct 'the big things a feller does lives arterward, but the fool ha' put an end to hisself." Luke's jaws worked slowly as though he were try- ing to masticate Hank's quotation along with his mix- ture of nicotine and molasses, but, apparently, he had no answer ready. He got up and shoved his chair nearer the door to get away from a ray of sunlight that was coming through a slit in the window shade, and sat down again. "Luke," said Hank, thoughtfully scrutinizing the old rancher's face, "w'at 'ud ye done if ye 'd been president ?" Luke shot a stream of tobacco juice into the sawdust box and shifted his cud to the other cheek where he worked upon it industriously a moment as he squinted, searchingly, at the cobbler. "Can't say jest w'at a feller 'd do w'en he's gi'n a job o' pleasin' the cusses w'at air tryin' to make him b'lieve they g'in it to him. Fust place, he's got to ch'ice twixt his bosses clus to home, an' w'at t'other fellers want, \ \ \ \ IF HANK HAD BEEN LINCOLN 109 five hundred miles off; an' if he don't ch'ice fer the fel- lers 'at put him thar er sez they did, he better make his will an' say his prayers damn quick. That's all ye'll ever git out o' a democracy or republic, any time. Thar'll allus be injestice o' the majority on the menority. By Gawd, Hank, if we could git the right feller fer the job, I'd whoop 'er up fer a monarchy, s'help me!" Hank pushed the sawdust box nearer Luke who, in his exciting conclusions, was losing the range. "I ain't so far from yure concepshun myself, Luke," he said, quietly, tapping his aproned knee with an awl. "Only thing 'at stands agin it is the feller fer the job. Reason I see it that way is 'count o' the scriptur w'ich sez, 'a King shall reign in righteousness' some day, w'en the Kingdom o' the Lord ha' come. The Lord ha' knowd jest 's long a nashun air tryin' to run itself by the people an' fer the people, it'll be a humbug. It'll allus be the tail waggin' the dorg, 'count o' the men w'at ha' got the most money will allus pick out the fellers w'at air to rule the majority w'at has to work fer a livin' an' haint got time to take a hand in the pickin'. But, sho! the major'ty fellers ha' all got differ'nt ideas how to run a gover'ment, an' if they sh'd git a say in, they'd git to fightin' 'mongst themselves. S'long's men an' women air jest human bein's they'll never git equal jestice till they git the King the Lord ha' promised." "W'at ye think ye'd done, Hank, if ye'd been king o' 'Mericky. C'ud ye a fixed things with the South 'thout goin' to war?" "I dunno, Luke. I ain't sayin' as any man couldn't do the right thing if the Lord give him wisdom. Can't b'lieve 'at the Lord ever wanted any contenshun settled by widders an' orphuns." 110 SONS OF ELOHIM "Don't yure Good Book say as how the Lord sicked 'em on each other Hisself, an' tolt the Bible fellers to kill the men an' take the widders an' orphuns? A feller ha' tolt me that onct, an' said it war in the Bible, Hank." "I ha' never seen it myself, Luke. Mebbe it sez that. But if I read it I'd never b'lieve the Lord ha' writ it." "Warn't the Bible writ by the Lord, Hisself, Luke? I allus ha' heerd that's w'at yure preachers tell." "I never see that in the Bible, either, Luke. If I sh'd find it, I'd know some feller 'd lied. Fellers w'at writ the Bible or some on 'em, might ha' been jest 's big liars as some o' the preachers w'at 'ud write it now. I haint sayin' as I ha* found anythink I don't b'lieve, but show me suthin' wicked w'at it sez the Lord ha' done, an' I'll say the feller w'at ha' writ it war a liar. The Lord ha' give men brains so's they can tell w'at air true, an' w'en a feller sez ye can't b'lieve any o' it jest 'cause ye find a lie, ye can tell that feller his brains ha' slip' down to t'other end. I ha' read, Luke, that the Lord ha' said, Thou shalt not kill,' an' no brainless cuss air goin' to make me b'lieve the Lord air changin' His own orders." "Ye haint tolt me w'at ye'd done to stop the war from beginnin', Hank, s'posin' yure Lord ha' gi'n ye wisdom, an' sech, as ye say, an' a chance same as Lincoln. W'at ye sayin' Hank?" "I ha' thought 'bout a lot o' things might ha' been done, Luke. My noshun war that if Lincoln had given them secceeders the hull South, an' ha' then put a high tax on w'at the South wants to sell the North, the Union fellers 'ud stopped hollerin' fer war, an' in less'n ten years the secceeders ha' wanted to git back in the Union agin, an' ha' freed the niggers fer the priv'ledge. 'Nother way might ha' been: The major'ty could ha' voted a law IF HANK HAD BEEN LINCOLN 111 w'at sez all fellers w'at ha' got money an' property air to turn half o' it to the widders an' orphuns, an' to the heroes w'at ha' done the heroeing. I haint sayin* as Lincoln wan't right, 'cordin' to his noshun. But ye can bet the seat o' yure pants, Luke, that w'en they say the Lord haint got no other wisdom but to make widders an' orphuns, an' one-legged fellers w'at air called heroes, an' give six dollars a month fer bein' sech, they reckon the Lord's a fool. The kentry w'at couldn't stand 'count o' bein' divided agin itself afore the war, '11 have to stand fer a damn long time yit, divided. Time's comin' w'en this nashun '11 be more yit divided into two parts noways equal, the fellers w'at ha' got more money 'n they need, an', the fellers w'at haint got more 'n enough to live on day in an' day out. Ye don't have to have niggers jest to have slaves. Thar haint much diff'rence w'ether a feller air workin' fer his grub an' gunnysack, or w'ether he air gittin' just enough to buy his grub an' a rag t'hide his nakedness. But, sho! 'taint so much w'at a feller gits or don't git, w'at makes him a slave. It's the fear o' not allus gittin' a chanct to git grub an' sech, fer him an' the missus. Grub, an' clothes, an' a rooftree air w'at sez as w'ether a man is a slave or not. If I war presi- dent, Luke, fust thing I'd do, I'd make the gover'ment own ev'rythink w'at the Lord ha' intended ev'ry man sh'ud have free, or fer jest the charge o' perdoocin'. That 'ud stop slav'ry quickern ye can say 'scat!' An' it 'ud make fellers a heap sight better cit'zens, 'cordin' to my noshun. The Lord never intended niggers or white fellers to be slaves 'count o' fear." "Wall, Hank, yure noshun air purty good fer a shoe- maker w'at haint got to be president yit; but afore ye see that thing come, ye'll find, mebbe, the slaves ha' 112 SONS OF ELOHIM got a noshun that it's time fer another war. S'long they make pistols an' guns, an' weppin's to kill, that'll be war." "Ye air right on that pint, Luke. War ha' never settled anythink, yet. It jest makes the rich men richer an' the poor man poorer 'n ever. It's like quenchin' o' a feller's thirst with likker. Ev'ry drink ye give him makes him hanker fer another. 'Nother thing war does is t'make a lot o' good men inter devils. Fellers w'at goes to war, 'fore they goes wouldn't kill a chicken fer dinner. Wen they come back they air so chuck full o' murder they'll kill a feller if he jest arsks a fool question. Then the gover'ment thinks they got to hang the feller 'stead o' trying to find some way to git the p'or cuss back to his right senses. Wen men find out they can't git rid o' the spirit o' evil by killin' the feller, mebbe they'll stop hangin' fellers. Gover'ment murder jest makes more devils git into other fellers to kill someon' else, next day. Wen the gover'ment hangs a feller, it be jest admittin' the hull caboodle on 'em air 'fraid o' one p'or single cuss, an' ha' got to kill him 'cause they dont know, arter five thousan' years, how to cure him. It's same thing with them deadly operashuns in the horspitals. Ev'ry time them doctor fellers cut suthin' out o' a feller, they be admittin' the guilt that after five thousan' years they dont know how to cure him." "W'at yure parsons sayin' about that, Hank?" Hank dropped the boot he was working on and threw up both hands. "Fellers w'at writ the hell doctrin's o' the churches haint writ much 'bout the devils Christ ha' b'lieved in, an' most o' the parsons ha' got to b'lieve there haint no devils an' sech." "Hank, they tell as how it war croolty o' them fellers IF HANK HAD BEEN LINCOLN 113 w'at w'ipped the niggers an' sicked bloodhoun's on 'em, an' took the poor cusses away from their fam'lies, was w'at made the war. Some woman ha' writ a book 'bout a nigger named 'Tom' suthin' or other. Laury ha' read it." "My lady ha' read it, an' she ha' bawled like all git out, an' said she'd like to shoot some o' them fellers. Sho ! Thar's more niggers bein' kilt by them Ku Klux fellers, now, than ha' been hurt afore the war. Don't look's that's goin' to start the fightin' again. Thar'll be hangin' o' niggers by hundurds an' thousan's, an' they'll burn niggers by fire thousan's on 'em, 'fore them Southern cusses '11 be satisfied. They got to spite it on some one ; but ye won't see no more war 'count o' that." "Them Ku Klux fellers air a lot o' yaller coyotes, Hank, 'cordin' to my noshun. They tell as how they go in a pack all hid up, head an' all, with a sheet, jest to kill one nigger. Haint no worse to set bloodhoun's on 'em. A nigger's got a chanct from a dorg." "Wall, Luke, w'en a feller ha' got a yaller streak he gits a hankerin' to hide his head with a sheet, er suthin', so's he can do his dirty work 'thout bein' found out. Ye air insultin' a coyote to call him a 'Ku Klux, Luke. A coyote air a coward, an' he haint carin' who knows it. But them Ku Klux fellers hide an' go in packs, so's nobody won't find w'at cowardly skunks they be. Tank sez the fellers o' the range air talkin' o' ridin' down thar, a few hundred on 'em, an' run the yaller skunks into their holes. Ye never heerd o' a cowboy puttin' his head in a sack w'en he starts out fer a killin'. He may be a ornery cuss, but he gives t'other man a chanct to see w'os doin' it. "Laury sez as how them Ku Kluxes don't stop at 114 SONS OF ELOHIM men niggers, but a pack on 'em '11 take a lone nigger woman out o' her home an' kill her jest as quick's a man nigger." "Like's not. A feller w'at hankers to hide his face aint a feller w'at 'd dare tackle a man, alone. He'd more'n likely go arter a woman. If truth war out ye'd find most o' them Ku Klux fellers ha' did worse things theirselves than the fellers they go arter. They holler about t'other feller so's no one won't be seein' what they be theirselves." "Here comes Bud, Hank. Arsk him w'at he thinks 'bout the war, now. He got his belly full, I'm thinkin', w'en he lost that arm." "Bud" Andrews, well built but roughly dressed, about thirty years old, with an empty right sleeve evidencing his war experience, came into the shop. He nodded to Luke, threw a disabled boot into Hank's lap, and turned to go out. "Hey, Bud! Wat's yure hurry? Hank ha' arsked me w'at 'ud I done if I war president, 'stead o' Lincoln, an' I ha' arsked him how he cu'd ha' stopped goin' to war. W'at you got to say 'bout it?" Bud looked from the rancher to the shoemaker, ran his left hand up under his sombrerro, and spat in the sawdust. "Wall, Luke, I got this much to say, an' I haint carin' a damn who hears me say it. Jest as long's you got men hankerin' to git into war afore they're druv in, ye'll have war, Lincolns or no Lincolns. Arter this, no man's goin' to tell me who's a hero. He haint one o' them volunteers like I war damn fool enough to be. I haint got one damn word to say agin a feller w'at'll climb in a window an* kill a man who trys to kill him fer bein' thar. That's IF HANK HAD BEEN LINCOLN 115 his business, an' prob'ly he ha' got to be that-a-way. But a man who grabs his gun an' sez, 'Let me git a shot at em !' like I war damn fool enough fer sayin', gits a chance damn quick enough to find out he haint no hero 'tall, but jest a damn fool who didn't know that patriotism represents jest two words, politics and murder, spelt w-a-r. We don't want any more Washingtons, an' we don't need any more Lincolns. We want jest two laws, one w'ich sez thar shan't be no more weppins o' warfare made; the other that any damn man who volunteers to go out to kill men they never see, an' make widders an' orphuns, air to be put in a Andersonville prison rest o' his life w'ich won't be fer long. You got my noshun o' war, an' w'at I'd do if I was head o' this kentry, an' damn me if ev'ry damn man in my comp'n'y w'at be alive, aint agreed with me." Having delivered his profanity-punctured oration, Bud spat savagely at the sawdust box, wiggled his empty sleeve from the stump of his arm, off near the shoulder, and started to leave. At the door he stopped. He turned and looked from Luke to Hank, then came slowly back into the room. "My Gawd, Luke, I never want to see another war in my time," he began. "It's jest killin' an' tryin' to kill men ye haint got one damn thing agin. I never knowed to kill but one man, many battles as I war in. Ye jest shoot, an' if you see a man fall, ye don't know who did it. Only one man, an' my Gawd ! I haint forgot it, an' never will." Bud's teeth clicked together and his lips bulged out as the recollection of the thing tightened his heart muscles, sending a pain into his throat. After a moment he went on, huskily. 116 SONS OF ELOHIM "Feller war a captain. He war shot off his horse in a surprise attack by us. His men scattered an' our fellers took arter 'em. I came up agin the man, an' I see him tryin' to git his pistol out with his left hand. I reckoned his right war broken. Speared him right thar with my bay 'net an' run on arter the others. Wen we got orders to retreat an' came back over the hill, I went to the feller an' see he war dead. He had somethin' in his hand agin his lips w'ich I took to look at, an' so help me Gawd, Luke, it war a pictur' o' a woman an' five children. On the back side war writ, "Dear Daddy, we are all prayin' you'll soon come back safe.' I see the name o' the feller w'at ha' took the pictur' an' the town war right then in persession o' our regiment. First chance I got to git to headquarters I hunted up the pictur' shop, an' found it war a girl. I ha' show'd her the pictur', an' she asked how did I come by it. 'Found it w'ere the feller dropped it/ sez I. She told me the captain's name an' show'd me w'ere they lived. 'Take it to her/ I sez, 'an' tell her a feller ha' murdered him an' ha' made her a widder an' her children orphuns. An' tell her/ sez I, 'if Gawd gives me a chance to git back to honest work once again she'll hear from me/ sez I. Wall, Luke, ye know now why I come to sell my ranch soon's I got back to the Valley, arter I got out o' the horspital. I ha' sent the money to that widder, an' 1 ha' writ an' sez, 'This here money haint nothin' to w'at a husband an' father be/ sez I, 'but if they don't hang me fer being' a hero like they orter do, I'll do somethin' right smart fer them kids/ sez I. I haint a tellin' ye w'at I ha' done, Luke, but, by Gawd, them kids air w'at I'm livin' fer, rest o' my days. W'enever I git to seein' that feller a lyin' thar with that pictur' agin his lips, IF HANK HAD BEEN LINCOLN 117 I gits together w'at money I got, an' it goes to Tennessee. One war 's 'nough fer me, Luke, long's I live, damn my skin if it haint!" Bud turned on his heel, headed for the door and went out, slamming it behind him. "W'at ye sayin', Hank? Guess w'at we need, now, more 'n anythink else, air a man bigger 'n Lincoln war." "Lincoln war the greatest president we ha* had up to now, Luke. Thar'll be monuments built all over the states fer him. School children '11 be tolt w'at a great man he war, an' ev'ry year they'll celebrate his birthday, same's they do fer Washington's. An' nobody '11 say the war needn't 'a been." "Laury sez as how Washington war owner o' a lot o* nigger slaves," said Luke. "She ha' read it in a book." "So I heerd tell, myself," said Hank. "Wall, Hank, it be a queer world," said Luke, getting to his feet and testing his leg before risking his weight on it. "My noshun be, the fellers w'at'll cheer loudest at them celebrashuns, won't be the fellers w'at air earnin' their livin' by the sweat o' their brow, an' afeard o' the wolf a comin' to the door." Hank was looking, meditatively, toward the hills. "Like's not," he said, presently, but Luke had limped out of the shop. CHAPTER XVI "JEHOSOPHAT \" About four miles north from Old Town was a section or more of what was known as "scab land." Once, some roaming rancher had built there a log house, presumably for shelter from the sand storms, while feeding his cattle over the range. The land was worthless, as there was not enough sagebrush to coax the bunch grass out and shelter it. This land lay in a direct line from the North to the South Gaps, in the path of every storm that swept the Valley. At some earlier day the sagebrush had been grubbed away, in front of the cabin, and the whirling winds had scooped out the light soil, leaving a large hole. The hut had served as a temporary retreat for cow- boys and Indians. Now and then, some one would take a hammer and a few nails, fix up the door or cover the window. But no one had seen enough value in the land to reclaim it. One day in the early autumn Nancy Swallow and Laura Waters were out for a morning ride. Nancy had chosen this fresh ranch girl from among them all, partly perhaps, because Laura touched the chords of her own "JEHOSOPHAT i" 119 early life, and soothed the nature-spirit, within. And Laura, flattered at first that she might be Nancy's com- panion and friend, had grown to love her more dearly than she had ever loved her own sisters. "She's so sweet, I sometimes feel almost I c'ud jest eat her!" she had exclaimed, one day, to Mrs. Kimball; and that good woman, carrying the word to Nancy, saw a spark kindle in the black eyes. And from that time there had been a warmer pressure in the handclasps of these young women. Today, as they rode toward the log hut, they saw smoke rising through a hole in the roof. They had often passed the place, but never had been able to get their ponies near the door, owing to the pit, dug out by the wind. This morning, they saw the big hole had been filled up. Nancy determined to see who was occupying the cabin. As she neared the door, her pony sank to his knees in the fluffy sand. She got him to firmer ground and sprang from his back, just as the door opened, and a big face, behind a clump of red whiskers, peered out. It was Crawley. "Howdy, Mis' Swallow; howdy," he said, coming outside. "Surprised to see me here, now be n't ye? as the 'ighwayman said, onct." "What in the world are you doing here, Mr. Crawley?" "Humsteddin', Mis' Swallow; humsteddin'." "What a lot of work it must have been, to fill in that big hole," said Nancy, pointing to where the great pit had been. Crawley stood, in amazement, staring at the spot. "Jee-'os-aphat !" he exclaimed, at last. "That 'ole war 120 SONS OF ELOHIM thar last night, sure's I'm a foot 'igh! W'os' a done it, d'ye think, Mis' Swallow?" "The wind, prob'ly," Laura volunteered. The wind dug it out, afore." "Wall, it's beatin' o' me, as the carpet said to the split o' leather; but I be n't one as will complain. It'll save a heap o' work, certain sure. It war a bit blowy last night, fer a fact." "But, Mr. Crawley," said Laura, "whoever got ye to take up a homestead on this old stun patch? It'll never be worth waterin'." Luke Waters' daughter knew as much about such matters as any man in the Valley. "Wall, it's a long story, as the tar said to the mid- shipman, and is one as I'll tell ye sometime; but 'ere I be, an' Jee-'os-aphat !" Crawley had walked to the corner of the hut to call their attention to a large area, in the rear, from which he had cleared the sagebrush. Lo, where, the night before, he had surveyed with pride more than five acres of level, clean land, there was now a hole which seemed to him large enough to hold half the village of Old Town. The strong, whirling wind, peculiar to West Wash- ington, had brought about a new topographical condition to his ranch. It had scooped out the whole five acres of sand and light, lava ash, filled up the hole in front of his cabin, and carried the remainder to a remote part of the section, piling up a row of gigantic hammocks. "Jee-hosaphat !" Crawley repeated, with greater em- phasis, his bushy hair standing up, and his red whiskers bristling straight out. "You orter waited for the water, Mr. Crawley," said Laura, sympathetically. "The wind allwus does that, "JEHOSOPHAT !" 121 when the sagebrush is grubbed off, an' no water to wet it down." "Jeehosa-phat ?" was all Crawley could answer. Nancy toed a stirrup, and sprang into her saddle. "Good-bye," Mr. Crawley," she called back to him; but he had disappeared behind the cabin. As they rode away, they met a man on a black stallion, who passed them, giving Laura a slight nod. "Who is he?" Nancy asked. "You've seen him?" said Laura. "No, never, Laura, but I remember the horse. I never see a man, when I can look at a beautiful horse." "I guess there aint no handsomer man on this range, or any other, fur as that goes," said Laura. Billy Ki-Ki's powerful frame, thick hair, and smooth, well chiselled face, made him a striking figure, even among the unusual men of the plains. This morning, he rode up to where the new rancher was standing, dejectedly, and, leaning over his saddle, he tapped the ground with his quirt. Crawley looked up, still dazed. "Ye'll be wantin' some calves, I'm thinkin', Crawley, and I've got some mighty fine ones I can let ye have on time." "On time, is it?" said Crawley, staring at the ranger. "I'll have a 'ell of a time fillin' hup that bloomin' 'ole, I'm thinkinV Billy grinned. "Wait for the wind, Crawley, wait for the wind." "An' then w'at?" "Well, then ye can wait for the water. Meantime, man, don't grub off any more sagebrush ; there ain't any 122 SONS OF ELOHIM too much bunch grass here, now, an' nothin' else will grow. What d'ye say to some calves?" "Hit's about the same w'ether I 'ave calves or w'ether I don't, I s'pose. Ye'll keep 'em till I want 'em, won't ye? an' it'll be a start. Wen '11 I have to pay for the bloomin' critturs?" "Take yer time, Crawley; take yer time. "What's more, if ye want to water this God-forsaken spot, now ye got it, why, mebbe I can help ye. But it'll take a heap o' work, man, and a mint o' money ; but I like your nerve, man, and I'll stake ye, Crawley." "Thankee, Billy, thankee. Don't know as I wants ye to. The bloomin' ranch can 'owl, fur's I care. I'm through with grubbin'; but I'll be beggered if I don't keep 'er. Summat '11 turn up, mebbe. D;amme, I'll keep 'er." CHAPTER XVII "HELL DOCTRIN'S o' THE CHURCHES" The next day, Nancy stopped in at the shoemaker's, "I've got a little job for you, Mr. Evans," she said, slipping off a shoe. "And I've got a lot to talk with you about, so I came early." "That's right, that's right, Mis' Swallow," said Hank. "Ye should ha' come afore this, fer this c'ud 'a been fixed in a few minutes w'en I saw ye last, an' now it'll take most the forenoon. Ye don't sing fer us any more at meetin'. Ain't ye goin' to? Or be ye through with Old Town religion?" "No, Mr. Evans, it wasn't that. Only, Martha Chan- ning thought my songs weren't Christian, and Martha's Dick's sister, you know." "I reckoned about sech war the case. Parson ha' tuk it to heart like, an' there be'nt any fire in his talk since ye don't come." "Mr. Evans, I don't think I ever want to be a Christian like Martha Channing, or Janet Raines. Dick says I am his little pagan wife, and that's what I am always going to be." "Wall," said Hank, waxing a long thread, industri- ously, while his face broadened into a grin, "there be pagans an' heathens, which the churches send mission- 124 SONS OF ELOHIM aries to, w'ich had better send missionaries to the churches. I'm agin it, fer ye can't make bull beef out*n sole leather, much as ye may think ye got t'other for sich, as Lanky says, who's been to the rest'rants in Frisco." "Is it a sin to go fishing on Sunday, Mr. Evans?" 'Wall, now, Mis' Swallow, I reckon sin is mostly a pint o' view o' some feller who aint doin' that thing, but prob'ly doin' suthin' worse. 'Pears to me I ha' read somew'ere in the Bible that the Sabbath Day war made fer man, 'stead o' man bein' made to fit the Sabbath." "Miss Slaterback, who lives next to Heath's, is a Mormon, Dick says; and she won't work on Saturday, but she always does her washing on Sunday. Dick says she is a Mormon because she believes a man should have seven wives, according to the Bible, and that would give her a chance. Martha Channing says she 's a wicked woman, for working on the Sabbath. I don't see why it should make any difference, do you? "My concepshun is that arter a man or a woman ha* worked six days, it air time to rest up fer a day no matter if it be Saturday, or Sunday, or Monday. I heard a feller w'at know'd a lot o' Bible language, say, onct, that the big Jew feller they call Moses, ha' changed Sunday to Saturday, arter they got away from them Egypshun brickmakers, w'at made 'em make bricks with- out straw. He show'd as how Moses ha' done it out o' spite. It wan't no religious day, then jest a national holiday, fer everybody to rest. Moses ha* picked out Saturday fer th' reason, so he told 'em, the Lord ha' rested arter He ha' worked six days to make the airth. But this feller said it wan't no sech thing, as nobody ha' know'd anythink 'bout the days o' the week till millions o' years arterward ; an' then some Jew feller ha' made a "HELL DOCTRIN'S O' THE CHURCHES" 125 calendar. He said the day war set fer a political holiday till the fellers w'at tuk up the church c'lecshuns in the big temple, ha' thought they c'ud git more money if they made it a sin to do anythink but go to church on Sunday." "I think he was right," said Nancy, convinced with- out understanding it very well. "There should be one day in a week, when everyone, who has to work all the other days, can enjoy life just as they wish so long as they don't interfere with those who want to go to church." "That's my concepshun, Mis' Swallow. I war brought up to respect Sunday, like it war the Lord, Hisself, an' I never had no time, other days, to play ball, or go fishin', or skatin'. Someday these fellers w'at writ the 'don't do its,' o' the churches, will find they got to 'judicate a lot o' their foolishness, w'en they meet the Lord face to face." "Mr. Channing says you know a lot about the Bible, and what it says ; and I came over, this morning, to have you tell me everything that it says. Will you, please?" " Lor' bless ye !" said Hank, dropping the shoe. "Ye never read it?" Nancy shook her head. "Haveyo'u?" "Twice or thrisct clear through, we'n I war a youngster. Mother war greatly religious, an' she ha' brought me up orthodox like, till the devil tuk 'er." "The devil took her!" exclaimed Nancy. "You mean the Lord, don't you ?" "No," said Hank, solemnly, "I reckerlect as how mother allus said the Lord war good an' merciful, an' never would harm nobody. An' jest afore she war tuk 126 SONS OF ELOHIM down father he had been tuk and died. It war small- pox, Mis' Swallow. Wall, arter father war dead an' gone, an' the police ha' tuk off their regulashuns on the house, mother she ha' got out 'er Bible, an* ha' read 'bout Job, an' how he war tuk down wi' biles an' sech, an' kep' sayin' as he did : 'The Lord ha* done it ! The Lord ha* done it!' Then some feller come along w'at know'd all about the Lord an' how He ha' made the world, an f he told Job he war a fool. Sez, the feller : 'Job/ he sez, 'the Lord ha' made the world an' everythink good in it/ he sez, 'an', w'en ye see things goin' wrong, it's Satan as does it,' he sez. 'It war Satan w'at made ye sick, Job/ sez the feller, 'an' w'en ye stop blamin' the Lord fer it, ye'll git well/ he sez." "And did he get well?" "Job did, an' mother she didn't; an' thar's w'ere my interpretashun ends. Sho! Mebbe she didn't git no chance, fer a day or so arter she ha' read this to me, an' she ha' told me never to blame the Lord fer nothink as war harmful, the perlice ha' come an' tuk 'er off to the waccination 'orspital, an' next I heard she war dead an* Alongside o' father." Hank looked off to the Ahtanum hills, while he listlessly tapped his leather-aproned knee with his awl. "Who was Job?" "Job war a ambitious feller, good an' pious-like, but he had a wife w'at war impious as hell beggin' yure pardon, Mis' Swallow." "That's alright, Mr. Evans. It means a whole lot you can't say any other way. Go on, please." "Wall, Job's wife kep' tryin' to git the old man to quit prayin' an' exhortin* on the Lord; but Job, he stuck, like a dorg to a root. Then she got the children "HELL DOCTRIN'S O' THE CHURCHES" 127 to make sport o' their dad, an' sech, so he tips an* gives 'em. all a share o' his property, till he hadn't more'n a rabbit, as Jim Crawley sez, an' the young Jobs went off to hoe their own rows." "That was good of him," said Nancy. "Wall, they got to runnin' things purty lively, a drinkin' an' dancin' an' carousin' an' sech, till everybody fer miles 'round used to hear on 'em, an' used to come to sample their wines an' to eat o' the bread o' the world. One day Job's wife went to visit the boys an* jine in their sport, an' they ha' gi'n her a great jamberee." "Did Mrs. Job drink wine and get drunk?" "Don't know 'bout her. Guess it don't say. But w'en the boys war drunk, a lot o' thieves come an* stole all their cattle an' sheep. W'en they ha' come to, they hadn't more'n their old dad; not a red cent." "Nor ambition," she suggested. "Mebbe not," said Hank. "Wall, they concluded to go back to Job, an' fall on his neck, so to say, an' git w'at he 'ad left. Job's wife knew better, an' tried to persuade 'em not to go; but they went, an* she slid off to visit some other relashuns o' hern, w'at war likewise havin' good times an' wines an 1 sech. Wall, some brigands, or other, falls on the necks o' Job's sons afore they got another w'ack at the old dad; an* thar warn't anythink left o' them fellers to tell w'at happened to 'em." "Kill them all?" Hank nodded. "Dead'rn a door nail," he said. "And did Mrs. Job go back to Mr. Job?" "Yes, she went home sometime arterward, an' found Job ha' tuk sick with a lot o' biles, an' war rootin* round 128 SONS OF ELOHIM in sackcloth an' ashes, sayin' 'Oh, Lord! oh, Lord! oh, Lord!' 'Wat's up?' says Mrs. Job. 'Biles/ sez Job. 'The Lord ha' afflicted me/ he sez. 'I told ye so!' sez the missus. 'W'ere's the children?' Job arsked. 'Dead/ she sez. 'Oh, Lord ; oh, Lord ! oh, Lord !' sez Job. 'Air ye ready to quit?' she arsks. But Job, he sticks to the Lord, an' the old woman goes kitin' back to her relashuns an' sech. Then the good feller comes along, an' finds Job rootin' an' blamin' the Lord, an' he tells Job to stop accusin' the Lord, an' blame the hull business on the devil." "And then what?" she asked, after waiting for Hank to find the tool he was searching for. "Arter this good feller, w'at know'd everythink, ha' talked awhile to Job, an' told him how the Lord ha' planned the world, an' ha' hung it in the sky, an' sech, he gits Job to b'lieve he war wrong, arter all, an' Job he gits down in the sackcloth an' ashes agin, an' sez: 'Oh, Lord! oh, Lord! oh, Lord! I ha' been mighty wicked.' An' he arsks the Lord to forgive him, an' take away his biles, w'ich the Lord did immegitly, an' give the old man another wife w'at stayed home ; an' Job had a lot more sons and daughters, an' more property 'n ever." "Is that in the Bible, Mr. Evans?" "Thar's w'ere I read it, Mis' Swallow, w'en I war a youngster, an' I guess it be thar now." "Do you believe it's true?" Hank let his hammer fall to the floor, and stared at her in surprise. "Why not?" he asked. "More'n that happens, some- w'ere every day." "That the Lord makes boils go away from people?" "HELL DOCTRIN'S O' THE CHURCHES" 129 "Wall, no; not exactly," said Hank. "The doctors make 'em well, an' then they git new wives, or them as needs 'em does; an' they make a lot more money some on'em, if they ain't lost ambition." "So you don't believe it all?" Nancy insisted. "O' course I do!" said Hank, with emphasis, as he started again to work industriously on the shoe. "Did the Lord give the doctors the same power as He had, to make sick people well ?" she questioned, after a pause. "I 'spose He did," said Hank. "But why do people die, then, when they have doctors ?" "Wall, it be nip an' tuck, nigh 'bout," said Hank, dryly. "If ye gits well, he war a good doctor ; an' if ye die, the Lord hadn't give him enough wisdom." "Well, he's a queer Lord, don't you think, Mr. Evans?" "Lor' bless ye, Mis' Swallow ! He orter know I He orter know!" Nancy sat, quiet, for some moments watching Hank pull the thread back and forth through the leather. She was wondering about him, why he was just Hank Evans, the cobbler, when he knew so much, and knew it in a better way than the minister did, and told it so much more entertainingly. Perhaps this great Purpose required that out of the mouths of cobblers and of ranchers and cowboys, and from Nick Maloney's funny thin lips, and from Jim Crawley's red-whiskered mouth, something would come to help solve this great mysterious puzzle Life. "Ye be some singer, Mis' Swallow," said Hank pres- ently. 'Ye war gittin' holt o' these no account cowboys 130 SONS OF ELOHIM who ha' spent a deal o' time afore, an' most o' their money, at Skinners. I reckon as how Dink Skinner war a wishin' ye never come to Old Town." "Oh, I hope not !" Nancy exclaimed, "I wouldn't want anyone to feel that way about me." "Shucks!" said Hank, "He ha' sent more men to the devil than anythink else, hereabouts." "Who was the devil?" Nancy asked. "Ye never heerd 'bout the devil?" Hank paused in his work to look at her. He wasn't sure she was in earnest. "Oh, yes ; I've heard people call each other devils. I heard a preacher say, once, the devil is a big snake. But I suppose it means a bad man doesn't it, Mr. Evans?" "Wall, some fellers git nigh on to be meaner'n all git out an' women, too, fur's that be. But the devil, himself, air the king pin fer cussedness, bein's how he war once an angel o' glory, but war kicked out o' heaven, 'cause he war sot on bein' the hull thing." "Who kicked him out, Mr. Evans?" "Wall, I can't say jest who did it, but the Bible sez as how he war rebellious like, and wanted to run things his own way; an' the Lord ha' said: 'Satan,' sez he, *y e better vamoose t' hell w'er ye belong,' he sez, I expect, though it don't say it jest them words. Ye see, Mis' Swallow, the devil war onct a good angel, an' had a glorified body, an' war in heaven; but w'en he war thrown out, his body war taken away, an' he is jest a spirit w'at ye can't see, like all bad spirits, w'at air called, devils." "Where do all the other devils come from, Mr. Evans? There must be a lot of them to make so much trouble in the world," Nancy conjectured. "HELL DOCTRIN'S O' THE CHURCHES" 131 "Wall, Mis' Swallow, my concepshun be this: This airth air to be made all over agin some day, the Bible sez. An' it sez it ha' been made over a lot o' times already. I reckon thar's allus a Judgment Day fer each time, an' a Lord Jesus, too, prob'ly. O' course them w'at haint wanted glorified bodies, 'count o' not b'lievin' in heaven an' sech, w'en th?y ha' lived here, didn't git none. Soon's a new airth war made, they ha' come back here in spirits, 'thout bodies, an' the Lord ha' let 'em stay here, seein' as they war sot on it, an' w'udn't go to heaven w'en they war give the chanct." "Can't they see anything?" "Wall, I reckon so," said Hank. "But they never ha' lived in this world, and the air w'at we breathe, and w'ich makes our bodies, ain't the kind w'at made them ; an' them as never ha' been born in this atmosphere can't grow bodies like they had afore." "Always like that must they never have bodies again ?" "Wall, they air to git a chance, I reckon, w'en the Judgment Day comes agin that is, if they git real sorry fer their cussedness, an' arsk the Lord fer glory. My concepshun air, the Lord ha' give us the right to choose w'ether we go to heaven or t'hell. Them as don't believe in heaven or glory, won't arsk fer it; an' God, o' course, can't give 'em anythink they don't arsk fer. That's His rule." "My!" said Nancy. "It must be awful to have no body to go around in." "Sho!" said Hank. "They don't lack fer bodies. They jest takes persession o' them feller's bodies w'at air full o' superstishun. Ye see, Mis' Swallow, they air diffrent kind o' flesh from w'at the devils ha' been 132 SONS OF ELOHIM 'customed to, an' the fellers git sick, an' sech, and it ha* been said they air unclean spirits. Ye can't see 'em till they gits to runnin' a po'r feller in a diff'rent way from w'at he wants to go. An' he up and does somethin' he haint awanted to do." "Makes them steal, or kill somebody?" "Yas, the po'r feller, w'at the devils got into, he gits the punishment w'at the devils ought to git. An' I reckon the devils 'a had many a laugh at the jedge an' jury fer hangin' the feller." "There should be some way to warn people about it, don't you think, Mr. Evans?" It was getting to be a real problem with Nancy. "Sho! Wen a feller or a woman, too, fur's that be gits to b'lievin' in superstishun, an' that they can see the spirits o' their pa an' ma arter they ha' died, an' sech nonsense w'ich I ha' read in the Bible they haint a goin' to see till the Lord God, Hisself, comes an' brings 'em with Him 'taint no job a tall fer these spirits o' the 'pre-Adamite fellers,' as the parson calls 'em, to git in some woman an' make her talk jest like the dead pa or ma, or granmother, an' sech, o' the fellers w'at air ready to b'lieve anythink that haint true." "My !" said Nancy. "They are real dangerous to have 'round." Hank grinned. "Shucks!" said he. "Nobody don't b'lieve in devils an' sech, now-a-days, an' consequent they jest hang round a feller's fam'ly fer fifty or a hundred years 'to the third an' fourth genershun o' them as don't believe', the Bible sez, an' they can git to perdooce exact voice o' any one o' the fam'ly w'at ha' died. An' they can tell 'em fam'ly secrets w'at no one else knowed. They can "HELL DOCTRIN'S O' THE CHURCHES" 133 make out as how they air tellin' ye a lot 'bout heaven an' sech, w'at a superstishus feller '11 b'lieve, not knowin' these air jest spirits o' some onery cuss who ha' lived on this airth a millyun years ago, an' haint never been no nearer heaven than I be, this minnit." "Where did you find out about all this, Mr. Evans?" "The 'postle, Jude, ha' writ in the Bible 'bout these cusses w'ich, he sez, lost their fust bodies an' air to be kept in darkness, without right to have 'nother body till the Judgment Day. The parson war sayin' spell back as how 'cordin' to the 'riginal words o' the Greek, the Lord Jesus didn't say as the wicked war to go 'way fer punishment ferever, but that they air to go 'way to be restrained from havin' bodies fer the hull time till the Judgment Day. 'Nother place it sez them that air goin' to b'lieve an' do right fer's they can, air to come back with God, Hisself, at same time Abraham an' Jacob an' Adam come. Way I see it, if the good an' the wicked air both got to go 'way w'en their spirits quit their bodies, then the only spirits w'at air here now be them as warn't give new bodies at last Judgment Day." "Where is hell, Mr. Evans?" she asked. "Wall, good many preachers have diff'rent ideas. The hell doctrin's o' the churches tell as how it's a place w'ere a man w'at's bad goes w'en he dies; an' he burns up fer ever* an ever. My concepshun is that hell ain't no place at all jest a condition w'at a sinner's spirit gits into arter his body is gone." * "But the devil makes them bad, doesn't he?" *Hank's "concepshun" now appears to be supported by Dr. Robert Young, the world's best authority on ancient meanings of Biblical words, who tells us the original meaning of Sheol was, "an invisible state of man." The Greek equivalent, Hades, meant, "an invisible age;" that is, a period of time when a man it in the invisible state, i.e., in spirit without body. 134 SONS OF ELOHIM "Yas; but the preachers don't take no account o' that," said Hank. "How bad must a man be to go to hell, Mr. Evans?" "Wall, I reckon as how every man's bad more or less; an' women, too er that is, most women pres- ent company's accepted, Mis' Swallow." "Oh, you can include me, Mr. Evans. I'm the worst woman in Old Town, Mrs. Channing thinks. Can women go to hell, too?" "Wall," said Hank, throwing his hammer in the box for emphasis, "I guess if they want to get thar, nothin' '11 stop 'em !" "And where do good people go when they die ? those that don't go to hell?" "Mis' Swallow, I ha' thought o' that, myself, many a time. I ha' read in the Bible thar aint nothin' w'at is hid but'll be known some day. So ye can see it'll take a hundred millyun years to learn about all them millyuns o' planets w'at be hid from us now. Sho! Folks think they be goin' lickity split on the railroads. But wait till we git to travelin' 'mong them stars! Wile we air on this airth, we air jest learnin' to creep, not sayin' as how ye'll see people some day goin' through the water an' the air mor'n a hundred miles an hour, like a feller ha' writ, that Jedge Latimer ha' told me 'bout onct. But jest wait till ye git 'mong them stars ! Arter knowin' how to go purty fast here no one won't be satisfied up thar till they can go from one planet to 'nother for an arternoon visit." "That will be going some !" said Nancy with wide- open eyes. "It does seem as though we should some day know about all these things we wonder about just because we are talking about them and wondering about "HELL DOCTRIN'S O' THE CHURCHES" 135 them. Some one must know all about them; and if we really want to know, it seems as though we ought to have a chance to learn sometime. But we'd be as big as God, then, wouldn't we?" "My consepshun air, Mis' Swallow, that God war onct only a man, jest like any feller mebbe like Luke, or Tank or me. I ha' read in the Bible onct w'ere the Lord ha' said ev'ry man 'shall become perfect like the Father in heaven is perfect.' Way I rigger it out is, if I can git to be as big an' as perfect as He be, then He war onct a man here, w'at had to git into glory same way as Luke will or Nick Maloney or me. But, sho ! He's been gittin' bigger 'n powerfuller ever since, an' we ain't got no chance to ever catch up with Him." "My goodness ! Mr. Evans," exclaimed Nancy. "You should have been a preacher!" Hank grinned, while he sharpened his knife on a whetstone. "I never had a hankerin' to be bossed by any church, Mis' Swallow. Them as do like the parson, for one, who, I reckon, is better'n most on 'em can't figger these things out fer themselves same as I can, or they'd be jerked up for hearsay 'fore the bishops. My thought o' the Bible is that them as want to know, hones' injun, w'at is the truth, can git a concepshun o' truth 'bout God, an' 'bout heaven, w'ether they can't read, or nothin'. It's wisdom w'at comes right out o' the air that makes ye think ; an' it can make ye think things that be largical facts, too. Most th' stuff ye git from the preachers not sayin' as how the parson aint better'n most on 'em air w'at some Smart Alec ha' figgered out wi'out arskin' fer wisdom, fust ; an' if a feller don't arsk fer wisdom fer heavenly wisdom, I mean, Mis' Swallow, all he'll git 136 SONS OF ELOHIM is w'at he gits from men. That's why God ha' said, ye sh'ud pray fer everything w'at ye can't git from men." "I never prayed in my life, except when I was in the convent, and had to say a lot of things by heart, with beads. That isn't asking for anything." "An' that's 'bout all ye git. Wen ye pray, ye got to say w'at ye want." "How are you to know which direction to pray, Mr. Evans?" "Same direction as w'en ye'd holler in the dark fer help if a greaser grabbed ye. Ye'd hope your cry 'ud be heerd by someun'. My noshun is, the Lord's got invisible tellygraph wires in all directions-^even to hell." "If a man goes to hell, Mr. Evans, couldn't he pray to God to get him out? Seems to me it's hell where the preachers ought to go; and let such persons as Martha Channing go to heaven." "Ye've got my concepshun o' that, Mis' Swallow. Hell will be needin' more preachers 'n heaven. But, sho! most on 'em air sot on playin' a harp fer ever 'n ever." "Tell me about some other queer man, like Mr. Job," she urged. "Wall, thar war Daniel, w'at prayed constantly three times a day to the Lord, an' the Lord give him a lot o' wisdom in dreams. And he got so powerful wise that them as didn't git wisdom, consequent o' not prayin', war 'feared o' Daniel. So they chucked him among the lions, an' the Lord wouldn't let the critturs eat him up. That war true, for I've seen men in lions' cages many a time." "So have I," said Nancy, "in San Francisco. I used to live there, you know, Mr. Evans. Dick, my husband, "HELL DOCTRIN'S O' THE CHURCHES" 137 came from New Hampshire. Do you know where that is?" Hank nodded. "It's in the East," he said, "near Noo Yark; an' a fine town it be, I've heard say." "Dick's father is a preacher there." "Do tell!" exclaimed Hank, as though he hadn't known it from the first. "He must think I'm an awful sinner." "Sho, now! he don't know it." "Yes, he does; Martha Channing wrote and told them, I know." "Think so?" and Hank stared at her, sympathetically. "Tell me about some other men who had funny things happen to them," she urged. "Wall, thar war Jonah, as war kickin' up a big wind on the oshun, an* the fellers throw'd him overboard, bag and baggage, 'cause he told them he war running away from the Lord. Jonah ha' thought the Lord war in one o' them furren cities w'at the Bible tells 'bout; for he ha' heard His voice tellin' him to go one way, an' Jonah started t'other." "Why didn't Mr. Jonah do what the Lord told him?" "Wall, he war afeared to go to the wicked place w'ere the Lord ha' tolt him to go, fer the mayor an' the aldy- men ha' sent Jonah word they would tar an' feather him if he came thar to preach." "Oh, he was a preacher!" said Nancy. "O* course he war. All these fellers war w'at the Bible, or w'at the Lord ha 'got out o' scrapes in peculiar ways." "Go on, please, Mr. Evans." 138 SONS OF ELOHIM Hank jerked the last out of the shoe and scrutinized his work, critically. "Wall, the fellers throw'd Jonah into the sea, an' a big w'ale w'at the Lord ha' made to follow the ship, he swallowed Jonah hull." "And that was the last of Jonah!" she exclaimed, with a peal of laughter. "No it warn't, not by a jugful. The w'ale went ashore an' spit him out like he war somethin' as hadn't agreed with him. Wall, I guess here be your shoe." Nancy put her foot up on Hank's knee for him to put it on. Hank, startled, dropped the shoe. Then, in picking it up, he closed his hand on the sharp needle. "W'at be the funnier part o' the thing," said Hank, trying to laugh as he pulled the sharp point out of his thumb, "is that Jonah war alive an' kickin'." "And do you believe that, too, Mr. Evans?" "Why not?" he asked. "I've heard say, many a time, as how a w'ale ha' swallered a hull boat-load o' fellers w'at war tryin' to 'arpoon him. Wat's one man to a hull boat-load?"* "And do you believe the whale heard the Lord say to swallow Mr. Jonah?" she asked, incredulously, as Hank, admiringly, buttoned her shoe about the small, well-turned ankle. "Why not? Wat's it tells a dorg to run arter a rabbit, minnit he sets eyes on it? Wat makes a cat jump at a mouse like all git out soon 's he spies it? Wat is There was recently exhibited in many of our cities a great fish, large enough to swallow ten men, easily. A man could stand upright between it* ponderous jawi. It was caught off the Forida coast. "HELL DOCTRIN'S O' THE CHURCHES" 139 it tells ye to run into a store an' buy a hat fust time ye see it in the window? Same kind o' noshun prob'ly struck the w'ale, w'en he sees Jonah come into his shop, kerplunk." "And does Mrs. Evans believe it about Mr. Daniel and Mr. and Mrs. Job?" "O' course she does. My lady ha' read the hull thing, an' never found nothin' as I knows on, as she don't b'lieve." Nancy rose. "Well, Mr. Evans, the Bible is a queer book; and I'll come over again sometime and have you tell me some more. I haven't any Bible. I had one that Mr. Raines gave me, but I couldn't find any funny things in it like you tell me." "Sho, now, that's too bad. Ye ought to have a Bible, Mis' Swallow. I'll give ye mine to read." "No, no, Mr. Evans. I would much rather hear you tell about things. Are there stories of any more funny preachers in it?" "Wall, I guess I might scrape ye up a few more," said Hank, wishing she would stay awhile longer. "Thar's a lot o' mirakels, too." "What are they?" "They be stories o' things that ye can hardly b'lieve, not knowin's they're true. But they be. There's the mirakel 'bout the man w'at throw'd down a stick an' see it turn into a snake right afore his eyes; an' the mirakel o' the man w'at war so strong he pulled over a hull building full o' wicked people, an' killed the hull lot." "And do you believe that, too?" 140 SONS OF ELOHIM "If ye can tell me how it c'udn't ha' happened, I'll tell ye how it c'ud," said Hank. "I'll ask Mr. Raines/ she said, as she went out of the shop laughing. "She be a wonder!" Hank exclaimed. "She nigh stuck me on that Job mirakel. If she don't stick the parson, I'm a goat." And he locked up shop and went home to dinner. CHAPTER XVIII THE MAN OF MYSTERY The fall round-up was at hand. There was unusual activity among the cowboys and ranchers. Many new brands had been registered at the "court house" since the spring gathering of the cattlemen, and many transfers were to be made. All the cowboys who had come into Old Town were busy buying supplies and making deals with stock owners. Billy Ki J Ki rode up to Doctor Kimball's gate one evening as the darkness was gathering. "Hey, thar!" he shouted, seeing no one about. The front door opened and Mrs. Kimball came down to the gate. "Where's Crawley?" he asked. "He said something about going up to his ranch tonight," she told him. "Wall, I'll go up there. Want to know if he's got his branding iron ready." Touching the brim of his large sombrerro, he spurred his horse into a gallop, and dis- appeared in the darkness. Half an hour later, Crawley, riding leisurely up to his hut on a pony that staggered beneath the dispro- portionate burden, nearly rode over the body of a man, 142 SONS OF ELOHIM a hundred yards from the doorway. The cayuse shied suddenly, and Crawley fell off. "Caesar's 'ighways!" he ejaculated, letting go the pony's rein. "Who be ye?" He put his hand on the prostrate form. The man groaned, and Crawley saw he was hurt. He went to the cabin, found a lantern and, returning to the wounded man, threw a light into his face. "Je'osophat ! Billy!" he exclaimed. "Wat the 'ell ye doin' 'ere? Billy!" He shook him roughly. Billy Ki-Ki moaned in unconsciousness. Crawley was worried. Then he thought of his old wheelbarrow. Getting it out, he dragged the body of the ranger over it, and wheeled him to the hut. This rough handling seemed to take the remaining spark of life out of Billy, for he ceased moaning. Crawley dragged him inside and onto a pile of straw. Quickly he cut open the clothing, stripped his shirt away, and saw a bullet wound in the left breast, near the shoulder. Then he looked among some bottles and found a little alcohol with which he bathed the wounded man's face and lips. Presently Billy opened his eyes. "Am I done for?" he asked, feebly. "Not a bit of it! Not a bit of it," Crawley assured him. "Ye're plugged in the shoulder onct. Anyw'ere else?" "Yes, in the leg, somewhere. That dropped me." The effort threw the strong plainsman again into uncon- sciousness. Crawley cut away the heavy leather chaps, to find the other bullet had entered just above the knee, making a bad wound. THE MAN OF MYSTERY 143 Another application of alcohol revived Billy, and Crawley told him he would go at once for Doctor Kim- ball. In the meantime there would be nothing else for him to do but to wait. "Aint ye got a little water, Crawley?" he asked. "Not a drop; nothink but this 'ere alcohol an' a little lin'ment." "Get the doctor," Billy said, hoarsely. Crawley put out the. light and went for his cayuse ; but that animal had disappeared in the darkness, and all his whistling failed to coax him into sight. Hatless and coatless, Crawley started to walk the five miles to Old Town. He had gone a third of the distance, when he was overtaken by a horseman from the North Gap. Hailing him, it proved to be Jerry Flinn, a range rider. Crawley told him what had happened, borrowed his flask of whiskey, and the man was off like the wind for the doctor. About the same moment Nick Maloney stepped into the loafing room of DeLand's hotel. DeLand was alone, running his eyes up and down the page of his account book, in a perplexed manner, and pulling at his long moustaches. Nick looked about, cautiously, and, satisfied that no one was present, put his wrinkled face over the counter. "Delont," he said, in a hoarse voice, "it coom again in the same wa'ay!" "Wat? Ze ghost, Neek?" "Shure ! An' at the same toime, d'ye moind now, Delorit, just as I wor lightin' me candle to see me way to bed at Riley's last noight." He paused and looked fearfully around. The Frenchman stared at him. 144 SONS OF ELOHIM "An' it wor him, as shure as me fayther wor a man of his wor-rd!" Nick went on dramatically. "An' if I'd niver seen Larry Gorin dead in Skinner's saloon that noight, I'd swear it wor him, fur I see him as plain loike as I be seein' ye, now, Delont." "Vat did Ce say?" DeLand whispered, towering above the little Irishman, as he peered into all the corners of the room. "He wor soilent, whin he come in, an' I niver heard the lotch at all, d'ye moind, till 'e sez, sez he, 'Howdy, Nick. Keep a place in the stage for me tomorry,' sez he, 'fur I be goin' to Old Town, an' I'll be afther ridin' wit' ye.' It wor jest w'at he sez the ither toime, th' noight " "Sh ! not so loud, Neek," said DeLand, glancing toward the door. "But ee is not come 'long, hey?" he asked, with an attempt to smile. Nick looked behind him, cautiously. "Av coorse 'e didn't; fur th' bye is dead 'rn a dure nail, an' I wor thar whin old Rimnent pushed the dirt in a top av 'im. Shure, it wor his ghost, d'ye moind, Delont" This time the hotel keeper's hair did rise, and a fright- ened look came into his face. "Wo ees come on le stage, Neek? Some strangair?" "Thar wor an old mon with white hair an' lame in the lig, and holy mither! an' the mon that coom over the day Kirby wor kilt, wor the same " The front door opened with a sudden push, and Jerry Flinn entered. "Whar's " He stopped short and stared at Maloney and DeLand, both of whom stood rigid and terror-faced. "Whar's Doc Kimball live?" he demanded. "Billy THE MAN OF MYSTERY 145 Ki-Ki's shot plugged in two places, up at Crawley's shanty." DeLand was the first to recover himself. "Neek, ye go fer le doctair wit' Jerry. If ees not at 'ome, ees prob'ly pass by Channing's stor'." He gave Nick a push in the back to arouse him. "Shure, sor. Coom wit' me, Misther Flinn. Holy Virgin, an' 'oo'l be nixt, I dunno! An' it's Misther Ki-Ki, is it? Will 'e doie, d'ye think, Misther Flinn?" "He will if ye don't git t' movin' an' find Doc Kim- ball," said Jerry. As they started away, Flinn turned to DeLand. "I've rid from the North Gap, D,eLand, an' my horse is played. Put 'im up, an' let me have yer cayuse. I'm goin' back wit' some grub an' a jug o' water." " 'Ee'll be ready by de tam you get back, Jerry. Ees Billy go fer to die, d'ye tink?" "Can't tell 's yet. Haven't seen 'im." And Jerry followed Nick out the door. They found the doctor at the store and a few moments later he and the cowpuncher were galloping back to Crawley's ranch. Crawley had returned and found Billy weak from loss of blood and partially delirious. He could do noth- ing but moisten the sufferer's lips with a little whiskey from time to time till the doctor arrived. The latter, on close examination, found that the bullet which had entered the ranger's breast had passed clear through, making another hole back of the shoulder. The other wound was more difficult to treat. He failed to locate the bullet, but found that the bone had not been touched. After doing all he could, the doctor left him with 146 SONS OF ELOHIM Crawley and Flinn, promising to return at an early hour the next day. The following morning, Nancy Swallow, with a lot of youngsters, was on her way to the river for a day's out- ing. Passing the doctor's home, she saw Mrs. Kimball in the flower garden, and reined up at the gate. The doctor's wife came down the walk, her hands covered with mud. She told of Billy's accident. "And the poor fellow is out there in that old shanty !" Nancy exclaimed. "Why, he will die there if he isn't blown away by the wind." "So the doctor fears," said Mrs. Kimball. Nancy came to a quick decision. Sending the chil- dren on alone, she turned back to the store to consult with Dick. Half an hour later she was on her way to Crawley's ranch with Alec Lattimer, in Tupper's light spring wagon, in which were some quilts and a mattress. Before noon, Billy Ki-Ki was put to bed in the Swallow's spare room. Laura Waters, begging Nancy to let her come, was allowed to assist in caring for him. But neither Doctor Kimball, nor Crawley, nor any of the cowboys, who had gone to the ranch, armed and eager, early that morning, had been able to get one word from the ranger's lips, as to who had fired the shots, or how the affair had happened. There were many indi- vidual speculations, but the one who might have come nearest to the real facts, was Max Bronson. He had an idea there was some connection between the wound- ing of Billy Ki-Ki and the death of old man Kirby. Bronson had a secret which no one in Old Town shared. It had been he who had ridden into the village for a doctor, and told of the stabbing of the rancher. THE MAN OF MYSTERY 147 Then he had gone north toward the deserted cabin, which later passed into Crawley's hands. Seeing a light within, he had gone up to the door and hailed the occupant. For answer, the light went out and no one appeared. Though curious, Bronson had ridden on; but this curiosity led him, the following day, to investigate. He went to the shanty, but found no one there. However, his keen eye saw that the earth floor had been disturbed, That night he went again, taking with him a spade with which he threw up the loose soil. He found nothing. Whatever had been buried there had been removed. But Bronson, now, said nothing. He would let Billy settle his own scores, when he got well. If he died well, cowboys have a way, sooner or later, of rinding out things. They never forget. CHAPTER XIX BILLY'S SECRET Martha Channing, urged to a sense of Christian duty by Parson Raines, went over to see if she could assist in caring for the wounded ranger. Laura Waters, how- ever, was doing the housework; so Martha returned home. For three or four days, Billy was in immediate danger of cashing in. He had several hemorrhages, and twice became delirious. Once they gathered round the bed, the doctor, Nancy, and Laura, silent, waiting for the end; but the wounded man opened his eyes, recognized them, and fell into a restful sleep. The daughter of Luke Waters saw the look of hope in Nancy's eyes, and she held her friend's hand longer than usual, trying to keep silent the thankfulness in her heart. After a few days, Billy began to talk a little, and to realize where he was, and that something had happened. Nancy propped him up, and gave him some of the rice pudding she had brought in to eat, and got him a cup of hot coffee. She answered his questions, by telling him how Crawley had found him up at the shanty, and had "w'eeled 'im arf a mile like a bag o' 'emp." After the rice pudding and coffee, Billy became delir- ious again, and it was during this relapse that Nancy BILLY'S SECRET 149 found out more of the past life of William Carruthers, than any one in the Valley had learned in four years. Parson Raines was a frequent visitor at the Swallow home, now. He was surprised and interested when he found that Billy Ki-'Ki, away from the cowboys and the ranchers, gave evidence of education and refinement. The first day that Doctor Kimball pronounced Billy out of danger, the latter sent for Crawley. "Howdy, Billy ! howdy," the Englishman greeted him, his red face beaming with a look of pleasure, as he shuffled into the room anM took a seat by the bed. "Heard ye war truckin' me all over the Valley the other night, in a wheelbarrow," said Billy. "Couldn't find no one else to take me, hey? so ye brought me to Mrs. Swallow's." "Never said nothink o' th' kind, Billy. I told as 'ow I 'ad to truck ye into the ould coop up thar, fer ye got plugged afore ye got into me parley, Billy. An' it war Mis' Swallow w'at trucked ye into civilization as the huckster man said onct," he finished, discovering Nancy in the doorway. "It war, now ; an' ye'd been gone like a hevening's dream, as the " "Now, Mr. Crawley," Nancy broke in, shaking her finger at him, "Billy don't care to hear what I did. He wants to know about the round-up, and whether you've got your branding iron ready. I know, for he asked about it a hundred times when he was a dreaming." "Was I delirious, Mrs. Swallow?" Billy started up, and the sudden movement made him clinch his teeth from the pain. "I I thought so, Billy, when you were talking about 150 SONS OF ELOHIM the branding iron, and and the and other things. May- be you knew." She stammered, and her face flushed. The ranger dropped back on his pillow, and lay in a thoughtful mood for a moment or two, looking at her through half-closed eyes. Then he turned to Crawley. "Where's my horse? D'ye know, Jim?" "He's at Doc Kimball's, Billy. He war brought in by one o' the Yahkimas. Found 'im clear hover to the Reservation. The saddle war gone, clean as a whistle, as the peddler said onct, an' the rein wit' it, but the siwash knew 'im to be yourn." "How's the round-up going?" "Everythink's all right s'far's I know, Billy. It's all Greek to me, as the parson says, a ridin' an' yellin' like a pack o' bloomin' Injuns, an' a stink o' burnt weal in the air." Meanwhile Billy lay in a half-dream. What a long time he had been away ! yet he hadn't been anywhere only here, among the bedclothes. Was it all a dream? But this is a boat, and there is Helen facing him, reach- ing for the white lily blossoms. The water taps the side of the boat, as she leans over the edge. Be careful, dear! no, it is only Mrs. Swallow, tucking the quilt about his shoulders, and the parson, blowing his nose into a handkerchief. The sun is getting brighter, now. The geraniums look like red gashes in the green lawn. . . . Home again ! Strange there's no one at the porch, waiting. Surely Helen knew he would come at that very hour. It is so quiet ; no life anywhere. Helen! Where are you? Helen 1 Helen ! "Billy! Per 'eavens sake, man! W'ats the matter?" Crawley was pushing him back on the pillow, for, with BILLY'S SECRET 151 a sudden, half-swallowed cry, he had sprung up, star- tling them all. Nancy thought he was dying, and pushed Raines out of the room, and sent him after the doctor. Then she took Billy's hand that was clutching at his wounded shoulder and rubbed it between hers, looking with mute terror at Crawley. " 'E 'ad a bloomin' fit, suddint like, an' yelled hout like a 'ouse afire, as the as hi war sayin' ; an' e's fainted. 'E'll come to in a minnit, Mis' Swallow." "Are you better, Billy?" she whispered, bending over him. He opened his eyes and nodded, faintly. "What was it, Billy?" "Just another dream, I guess," he said, grimly. CHAPTER XX THE CONVALESCENT One Saturday morning Billy, convalescent, was up in a big chair in the sitting room. When he found himself in the warm sunshine of an Indian Summer day, a look of content came into his eyes. He caught a reflection of his bearded face in the mirror opposite, and his exclamation brought Nancy in from the kitchen. "Aren't you afraid of me?" he asked. "I'm getting to look like an old-time buccaneer, only I'm not so heavy. Guess I've lost a little, haven't I, Doc?" "Just a little, Billy. But you'll make it up again, man. Mrs. Swallow knows a whole lot about cooking and baking things that she didn't know when you arrived ; and she'll feed you up, now." They all laughed, for Billy had learned of his attempt to eat rice pudding a little too soon. "Anyhow," the doctor supplemented, "that was Mrs. Channing's pudding." "Where's Laura?" he asked. "She hasn't been over yet this morning," Nancy told him. "She will be glad when she sees you sitting up. She's such a dear, sympathetic girl." "Yes," he said, "so she is." He may have been think- THE CONVALESCENT 153 ing of the various times when, through his feverish eyes, he had seen old Luke's daughter watching by his bedside. Once when she thought him sleeping, he had seen her drop on her knees beside the bed to hide her willful tears in the quilt; and he heard her whispering some little prayer that had been taught her in childhood days. After the doctor had gone, Nancy got a comb and brush and began straightening out her patient's heavy black hair, all matted and tangled. What a great, handsome man he was! What a fine, shapely head and mane like his own big, black horse! It had seemed strange to her that of all the cowboys and ranchers whom she met on the range, he was the only one who passed her by unnoticed. She would have been surprised, perhaps, had he spoken, as others did ; for, somehow, she felt so incomparably small when she looked at him. Now it seemed as if she had known him for years. She had come to call him "Billy," like the others, and she knew it pleased him. Today, as she brushed out his thick hair, she found herself wondering about his past. W T ho was this "Helen"? His wife, probably; and he had loved her and she had died. A tear that had stolen out on her cheek dropped upon his forehead. He looked up, startled. She stepped back and hastily wiped her eyes. "My, how foolish of me !" she exclaimed. "I was actu- ally crying and didn't know it!" "Yes, I know," he said. "Come and sit down here." She obeyed ; and for a time he sat silent, with his eyes upon her. "You are sorry for me?" She looked down at the rug. 154 SONS OF ELOHIM He waited a moment. "Mrs. Swallow, does anyone else know did anyone else hear " "No, Billy," she broke in, looking up, quickly. "I kept everyone away while you were were talking, you know." "Yes, I know," he said, and turned his eyes to the open window. For several moments she waited for him to continue, wondering what he was going to say. Then his glance came back to her, and she saw that a great tenderness had come into his eyes. "She was my wife," he said, simply. "I worshipped her. She was my whole world. I was happy. One day I came home and found her missing. She had gone never to return, her note said. I could not understand. I have never understood. She was happy, I believed, and I thought she loved me. That was six years ago. I came west here. This life helps me to forget and, God knows ! to forgive, as well." He closed his eyes. "Billy," she asked, in a low voice, "do you believe God was?" He opened his eyes wide, and looked at her, intently. "Anyone who believes in God has some reason, I suppose, for his belief," he replied. "If you are living as near right as you know how, Mrs. Swallow, you will get to heaven quicker than many of these praying church members, who never live according to the religion they profess. Damn the hypocrites ! I say ; and I hope you'll never be a hypocrite." "I never will, Billy, for I shall never believe God was." CHAPTER XXI BIBLE TRUTHS AND BIBLE LIES The next morning, as the light began to show above the mountains, Parson Raines left home, and went along the road to the river. It was quite usual with him to take these early Sunday morning walks, often striking out through the sagebrush, or following one of the bridle- paths, seeking inspiration to give him renewed encour- agement, as well as some new thought for his work. It had been a sudden setback to his hopes and plans when Nancy Swallow told him she was not coming to church again; but she did not give the reason, and he was too well bred to question her. He surmised that Martha was to blame. Of late he had begun to see a new beauty in the dull sage, in the trees along the river bank, in the water itself, the mountain peaks and the blue hills, and in the sunrises all more interesting since Nancy came. As he walked along he thought of Nick Maloney's experience, of the mystery surrounding the shooting of Billy Ki-Ki, and of his visits to the Swallow home. On these occasions he had endeavored to put himself on a more familiar footing with the cowboy leader and his friends, by showing a greater and more informal interest in their work, and their hardships. It had seemed to 156 SONS OF ELOHIM him of late that many of these men, while not attending the services, were, nevertheless, trying to get on closer terms with him; and he found himself wondering if, after all, there was not a better way to turn men to God than by telling them they would be destroyed in the eternal fires of hell because they did not share his belief. His church had taught him that God knows the very thoughts of a man's heart, and knows what he will do. Yet, last night he had read, in Deuteronomy, that God had kept the Israelites forty years in the wilderness, so that He might learn what was in their hearts, whether they could be trusted or not. He had read somewhere that "man proposes, and God disposes." But this could not be true, for, surely, men seek the better things of life joy, peace, success and they pass away in pain, misery and despair. God surely could have no part in death, nor in pain, misery or despair. Yet, his church had told him he must believe that God takes men away, in death ! Why, then, should it be written, "He that is the author of death is the devil?" Is it not a sin to ascribe to God the acts of Satan? Would not this, indeed, be the unforgivable sin in this life and in the next? It must be that God proposes, but man disposes. God gives life, and man, disobeying the laws of nature, throws life away. Yet this should not apply to the child who has not learned to know good from evil. On whose shoulders, then, must the responsibility rest for these untimely deaths of little children? True, in many places in this Book, which his church had said was wholly the inspired work of God, he had read that God sent men against men to slaughter and BIBLE TRUTHS AND BIBLE LIES 157 destroy each other; that God, so it read, had told them to murder the men and the children and the old women, but to take the younger women for their own unholy use. In other places this so-called inspired Book told him that God, Himself, slew Er and Onan, the sons of Judah. Yet, God's own commandment reads, "Thou shalt not kill." And did he not place a mark on Cain, a murderer, so that men would not kill him, even though Cain had killed his brother? "Abraham, returning from a slaughter of the kings " He had read that, too, how this famous "father of Israel," having killed a lot of men, and their wives and children, and taken their goods, had met Melchizedek, associate of the wicked king of Sodom, and had given to this ungodly priest of Sodom a tenth of all he had stolen. Yet God made Abraham the father of a multitude, father of kings, ancestor of the glorious Christ. Moses, too, even he who received as he said, from the hand of God the tables of the law the commandment which reads, "Thou shalt not kill" became the slayer of thousands even brought the penalty of death into the very laws, and said, "Thus saith the Lord God : An eye for an eye ; tooth for a tooth." And if any man should do this, or that, "he shall surely be put to death." In this did not Moses set at naught the most important command of God, "Thou shalt not kill"? Does the same great Book not say that death is an enemy of God's own plan, and that it shall some day be overcome by the Son of God? How, then, can death be overcome when the power of death is given of God to men, and men commanded to murder men and women and innocent children? 158 SONS OF ELOHIM How can we ever hope that evil may be overcome with good if we continue to mete out evil for evil, death for death, "an eye for an eye; a tooth for a tooth," and believe that God, Himself, would have it so? And he had read "The Lord God put a lying spirit in the mouths of his prophets" ! But again he had read, "The father of lies is the devil" ! And it read, "I make peace and I create evil, saith the Lord God." Why, then, should it also read: "I will punish the world for their evil doings?" And, again, "Recompense no man evil for evil." Surely, if a man believe these things, how can he say which is God and which is Satan? And is it any wonder that men hate God and seek evil, being told that the Bible is the inspired Word of God? Yet nowhere had he ever seen in all the Scriptures one line that said the Bible is the Word of God. Not a word told him that all therein is inspired by God, Himself. Perhaps this is it : The Word of God is in the Bible and the words of Satan, too. And that we should seek wisdom from God that we may discern which is true and which is false. "Come, let us reason together, saith the Lord God." This is the secret, then: That man's reason should prevail, the false statements separated from the true, and the truth be made plain to those who shall reason by the help of prayer. Yet, if he were to tell these thoughts to his con- gregation, he would quickly be removed. Even if it were known to his bishop that he doubted the established creed and doctrines of his church he would be brought to trial. "Good morning!" said a voice behind him. Turning, BIBLE TRUTHS AND BIBLE LIES 159 startled, he saw Nancy, on her pony, a few yards away. "I see I am not the only one who appreciates these glorious mornings," she said, as he waited for her to come up. What a picture ! he thought. Almost a part of nature itself, in her green skirt against the dark, glossy side of her horse, a yellow cap, her hair blowing about in the awakening breeze, and dashing against the red glowing in her cheeks. At Dick's request, she had made herself a dress and a cap, a replica of the costume in which he had found her in the poppy fields. Her eyes gleamed with suppressed merriment, and she burst into laughter. "It was so funny!" she exclaimed. "You never looked at me at all; just went by with your head down, till I feared you were going to walk right into the river." "I had not thought to find such a pretty bit of wild heather here in the woods," he answered, with a turn of sentiment unusual for him. Then, with a little con- fusion, he added, hastily : "The sunrise is beautiful from here, Mrs. Swallow ; and I was thinking, too, of you." "Of me? Tell me what it was!" She sprang lightly to the ground, and led Goalie to a fallen tree, near the path, and sat down. Raines sat down by her side. "How is your patient this morning?" he asked. "You will have him off your hands tomorrow, I believe." "Yes, he is going back on the range tomorrow." "Billy is much indebted to you, Mrs. Swallow. He might not have lived under other circumstances. Billy is a strange man." "Yes." "You have not been able to get out riding much of late?" 160 SONS OF ELOHIM "Oh, I have not minded that," she answered, with the faintest shrug of her shoulders. "But you were going to tell me what you were thinking about of me !" "Well, at the very moment you called out I was wish- ing you were here. "Me?" "Yes. I wished you might see this beautiful sunrise, and hear the swashing of the water, and think how it flows along forever and ever. And the purple hills yonder, and the mountains beyond, with their white heads, as if they had just risen from the gray bed of earth, and were about to put away their nightcaps. Have you ever wondered, Nancy, who is responsible for these things, and for the warm red light off there in the sky, and for the stars at night, the rivers and the woods?" "I suppose you are going to say God. Go on ; I like to hear you talk that way." Smilingly she drew down from overhead a spray of wild clematis, and began twist- ing it into a wreath. "Would you like to have me tell you how these things began, and how the world and everything were made?" A quick hope came that she might come to a belief in God through the story of the Creation. She nodded encouragingly. "In the beginning, Elohim created the heavens and the earth." "Elohim?" "Meaning the Gods." "I thought there was only one God?" "So far as we, who are of the Semitic race who are descended from Adam and Eve need to concern our- selves, there is one God, Jehovah. But Jehovah was the Father only of one race, which began about 5,600 years BIBLE TRUTHS AND BIBLE LIES 161 ago. There are other races, such as the Mongolians, Hindus, Assyrians, and, probably, the Ethiopians, that trace their origin thousands of years before Adam. And each race, in its beginning, had a Progenitor." "What's that?" "An Immortal Father, now of the Elohim of heaven." "Where is heaven?" "Heaven is the name given to the great space above us, in which are the stars and planets; and one of these stars, a very small one called, Alcyone, appears to be the center of the heavens which we can see, as it has been discovered that all the stars and clusters of stars swing around this central planet. For that reason some have thought this star is the abiding place of our God." "My!" said Nancy. "Where do they learn all this?" "There are men called astronomers who have redis- covered many things once known to the ancient Egypt- ians. Then, too, the Bible confirms these discoveries, showing that the ancient Israelites knew about many of these things, and that this knowledge was lost since the Christian age began. In the book of Job we read, 'Canst thou withstand the pleasant influence of the Pleiades?' and this star, Alcyone, is one of the cluster called Pleiades." "Who was Job?" "He was one of the greatest characters in Bible history." "He had boils, didn't he?" "Yes; how did you know?" "Mr. Evans, the shoemaker, told me about Mr. Job and Mrs. Job and the devil." Raines laughed. "So you are getting some shoe-shop theology?" 162 SONS OF ELOHIM "Well, he says the devil makes people sick, and and burn up, and die like little Johnny Powers. But you said the Lord took him away. Of course, you ought to know more about it, for you're a minister. But he must be a queer God, don't you think, to bring us into the world and then burn a little boy up, just so He can take him away to heaven." She waited ; but he made no answer. "Go on, please, about the beginning of the world about the Elohim," she urged. "What are they like?" "The Elohim are immortalized men men who once lived, no doubt, on this very earth of ours, as we are living. Strange as it may seem, although this word should be familiar to every Christian, few people have ever heard about these 'Elohim.' Ever since the Bible was written it has always read, in the first chapter of Genesis, that 'in the beginning Elohim' not God 'created the heavens and the earth. The Elohim' not God 'said, Let there be light.' The word 'God' does not appear at all in the original text of this first chapter of the Bible, nor any word that, properly, should be trans- lated as God ; and so far as the Bible is a record, the God of Israel, Jehovah, had no part in the affairs of this earth until He created the first Semite, Adam. We read in the Bible that men were created in the image of the Elohim, and in one of the Psalms we read that man- kind was created but a little lower, in attributes, than the Elohim. Again, in the third chapter of Genesis, we read, Jehovah said of Adam and Eve, who had eaten of the forbidden tree, 'They have now become like one of us, to know good and evil.' " "Who was He talking to?" "To others of the Elohim, other Gods of heaven." BIBLE TRUTHS AND BIBLE LIES 163 "Oh, yes; but why did God let them eat that fruit? Why didn't He stop them?" "When the Elohim created men in their image, they gave men dominion over all things of earth, and gave to them free will in their own actions. Jehovah, the God of the Semitic race, who is "Commander-in-Chief of the spiritual forces which, in this age, seek to induce men and women to live in accord with the divine will, has, therefore, no right to interfere with the free will of men. But men are held responsible for their acts, and for the use of the life that is given them. God has no right to help a man unless that man shall ask for help. This makes prayer the most necessary of all factors in man's fulfillment of life's purpose. I have come to see this more plainly than I did awhile ago. To do anything for one man, unsolicited, would, in justice, require that God help every man to do the right thing always, whether the man desired it or not; and this would destroy the great plan of character-building. Every man, individu- ally, must learn to overcome. Resistance, physically, develops physical strength. Moral resistance against evil temptations develops greater strength of character. Every man has the same right to pray. Whether they use this agency, and the extent to which men ask for supernatural help, depends all human accomplishment. Prayer is the greatest power for achievement in the world. Men who look to the deeds and words of men for their own evolution, never get far. They can hardly come up to the standards they choose. But from super- natural suggestions conceptions that are given of the Spiritual Realm, any man can accomplish more than others have done. But to get these suggestions and 164 SONS OF ELOHIM wisdom from God, one must be receptive; that is, one must believe." "Why didn't God give women the same chance?" "He did." "Well, I have wanted to do a lot of things, but never had a chance." "That is because you did not know how to go at it. God gives to everyone, as they shall ask Him for it, first, wisdom; then knowledge, faith, the ability to read the future, to perform miracles " "Yes, I know about miracles," Nancy broke in. "Mr. Evans told me about Mr. Jonah swallowing a whale." "You mean about a whale swallowing Jonah," said Raines, smiling. "Maybe that was it. But if Mr. Jonah could have swallowed the whale, that would have been more of a miracle, wouldn't it?" "Very much so," said Raines, with a burst of laughter. "What must a man do to be able to work miracles?" "He must believe in God must be a servant of God." Nancy looked at him, inquiringly. "He must be doing God's work," he said. "Like you are doing?" Raines nodded. "And can you work miracles?" "Perhaps I could," said he, beginning to be slightly uneasy at her cross-examination. Nancy sat quiet for a moment, striking at the leaves with her quirt. "Is it a miracle to make a sick person well like Mr. Evans said God did to Mr. Job?" she asked, presently. "I suppose so," he answered. BIBLE TRUTHS AND BIBLE LIES 165 "Why didn't you make Johnny Powers well instead of letting him die?" Raines gave her a quick glance, and turned his face toward the river, but not until she caught the expression in his eyes. It was a look of sudden fear, she thought, and it stilled her. Both sat quiet for a moment or two. "Well," said Nancy, excusingly, "If God wanted to take him away . . . you had no right to do a miracle . anyway. . . . But it was a horrible death . . . And he was such a fine little fellow ... all his mother had." She seemed to be talking to herself. Raines, not appearing to hear, sat staring straight into the rushing water. He started when she said, "I must be going now." "No, no, not yet!" he cried, putting a hand over hers, to stay her from rising. "I am thinking. You have startled me. You are a wonderful child!" He looked at her with intense earnestness. She smiled at him, her eyes partly closed. Then, as if she saw an advantage and was determined to press it: "I think if I had been in your place, Mr. Raines, I would have done a miracle and fooled God for once!" she said with considerable feeling. "No ! no ! You mustn't say that !" "And," said she, in a decisive tone, "If God ever takes away anyone else I like well I'll hate the name of God as long as I live!" "Let us go! Let us go!" he exclaimed, shudderingly, at the blasphemy he heard, and fearing more. So Nancy's Bible lesson was to go unfinished. He assisted her to the saddle, and she rode away among the trees. CHAPTER XXII THE HEN OR THE EGG One sunny afternoon Billy, on his black horse, rode away from the Swallow home. Doctor Kimball had urged him to go easy at first, but Billy waved his hand in farewell, and galloped up the Valley toward the North Gap, where he was to meet Max Bronson and cut out a few hundred steers for the south range. After Dick had returned to the store, Nancy resolved to try once more to make friends with Martha. Passing the shoe shop, she saw Hank Evans working at his bench. He glanced up, whereupon she waved a hand, and went on. Then she stopped, hesitated a moment, and returned. "Are you awfully, awfully busy this afternoon, Mr. Evans?" she asked. "Come right in, Mis' Swallow. I be my own boss w'en my lady aint 'round; then she be the boss," said Hank, motioning Nancy to a comfortable chair. "Wat be in yure mind today?" "I wanted to ask you just one question, Mr. Evans. There must have been a beginning to these things to the earth, I mean, and to things. Dick asked me, last night, THE HEN OR THE EGG 167 'which was made first, the hen or the egg?' I told him you know everything about such things, and I want you to tell me. Will you please?" Hank grinned. "He be a jokin' ye Mis' Swallow. Nobody can answer that, seein' as no one war here, then. But my concepshun is, 'twar the egg; fer everythink comes from the seed, an' the seed be in the egg." "But how did the egg get here?" "Wall," said Hank, tapping his leather-covered knee with his awl, "few people ha' studied into that. They don't think as how God ha' come on this airth from 'nother planet, sometime or nother; an' sartin sure he could ha' brought the egg." "Dick says, science has learned that men come from monkeys. Do you believe that, Mr. Evans?" "Well, some men I ha' seen, almost ha' made me believe it. But more'n likely t'other way air nearer right. W'en a man gits to leavin' out the Lord, he can git to be'lieve most anythink. Might's well say a b'ar came from a jack rabbit, or a horse from a turkle; thar be spots on some horses jest like them marks ye see on a big turkle-shell. My concepshun is that it war jest as easy fer the Lord to make a man, same time's He made a monkey, as fer the Lord to make a cat, same time's He made a mouse; Or a hawk, same time's He made a chicken ; or a frog, same time's He made a bullhead. W'en I see leopard spots on a catfish, I'll give some thought to the monkey business." "Mr. Raines says there are many Gods. Are there?" "Wall, I ha' read som'ere in the Bible that there be many Lords and many Gods in heaven*; but sho! I *Hank had in mind, probably, 1 Corinthians, 8:5. 168 SONS OF ELOHIM reckon one on 'em is more'n most people ever git to learn about," said Hank. "P'raps fer a feller w'at ha' study'ed the thing clus' fer years, it might seem a purty big job fer one God to take car' o' them millyuns o' worlds. But 't aint givin' me insomny ; one's enough fer me. Didn't the parson tell ye 'about the raakin' o' the world?" "No. He was going to, but he got angry at me and didn't finish. That's what I want you tell me, if you will, Mr. Evans?" "Wall, I reckon as how his story might ha' been diff rent from mine, not sayin' as my concepshun isn't 'cordin' to scriptur'. But I ask ye, Miss' Swallow, w'at 'ud happen if the Lord took away the sun ?" "Why, we'd freeze to death, wouldn't we ?" "Quicker'n ye could say 'scat' !" said Hank, throwing his awl in his tool box. "But we'd have the moon," said Nancy. "Wall, considerin' as how the Lord ha' made the moon same time as the sun, it must ha' been, afore that this airth war a ball of ice." "It takes water to make ice, doesn't it, Mr. Evans?" "That be jest it Mis' Swallow. The scriptur' says, there war light and the water rose from the waters.' That's the ice melting from the light, fer thar war no night, fust three days, so the light must ha' been ev'ry- w'ere. Then arter the ice ha' melted an' the Vaporation ha' filled the air, an' the dirt began to stick up through the ice, the Lord ha' took all the light an' ha' made it into the sun an' moon. That's what the scriptur' says. Since then the sun ha' melted all the ice, but the Vapora- tion comes back at night, so 's to keep some o' the water fer things to drink." THE HEN OR THE EGG 169 "But which was first, the water or the ice?" "That be like the egg question. I reckon as how God c'ud ha' gi'n the 'vaporation first, as there be a lot o' worlds bigger'n ours, and 'vaporation allus starts back that direction." "It's queer anyway, isn't it, Mr. Evans?" "Wall, Mis' Swallow, w'at orter be, is, somew'ere; an' all we got to do is to git the right concepshun o' w'at orter be." "I mean, that we're put here without wanting to come, and then taken away without wanting to go." "Some po'r critturs 'ud be glad to go, I reckon, if they be all made wrong, like that p'or sister o' the parson." "Do you think God wanted her to come that way?" "No, Mis' Swallow, I can't think that. My concep- shun be, she come that way spite o' what the Lord ha' planned fer." "Why didn't God prevent it? if He is such a big power?" "That, Mis' Swallow, is a question w'at ha' upset the world fer hundreds o' years. My concepshun is, that man ha' been given the right to do w'at he wants to, an' that the Lord haint kept a right to interfere." "Then you think some man was to blame because Miss Raines was born a hump-back?" "More'n likely some woman. I can't think as how the seed o' anythink can be wrong. It ha' come from God, and if it could grow crooked things like that po'r girl, it ha' grown everybody crooked afore now. My concepshun is that every seed is hatched all right but it gits in the wrong soil. If the soil be bad the corn will have po'r ears." 170 SONS OF ELOHIM "But shouldn't there be some way for making these crooked people straight, Mr. Evans?" "Sh'ud be, sure's ye're settin' thar ! But I ha' thought many a time that the cause o' sech misgrowed things air the devil, w'ich air a spirit'al thing. Then the only thing to set it right sh'ud be a spirit'al power, contradic- tionary to the devil." "That would be God, wouldn't it?" "Thar ye have it!" said Hank, throwing down the shoe he had been hammering. But it seems like the hardest thing in the world to git these po'r afflicted folks to believe w'at is the truth." "What is truth, Mr. Evans?" "That be a question w'at Pilate ha' arsked, an' it ha' been arsked many times, since, an' no one ha' wanted to answer. My opinion is, that Truth air a concepshun o' facts w'ich no argument o' man can't prove aint so." "If a man or a woman, believe it is true if Janet Raines believed it, could it make her straight, Mr. Evans? How are we to know if it is Truth?" "I reckon best way to git a right concepshun air my plan. I figger out w'at I'd do if I war God, Hisself. Jest put yureself in His place an' calc'late allus to do w'at is right fer ev'ry feller, not fergittin' the worst feller ha' got a right to expect only w'at is good from th' Lord." "There ought to be some way to get people to believe it, if it's true," said Nancy, musingly. "Thar war a Man haint the parson never told ye about it ? who came to this airth 'bout eighteen hundred years ago, an' he ha' showed how it war to be done. He ha' laid his hands on the po'r critturs, an' ha' got the blind to see, an' the lame to walk, an' the dumb to speak. THE HEN OR THE EGG 171 He also ha' brought the dead to life, so the Bible sez." "Is it in the Bible, about him?" Nancy asked. "I wish I had a Bible, Mr. Raines gave me one, but I threw it in the fire when little Johnny Powers died. If that Man had been here, maybe He would have made Johnny well. Do you think so, Mr. Evans?" "Sure!" said Hank, lifting a tray of tools from his box, and handing to Nancy a package wrapped in news- paper. "Thar's a Bible, Mis' Swallow, ye can have fer keeps. I got another. If ye read the last part o' the Story, ye will find 'bout the Man. He war called the Son o' God." "Do you believe he was?" she queried. "I sartin do, Mis' Swallow. Fer's that be, we air all sons o' God an' daughters o' God." "Mr. Raines said the Gods are called, 'Elohim,'" said Nancy, reflectively. "I dunno ; I never heerd that. But I run onto suthin' mebbe the parson never seen. It sez to Job, 'w'ere war ye w'en the airth war made, w'en the stars sung together, an' all the sons o' God shouted fer joy?' The parson allus talks 'bout the 'only Son o' God/ Guess that shows thar was a lot o' 'em, afore the airth war anythink." "Just ice," reminded Nancy. "But how can the stars sing?" "It jest means that all them stars air full o' people. Sho ! that air Book sez as how this airth war made over more'n once." "Why should we fear God?" Nancy asked, after watching Hank drive a mouthful of pegs into the sole of a boot. "If He is such a wonderful good Being, who has given us all these beautiful things of nature those blue forests over there, and the snow-topped mountains which 172 SONS OF ELOHIM change from blue to red and gold, and hold up their icy lips to cool the sun in the hot summer days? See how poetical I am getting, Mr. Evans!" "That's right, Mis' Swallow. If ye love natur', an' see the purty things w'at we never ha' bought nor paid for, ye can't go wrong. 'It air the reflexuns o' heavenly places,' a poet feller ha' said, onct. I can't see why a feller or a woman, fur's that be, sh'ud be afeard o' God. I ha' read som'ere in the Bible, that 'true love throws out all fear ;' an' how can ye be afeard o' God, an' love Him, the same time?" "But Mr. Raines said, we should 'fear God, and do right.' " "I reckon, Mis' Swallow, as how the parson ha' been told that w'en he war studyin' them hell doctrin's; an' he ha' got to turn it right side up, yit. W'at he means, is that we sh'ud be afeard o' displeasin' God same as ye'd hate like sin to hurt your husband's feelin's." "Why are there so many people who don't believe in God?" she queried. "Ev'ry man or woman, as fur as that be b'lieves in God, an' knows w'at is wrong an' right 'thout anybody tellin' him. W'en ye hear a man say he don't believe thar is any God, that feller be a doin' suthin' that he knows air wrong an' thinks no one don't know it. Louder a feller talks agin the Lord, the more ye can figger out he's tryin' to hide his own cussedness. The less a feller b'lieves in God an' sech, the more superstishus he be. Ye'll find most o' them women an' fellers w'at air hank' erin' to git a voice from some spirit devil, air claimin' they don't b'lieve in God or Jesus Christ." "Dick says the church people believe that Christ THE HEN OR THE EGG 173 didn't have a father," said Nancy, reflectively. "You don't believe that, do you, Mr. Evans?" "Wall, Mis' Swallow, I ha' thought a good deal 'bout that. If I war the Lord God, I w'udn't want anyone to be born like the way ev'ryone air bein' born. The Bible tells 'bout another kind o' birth waitin' fer ev'rybody w'ich air to be without blood. The blood is w'at sez if a feller'll have a lot o' faults an' diseases, an' cussedness to rise over. Lots o' times a baby'll have deformities 'count o' the mother gittin' afeard that jest sech a thing is goin' to happen. It seems to make a lot o' difFrence jest w'at 'tis that makes a woman git noshuns afore her baby air born. Doc Kimball sez they had thought onct if a woman gits scart at suthin', it made her baby come crooked an' sech, but he sez now they know it haint the scare w'at do it ; but 'cause she gits to thinkin' arterward that the scare 'ud make the baby sech like ; an* the fear, day in an' day out arterward, air w'at'll make the baby jest the thing she don't want it to be. An' fear, o' course, is in the blood, 'cause the spirit w'at makes a feller afeard or glad an' sech, be op'ratin' in the blood. So ye see, Mis' Swallow, if ye air to have a baby w'at never'll be afeard, an' '11 allus know w'at's right to do, it ha' got to come just the way the Lord God ha' wanted all babies to be born." , JWlf "But, Mr. Evans," pursued Nancy, "how can anyone be born without having a father?" "If I knowd half as much as ye'll know a thousan' years from now, an' jest a little w'at the Lord God ha' got to know by now, I c'ud tell ye jest how it c'ud be done. Sartin sure w'atever c'ud ha' fixed it so as a woman c'ud have a baby a-tall, c'ud ha' fixed a way fer it to happen a better way than 'tis, now. Doc Kimball 174 SONS OF ELOHIM sez thar be bugs an' animals now w'at can git their young that way an' t'other way, too; an' that afore a baby be born it air both male an' female an' jest as likely to be a girl or a boy. He sez ev'ry woman air both a man an' woman, fur's that be, all her life. Then, as 1 figger it my way, it air jest necessary fer the spirit o' the Lord God, op'ratin' in a woman's blood, to make her do the hull thing, 'stead o' needin' a man. Then her baby 'ud be a hunderd times better, ev'ry way, an' c'ud overise a lot o' things bigger'n men can think on, now. Way I see it, the 'maculate concepshun o' Jesus war the only natur'l birth we ha' heered tell on, an' ev'ryone else be born contrary to w'at the Lord God ha' planned, 'riginally. The parson ha' told me, onct, it be the Lord God w'at purposes, an' man air doin' things contrary all the time." Nancy was studiously silent a few moments. "Mr. Evans," she said, presently, and Hank, glancing up from his wort saw a wonderfully bright light in her eyes, "if what a woman fears will happen wrong with her baby is what makes it deformed, then why shouldn't it be that what a woman is real sure will happen that is good, will make her baby more perfect? Maybe, if she wanted it to have brown hair, or blue eyes, and really felt it would be just like that or if she wanted a girl instead of a boy, and got to feel every day it would be, perhaps she could have just what she wanted." "Like's not, Mis' Swallow. Anyways, ye jest b'lieve it, an* ye can count on it. Never'll hurt nothin' to want the best o' ev'rythink. The desire o' the heart air the most powerful thing in the world." Nancy's eyes changed their expression, dreamily. THE HEN OR THE EGG 175 "I shall want my baby to be a girl," she said, as though talking to herself. "I shall want her to look like me and and, oh, I want her to be so good and kind, and love to do right, and never hurt anyone's feelings. I shall want her to be my own self, doing the great things I wish I might do, and will make everyone glad because she came. Oh, my baby! I wish you were here!" Hank's hammer had stilled, as his glance rested upon Nancy's face, illumined by the spirit of natural, mother instinct within. Presently her eyes came to his, misting a little from the sympathy of his great, honest heart. "Ye jest got to b'lieve," he said, gently, low, almost in a whisper. "Ye jest got to b'lieve. The Lord God'll do the rest" Hank's hammer went back to its work again, and, presently, Nancy took up his Bible. "Why shouldn't we do these things that Man did?" she asked, turning the pages at random. "We o'rt to, sure's ye're a foot high, Mis' Swallow. But, shucks! men don't have faith enough! an' it takes faith, Mis' Swallow." "Like Job had?" "More'n that. An' what's more, it sez in thar that if a man b'lieve about God, he can do bigger things 'n that Man did." Nancy had stopped at a well thumbed page in Hank's Bible, and read aloud a marked verse: "He that believeth and is baptized shall be saved; but he that believeth not shall be damned." "What does it mean to be baptized?" she asked. "It's a plan th' Lord ha' told John the Baptist war to be done 'stead o' burnin' a sheep er a goat to show 176 SONS OF ELOHIM he war wantin' to do right. It's like a man come from another kentry, like I come from England. He's got to take out natur'lashun papers, so's he can have some- thing to say in the gover'ment o' this kentry. He's got to say he's quit o' the other boss and will be loyal to our president. Wen a man's through with the devil, an' wants to serve the Lord, he gits baptized. It's his natur'lashun papers to the world, an' it gives him power to do things in the spirit'al gover'ment o' the Lord." "I suppose 'damned' means going to hell, doesn't it?" "That's what them, as writ the hell doctrines o' the churches, ha' wanted it to mean ; but the parson ha' told me onct, the 'riginal word war 'j edged,' only, that ye'll be jedged fer not seekin' to learn w'at's right. Shol I reckon thar'll be more git to heaven 'thout being baptised, or that never heard o' Jesus, as them w'at has. Sartin sure Moses an' Abraham an' Elijah warn't baptised, an' they air goin' to be here w'en the Lord, Hisself, comes, so I ha' read in the Bible." "Dick says, according to the Bible, Adam and Eve ate something off a tree, which is the cause of people having to die. Do you believe that, Mr. Evans?" "That's somethin' it's hard to believe by them as don't study it out fer themselves. I ha' read that no one can't stand afore the Lord, Hisself, whilst he's got blood. Blood air w'at makes us git sick, an' git disease ; it air the cause o' man's cussedness, an' I ha' thought as how Adam an' Eve didn't have no blood at first, cause they ha' stood afore th' Lord afore they et that forbidden appel or w'atever it war. That ha' pisened 'em, sartin sure, fer arter that they never war able to git near the Lord. It must a gi'n 'em blood to live on 'sted o' spirit ; an' that's w'at it means to be 'born agin.' Ye got to git THE HEN OR THE EGG 177 back to a body w'at can live without blood. Then the devil can't git hold of a feller like he can now. Jesus ha' riz from the dead arter he lost his blood; an' that's w'at it means: every man's got to shed his blood afore he can git free from sin. Them that b'lieves he done it, will b'lieve as they can do it. That's w'at it means 'bout bein' saved by the blood o' Jesus." Nancy read on, aloud: "These signs shall follow them that believe: in my name shall they cast out devils; they shall speak with new tongues; they shall take up serpents, and if they drink of any deadly thing it shall in no wise hurt them ; they shall lay hands upon the sick and they shall recover." "Can a man do all these things if he believes it is true?" "Mebbe it means any man that ha' faith enough; or, any man that the sick feller b'lieves can do it. Any- ways, the Man what is writ about thar, said as how men shall do greater things than he did." "Miracles?" Hank nodded. "But it don't mean a feller can jest go out an' grab a rattler thinkin' it won't bite him. He got to remember w'at the Lord Jesus ha' said to Satan, w'en Satan ha' tuk him up to the top o' the big temple, an' said: 'If ye be the Son o' God, ye can jest jump down, fer it is writ : The angels will lift ye up in their hands, an' ye won't git hurt.' But the Lord Jesus ha' answered: 'It be also writ that ye shan't tempt God.' " "I wish I were a man!" said Nancy. "Ye jest keep yerself a woman, Mis' Swallow," said Hank, with earnestness. "W'at man c'ud ha' made them 178 SONS OF ELOHIM ranch critturs stop cussin' and drinkin', like ye ha' done?" "Have they done that?" she asked, in surprise. "They shore have that !" said Hank. "Well, I think I'll go for a ride," said Nancy. "I was going over to Martha Channing's, but I don't want her to see this Bible. She might think I am playing hypo- crite, just to make friends." "She's an obstinat crittur. She don't make home none too pleasant fer Burke, I reckon. He ha' tolt me onct he haint 'lowed to set foot in their parler, 'cept they got company." "Maybe that is why he goes to Skinner's saloon, so much, to play cards. Why do men gamble away their money, Mr. Evans?" "Wall, Mis' Swallow, w'ere a man ha' lost faith in his brains, he starts tryin' fer luck." "If I were a man I wouldn't want any money I couldn't feel I had got through my ability. Men ought to be too proud to take luck money." "Wen a cuss loses faith in his brains, Mis' Swallow, he ha' lost 'bout all respect fer hisself, too. I ha' read, 'the love fer money air the root o' all evil'; an' many a good man ha' gone wrong arter he got it. Fellers w'at ha' been straight as a hick'ry tree afore they got a hankerin' to git rich, war so crooked arterward they ha' got to sleep in a round-house to feel comfortable." "I'm coming again, sometime, Mr. Evans," said Nancy. And she went out of the shop, whistling. CHAPTER XXIII "You CAN ALLWUS COUNT ON ME!" Arriving home, and without waiting to change the bright red dress, or light red-banded sombrerro, she ran to the stable, and saddled Coalie. A moment later she was cantering toward the South Gap, a narrow gateway in the range of hills, through which the swiftly flowing Yahkima, coming in at the North Gap, rushes across the Valley, on through the Reservation, and into the Columbia. This South Gap, or pass, is formed by a range of foothills, lying in a semi-circle to the east, that creeps around toward the stream, as though to form a junction with the range that follows along the westerly bank, southwestward. The approaching highland, on the west, ends abruptly at the river, rising perpendicularly for fifty feet or more. On either side of the river, is a narrow roadway, so narrow, in fact, that one team can hardly pass another at some points. But, opening toward the south, the Gap widens, as the hills draw back from the bank of the stream. Nancy rode quickly through the pass, and on for two or three miles, then turned into the timber skirting the river. Dismounting, she led the pony along under 180 SONS OF ELOHIM the trees till she came to a secluded spot, where she tied him to a branch. She threaded her way through the woods, rich in the warm red and yellow coloring of autumn, starting up the birds in a wild chattering. Presently, she came upon an Indian camp of three or four tepees, a couple of dogs, and a big kettle suspended over a pile of charred coals. She looked in at the entrance to one of the tents. Two round-faced, big-eyed squaws sat on the ground beading little moccasins. A papoose fretted, pitifully, on a pile of blankets near by. Entering the tepee, Nancy took up the little one. The mother eyed her, curiously. "Toot'/' she said, intimating the child was teething. "Poor 'ittle papoose baby!" said Nancy, rubbing the child's gums with her ring. Then she hugged him close to her breast while she swayed back and forth, humming a low lullaby. The baby, evidently not accustomed to such dainty handling, broke out in a loud wail, where- upon she put him back near his mother, and went out to stroll through the camp. A few yards distant an Indian sat on the bank of the river, silently watching the efforts of a companion who had waded out to a log, lodged among some boulders near the opposite shore, where the water was shallower, and was engaged in spearing salmon. Nancy sat down by him and began asking questions. At first he paid no attention, but at length her per- sistency thawed him out. He drew up from the water a string of fine fish and, with grunts and gestures, told her, "Heap big salmon all gone. One now, one after- while. Next summer river full." "YOU CAN ALLWUS COUNT ON ME!" 181 Then, for a while, she sat quietly wondering about these people. "Do you know about God ?" she asked, abruptly. The Indian nodded. "Father Wilbur," he said. "And Heaven?" "Father Wilbur, at Reservation," he answered, again. "Have you got a Bible?" "Father Wilbur." To this crude savage, the agent at the Indian Reser- vation was the whole universe. Nancy burst out laughing. The siwash regarded her, stoically. "And do you know 'Father* Raines ?" she asked. He shook his head. "Father Wilbur, at fort," he said. Presently, she saw the Indian glance up at the sky. She, too, looked up and saw great fleecy clouds scurrying across the blue background. "Heap big wind," grunted the buck, getting up and pulling his salmon out on the bank. Nancy rose, and hurried through the woods to her pony. The chill wind was coming up in long, low sighs, stirring the prairie grasses, and moaning through the caynons. Coalie had already scented the approaching storm, and whinnied gladly at sight of her. She led him to the open, and paused a moment, look- ing back across the wide stretch of Reservation lands. Miles away a great wall of yellow dust was rising from the ground. It told her of the storm that would soon be upon her, gathering strength, in its wide sweep across the great plain, to tear through The Gap, and whirl and swirl up the Valley. 182 SONS OF ELOHIM Another moment, and she was in her saddle, galloping homeward. She had covered scarcely half the distance to The Gap, when she noticed a large bunch of cattle being herded for the night, back among the foothills. Some- thing in their actions arrested her attention. She slowed her pony to a canter. The cattle were moving and swaying their heads, their noses near the ground, puffing and snorting with increasing fear at the rising wind. Nancy was alarmed. She would have to pass directly in front of them. The storm was sweeping toward her, in ever-increasing velocity. She would soon be enveloped in a whirlwind of sand and lava ash, blinding both her and the pony, and making it impossible for them to find their way through the pass. Delay, now, might mean a whole night in some improvised shelter from the storm. A vicious gust tore away her hat, and it went swirling away like a great bird, straight into the restless herd. Then, as she galloped down the trail toward them, her bright skirts fluttering back in the wind, several of the bawling cattle broke away and dashed ahead of her toward The Gap. At the same moment, yells came from the herders; the ground trembled with rushing hoofs. The snorting of nostrils and clashing of horns came to her with startling nearness. Terror-stricken, she looked back over her shoulder. The cattle were on a stampede! Cowboys had spurred their ponies among the animals trying to turn back the herd before they reached the narrow pass. She could hear the heavy breathing of the frightened "YOU CAN ALLWUS COUNT ON ME!" 183 beasts close behind her. She could hear the yells of the night-herders, the cracking of whips. Lashing her pony to greater speed, she rounded the hill, into the roadway. She was ahead of the stampede, and now there would be only the dust-laden, blinding wind to fear. "Go, Coalie, go!" she cried, bending low over his neck. A sharp turn in the narrow, winding road, and she jerked him suddenly back. In her path was a struggling, bellowing mass of cattle, jammed one against another, blocking the way. She realized, in a moment, what had happened. The leaders of the stampede, that had broken away and dashed off ahead of the main herd, had collided, head-on, with a band of cattle being driven through The Gap from the north range. The stinging sand bit into her face. She could feel the pony tremble as she clung to his mane. Nearer came the thundering hoofs, the wild bawling of beasts, the snorting nostrils. The herd was already in The Gap. But she was calm. There was no fear of the death that was rushing upon her. No thought of human aid, no crying out to God, in her extremity no trust in a Power she had never realized. Only, faces and scenes passed before her, Dick, Martha a camp in the California plain her father her stepmother the daily pan of "spuds" the convent Billy, lying in bed, wounded, moaning and mumbling in his delirium. "Billy! Billy!" she cried, awakening into life. There came a thought. The river! her only chance! to leap 184 SONS OF ELOHIM Goalie into the swift current, and try to reach the opposite shore. "Billy ! Oh, Billy ! Billy !" she cried, again. Then, she madly kicked her heels into the pony's side. She jerked him sharply; she lashed his neck with the rein. The little broncho, angered by this unusual treatment and sensing the approaching danger, plunged against the high bank, bursting the saddle girth and throwing her, heavily, to the ground. Then he dashed ahead into the pass. At the same moment the oncoming herd rounded the hill into the roadway. Nancy waited, pressing close the steep, crumbling bank. There was no longer hope, now. A few more wild beatings of her heart, and she would be but a bit of trampled flesh rolled along in the soft earth. Suddenly, a rider forged out from among the frantic herd, his great, black horse clearing the space to where she stood hugging the cliff. Billy Ki-Ki, leaning from his saddle, caught the slender form with his outstretched arm and litted her up before him. "Billy! Oh, Billy!" she clasped his neck with her hands and closed her eyes. "Hold fast !" he whispered, hoarsely. The cattle were upon them, pushing, struggling against the horse's side. The ranger bent forward ; there was a shot; a second, and a third. Two steers fell. Those behind fell over them, and in the brief space thus cleared, Billy turned his horse and urged him toward the bank. Another moment, and the great animal lifted his head high and plunged into the river. Her arms tightened about Billy's neck, as the cold "YOU CAN ALLWUS COUNT ON ME!" 185 water came up around them. The strong horse, strug- gling against the current, swam for the opposite shore, barely escaping some of the frantic cattle which had leaped into the river. Some distance further the shallow water permitted the stallion to gain a footing. He plowed through to the low, sloping bank. "Are you all right, little woman?" Billy pushed the hair back from her eyes. "Yes, Billy." She clung closer to him. He pulled down his broad sombrerro to shield her face from the stinging sand, and galloped swiftly up through the darkness of the home valley. The bawling of the cattle, the yells of the cowboys, the howling of the wind seemed far away. She had no thought of danger, now. She forgot all save that she was with Billy, his arm about her, his breath hot on her cheek, his great strength shielding her. For a brief moment she was living a strangely new life. The untapped well of womanhood suddenly gave up a full, rushing stream of overwhelming joy. She felt his arm tighten about her, and she realized they were again in the river, fording the stream. Then came the swaying motion of the horse, as he bounded through the brush, and the odor of the sage, crushed beneath his sharp hoofs. "You are home, now," he said, loosening his arm, as the horse stopped before the gate. "Home? Oh, yes." He lifted her to the ground. "Are you sure you are alright?" he asked, anxiously. "Yes, Billy. I I am I am alright." She did not 186 SONS OF ELOHIM think to tell him how grateful she was. She went, slowly, up the walk to the house. There was no light, no one there. Dick was probably searching for her worrying, perhaps. Well, it did not matter. She went into her bedroom, and threw herself on the bed, regardless of her wet clothes, unconscious of every- thing, except that a fearful thing had arisen between her and the future, pushing back into the past her home, her husband, the coming joy of maternity all that had been happiness and content; leaving nothing but a menace of years to be ... an unending stretch of desert waste. Presently, she was aware that someone had entered; she felt a hand laid gently on her head. She turned from the pillow and saw Laura Waters, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Mis' Swallow, what is it? Can I do somethin'?" "No, Laura, nothing." She put her hand over the girl's, pressing it against her temples. "Mis' Swallow ! How hot your hands are !" exclaimed Laura. "For mercy's sake, Mis' Swallow ! You're clothes are wet, too! You've been in the river. You'll catch your death o' cold!" Springing up, she lit a lamp, and brought some clothing from a closet. Nancy sat up and, like a child, she let the strong daughter of the ranch replace her wet garments with dry ones. Laura was so gentle, and sympathetic, that, when she had finished, the young wife pulled the girl's face down to her own and kissed her. "You're a good, good girl, Laura!" she said. "And oh, how bad I am ! How bad I am!" "There, now. Mis' Swallow, don't cry, don't cry. Sit "YOU CAN ALLWUS COUNT ON ME!" 187 down here; let me hold you. There now; there now!" Dropping into a big rocking chair, she pulled Nancy down on her lap, and pressed the quivering lips against her cheek. The hot flesh burnt her own, and her tears mingled with the other's. When Nancy had grown calm, she told Laura of her narrow escape, of the storm, the stampede, and of how Billy had saved her at the risk of his own life. She felt Laura shudder as she told of how she had crouched against the crumbling bank and counted the seconds till the end should come. She felt the girl's breath come in quick gasps, when she told of Billy, among the maddened, struggling beasts. "Oh, Laura!" she cried, straining the girl's face against her own. "You're my best only friend. You are a good, good girl, Laura. How glad I am you are here! Are you my friend, dear? Will you always be my friend?" She raised her head, and looked pleadingly into the large, faithful eyes of the girl who had never known wrong. And Laura full-souled and warm-hearted, kissed the other's wet cheeks and answered: "Allwus, forever, Mis' Swallow; you can allwus count on me." So, lying against the bosom of her friend, the young wife told her that into her heart, unsought, unwelcomed, had come a love for the big, handsome ranger, a love that should not be, a love that was beyond compare ; for it was filling her life with a strange new light, that seemed to lead her away away away. She did not notice how quiet Laura had become, nor how much colder was the cheek against her own. She did not know that the heart, which was pulsing hopefully against her's, a moment before, had almost ceased to 188 SONS OF ELOHIM beat. She only knew that her own heart was lighter for having told this new and awful secret; and she felt, now, she could fall asleep. "Laura, dear, you'll be my friend, now, always?" she whispered ; and as she closed her eyes, she heard a voice, low, hollow-like, as though from somewhere far away: "Allwus, Mis' Swallow, allwus. You can allwus count on me." At that same moment, in a private room over at Skinner's saloon, Dick Swallow was talking, nervously, with a man who had just arrived in Old Town. "It's not that I would hound a fellow, Swallow, as hasn't always done right, for I know how it is myself. But it's a case of live or die, my boy. The jig's up, in Frisco, for a time, and, till Harding fixes things with the Governor, which he hopes to do through Osmond, your friend there, I'm up in the air and nothing to stand on. When I had to light out, I thought of you, up here, and it seemed like it might be safe place to sojourn awhile." "How did you know I was here?" Dick asked, his body in a cold sweat. "My pard, the man you met in Frisco that night, was passing through here on some business or other 'bout the time you come ; and he recognized you. But say, my boy, couldn't you drop a line to your friend, Osmond, and get him to do something?" "No, no !" said Dick, his lip trembling. "I'll do any- thing you say, that I can do. But Osmond must not know." "Well, you're the stuff, anyhow!" exclaimed the other. "Now we're talking, man to man? Give me a hundred, tomorrow, and keep a close mouth, and I'll do the same. I'll not trouble you, afterwards, if I don't "YOU CAN ALLWUS COUNT ON ME!" 189 have to. I'll just settle down here, under your protec- tion, as it were, an' mebbe I can line my pockets with a little of the yeller stuff, that some of these fellers here are mighty anxious to get rid of. I know a thing or two about cards and dice, myself." "You must never let my wife see you; she might remember, you know." "Never fear, my boy. I'm an old pal, and I know what's what. So here's a go!" He extended his hand to Swallow, who replied, weakly : "It's a go." The man called to the bartender: "A little red eye this way, John !" After a couple drinks each, they passed out of the saloon. The bartender turned to a lounger, standing near. "That feller must ha' got a horrible cut some time or 'nother," he said. "That's an awful scar across his cheek." "I've seen him in 'Frisco, many a time," said the other. "He is known as 'Red Eye,' a name given him by the saloon men, 'count of him allwus askin' fer 'red eye' when he wants liquor." "What's he come here for, d'ye think? Swallow seems to know him." "Scrape, prob'ly. He's tryin' to sell Swallow one o' them sparklers. They're dimonts, fer sure; an' he's prob'ly tryin' to raise stuff." CHAPTER XXIV DEVILS Hank Evans sat at his bench doing nothing, but looking off to the mountains. There is little doubt, now, as I look back to the days when civilization had not yet got its clutch on the broad Valley and the blue hills of Washington, that these mountain slopes and rugged forests below the white-capped peaks, brought to the shoemaker a sense of their great strength and security and, at times, drew his spirit out and away from his environment. His childish faith in God, and his abiding confidence in the very vastness of natural things, gave to him messages from the great Beyond, rounded up his quaint thoughts and shaped his remark- able philosophy. Hank was thinking about Molly Powers. Widow Powers had been behaving peculiarly for some time. Shortly after the tragic death of her boy, the neighbor women, who in a bluff, kindly way sought to get her back to her normal good-natured self, began to meet with sharp discourtesy; and recently some of them told how she had ordered them away and slammed the door in their faces. Then, one day she had sent for Alec Lattimer to assist in putting together her meager assortment of DEVILS 191 household furniture and utensils and had him cart it all to an old barn standing alone on a deserted homestead at the edge of the village. Here she had taken up her abode, coming out occasionally in a late hour of night to leave, weighted down by a stone on the store porch, an order for groceries. She never spoke to anyone, and those whom she had passed at midnight in the road said she muttered and mumbled continuously to herself. She had come to be spoken of as "the crazy widow." Molly Powers, now but a little past thirty, had grown up motherless, in Old Town, as Molly Peters. Her father, once deputy sheriff in the Valley, had met a violent death at the hands of a band of horse thieves. Up to the time of his death she had ridden with him over the range and into the mountain passes, had become a dead shot with a rifle, and could take off the head of a chicken at thirty yards with a pistol as heavy as any her father used. She rode, bareback, a scrawney, vicious brute of a cayuse named "Satan," but called "Molly's Devil" by those who liked the more familiar word, and who never dared go within a dozen yards of him. A few weeks after burying her father, a young range rider, Jack Powers, whose father, up to the day he was killed in the last revolt of the Yahkimas, had been a lifelong friend of Deputy Peters, asked Molly to be his wife. "I'll marry you," said Molly, pushing him away, "w'en you bring me the scalps of 'Black Mex,' 'Big Dutch,' an' 'Cowiche Bill/ who were in the gang that kilt father. An' you needn't come roun' to see me agin till you've got, annywise, one on 'em." One night, a month later, Jack walked into Molly's 192 SONS OF ELOHIM kitchen and set something on the table. It was covered with a black-stained, red bandanna. As Molly, aston- ished, stared at the thing, Jack pulled off the rag. Staring back at her from dead eyes in a black, ugly face was the mute and ghastly evidence that Jack had found "Black Mex" and terminated his infamous career. Molly screamed and fainted. When she revived she found herself in Jack's arms and knew that, for the first time in her life, she had received a lover's kiss. Right there and then she made a two-thirds discount on her previous terms. They were married next day. Came a baby girl, rosy and dimpled, a marvellous miracle to both of them, to grow into Molly's heart with a thousand tendrils of childish prattle, love and inspira- tion. A year later Johnny came, sturdy and brown, like his father, and in a few short months it seemed to them, though it was really two full years, he was marching about the house with a wooden gun on shoulder, his little heart stirred by the talk of war among men and women on every side. One day came a report of an epidemic of small pox among the Indians. Fear swept up the Valley and into the village ; for it was not known then as it has been so tragically brought home to us by a hundred thousand deaths in the camps during the recent world war, that small pox is not nearly so dangerous and deadly as the filthy, unscientific, murdersome practice of vaccination. Doctor Kimball was besieged by men and women, bringing their children truly like lambs to the slaughter, to receive, each of them, an inocculation of vaccine poison. Among the children that suffered and sickened DEVILS 193 from the desease thus injected into healthy bodies, was , Molly Powers' little girl. She died from blood poisoning. It was almost a paralytic stroke to Molly. From that day her whole nature changed. Days brought years of age into her cheeks and eyes. Her loud, contagious laughter which had been heard blocks away as she watched her husband's efforts to catch, manage and ride Satan, without being bitten or kicked by the diabolical brute, had been silenced. Jack took the death of his little girl less hard, out- wardly, though it may have had something to do with his sudden inclination to volunteer and leave with Bud Andrews and a few others for the nearest training camp. He never came back. Left badly wounded on the battlefield by his comrades in a futile charge upon the enemy's flank at Gettysburg, in which Bud's arm was shot away, Jack was reported missing. He was never found. Molly, undaunted, went to work, stoically, for her- self and Johnny, taking in washing, raising chickens, and selling milk from two Jersey cows. Some of the more aggressive villagers had undertaken to get her a pension, but a hero's widow, who couldn't produce the hero's head as evidence that he had become a hero, received no more consideration in the aftermath of that cruel, senseless war, than the more modern, live heroes have received since Germany backed out of Belgium and went home. Now, just at a time when a promise had come of a position for her as mail rider over a transmountain route, Johnny had lost his young life in the burning of Crocker's barn. Truly, these misfortunes, singly, and in cruel order, coming into the life of a young woman, 194 SONS OF ELOHIM alone, without knowledge of a living relative, with no one to love and live for, were more than it was ever intended one woman should bear. Molly had, indeed, become the "crazy widow," feared by many who wanted to be her friends, and shunned by others who had never entitled themselves to any con- sideration from her. She had taken up her abode, with her horse, in the old barn, her bed a stall, and her table the manger adjoining that of Satan. Her cows and chickens were being cared for by neighbors pending the outcome of her malady. It was now being reported that frequently, at night, she would don her buckskin breeches and leather chaps, that had been put aside at her father's death, leap astride Satan, untamed to all except to her own magic touch, and with rifle across his neck, ride madly down the Valley, through the pass and into the foothills, returning about the time the villagers began to wake. Hank was thinking of Molly, and of these tragedies that had come into her life, and the tragedies that come into other lives to break them, and defeat the will of Heaven; and so intent was his gaze mountainward, so absorbing his thoughts, he had not noticed men and women rushing about in the streets, nor the gruff voices of men, the yelling of children, telling that something out of the usual order was transpiring. Laura Waters, short of breath and trembling from excitement, burst into the shop, bringing Hank back to earth. "Mr. Evans!" she gasped, "the Widow Powers 's gone crazy!" DEVILS 195 "Wall, Laury," said Hank, quietly, "I ha' heard that afore." "But she's arter killin' somun now. She rode in from the hills and started shootin* at things, soon 's she got in the village. She shot the sheriff's pipe right out o 1 his mouth, as he war sittin* front o' the town hall. An' she killed Ben Kitchin's dog." "Were is she, now, Laury?" "She ha' rode into her barn an' shet herself in. The sheriff air askin' fer volunteers to arrest her an' take her to the 'sylum, but none on 'em won't go near. They know she never missed anythink she shot at, an* they haint takin' no chances." "W'ere's the parson?" "He's with 'em. He started fer the barn but fust thing off goes his hat with a bullet through it. He got out o' range 'fore she could shoot agin." "Wat's she mad about? Ain't she 'cusin' o' someun?" "She sez, 'Rebels! Rebels! Ye kilt my husband !' er somethin* like that." "Poor Molly !" said Hank, reaching for his hat. "Ye go back, Laury, an' tell the parson to keep none on 'em from techin' her till I come." Laura departed on a run, as Hank locked up his shop and started homeward. Arriving at the house he went to the attic, opened a big cedar chest and took out a blue uniform. How it came there Hank, alone, knew. He had never spoken of it, even to "my lady." He donned the clothes, put on the private's cap and getting his Bible from the mantel shelf, he set out toward the local battlefield. By this time half the people of the village were at 196 SONS OF ELOHIM Ben Kitchin's corner, shielded by his barn and outhouses from the possibility of Molly's deadly sniping, but many of them led by curiosity to take a chance in peeking around the corners to see what might be the next num- ber on the program. Some of the men had brought guns, rifles, or revolvers, whichever weapon had been nearest at hand, but which it might be said to their credit, never would have been used on the occasion. When Hank arrived at the scene, the sheriff had decided to wait until night, and then with a strong force, creep up to the barn, take Molly by surprise and over- power her. He had already appointed, from among a number of volunteers, a squad of guards to watch the barn and Molly's doings, until night came. Hank paid no attention to any of them, nor to the exclamations of surprise at his uniform, but with his Bible in his hand he walked straight on to the path, turned in and rapidly approached the barn. If Molly had been disposed to do so, she could have found many a full-head target for her bullets, as the curiosity of the villagers exceeded discretion. Not a shot came from the barn, nor was there to be seen a movement of any kind. Hank reached the door, found it fastened, and knocked, softly. "Molly!" he said, "open the door in the name of the Union, in the name of Jack Powers who died for it, on the battlefield!" There was a stir within, and he heard the prop pulled away. "Come on in, if ye want to," said Molly, with a sup- pressed snarl. Hank pushed the door back and entered. DEVILS 197 It seemed a long time to the excited watchers but in about fifteen minutes Hank reappeared, leading Molly by a hand, a shawl covering her disheveled hair. He led her across the yard, away from the crowd and in a round-a-bout way to his home, and turned her over to Mrs. Evans. Then he went to the attic, changed his clothes and returned to his shop. A large crowd was waiting him, with a volley of questions. "Wat 'd ye do to her?" "Didn't she fight ye?" "How 'd ye do it?" One of the men, forgetting the customary dignity accorded the "cobbler knight," yelled, "By Gawd, Hank, ye're a wonder!" Hank waived them all back, with a grin, made no reply, went into his shop and closed the door, indicating that he desired to be alone. The crowd dispersed and in a few moments the village was back in its normal condition. / j In the afternoon Luke Waters limped in from his ranch, having learned of the incident from a passing settler. He pushed into Hank's shop. "Wall, Hank, I heerd ye been a hero, yourself, today. Pete, the sheep man, ha' tolt me ye done w'at the parson an' sheriff war both scart to do. W'at ye got to say 'bout it?" I ^ "I haint a sayin' anythink, Luke. 'Pears to me if parsons 'ud give more time to readin' the Bible 'stead o' w'at some other fellers ha' writ, wouldn't be needin' heroes, as ye calls 'em." "W'at yure Good Book had to do with it, Hank? I heerd as how ye just put on a Union label, an' walked inter th' barn an' fetched her out. Were 'd ye git the Union suit, Hank?" 198 -SONS OF ELOHIM Hank grinned. "Guess lot o' 'em want to know same thing, Luke, but I haint sayin' a word not to you, neither, nor any o' them. The Lord ha' said ye jest got to b'lieve on His sayin's an' ye can do bigger things 'n he did." "Did he have to git a crazy woman back to her senses, Hank?" "He ha' done it without goin' to her, Luke. Her mother jest tolt the Lord the gal war home, full o' seventy kinds o' devils. 'Pass along, lady!' sez he, 'ye aint o' the lost tribes o' Israel.' " "Wat 'd he mean by that, Hank?" "Wall, Luke, ye arsk a lot o' questions, an' I tell ye a lot o' answers, but ye don't remember. I ha' tolt ye more 'n once 'bout the restorashun o' Israel, that air to come. Thar be the Jews w'at ha' allus stuck together as the Lord said they sh'ud, an' ha' multiplied together 'cordin' to prophecy. Then thar be all them other ten tribes w'at ha' got lost arter they got free from slav'ry with the 'Syrians, 'bout three thousand years ago, an' ha' gone into Europe an' ha' multiplied with them natives o' Danmark, an' Swedan, an' a lot o' other Dans, till they got to be known 'mong the Jews as their lost breth'ren. Then 'long comes a prophet feller named Ezekiel an' he ha' said time's comin' w'en Christ 'nd come an' bring all them lost ten tribes back to the Jews, w'ich air only two o' the 'riginal tribes." "That ha' never happened, has it, Hank?" "Sho ! Ye know it haint, Luke, well's I do. But arter the Jews, w'ich war only two tribes, got liberated from Babylon an' went back to Jerusalem, then the Lord Jesus ha' been sent from heaven to bring back the other ten tribes." DEVILS 199 "He didn't do it, did he, Hank?" "Ye know he didn't, Luke. Reason war, the feller w'at ha's been chose by Gabr'el to prepare the way afore him, an' give the Lord a place to lay his head, ha' pointed out Jesus as the Christ, afore he done the preparation, an' the Lord ha' knowd right away he couldn't do much restorin' 'fore the Italian soldiers would kill him. Ye see, Luke, the Italians warn't goin' to have the restora- shun prophecy take place, nohow. They ha' killed all the Jew babies w'en the emp'ror heerd that Christ war born, but they missed gittin' him. But they got another whack at him, w'en he ha' growed up, an' that Baptist feller, ha' pinted him out 'stead o' gittin' things fixed fer him so's the Emp'ror c'ud ha' seen he warn't agin' 'em arter all. The Italians got the Jew high priest scart by tellin' him he'd better let 'em kill one man than the hull caboodle on 'em. Then the Italians fixed it up for a Jew to pint him out jest as though they didn't know him, theirselves, an' so 's they c'ud always say 't war a Jew that done it." "Were 'd ye learn all that parleycluck, Hank? Ye mean to say the Lord ha' tolt it to ye ?" Hank grinned. "I ha' read it in the Bible, Luke, an' w'at's more, I ha' read it in the poops' Bible, too, arter all they done to make out the Jews ha' crucified Christ. If the feller w'at Gabriel tolt to built a city for the Saviour, had done it, thar wouldn't ha' been no cruifixion." "W'at's all this parleycluck got to do with Molly Powers? W'at'd ye do, Hank?" "Jest w'at the Lord done to them crazy fellers w'at come out o' the cemetary. It sez them fellers war crazy 200 SONS OF ELOHIM 'count o' havin' a lot o' devils in 'em, an' the Lord sez, 'Ye mean, ornery devils come out o' these p'or fellers, this rninnit!' An' it sez the devils come right out, an' soon's they come, the fellers ha' got their right senses agin." "Well, Hank, if that's all ye got to do to give senses back to a loonatic, beats me w'y yure churches don't send their parsons to do it in the looney houses." "I ha' thought o' that, too, myself, Luke. But, sho! I" He was interrupted by Laura bolting into the shop. "Hello, pa!" she said. "Widow Powers' devil air raisin' hell in the barn since she left him than He's kickin' the barn down. Who d'ye s'pose 'ud take a chance o' gittin' him out. Mr. Carruthers 'ud do it, but he haint here." Luke looked at Hank, with a grin. "Wall, Laury," said he, "thar's only one man can handle devils jest right, an' that be Shoemaker Hank. He ha' been parleycluckin' to me 'bout drivin' devils out'n o' women an' fellers by the power o' Gawd. W'at ye sayin', Hank?" "Wall, Luke," said Hank, getting to his feet and putting away his tools, "the Lord ha' writ, 'If ye b'lieve in me ye can drive out devils in my name.' He haint said as that don't mean horses jest 's well's a woman. Laury, ye can tell 'em Molly's devil will be as tame as they be afore supper time. I'll be back in a short spell, Luke, if ye want to wait. Or, ye can go to the house an' take tea with me an' my lady an' Molly, soon's I come." Hank set out for his house to get his Bible, Laura following. DEVILS 201 "Beats me !" said Luke, getting to his feet and reach- ing for his stick. Then he sat down again to wait Hank's return. CHAPTER XXV A SHOE SHOP SOUL The next morning Nancy Swallow ran lightly up the steps into Hank's shop. "I've got just one question to ask you, Mr. Evans got my bread started had to run down to the store to get some yeast and must get right back. Dick says when a person goes crazy they just lose their mind, and sometimes it comes back again. What is 'mind', Mr. Evans?" Hank chuckled as he dusted off a chair for his visitor. He knew that the incident of the day before was still a live topic among the villagers. "Wall, Mis' Swallow, thar ha' been so much said 'bout mind an' soul an' sech, that it ben't no wonder folks think they can lose 'em jest like they lose a slipper off, chasin' chickens out o' the garden. My concepshun is, mind haint nothin' w'at a feller's got, at all. W'at makes this a shoe shop ? 'Taint the building. 'Taint the leather 'n shoes, an' tools an' sech. 'Taint me. Thar's a buildin' 'cross the street. It haint a shoe shop; an' ye c'ud have this leather an' them old shoes in yure cellar, fur's that be. It's a shoe shop jest w'en it's a buildin' an' I'm here working' an' makin' shoes. Takes all together to make a factory, the buildin' an' machin'ry, an' the A SHOE SHOP SOUL 203 hull thing workin' an' perdoocin' suthin. A man air like that. Takes the body an' the soul an' the spirit, all workin' together to perdooce thoughts. Takes 'em all to make a mind." "Oh, I see what you mean," said Nancy. "You believe that mind is the whole man not something he's got in his head, or somewhere?" "Yas, I reckon that's about it. A man 'thout a body haint thinkin' much. An' a body 'thout blood o' life haint much good fer perdoocin' thoughts. It's got to be a hull man, alive, an' with a spirit givin' him suthin to think on. Thoughts haint much. It's the concepshuns ye git from the spirit in the body, is w'at counts. Ye can't git thoughts jest as ye wants 'em. If ye cu'd make yureself think w'at ye want to, ye c'ud own the hull airth in a short time. Trouble is, mostly, ye air bein' made to think o' things ye wish ye c'ud stop thinkin' on. It's the spirit w'at makes ye think; an' the spirit is run by some o' the five senses w'at ye ha' heerd tell of. W'at ye hear, or see, or feel, or taste, or smell, is w'at sez ye're goin' to think 'bout. An' sech thoughts, mostly, air w'at ev'rybody ha' thought on, sometime or 'nother. It's the concepshuns ye git right out o' the air, that the Lord's spirit gives ye, that counts most. Thoughts air jest copies o' concepshuns, an' a feller can have 'em over an' agin. But a concepshun comes only onct." "So it is the spirit that makes mind?" "Spirit's got to have a shop to work in, an' the shop's got to have blood power fer turnin' the w'eels. So ye see, Mis' Swallow, takes all three together to make a fact'ry, an' mind is same as a fact'ry. Wen ye want sartin kind o' thoughts ye can git a book or arsk ques- tions. That's w'y I read my Bible. It gives me thoughts 204 SONS OF ELOHIM o' how the Lord 'ud do things if he war here. I git wonderful thoughts sometimes 'bout things." "I guess you do!" she exclaimed, with emphatic assur- ance of her belief in Hank's remarkable "concepshuns." "What is soul, Mr. Evans? Dick says it's what goes to hell. Is it?" Hank laughed loudly. "Ye said his father war a preacher, if I haint forgot rightly. Preachers don't read much in the Bible for knowledge, nowadays. They git the sermons made to order, mostly. The Bible sez that soul is jest the blood, an' that any animal w'at's got blood ha' got a soul. It's the soul o' man w'at he can't take to heaven with him. The Bible sez it air the cause o' sin, an' ha' got to be got rid of 'fore he can stand in the presence o' the Lord. The preachers air meanin' spirit w'en they air talkin' 'bout savin' souls. 'Nother thing. They don't 'pear to know that a feller's spirit air suthin that's goin' to be saved in spite o' their hell doctrin's. Their hell doctrin's git more fellers afeard o' goin' to heaven than to t'other place. Paul, the feller w'at built the first church o' Christ, ha' writ once, 'Keep yure body an' soul an' spirit all t'gether till I git thar,' or suthin like that, If a man's blood air in bad shape he haint goin' to do much good thinkin'. If his body air afflicted, he haint goin' to have same kind o' thoughts as a feller with a well body. Preachers ha' better git to preachin' agin w'at a feller shan't eat or drink, 'stead o' hollerin' 'bout savin' o' their souls fer heaven, w'ich haint to be 'lowed in heaven a-tall !" "May be what we eat that we shouldn't, or what we drink, affects the mind," Nancy suggested. "I ha' thought that's jest how that feller, Moses, ha' SHOE SHOP SOUL 205 tolt 'em w'at aint right to eat. Wat a feller eats or drinks, is w'at makes the blood an' body. So ye see, Mis' Swallow, if a feller steals, or kills a man, or sech, seems to me it air 'cause his mind ha' been made ornery 'count o' his body an' blood ha' got some affliction. It don't help none to send a feller to prison or to the gallus. Next feller can git same disease same day, an' do the same things. Crimes air mostly 'count o' 'eatin' the things the Bible sez shouldn't be et, like pig an' sech. Jedge Lattimer sez them Jew fellers w'at stick to the Bible w'at Moses ha' writ agin pig meat, haint ever hung fer killin' people, or doin' crimes w'at other cusses air doin'. He sez he never heerd 'bout a Jew feller goin' crazy. My noshun be that most preachers ha' got a taste o' pig an' sech 'fore they got religion. Trouble is, civil'ashun air tryin' to do things, astanding on its head. World won't git no better till they stop givin' a po'r feller a disease an' then hang him for doin' w'at he haint to blame for." "I think you are right, Mr. Evans," said Nancy. "What did you do to Mrs. Powers' Satan, yesterday Laura Waters rode him clear to the South Gap and back. He's just as gentle as Goalie is, now. What did you do?" "Same thing as ha' kept Molly from goin' to the looney house. She be right smart today, helpin' my lady over to the house." "Dick wanted me to ask you what you did?" she persisted. "The power o' God!" said Hank, solemnly. "Oh!" said Nancy, awed, but not sure he had made it plain. "Mirackel!" Hank added, to make it plainer. 206 SONS OF ELOHIM "Oh, yes," said Nancy, "like the Lord did to Mr. Job." Then she slowly walked out of the shop and home- ward, to her bread-making, leaving Hank chuckling to himself. CHAPTER XXVI DOMESTIC SHADOWS All winter the snow lay on the hills and over the Valley. The Indians had filed away to their reservations, the cowboys to their ranches. Then, one night, the Chinook winds blew softly through the canyons and over the broad range. The next morning every vestige of snow had vanished, leav- ing the ground as dry as a desert. Neighbors greeted each other joyously; the cow- boys and gaudily-blanketed Indians reappeared in the streets; the birds were mating; the flowers peeped out timidly ; all nature awoke from her long sleep. Into Nancy's home had come a baby girl to nestle at her heart. This had brought to Dick the pride of fatherhood and the pleasure of new ownership. But Dick had changed. He was kind, thoughtful for his wife's pleasure, quite as considerate as when his boyish passion had been her first inspiration toward pur- pose and usefulness. It was not his fault, perhaps, that his nature inspired love, but could not develop it. Nancy, herself, had not realized this change in her husband until he began staying out late at night, some- 208 SONS OF ELOHIM times coming home surly and ashamed, his breath fetid with whiskey and tobacco. That he was gambling she had no doubt ; and he had lost considerable, she believed, for a sort of fearfulness had come over him. Nancy never complained ; but this lack of partnership in her husband's life, and the vastness of the great life ahead, to which she had been groping, were to be pushed aside by the awakened mother-love; and in the same, newly-awakened instinct, she was to bury the unbidden secret that had begun to take the color from her cheeks. On the other hand, if Dick had noticed any change in his wife, after she had been so miraculously saved from the stampede, he never spoke of it. He was not an observant man. With his ever good health, good appetite, plenty to eat, and little to worry about, other than his loss at cards, he had all that he considered necessary in life. As for "Red Eye," the mountain had become a mole- hill. The gambler had so fattened off the lambs of Old Town's growing community that, after the first scare and subsequent uncertainty, he had given Dick no par- ticular cause for uneasiness. After the arrival of their little girl Dick changed his habits. At night he came home, quite content to let Burke look after the evening trade, while he lay back in his big, easy chair, smoking and dozing taking as a matter of course the mechanical efforts of his wife to entertain him and make him comfortable. If he noticed a touch of melancholy in her voice at times, he, no doubt, attributed it to the implacable spirit of Martha, who remained unforgiving, unloving, DOMESTIC SHADOWS 209 and was gradually becoming irritable, nervous and quarrelsome. When the baby came everyone said, "Martha Chan- ning surely will now make up with her sister-in-law." But they were mistaken. Dick did not send for her. He thought she would come; that she must have known Nancy would need her. "An' this air the little maid!" said Luke Waters one morning, stopping at the Swallow gate, where stood Nancy, with the baby and Dick. "They air wonders, these fust 'uns. I mind well when my fust 'un war born. An' a purty good boy he's been, too more'n the aver- age, I guess. If they don't fall below that, they're alright. She's a peart little maid, a smart 'un by the looks o' her. Send over yure brandin' iron, Swallow, an' I'll mark one o' the twin calves fer her. Can't start 'em too airly with stock o' their own." "Guess I'll have to get an iron made for her," said Dick. "This makes the third calf, besides the two fine colts Billy Ki-'Ki's given her." And so the "little maid," named very properly after Martha a name which, in time, became Maidie had her own branding iron duly registered; and long before she was able to ride about on a pony, horses and cattle, marked, "M. S.," over a crude outline of a flying bird, were ranging the hills along the Valley. As for Martha Channing, it had begun to look as though her unrelenting, unsympathetic nature was to be rebuked by a culmination of circumstances. In a spirit of reckless impulse, Burke Channing did things, when his usual good nature was pushed to the limit, that he would not have done otherwise. His habit of dropping in at Skinner's saloon, after 210 SONS OF ELOHIM closing up, became more regular, until he was seldom home an evening in a week. The first time he confessed that he had been in a little game at Skinner's, Martha had upbraided him so severely that he lied to her at other times; and, like men who are forced to deceive their wives for the sake of peace, he was less conscious of his guilt when away from her. So he began inventing excuses to remain away as much as possible. One evening, just as Dick was about to lock up for the night, Martha came in. "Where's Burke?" she asked, sharply. Her color had risen, and in her eyes was an angry light. "Why, I don't know; isn't he at home?" "At home? Would I be asking about him if he were home ? He hasn't been home tonight." "Then I can't tell you, Martha. I haven't seen him since he started home for supper." She dropped into a chair, hysterically. He became sympathetic, at once, and gradually calmed her. Burke had been coming home intoxicated of late, she said. In the past few weeks he had been out many nights till nearly morning. "This can't go on, Martha," said Dick, determinedly. "He will ruin himself and the business. It must be stopped." "Of course, it must, and I have done all I know how to do, and said everything I know to say. I've talked to him as " "That's just it!" exclaimed her brother, interrupting. "You talk too much! You overdo it!" "Now, Dick, don't try to tell me my duty. I know it, and I do it as a Christian should, if ever a woman DOMESTIC SHADOWS 211 did." Her voice was ascending the scale, and Dick, to avoid a scene, took up his hat. "Go home, Martha," he said. "I will find Burke." He found him at Skinner's saloon, as he knew he should, in a back room, where some of the worst element of the Valley congregated every night. Burke was losing heavily, judging from his oaths, as he shoved some money out to the center of the table just as Dick entered. He looked up and saw Dick watching him. "All right, Dick, I'm coming," he said, staggering to his feet. He was ashamed, and half frightened with the thought that Martha had sent for him. Channing was drunk. He had been sitting at the table nearly five hours, drinking and gambling. It was not without difficulty that Dick finally got him home and to bed. Then he had a talk with Martha, at the close of which he reproached her for her attitude toward Nancy. "There is nothing Christian-like in such a spirit," he said to her, "and it is this very thing that has brought on all your trouble." "Dick Swallow, it is not so !" she cried, angrily. "As for Nancy, don't mention her name to me ! I hate her !" Restraining himself with difficulty, he rushed from the house. In the forenoon of the following day Nancy stopped at Hank Evans' shoeshop for some invalid shoes which, by this time, should be convalescent. "Dick says there's going to be a resurrection some day, and everyone who is dead will come back to life and live a thousand years more," she said, seating herself while Hank wrapped up the shoes. "That isn't so, is it, Mr. Evans?" "I ha' read it in the Bible, Mis' Swallow." "But that don't make it so, does it?" "Wall, no, I reckon it don't," said Hank, after his teeth had released the string he had been tying in a knot. "It air mostly w'at orter be that sez as w'ether a thing's goin' to be. Sartin sure this world warn't made jest fer them fellers w'at gits 'nough money mostly by robbin' 'nother feller to travel 'round an' see the purty things w'ich the Lord ha' made fer all on us. I hain't never seen nothin' o' the world but in pictur's, 'cept w'at's right afore our eyes, here. I hearn tell 'bout places w'at air so beautiful, a feller stands stock still a hull hour a lookin* at 'em. Lots o' fellers an' lots o' wimmen, too, 'ud like to see sech things, but hain't 'cause they're dead, an' never had no chance. How can thev THE RESURRECTION 213 git a chance to see 'em, 'less they git a chance to come back?" "But how can they come back to life ? Their bodies are gone. They can't see without eyes; and they can't hear the water running, nor the nightingale singing not without ears." "They'll git ears an' eyes, an' teeth, an' sech, Mis' Swallow ; f er the Lord'll give 'em new bodies w'at hain't got blood in 'em, an' w'at won't git sick an' die agin, an' that orter be, ain't it? The feller, Daniel, w'at ha' went into the fiery furnace no, it war in the lion's den he war put by the king w'at ha' put Ham, Sham and Indigo in the fur- nace. Daniel, he ha' had a visit from Gabriel, who ha' come down from heaven an' tolt him that a Day'll come w'en all that air asleep in the dust shall come back to life, to be jedged by the Lord God, Hisself , when He comes." "When will that be, Mr. Evans?" "Wall, the Bible sez one thing an' the preachers 'nother thing," said Hank, sitting down on his bench. "Ye can take yure ch'ice. Bible sez arter Christ ha' come agin an' the hull nashun o' Israel, w'ich air the Jews an' all them 'lost tribe' fellers w'ich air brothers o' the Jews an' w'ich the parson sez air now the Christians, will ha' been got together agin, an' ha' built a lot o' cities all over the airth, an' ha' sot up a big Temple at Jerusalem, then thar'll come a 'Syrian feller w'at'll git the hull caboodle on 'em to think he be the real Christ, an' that Jesus air a humbug." "They couldn't do that after they build all those cities ? That would take a hundred years, wouldn't it?" "Bible sez it'll take more'n four hundred an' thirty- four years arter Christ ha' come agin. But, sho! Human natur'll allus be the same as't has been. Most human thing 'bout men an' wimmen, too, fur's that be air ungratitude. 214 SONS OF ELOHIM Give 'em suthin' fer nothin' an' they'll blame ye 'cause ye hain't got more to give 'em." "You were going to tell me about the Resurrection Day, Mr. Evans," Nancy reminded him, after Hank had sorted out a wide strip of leather, and was scratching on it outlines of small shapes. "That air goin' to be a big Day, ye can b'lieve," said Hank, solemnly. "The 'Syrian feller's goin' to make a deal with the armies, that'll be come agin Jerusalem, to turn Christ over to 'em. Then he'll make a big hellabaloo 'mong the scart Israelites, an' tells 'em Christ air a Jonah, an' they got to throw him out." "Is that in the Bible, too?" "Thar's w'ere I ha' read it, in the Book o' Revela- shun." "But that is something that ought not to happen, isn't it, Mr. Evans?" Nancy suggested, argumentatively. "Wall, Mis' Swallow, the Bible ha' tolt some things that ortn't to be, jest so they won't happen to pass so's the peo- ple will keep from lettin' 'em happen. But, sho ! fellers ha' never b'lieved the prophets, an' prob'ly never will. The Bible ha' said, fellers lie an' steal, an' break the Command- ments w'ich ortn't to be, but w'ich we air purty sure hap- pens to pass in our time." "Alright, Mr. Evans; and then what happens to pass?" "Bible sez Christ'll be druv out o' Jerusalem. But afore the armies git holt o' him, the Lord air goin' to draw him right up to heaven afore their eyes." "Whopee!" said Nancy. "That'll be some doings! Does the Bible say that?" "It sez that, an' a lot more," said Hank, pausing in his leather-cutting to grin at his visitor's excited interest. "Well, that surely ought to be, Mr. Evans. Wouldn't THE RESURRECTION 215 it be fine if the Lord had fixed it so whenever a man is try- ing to escape from his enemy he could just grab hold of a rope and be pulled up into heaven!" Hank sharpened his knife on his whetstone. "I reckon a lot o' fellers w'at air runnin' away from some other feller hain't hankering to meet the Lord face to face jest at that minnit. Anywise, the Lord ha' said ev'ry feller an' wimmen, too, fur's that be ha' got to die onct, same as Christ did. Second time Christ comes, he hain't got no blood, an' he can live all them four hundred and thirty-four years it'll take to git the hull twelve tribes o' Israel together agin at Jerusalem. So w'en them scart Isra- elites ha' thrun him overboard, the Lord jest draws him right up to His throne on one o' them worlds ye see at night. Arter that, the 'Syrian feller air goin' to make them scart Israelites wish they ha' died afore they ever seed daylight." "What makes them scared, Mr. Evans." "Wall, ye see, thar's goin' to be a lot o' other fellers all over the world w'at'll claim they be the real Christ, an' thar'll be millions o' fellers an' wimmen, too, fur's that be who'll b'lieve they air. Thar'll be a lot o' the nashuns o' the world w'at'll think Jesus air a humbug, an' they'll git their armies together an' assiege agin him in Jerusalem. W'en they ha' compassed 'round the city, they air to send word to the Israelites that if they don't turn Christ over to 'em mighty quick, they'll kill 'em all. O' course nobody that be followers o' Christ ain't goin' to have weppins o' warfare, fer the Lord's agin war, an' He ha' sent Christ to show the people o' the world how to live in peace and never have to die. Arter the 'Syrian feller gits them scart Israelites to drive Christ out o' Jerusalem, he lets in the big fellers o' the armies, and they air to 'tread down the people,' it sez, 'fer forty-two months.' This air to be w'at the Bible sez is 'the 216 SONS OF ELOHIM times o' the gentiles.' They air to put an ornery cuss in the Temple, w'at war built fer the Lord, Hisself, to come to; an' ev'ry feller w'at won't call him the Lord'll be kilt right thar." "It will serve them right, too, I think, don't you, Mr. Evans?" "Wall, Mis' Swallow, they'll jest be payin' the price o' .bein' human critturs, that's all. Ev'ry human feller an' wimmen, too, fur's that be air tolt to trust the Lord to git 'em out o' the tight places o' life, an' long's they don't b'lieve w'at the Lord sez, they air goin' to keep jest human, like any animal. That's why them Israelites air goin' to git scart, an' swap their leader for a 'Syrian who'll kill ev'ry feller as don't b'lieve he's bigger'n God, Hisself." "I should think they would all say they believe, anyway, rather than be killed," said Nancy, rather unethi- cally. Hank paused to throw a derelict shoe at a cat that had caught the scent from a package of meat he had placed on the table near the back door of the shop. "That's 'cause they be religious, Mis' Swallow. Beats all w'at a human bein' '11 do arter they git religious noshuns in their noodles w'ether it's right, or w'ether it's wrong. They git the idea they got to be martyrs, an' die fer their b'lief, w'ich nigh to a hundred times hain't the truth a-tall. More fellers ha' been martyrs count o' b'lievin' some lie 'bout w'at God ha' said, w'at He didn't say. Can't think any man war intended to-be kilt 'count o' religion. 'Bout half the religions o' the world air sot agin the others. 'Bout all the churches think on, now-a-days, air hell doctrin's, an' savin' souls w'at haint to be 'lowed in heaven a-tall. All the Lord ha' ever wanted the churches fer, war to git the twelve tribes o' Israel back together agin, so the kingdom o' heaven THE RESURRECTION 217 c'ud ha' come, an' ev'ryone git the same chanct to git en- joyment out o' life." "When will that big Day come, that you were going to tell me about, Mr. Evans ?" Nancy pursued, a little confused by Hank's philosophical argument. "Wen that 'Syrian feller ha' done his worst!" said Hank, with emphasis, sending another shoe, with no better aim, at the cat, which had returned in another flank move- ment on the meat. "Wen he ha' got them Israelite fellers to b'lievin' thar hain't no more hope fer 'em, then suthin's goin' to happen, quick!" "What?" she asked, a little nervously. "Lord God o' heaven, Hisself, is goin' to come!" said Hank, dramatically. "Right down out of heaven?" "Yep. 'With a voice like the Archangel, an' the trum- pet o' God,' " Hank quoted, as best he remembered. "Then, 'cordin' to w'at Paul ha' writ to the Thess'lonians, the dead w'at ha' arsked fer glorified bodies, an' them as air livin', who ha' b'lieved 'bout the restorashun an' sech, an' air at Jerusalem, together with them as ha' come out o' their graves, air to be caught up to meet the Lord God, Hisself, in the sky." "We won't be livin', then, will we?" she asked, rather anxiously. "I reckon not,", said Hank, grinning. "It would seem awful to find oneself going right up into the sky," she ventured. "Specially," said Hank, "w'en the Bible sez them as go up air to 'be changed in a twinklin' o' the eyelid' from a body w'at ha' got blood to one w'at hain't." "So that is the Resurrection," said Nancy, disap- pointedly. 218 SONS OF ELOHIM "Not by a jugfull!" Hank exclaimed, throwing his hammer at the persistent feline, which had approached the odoriferous prize from another point, via an empty pack- ing-case. The hammer found its mark and, with a spit and a yowl, the cat rolled off the box to the floor. "Mon Dicu!" shrieked Nancy, leaping from her chair, in the fright which the feline howl and her mental picture of people rising skyward from opened graves gave her. Then she laughed. "I thought the Day had come," she said. "Not yit," he said. "That cat went down an' out, not up an' in, like folks'll do w'en that Day comes. Then suthin else'll happen." Hank paused to dig up another hammer from his tool-box, while Nancy glanced, apprehen- sively, toward the rear of the shop. "What?" she asked, sitting down again, on the edge of her chair. "Airthquake!" "Earthquake?" "Yep. The biggest airthquake the world ever see. Swallers up all them armies o' the nashuns w'at ha' come agiu Jerusalem. Then, arter it's all over, an' all the enemies o' Christ air buried in fire an' brimstun, the Lord God an' them as went up to meet him in the sky, come down on the airth, an' to the big Temple w'at ha' been built fer Him." "Doesn't Christ ever come back anymore?" Nancy asked, credulously, beginning to believe in the reasonable- ness of Hank's recital, and that it all "orter be." "Sure, he comes," said Hank, after he had critically measured a piece of soleleather to fit a very large shoe. "These air fer Pat Remnant," he explained. "Takes most a hull cow to make his shoes." THE RESURRECTION 219 "I should think it would!" Nancy agreed. "And does Christ come, then?" "Wall, I ha' read suthin that Daniel ha' writ, an' 'cordin' to my concepshun, it'll be jest forty-five days arter the Resurrection that he comes. The Lord God an' Abra- ham an' Jacob an' Moses, an' a lot o' Bible fellers w'at ha* been great fellers fer the Lord's work, who air comin' with the Lord God, air to git ready a big barbecue, with wine an' sech, it sez. Wen this air ready, all of a sudden the heavens open, an' down comes the Lord Jesus, with all the fellers an' wimmen, too, I s'pose, fur's that goes w'at ha' been kilt or ha' died an' gone to heaven durin' them four hundred and thirty-four years' o' restorashun. They air all to be 'in w'ite array' like the angels, it sez. Christ, hisself, is to be horseback, on a w'ite horse." "Mon Dieu!" said Nancy, realistically. "I'd like to see that!" "Ye'll see it, Mis' Swallow, fer ye're goin' to be thar," said Hank, reassuringly. "Ye jest got to b'lieve it, an' want to be thar." "I wonder how it'll feel to come up out of the ground, alive," she said, meditatingly. "Will we have any clothes on?" "Ye'll be one o' them as '11 come with the Lord God, Hisself, mebbe," said Hank, reverently. Them as come with the Lord God, don't need to be res'rected. Anywise, it don't mean jest that 'bout comin' out o' the ground. Lots o' fellers hain't in no graves a-tall. Some war sent to the bottom o' the sea, an' some on 'em got burnt to ashes. W'at it means is, that the spirits o' the dead w'at ha' jest got through by the skin o' their teeth, air let come back, an' air give new bodies o' heavenly flesh, w'at Paul ha' writ 'bout." 220 SONS OF ELOHIM "I'd hate to be resurrected and meet some persons I never want to see again," said Nancy, as she arose, took up her package, and moved toward the door. "You don't think everybody will be, do you, Mr. Evans?" "Yep; I guess so," said Hank, wishing she would stay awhile longer. "I haint told ye all." "I'm coming again, soon; I must get home before din- ner. Does Mr. Raines know all about the Resurrection and these things you have told me ?" "I reckon he does 's well 's he can understand arter learnin' all them hell doctrin's o' the churches. I ha' thought many times as how he hain't b'lievin' jest as they ha' wanted him to. He ha' agreed with me some ways." "It seems as though it ought to be that way, but I'm afraid I won't be there when that Day comes." "Ye'll be thar," said Hank, hopingly, as he put away his tools and arose. "I don't think I will be," she answered, with the ob- stinacy of womankind. "Good by, Mr. Evans." "Come agin, Mis' Swallow," he said, and stood in the doorway for some minutes, watching her going slowly home- ward. Presently, when she was out of sight, he walked over to the table for his package of meat. It had disappeared. "Drat that cat !" he exclaimed. Then he picked up his hammer and other missies, locked up his shop and started for the butchershop. CHAPTER XXVIII A CALL FROM THE EAST The next day a message came from New England. The mother of Dick and Martha was ill, and, if they would see her alive they must hasten east without delay. All disturbances in the domestic atmosphere calmed down after receipt of this unexpected news. Ill-feeling changed to anxiety for the mother as son and daughter prepared to set out upon the long journey. Two days later they were on the stage for The Dalles. Laura came to help Nancy look after Burke, who, it had been arranged, would take his meals there. Burke had seemed so sincere in his promise to straighten up that Dick felt less concern in leaving the store in his care for the time he expected to be away. Burke's relapse into habits of former years had had one result: it had brought the other to realize his own responsibility. Channing attended regularly to business during the first few days; after that he could be found every night at Skinner's. One day Nancy met Billy Ki-Ki at the store door. "Oh, Billy," she cried. "I want someone to tell me what to do. I hear Burke is drinking and gambling, and 222 SONS OF ELOHIM I am afraid he'll lose everything, and what Dick has in the store, too." Billy was thoughtful a moment. "You go inside. I'll come back in half an hour," he said. When he returned he brought Judge Lattimer with him. They called Burke behind the partition and after a few words, Billy came out and handed Nancy a bill of sale, conveying to Richard Swallow and Nancy Swal- low, his wife, all right, title and interest in the stock of merchandise, fixtures, accounts, etc. The next day the sign across the front of the building was changed to "Richard Swallow & Co." Letters came from the East telling of the safe arrival of the travelers, of the hopeless condition of the mother, and the plan to bring the father back with them to Washington. Then, one afternoon, word came that all was over, and they planned to start westward within the coming week. The night before the expected arrival, after closing the store, Burke went home. He lighted a candle and, for the first time since Martha's departure, went through all the little rooms, even into the parlor, that had never been opened except for visitors. The furniture was care- fully wrapped in white covering; the hanging lamp was draped in pink mosquito netting; the white wax flowers hung down, dejectedly, in their black frame, all giving the room a ghostly appearance. He turned from the part of the house that had never held the welcome of home for him, and went to the room where he felt more at ease the kitchen. It was not in the orderly state that had been his wife's A CALL FROM THE EAST 223 pride to see it. His occasional attempts to cook for himself had the usual result of such masculine efforts. He looked, ruefully, about the place, familiar and dear from long associations. Notwithstanding the petty, annoying things that may come into every-day life, still, through the years, a man and a woman may, and they should, become closely knit into each other's lives. They may not realize this until, after many years together, they drift apart. And when a man, sitting on the judicial bench, utters the words that sever the legal tie between a husband and wife, he may unholily put them asunder; but it takes the weary drag of years of a lifetime to unwind every little, clinging tendril that had put out, from each to the other, binding them together in a bond no human decree can annul. Burke snuffed out the candle, and went to the barn. He led out his cayuse, mounted, and, giving the pony rein, was soon galloping south in the shadow of the hills. He passed through The Gap, and along the river some distance, then forded the stream to a wooded island, around which the waters spread out in shallow channels. He tied his pony to a sapling near the bank and followed a narrow path, through the thick growth of underbrush, to a shanty of logs. This island rendezvous was just off the reservation lands. It was the one place about Old Town where the Indians those who could be trusted could get whiskey by paying many times its value. Here he paused and listened. Through the one window the holes in the heavy paper curtain allowed a few rays of light to escape. He gave two distinct raps. 224 SONS OF ELOHIM There was a sliding of bolts, the door was pulled back, and he entered. There was only one room, large, and lighted by two or three tallow candles on a broad table, around which were several men, gambling. An assortment of pipes, whiskey flasks and money was scattered about on the table, in such confusion it seemed only by intuition that any of the players was able to put his hand on his own property when called on to join in a drink, or take a chance on the turn of a card. A number of cowboys and Indians were sprawled out in chairs, all more or less drunk. "Where's Red Eye?" Burke asked. "Gone to town," said the man who had unbarred the door. "He got low on liquor." He nodded, significantly, toward the Indians. Burke sat down to wait, uneasily, Red Eye's return. CHAPTER XXIX "THEY SHALL NOT HANG \" Nancy was up early the next morning. Dick was to be home on the coach, and the house must be in holiday attire for his reception. She had written him nothing of Burke, fearing to cause him unnecessary worry. As she stepped out on the back porch to whip a dish of eggs for a custard, she saw a team of horses tearing up the road from the South Gap. As they came nearer she saw no one on the driver's seat. "Laura! Come here, quick! There's a run-away!" she cried. Men and boys rushed into the street, as the team plunged by, the light wagon bounding from side to side. The two women watched the horses turn into the main street, and dash up to the doors of the livery stable. "It's one o' Tupper's teams, the one the engineers took over to Ft. Simcoe," said Laura. The crowd, breathless, reached the barn just as a white-faced boy rose up from the bottom of the wagon. "Indians!" he gasped. "Shot the engineers!" and he sank down again. "It's Alec Lattimer, and the lad's hurt!" cried one of the men. Someone ran for the doctor, while they lifted 226 SONS OF ELOHIM the boy out and laid him on a blanket on the barn floor. "Where ye hurt, boy?" Tupper asked, looking him over. "Don't know where," said Alec, crawling to a sitting posture, and feeling of himself in a dazed sort of way. Then he got up on his feet. " 'Taint me what's hurt. It's them fellers I drove to the Reservation them engineers. A whole lot o' drunk Indians rode inter us an' begun to shoot. Some o' the men fell out, and t'others climbed out behind when the horses started to run. I hung on to the lines, I did, and brought 'em in." This aroused some of the men to action. The engi- neers were back on the trail, wounded, perhaps massa- cred. Something must be done at once. News of the shooting quickly spread through the village. Some of the men started back over the trail on their ponies, followed by a wagon, rigged into an ambu- lance. Those who remained undertook to get a connected story of the attack from young Lattimer. The engineering party had left Ft. Simcoe at day- break. When within a few miles of the South Gap they saw a band of Indians approaching, swaying from side to side on their ponies, waving their arms above their heads in a slow, rythmic movement peculiar to a drunken siwash. As they neared the wagon, they drew their revolvers and began firing in the air. Then they rode wildly on. Excitement in the village had now become intense. A posse was organized to go in pursuit of the Indians and, if possible, overtake them before they reached their homes at the Reservation. About two hours later the returning ambulance could "THEY SHALL NOT HANG!" 227 be seen slowly bearing in the wounded engineers. The mounted men, with the exception of Judge Lattimer, had gone on with the posse. He came in ahead of the wagon, bringing word that only one of the engineers had been shot, while another had broken a leg in jumping from the wagon. The posse found the Indians in Parker Bottom, ter- rorizing the ranchers, riding in wild dashes almost up to the doors, waving their revolvers and yelling fiend- ishly. They were completely awed, however, by the force of their pursuers and, surrendering their firearms, they were taken back to Old Town and locked up in the "skookum house." Then came a number of discoveries, which raised the Western blood to fever heat. Burke Channing was miss- ing. No one had seen him. His store had not been opened. A visit to the house found the back door unlocked, but no evidence that he had passed the night there. The stable was open, and his pony gone. About the same time, someone said that a revolver, in possession of one of the Indians, had Burke's name scratched on the barrel ; while almost in the same breath came the cry that Burke's cayuse was among the ponies ridden by the siwashes when captured. "Burke Channing has been murdered by the Indians!" The word passed from lip to lip, the men repeating it in hoarse tones to the women, who had come into the street and were in the midst of the excited throng. Meanwhile the sheriff was trying to get the prisoners to explain how they came in possession of Channing's property; also, to tell something that might throw light on the missing villager. 228 SONS OF ELOHIM The Indians had not spoken a word thus far, and to each question they maintained a stolid silence. Outside, the villagers had begun to gather about the lockup, muttering and threatening. Some of the cowboys were flinging their lariats in the air and yelling, "Bring 'em out! Bring 'em out!" Hank Evans went among them, trying to calm the hot-headed ranchers. Old Luke Waters limped around, chewing hard on his quid of tobacco, talking in a loud voice, saying, "The engineers air to blame fer the hull damned thing." Nearly everyone was there except Billy Ki-Ki and Jim Crawley. The latter was up on his wind- swept ranch. Yells arose, now, from the infuriated mob. "Hang 'em!" "String 'em up !" "Break in the door!" The sheriff opened the door, stepped outside and locked it. He tossed the key back into the jail through a broken window. Then he stood on a box and attempted to address the crowd. The next moment he was pulled down, pretended a slight resistance, and meekly allowed himself to be subdued. Nancy stood among the women and children, dazed, watching the men battering at the door of the jail. Cry- ing children clung to their mother's skirts. Dogs barked, and a hundred curs mingled their yelps with the curses of the men. Suddenly the mob fell back. There was a lull in the storm as big Joe Murphy, the wagonsmith, and "Boney" Carroll, the butcher, pushed through the crowd, jerking the three swarthy victims by as many lariats looped tight around their necks. "THEY SHALL NOT HANG!" 229 This sight brought Nancy to a realization of what the scene meant. She clutched at the arm of Parson Raines, who, vainly, had been trying to get her to go home. "What are they going to do? Oh, look! Are they going to hang them?" "I am afraid so," he answered, trying to speak calmly. "Don't let them do that! Oh, how can you stand here and see them hang these poor fellows? They shan't do it!" Nancy, flushed with excitement, started toward the mob. With difficulty Raines held her. "Let me go !" she cried, trying to tear away from him. "I shall stop it. Let me go !" But he would not loosen his hold. "Oh, you coward !" she burst out. "Is this your Chris- tianity? Oh, if Billy were here! He would stop them!" Raines became very pale. He relaxed his grip on her arm and drew himself up. For just a second his eyes blazed into hers. "He is not here," he said. "But they shall not hang." Turning away, he walked, with long strides, toward the mob. They had led the siwashes under the big frame of beams, next to the butcher shop, where the day before had hung the slaughtered carcasses of three great steers. The ground beneath was black from the dripping of the animals' blood. On a block at one side was a cleaver, still unwashed, and on the ground a blood-stained knife. Raines pressed through the throng, and stood close to the improvised scaffold. The leader of the mob was trying to get a confession from the Indians, but they stood, silent and indifferent, beneath the beam, while the harsh lariats around their 230 SONS OF ELOHIM necks were drawn through the meat hooks above. Their arms had been pinioned, and men stood with the ropes in hand, ready for the signal to pull them up. Raines' glance fell on the knife, half buried in the dirt at his feet. It determined his course of action. "Just a moment, men of Yahkima !" He leaped upon the meat block, and raised his hand. There was a power in his tone that brought all eyes toward him. Some of the men, thinking he was about to offer prayer, removed their hats. "Men of Yahkima!" he cried. "Before God it is you who are guilty of this murder not these poor creatures, here. And God, whose home is there in yon heaven, will reckon with you for this deed. These unhappy beings, whom you would hang to these hooks, are His children. They are your brothers, yours and mine. You have no right to shed a brother's blood. The men who are guilty of this crime, if it be a crime, are not these men. Those who put into these men's mouths the accursed liquor that steals away their brains they are the guilty ones. Go find the men who gave the whiskey to them ! Go down to that vile den yonder in the river, and you will find the wretches who should bear the ropes you have put around these necks. Go, and find there the murderers of your fellow townsman, if he be dead. I do not think he is: Burke Channing may be there!" He paused a moment, his arm stretched toward the south. The women were now crowding against the men, eager to hear and see everything. Pointing towards Skinner's saloon, he cried, dramatic- ally, his voice holding them all breathless: "Oh, my brothers, look! Do you not see the gate? "THEY SHALL NOT HANG!" 231 There! There! It is there all these foul deeds in Old Town find their birth ! There, behind those doors, where God never enters, you men sell your manhood. There you, yourselves, make murderers of yourselves, through cursed drink, and then come forth to hang these men, seeking to cover up the wickedness of your own hearts in the murder of these, your brothers !" There was an impatient murmur in the crowd, and the men who held the ropes moved uneasily. Raines raised his hands again for silence. "But, look! Look, again! Do you see the Man, plodding wearily along the way, bearing the Roman cross? Do you see the cruel thorns piercing his brow? Listen ! They are mocking him, now : 'Hail, 'King of the Jews !' Look ! He has fallen ! Spears of soldiers prick Him roundabout ! He rises. He staggers on. And now the multitude cries out for blood : 'Crucify Him ! Cru- cify Him!' Do you hear? That Roman rabble along the road to Calvary, cried for the blood of Jesus, just as you are crying for the blood of these men, your brothers. Thou shalt not kill! Thou shalt not kill! Do you hear ? It is that same God who is calling to you now. You shall not stain your hands with the blood of your fellowmen. You shall not hang these men ! I say, you shall not hang these men!" Holding them awed, and cowed, he stepped from the block and picked up the knife. Then he severed the ropes with a few swift blows. "Make way!" he cried. "Make way!" And motion- ing to the Indians to follow, he led them through the now silent mob, back into the "skookum house." At that moment there was a loud blast of a horn, and 232 SONS OF ELOHIM the stage coach from The Dalles came rolling up, bring- ing home the travelers. The crowd began to disperse, the villagers slinking back to their work, or to their homes. Luke Waters remained standing on the roadside, rub- bing his hands and chuckling. "He is a good 'un, arter all. A parson what is a parson; and I'll be damned if he aint!" With that he limped over to DeLand's to greet the new arrivals. As Nancy went to meet her husband, she passed close to Raines, who had stationed himself at the door of the jail. "Forgive me, Mr. Raines," she said, in a low voice, "you are not a coward. You are a hero." He did not answer, but his glance met hers with a mute, terrified look. The human element in his nature had only been quieted all these years, by the burden of his desire to help others. He had never loved, before. Now he was awake. Within the hour he had come to know that he was a man of like passions as other men. He also knew that there was only one thing to do: he must go away. CHAPTER XXX "WHOM THE LORD LOVETH" "What's going on?" Dick asked, looking from his wife to the crowd, scattering in every direction, as he leaped from the stage, followed by Martha and their father, the Reverend Obed Swallow. She put a finger to her lips. "After while," she whispered. Martha was in deep mourning, and sympathetic Nancy longed to throw her arms around her neck. Dick's father had taken the hand of his daughter-in-law and pressed it slightly; then, as she turned, impulsively, to go to Martha, he put on his glasses to examine her more critically. He was satisfied, apparently, for, as she looked back and caught his eye, he went up to her and, taking her in his arms, kissed her forehead. Dick had sought an explanation of the unusual scene, but he saw by the suppressed excitement of the men that something was held back. "Get into the coach, everybody. Nick, we'll ride up to our house." Nancy thought best to get away as soon as possible from the crowd. "I'm going to the store," Martha spoke up, taking Elizabeth Jane by the hand. Oh, Dick, tell her! Burke isn't there. We don't 234 SONS OF ELOHIM know where he is. He wasn't home all night, and they think they oh, please, Martha, get into the stage and come home with us. Laura will have dinner all ready " "Go on, father, if you wish. I'm going to find Burke." Martha started towards Skinner's saloon. "Oh, Dick, don't let her," said Nancy. "He's not there. Go and tell her take her home for they say they think Burke has been killed." She whispered the words in her husband's ear, and pushed him away. Half dazed he hurried after his sister. Nancy followed the elder Swallow into the coach, and Nick drove them on. They had all been too much occupied to pay any attention to a short, plump, little woman, with a bonnet that was a veritable flower garden above a startling array of cork-screw side curls, who had alighted from the coach and, seating herself on a trunk that came with her, was scrutinizing every man in sight. She was dis- appointed; for, singling out Luke Waters, she went up to him and courtesied. "Please, sir, do you know Jim Crawley, sir? A man w'at's been 'ere nigh on to a year or abouts?" "Well, I guess so," answered Luke. "Be you his sister?" The little woman blushed. "No, sir, thankee ; not as yet, sir. That is to say, I'm his wife w'at is to be sir. 'E don't know as 'ow I took the notion to come, suddint like, an' don't know as 'ow I'm 'ere." "Ye don't tell now!" exclaimed Luke, taking her hand and shaking it heartily. "Ye be Betty, as I've hearn tell of, an' who ain't? He'll be durned glad to see "WHOM THE LORD LOVETH" 235 ye, now, fer it's lonesome fer Jim on his old ranch. Well, well. Cn ye ride a horse Mis', Mis' " "Betty Wackett, sir. Miss Betty Wackett, w'ose father were Timothy James Wackett of the Black Rooster, Shelby Road, Crumbshire, England." Having delivered hereself of this introduction, she courtesied twice. "C'n ye ride, Mis' Wackett?" asked Luke, again, "Jest an 'onary plug of a cayuse, w'at come from now'ere pertic'lar." "Lor' bless me, sir, w'at a question! It's Jim Crawley I'm wantin', not a plug of a kyoose, w'atever hit may be." "I was only thinkin' that if ye c'n ride a horse, ye might git to Jim quicker'n any way. For he's about five mile off, an' no injine an' cars as yit! not as yit!" "W'ere'll I be gettin' the 'orse? if ye please, sir if I can ride, as one might say." "Easy enough I reckon. Joe," to DeLand, who had been standing on his porch, listening, "w'ere's yure cayuse ?" "Mebbe eef I take my vaggon, w'en Neek 'ee com' back, Neek, 'ee can drav' la madame, an' she ees ver' eesy." A moment later the problem was solved by the ap- pearance of Crawley, himself. Luke and DeLand had taken Miss Wackett's trunk into the hotel, and the hotel man had gone out to the stable to hitch up his pony. As Luke reappeared at the front door, he saw Crawley star- ing at the woman, and the woman returning the look, with an expression of injured forbearance. "Ye'll be knowin' me w'en we meets again, sir!" she exclaimed scornfully, "an' w'ich I 'ope won't 'appen soon, as one might say." Then she flounced up to the porch as 236 SONS OF ELOHIM if to put herself under old Luke's protection. The latter burst into a loud laugh. "Don't ye know him? Don't ye know Jim? Well, I'll be durned if ye ain't making a fuss about Jim hisself! Jim, this is Mis' Wackett, whose father war the Black Rooster o' somew'ere or t'other, and she war jest 'bout ready to start out to yure old scab patch." "Ceaser's 'ighways!" Jim shuffled up to the aston- ished little woman. "If it ain't Betty, sure enough, an' me no more fortun' 'n a jack rabbit." "Air ye sorry I come, Jim?" she asked, blushing red as she let him hold her hand. "If ye be, I can go back again, Jim; but I thought as 'ow ye never would get no fortun' nohow, an' it might be as 'ow I could 'elp ye, Jim." As she said these words in a low voice, something like a boyish rapture spread over the red face. He ignored the presence of Luke and of DeLand, who had brought the harnessed pony to the front, and took the little woman in his arms. Finding her lips somewhere beneath the framing curls and artificial roses, he gave her a hearty smack. "Ye'll not go back agin, Betty, sweetheart, if ye'll fergive yure old fool of a Jim, w'at orter ha' sent for ye years an' years afore this, as the man said w'at told the story; for ye're the best fortun' that a man may want, better'n gold nuggets nor dimonts, w'at never comes w'en ye wants 'em most, Betty. But ye hav' come a long ways to find a goodfornothink cuss, wit' nothink but a scab patch for a 'ome, an' honly a heagle or two put by." "It'll be all right, Jim," she whispered. "I've a good "WHOM THE LORD LOVETH" 237 bit from sellin' the Black Rooster; an' we'll not go 'ungry, lad; we'll not go 'ungry." "Ye better go fer the parson! Leastways I think it's durned near time," said Luke, while DeLand grinned and nodded. "We'll have a weddin' 'sted o f a lynchn/" he continued, "an' I reckon the parson can tie a knot, well's he can cut one." Chuckling at his joke, the old rancher walked down the street, leaving the reunited lovers to work it out for themselves. "We'll 'ave a weddin', an' w'at's more, we'll 'ave a bloomin' supper, too, DeLand, if ye can fix it for us ; an' ye can set cheers for Mister an' Mis' Swallow, an' Doc Kimball, an' Mis' Kimball, an' for Billy Ki-Ki an' Luke, an' a few for hover measure, as the baker said." Then he gave Betty his arm, and they started for the parson- age. "By gar! he tak' a beeg tarn to get maree," DeLand said, to himself. "An' by gar, she go for to mak' heem goot femme, I tink. Une, deux quartre six, sept sept " counting on his fingers, "veil I mak' heem den plates." With this computation, he hurried inside to advise Madame DeLand of her part in the celebration of Crawley's marriage to the woman who had been wait- ing thirty years. But Betty had selected an inopportune time to arrive ; for most of the invited guests were, on that particular evening, too deeply concerned in their personal tragedies to participate in the happiness of others. Dick Swallow had hurried after Martha, urging her to go on home. His thoughts were in a whirl, and he was not even surprised when he noticed the change in the firm name, across the store front. 238 SONS OF ELOHIM "They say Burke went away last night and hasn't come back yet," he told her. She made no answer. She seemed to know that a great trial had come upon her, and that she must bear the cross as became a Christian. She clutched her little girl, tightly, and quickened her steps, saying to herself over and over again, "Whom the Lord loveth He chasteneth." As she entered the kitchen she gave no thought to the confusion of tins and skillets and unwashed dishes, nor to the unswept floor, on which were outlined the footprints of those who had gone through the house, but a few moments before, searching for Burke. "He has gone ! Yes, he has gone. He will not come back. I know it. Go on home, Dick, and tell father to come." She seemed so calm that Dick wondered if she understood. He feared to tell her what Nancy had said what he could not believe himself that Burke had been killed. What had happened? Why were all the villagers out on the street when the stage coach arrived, and why was Raines standing, like a sentinel, before the door of the lockup? He was anxious to get back and learn what had transpired. "Now, Martha, don't worry about Burke. He'll be back all right. I'll come over with father as soon as I can learn something." He hurried away. Raines was still in front of the jail. Dr. Kimball and the sheriff were talking with him. In a few words they told Dick what had taken place. "I don't think a murder has been committed," said the parson. "It is my opinion we shall hear from Burke soon." "WHOM THE LORD LOVETH" 239 "Perhaps Swallow can help us get something out of these siwashes," suggested the sheriff. The imprisoned Indians were well known to Dick. They had been frequent customers at the store. The experience of the day had completely sobered them ; and when the "skookum man," as they were in the habit of calling Dick, began to question them, they broke their silence. One of them spoke a mixture of English and Chinook. "Skookum Burke he come to chuck house (river house)," he began. "He wait for Red Eye. Red Eye come with heap lum (whiskey). Skookum Burke say want chickamin (money). Red Eye not give. Is heap solleks (mad). Skookum Burke take Indian pony. Think huy huy (trade). Indian much kwan (glad) get pathtlum (drunk) heap mesahchie (bad man) no want shoot." "How get tohum poo (revolver) ?" asked the sheriff. "Skookum Burke take Indian saddle leave tohum poo," the spokesman explained, while his companions nodded and gesticulated, in confirmation. The sheriff believed the siwashes. Their explanation seemed logical. Burke, not getting the money from Red Eye, had gone off, rather than face his partner, who, the keen mind of the sheriff figured out, would find business in bad shape. Then, too, as he thought of it, Burke had wanted a saddle, and not wishing to take either his own pony or saddle, which would be a clue to his identifica- tion, he had made the trade as the Indians said. "Now, that it is found the engineer, who was shot, is not dangerously wounded," said Raines, "it is your duty, Mr. Sheriff, to take the prisoners to Ft. Simcoe, and de- liver them to the government authorities. The shooting 240 SONS OF ELOHIM occurred on the Reservation lands, and they should be tried by Father Wilbur." "They shall go to-night," the sheriff assured him ; and the parson walked, slowly, homeward. He felt strangely unlike himself, conscious only of one thing; that a dull pain had come into his heart. All that had happened what he had said and done, as a part of the dramatic hour that had just passed, seemed more like something he had read. One thing was real: He had been a murderer in the sight of God! At one mo- ment, in that dreadful hour, he had felt the pangs of a fearful jealously, and could have killed the man for whom Nancy Swallow had called, when she needed when Old Town needed a hero ! Dick went home, assured that Burke had not been killed. Then, with his father, he returned to Martha. They found her in a state of wild hysteria, alternately screaming and calling for her husband, refusing to be comforted by the neighbor-woman, who had blundered in with the report of what the villagers were saying. Dr. Kimball was hastily summoned, and with the aid of his wife, the distracted Martha was put to bed and quieted with a strong opiate. "I am afraid we are to have a very sick woman here," said the doctor," and she will need the best of care. God's ways are often mysterious, but I believe He has brought about this opportunity to reunite these sisters." "Pray God that it may be so !" exclaimed the father, fervently. "Nancy will come and take care of her," Dick answered. So Nancy came. All that night she sat by Martha's bed, keeping her under the quieting influences of medi- "WHOM THE LORD LOVETH" 241 cines. And through the night Martha, in her half-wake- ful moments, would repeat over and over, or in wild de- lirium scream out, "Whom the Lord loveth He chas- teneth !" And during the days of burning fever that fol- lowed, the aged father daily offered up prayer for his daughter's recovery, never omitting to conclude with: "But, thy will be done, O God; not our will; for we know thou afflictest thy children and doth bring these trials upon them, that they may know better thy love, thy mercy, and thy deliverance." Nancy wondered, and held her baby closer, fearing that a little of the love of this strange kind of a God might be given to her, or to the precious one at her bosom, bringing to them some like affliction, or disease, or death. There was one bit of relief that came to Dick in his trouble. "Red Eye" had disappeared. Evidence had not been wanting to show that he had been supplying whisky to the Indians; and the villagers were thoroughly decided to visit punishment on him, now that the three siwashes had escaped if they could get him. Dick went about in dreamy sort of way, doing his best to straighten out the accounts at the store. He had found no money in the safe, but as there were but few unpaid bills, he had no worry from that source. No word came from Burke the next day, nor the day following. The third day, Dick received a letter ad- dressed to the firm, from a banking house at The Dalles. A note for a large amount given by Channing and Swal- low, would fall due in three days, it read. He knew nothing of such a transaction, nor was he aware that the firm had, at any time, borrowed money. He took the letter to Nancy. In these days of new re- 242 SONS OF ELOHIM sponsibilities, he was beginning to lean on her ; and she, careless, untutored, untrained child that she had ever been, was becoming a practical, quick-discerning woman. That afternoon, Dick was on his way to The Dalles. The store was left in care of Judge Lattimer and his boy Alec, the latter having been previously employed by the firm. The same evening, old Luke Waters limped up the walk to the back door of the Channing home, to see Laura, who had come over to help in the housework. Nancy was alone, on the back porch. "Sit down, Mr. Waters," she said, making room for him on the step. "You've not been to see us for a long time." He sat down, and looked off unsociably to the hills. Luke had become restless over the rumored influx of settlers in the Valley. "But it won't stop 'em! he broke out, abruptly, con- tinuing his thoughts aloud. "No, it won't be no lesson to 'em. The whites can't never learn nothin'. The more they're fit out, the more they're sot on gittin' in. The railroad's comin', I can see that: an' after the durned engineers git the railway through, next thing, we got to be made a State. Politics '11 bring a lot o' slick thieves here, who'll be lookin' fer a new stompin' ground. East- ern fellers w'at can't make a livin' honest, will hike out here to spec'late. Stores, saloons, churches, schools, '11 be goin' full blast." "But that is civilization, Mr. Waters," ventured Nancy. "Don't you want to see those things coming here which will give us more pleasures in life?" "Civ'lization !" snorted Luke, jerking his teeth sav- agely through a plug of tobacco. "A bastard child o' the "WHOM THE LORD LOVETH" 243 devil and the church! The more civ'lization a country gits, the more laws an' jails an' penetentiaries an' churches it needs. Allus works that way. Women '11 be busy makin' hats an' dresses an' fixin's. Won't have no time to ride with their men ; an' they'll all be lookin' fer the feller with the most ponies 'stead o' the one they liked best to ride with. Then thar'll be divorce courts." "But we'll still have the hills, and the mountains, and the rivers ; and there'll be lots of room in the other val- leys," suggested Nancy, reassuringly. "What '11 thar be left, when them Easterners get to dividin' up the hull valley, an' fencin' in the hills? There won't be no range here long, I can tell you ; nor no cow- boys neither. Billy Ki-Ki and Bronson '11 be big-bugs, an' you'll have to look up to 'em. There'll be po'r people an' rich people, an' high an' low classes in Old Town. Who'll be to blame? The Easterners, I say, damn 'em! An' I'm mighty glad I've lived afore its day." Luke rose to go. "Wait, Mr. Waters, and have supper with us," Nancy urged. But he did not seem to hear, and went toward the gate, muttering to himself, forgetful of the errand that had brought him. After three days Dick returned. He told Nancy the result of his trip. It took her but a moment to decide what should be done. "Sell the store, Dick. We'll have the ranch, and our stock on the range. We'll have each other; and we've got little Maidie. We'll get along, somehow. Only, we must save Burke's name, for Martha's sake." A few days later the villagers were surprised to learn that the business had been sold to a man who had re- 244 SONS OF ELOHIM cently come from the coast. After the sale, Dick took another trip to The Dalles. Martha was past the critical stage of her illness, and Nancy was able once more to give attention to her own home. Dick found her there on the evening he returned. He showed her the note to which Burke had signed the firm's name to obtain money to pay his losses to the gamblers. There was also another note that Dick showed his wife, one that bore the name of William Carruthers, and which had been held as collateral to the other; then he held it to the flame of the candle. "Billy will never need know?" she asked. "Only you and I know and Burke. If we could only tell him that it's all right, he would come back ; but I'm afraid he will never let us hear from him." "We must find him, Dick. We must get him back for Martha, and for Elizabeth Jane. Poor Martha !" She glanced toward the little crib in the corner, and crept into her husband's lap. "I'm glad her God don't love me, Dick," she said. CHAPTER XXXI "SIDE PARTNERS OF THE DEVIL" "Laura," said Nancy, one morning, "will you please take Dick's slippers over to Mr. Evans' shop and have them stretched? He can do it while you wait." Hank was busy sewing buckles on a boy's dog- harness. He put his work aside, looked the slippers over critically, and began a search for the proper tool. "Sit down, Laury," he said. "By the time I git this dog fixin' for the Gower boy done ye can take 'em back with ye. How be Mis' Channing gittin' on? I hear she be gittin' her senses back." "She haint had more sense than the law 'lowed long afore this trouble come," said Laura, whose resentment for Martha's attitude toward Nancy still outweighed her sympathy. "Burke Channing haint dead, anymore 'n I be." "The parson 'peared to have 'bout same concepshun, an' he ha' convinced them lynchin' fellers to his noshun, wit'out much argyment. Some cusses air too quick to pay t'other feller's debt, w'en, like's not, they be owin' a hull lot more themselves." "That's w'at pa said. He sez w'en a man's hollerin' for a rope, ye can figger out he's tryin' to vent his own 246 SONS OF ELOHIM brand. Wat right has any man got to say another man's got to die?" "He haint got no right, Laury. Life ha' been a gift from the Lord to ev'ry man, an* to ev'ry woman; an' 'ta;nt right for anyone to interfere with the Lord's work." "But w'at if he murders someun, Mr. Evans?" "Wall, Laury, Cain ha' kilt his own brother, Abel ; but the Lord ha' warned all men not to tech Cain, an' ha' put a mark on 'im, an' sez, 'Wosoever slayeth Cain, vengence shall be tuk on him seven times more.' I ha' read that in the Bible this mornin', Laury. Then Cain ha' gone to 'nother place, an' ha' married a woman w'at war come from them other races, w'at ha' been here long afore Adam ; an' he ha' built a hull city. Mebbe he ha' done a lot o' good fer them pre-adamite fellers, as the parson calls 'em. S'long's a feller's got his life, he's got a chance o' doin' good in the world, an' no jedge or jury, or gov'ner ha' got a right to take that chance away from any feller." "But that's w'at he done, Mr. Evans to the man he kilt. He took away 'nother man's chance." "Yes, Laury, he did; but my concepshun is that the Lord ha' fixed some way fer the feller w'at's robbed o' his life, 'thout no fault o' his, so's he gits his chance jest the same, somew'ere. It's the Lord's business, an' no man 's got a right to kill a man 'cause he ha' kilt someun else. Ye might's well say if a man burns down my house, the law's got a right to burn his'n down. Destructshun haint no remedy fer destructshun, w'ether it is life or property. It don't bring nothin' back. Might jest as well say Doc Kimball sh'ud be hung 'cause he give wrong medicine, an' the feller died ; or some o' them doctors w'at performs them deadly op'rashuns at the "SIDE PARTNERS O' THE DEVIL" 247 'orspitals. They takes away a man's life quicker'n ye can say 'scat'! jest practising as how to cut up a feller." "Seems Hike a person's life aint worth two cents 'cordin' to how they git kilt so many ways," said Laura, soliloquizingly. "Can't be thar haint some way to make the worst o' men git to be some good, like ye say 'bout Cain." "Anyhow, 'spose Abel ha' had a wife and childrun. I reckon the Lord ha' said to Cain, 'Ye got to work for that widder, Cain, till ye git her an' them childrun w'ere they'll never be afeard o' poverty.' Any man w'at makes a widder an' orphans by murder can be made to help 'em balance o' his life, w'ich air somethin' th' jedge and jury don't provide for, an' mostimes air sot on makin' 'nother widder an' more orphans by hangin' the feller." "'Spose them siwashes 'ud been hung, Mr. Evans? They warn't to blame, s'long's they had that whiskey in 'em. Wen a man does wrong, it's mostly owin' to w'at someun else ha' done." "Ye air right, Laury. Ye seed them big critters w'at war ready to pull them ropes? I reckon none on 'em'd been thar if the law'd worked same way with them, fer things they'd done afore they come to Old Town. Most ev'ry feller ha' done suthin bad 'fore he grow'd up that some jedge 'n jury 'ud hung 'im fer. I never war agin the law, Laury, but I reckon if all the jedges an' juries war got together in a big room, w'ere they'd fixed fer hangin' some po'r cuss, an' the Lord war to come in an' say, 'Let that jedge pull the rope, w'at ha' never done suthin' he c'ud ha' been hanged fer,' I reckon, Laury, them jedges 'ud all sneak out, like them old Bible cusses did, w'at wanted to stun a woman to death." "W'at they want to stun her fer?" 248 SONS OF ELOHIM '' 'Cause she done suthin' agin their law w'ich they done, themselves ; only, the woman warn't give no right to stun the men fer anythink, no matter w'at it war." "How c'ud a woman stun a man to death? She c'udn't, Mr. Evans. I jest know she c'udn't makes no matter w'at he done. Allwus seemed to me that a man w'at 'ud do wrong can't be in his right senses." "Now ye said it, Laury jest w'at I ha' thought many times. Must be that the Lord ha' got His noshun o' w'at a man sh'ud be, an' w'en a po'r cuss don't come up to that mark, he be that fur out o' his right sense. Most all men an' women, too, fur as that be air more or less looney; an' the Lord ha' know'd w'en Cain ha' kilt Abel, he ha' jest slipped a cog, fer a minnit, an' war pushed to do it by suthin' he didn't count on. W'en a feller gits to feelin' like killin', or stealin', he's jest got a disease o' the devil, an' ye can't do no good fer it by punishin' the feller any more than ye can stop measels a comin' by lickin' the youngun' w'ats got 'em. Seems like the more civil'zashun gets holt o' a place, the further the people git from the sense the Lord ha' wanted to give 'em." "Looks like thar will allwus be someun killin' some- un, Mr. Evans." "Long's they make weppins fer killin' people, thar'll be murder. Punishment don't stop 'em. More the gov- er'ment punishes a feller, more he'll hate the fellers w'at makes the laws. Ev'ry man's a crim'nal, more or less, from some feller's pint o' view; only, he's got to git caught at it to tell the world. If a feller air a little sot on deviltry, all ye got to do to make him a crim'nal air to hunt him with a gun. He knows the fellers w'at air "SIDE PARTNERS O' THE DEVIL" 249 wantin' to punish him an' callin' him a crim'nal, jest haint been found out yit; that's all." "How ye goin' to stop 'em we'ther they got weppin's or not, Mr. Evans?" "Wall, Laury, 'pears to me thar wouldn't be no hankerm' to kill if no fellers c'udn't git guns. Only way to stop crimes air to turn the prisons into schools an' give the Lord a chance, 'stead o' talkin' about punishin' on 'em. More ye hear men or wimmin hollerin' to pun- ish some po'r crittur, more ye can figger out they, their- selves, haint been caught at their own deviltry or think they haint." "Thar don't seem to be any way to stop crimes, Mr. Evans." "Thar never warn't no other remedy fer crimes, Laury, 'cept the spirit'al power o' the Lord God, Hisself. The thing w'at makes a man a crim'nal air a spirit'al power w'at air allus here; an' the only thing w'at can change human natur' from a hankerin' to do things w'at air wrong, air a spirit'al power w'at '11 work only w'en it air asked fer, an' arsked fer mighty persistenlike, sometimes, too." "W'o's to say w'at air wrong an' what haint, Mr. Evans? Sometimes I ha' thought a man jest don't know he's doin' w'at haint right." "My concepshun be, Laury, that ev'ry feller an' ev'ry woman, too, fur's that be ha' got a right to three things : life, an' health, an' to be glad he's livin'. Any- think w'at takes from him any o' these three things air doin' suthin' agin the purpose o' livin'; an' w'at inter- feres with the purpose o' life air wrong." "I can't see w'at anyone lives fer, anyway, Mr. Evans. Pa sez it's jest one damn trouble arter another, till ye're 250 SONS OF ELOHIM glad to die. Don't seem like thar's any sense o' that. I ha' thought thar be suthin' more'n that; only we haint been tolt it right." "I ha' thought so, too, Laury. It ha' seemed to me that this airth be jest a startin' place fer us, here. An' the more wrong things w'at we must rise over, air w'at makes a feller stronger. But thar haint no sense in havin' to git stronger an' stronger till ye die, 'less ye ha' got to rise over bigger troubles in the next place ye're goin' to live fer aw'ile. I ha' noticed that older a man grows, the troubles w'at comes air harder an' harder to rise over, an' I ha' thought, Laury, the greatest feller w'at ha' lived 'count o' overising the things w'at ha' come up agin him, will have a bigger start, in the next life over t'other fellers w'at ha' give up tryin' to overise an' ha' let the current carry 'em down stream." Laura's chin rested in her cupped hand for a moment, her elbow on the arm of the chair, as she looked off toward the hills. Presently, with a deep sigh, she turned to the shoemaker, and Hank saw a strange, wist- ful longing in the girl's eyes. "Do ye think, Mr. Evans, we'll git a chanct, over thar, fer things w'at we ha' wanted an' wanted more'n anythink else?" "Yes, Laury, I ha' thought so," he answered, in a low voice, and marvelled at the quick change in her expression. "I can't think Mis' Swallow ever did anythink wrong in her hull life, Mr. Evans. She ha' tolt me onct, w'at a bad woman she be; an* it warn't nothin' at all jest w'at the Lord must ha' give ev'ry woman to think 'bout. Can't be w'at a woman thinks or feels that makes her "SIDE PARTNERS O' THE DEVIL" 251 bad. It's w'at she does, arter knowin' it aint right to do it." "That's about it, Laury. The Lord ha' said to Cain, w'en He see Cain war envis o' Abel : 'If ye do well, yure face shall lift up; but if ye do w'at ye know air wrong, then sin air hidin' behind yure door. If ye don't git the upper hand o' sin, sin'll git the rule over ye.' " "W'at d'ye think is sin, Mr. Evans?" "Mis' Swallow ha 'arsked me suthin' like that onct. I ha' tolt her, 'sin be mostly a pint o' view o' the t'other feller, who aint doin' that partic'lar thing, but prob'ly doin' suthin' worse.' My concepshun is that sin is w'at ye feel air wrong, arter ye done it, an' not w'at some other feller thinks 'bout it. If ev'ry man an' woman, too, fur as that be 'ud feel same way 'bout makin' the Lord sorry, as ye'd feel 'bout hurtin' yure pa's feelin's, the devil 'ud need to git an' hones' job." "I can't b lieve in any sech thing as the devil !" said Laura, with some spirit. "I reckon he don't want ye sh'ud, Laury leastwise if I war him I'd git ev'rybody to think thar ben't no sech cuss." "I haint afeard to look at any man er woman right in the face," she said, proudly. "That's w'at the Lord ha' meant w'en He sez, 'Yure face '11 be lifted up.' Ye can tell mostly w'en a man knows he be doin' wrong. His face be pinted at the ground. That's mostly 'cause he didn't b'lieve thar war sech a cuss as the devil. The devil 'ud hang 'round till Tank'd gittin 'to feel mad, or suthin', then he'd say, 'Tank, ye air right. That feller haint fit to live. Ye sh'ud put a hole in 'im.' Then Tank 'ud up an' shoot. Arterward, the devil 'ud keep 'im skeert to look up." 252 SONS OF ELOHIM "Ye mean Tank Barlow? I war thinkin' o' him, too. He allwus looks to the ground w'en he meets ye. They tell as how he kilt a man onct, w'en he war drunk." "Wall, d'ye know, Laury, Tank ha' tolt me he never got to b'lieve in the devil till he heerd Mis' Swallow sing, w'en she fust come. He said he ha' felt like he see two big caves 'longside in a mountain. One on 'em war dark blackness; an' t'other war full o' light an' sunshine. He heerd a voice w'ich said, 'Ye got to choose w'er ye goin' to die, Tank. Ye can't have both places.' He ha' tolt me that, right here in my shop the next day arterward. Sez I, 'Tank, ye're right. Mebbe ye didn't hear no real voice, but God ha' give ye a streak o' wis- dom fer a minnit. An' it war yure own heart arskin' ye that.' I ha' heerd Tank's been a diff'rnt cuss since then, though I haint seen him." "That's 'cause he's been on Mr. Carruthers' ranch. Pa says Tank haint drunk nothin' since that day Mis' Swallow sung in church." "Billy air a fine man, Laury. He's done a lot o' good 'mong these cusses 'round Old Town. I reckon he's had to lift his face up more'n once from some weight o' trouble." "Oh, he has ! he has ! Mr. Evans. I know he has. W'en he war at Mis' Swallow's, gittin' over his hurt, he ha' said, onct, right out, w'en he warn't knowin' nobody : 'My God ! My God ! Help me fergive her ! She warn't to blame!' An' he kep' sayin', 'She warn't to blame!' I knowd, right then, some woman had broke his life, an' I jest wanted to do suthin' for him. But but " Hank looked up from his work to see Laura's face go into her hands, her fingers striving vainly to hold back the tears. "SIDE PARTNERS O' THE DEVIL" 253 "That's 'cause ye be a woman, Laury," he said softly. "The Lord give women jest t' help a man lift up his face w'en suthin' ha' hit 'im hard fer a minnit. Most likely some man war at the bottom o' it all. 'Sposin' thar war, an' Billy ha' kilt 'im fer it like some fellers ha' done? Then a jedge an' jury 'ud say, 'Ye ha' tuk a man's life, an' 'cordin' to the law, by man shall yure life be tuk!' W'ere's thar a jedge or a jury fit to say Billy Ki-Ki's got to die?" "Thar aint! Thar aint! Mr. Evans," Laura cried, wiping her eyes on a sleeve. "How'd they know w'y he did it? He c'udn't tell 'bout a woman." "No, Laury. The takin' a man's life by a jedge an' jury is jest w'at the Lord ha' meant w'en He writ, 'Thou shalt not kill!' The only kind o' murder in the fust degree, like they say, be w'en a lot o' law critters git together, thinkin' nobody don't know w'at they ha' done sometime or 'nother fit to be hanged fer; an' they say to the feller w'at ha' kilt someun', all in a minnit, like Cain ha' did to Abel : 'We air sorry we have to do it, but the sentence be that ye shall hang by the neck till ye air dead, an' the Lord ha' mercy on yure soul !' That's fust degree murder, 'cordin' to my concepshun. Ye'll never find them jedges or them juries in the manshuns o' the Lord, Laury, w'en ye git thar. An' hell '11 be too good a place fer a man w'at sez, T be sorry to do it, brother, but I got to send ye to be kilt on the gallus, 'cause the law sez "a tooth fer a tooth, an' a eye fer a eye," an' by man yure blood must be shed.' The Lord ha' said, 'He that slayeth Cain, vengence shall be tuk on 'im seven times more.' No side partners o' the devil air goin' to make out the Lord's a liar, an* git to heaven 254 SONS OF ELOHIM with it ! Men can't pass laws agin the Lord an' git to heaven with it!" " 'Spose he'd a kilt him !" said Laura, her eyes vacantly fixed on Hank's face. " 'Spose he'd been so broke up, an' afore he know'd w'at he'd done, he kilt the man w'at war to blame? He c'udn't tell 'bout the woman. The jedge an' jury 'd hang him till he died! Oh, my God ! Oh, my God !" "Here be the slippers, Laury," said Hank, presently, in a whisper. Laura took them, mechanically, and turned toward the door. "Oh, my God! My God!" she cried again, chokingly and to Hank, it seemed like the throbbing of a deep pain. CHAPTER XXXII "WHAT HAST THOU BELIEVED?" Billy Ki Ki, captain of the round-up, pushed through the dense smoke in the direction of the corral, where, already, the night rounders were forcing the large herd of range ponies between the spreading lines of lariats. It was the third day of the big fall round-up, when the fat cattle are cut out of the herds and driven to the nearest shipping point. Calves, still following the mother cows, strays, unbranded yearlings, and Mavericks at this time cannot escape the branding irons. Half a hundred men, more or less, with bony muscles were already whirling their ropes among the horses, twist- ing in and around the plunging brutes to get a fresh mount for the day's riding. A few of the men, lieutenants appointed by the captain to direct the scattering bands of cowboys, came up for orders. It was "cap'n," or "boss," now; never "Billy." With apparent disregard for form and rank, at most times, the men of the rope take the orders of their elected captain in the round-up camp like soldiers. There was Bronson, "Skookum John," "Bull Pete," "Skookum Jim," "Slump Waters," "Red Top," a cow- puncher whose fiery red hair had gained him the sobriquet, "Bug," a small, wiry fellow, whose civilized identity long ago had been lost in the past he never cared to speak about 256 SONS OF ELOHIM and others, bearing titles and appellations, more or less appropriate. It was getting lighter, now, though the sun was yet below the mountains; but the red-tinged rays had crept up over the purple tops, reaching across to Mount Tacoma and Mount Adams, turning the cold, white breasts of snow into shields of rosy light, and throwing the morning back among the foothills and over the dull, gray plain. Away went the men in bands of eight or ten, all as tough as whit-leather, and riding like would-be winners in the last stretch of a Kentucky Derby. A moment later they were lost to sight in the pockets of the hills. The cooks packed their truck, and the wagons moved onward into the unworked range, keeping near the stream of water and in the shelter of the hills; for the captain knows the danger to a herd of lusty market cattle, stampeded by the winds that scream and rage through the Valley. Only the branding men were left, and the day wranglers, and the tally-man. Away to the east, Old Town was waking into life. From the hills of the Cowiche Range they could see the smoke rising here and there from the chimneys and, caught by the morning breeze, go down the valley in a spreading cloud of murky mist. It was breakfast-time in the Swallow home, and Nancy was breaking eggs into a pan of hot, sputtering grease. Dick was tossing the baby up in the air, to hear her laugh and scream out with delight. Archibald Gower, an orphan boy taken in by Martha and her father, had come over for a saddle girth, and was peeking into the dishes and kettles to see whether he were likely to fare better than if he had staid at home. "I shall ride over to the round-up camp, after break- "WHAT HAST THOU BELIEVED?" 257 fast, Nancy," Dick said, putting the baby in her high seat, and drawing chairs up to the table. "Can I go with you? Oh, Uncle Dick, take me with you, please," pleaded Archie. "Not this time, Archie. I may be gone all day per- haps till tomorrow. I shall have all my stock run in," he said, turning to his wife, "that is, all that'll do to ship." Nancy looked up quickly. She had caught the worried tone in his voice. "Do we need money, Dick?" she asked, uneasily. "I have been thinking we might take a trip to Frisco, Nancy, and get a little sea air. Martha's getting along all right, now, and it'll do us both good." His wife gave a quick gasp. "No, no, Dick; not there unless unless you think we may find him there." She refrained from mentioning Burke's name before the precocious Archibald. Dick nodded. It did not matter if he had not thought of this before. It gave a reason ; and he hardly knew, him- self, that it was a return of his old restlessness. Nancy watched him, furtively, while he ate his break- fast in silence. Then, after he had ridden off, and had dis- appeared from sight, she stood at the window a long time, in a thoughtful mood, with little Maidie in her arms. Dick had not been the same since he returned from the East. Of course, business matters and Burke's doings had, naturally, upset him; but of late he had become strangely despondent, often starting suddenly out of a fit of abstractedness, not having heard a word she was saying to him. "Poor Dick!" she said, half aloud; "it might do him good." "Take me with you, Aunty Nan! Oh, please let me 258 SONS OF ELOHIM go too!" broke in the incorrigible Archie, having only a vague idea that they were to go somewhere. "We'll see, dear," she told him, coming back to the table to pat his ruddy cheeks. "Now I'll put up something nice for Auntie Laura, and you'll take it to her right away, that's a good little man ;" and he was shortly trudging home with a basketful of dainties. Nancy's thoughts were as busy as her hands, all through the early hours of the day. Late in the forenoon, she heard a footstep on the porch, and, thinking it might be Dick, she ran to the door. A man stood there, a man with an ugly scar across his cheek, a hard-looking, repulsive man, who inquired for Dick Swallow. She told him where her husband had gone; and, as she turned back into the room, she felt a strange weakness com- ing over her; for, somewhere in her brain, a cell had been unlocked and, in the sub-conscious record, a part of the past had awakened. Then, as little Maidie cried out in her sleep, she sprang to the cradle, with a feeling of sudden helplessness. She took the child up in her arms, and from very weakness, burst into tears. San Francisco! So much of the old, dead life was crowding into her brain! So many little things that had been hidden away, came out into a new light, with light- ning-like speed, and they grew, and grew, and seemed about to strangle her. San Francisco! Music clinking glasses discordant laughter voices of girls, high-pitched and strained a hard, handsome face, dark, cruel, leering, with a smile like the quivering of a panther's lip ringers white, long, slender, reaching out clutching choking Maidie ! With a wild scream, she crushed her baby against her breast, and ran out of the house. The hot sun staggered "WHAT HAST THOU BELIEVED?" 259 her, but she kept on until she reached the Channing home and fell, helpless, on the sofa. Laura was at her side, at once, and tried to take the baby; but she clung to the child and sobbed. In a moment or two the spell had passed, and she sat up. "Oh, Laura, come home with me!" she pleaded. "I have had such a terrible dream ! I thought someone was taking my baby away a terrible man. Oh, Laura, please come !" Laura put her strong arms about them. "Everything's alright, now, Mis' Swallow. Don't be afear'd. No one'll touch little Maidie. There, now, it's alright, it's alright." She patted the head that had fallen against her shoulder, and Nancy gradually became calm. Slowly they walked back, Laura trying, in her awkward way, to cheer up her friend. "You ought to go away, somew'ere, Mis' Swallow, fer a change. It 'ud do you good. Why don't you an* Mr. Swallow take a trip to San Francisco?" Nancy shuddered, but made no answer; and Laura, almost afraid to say anything more, silently went up the steps with her, into the house. All that afternoon the two women staid in the sitting- room, Nancy by the window, thoughtful, holding her baby, and Laura at work on some sewing. "I wish Dick would come!" Nancy would cry out now and then, looking toward the hills. "Mr. Carruthers was in town yesterday," Laura said, presently. "He has most fifty men in the round-up, an' they're goin' to camp on the Ahtanum Creek, tonight." "Oh, Laura," Nancy burst out a moment later, "I feel as though something is going to happen. I don't know what. I do wish Dick would come!" 260 SONS OF ELOHIM "If he don't come, Mis' Swallow, I'll ride over an' tell him you want him." The sun seemed to be hanging like a huge, red disc, between the two mountain peaks, in the gorgeous, multi- colored sky. Then it went down, down, down, and dis- appeared. Laura rose, and began preparations for the supper. A moment later, Nancy, sitting by the window, heard a low moaning, and then a long, low wail, that seemed to roll down through the Valley and die away among the hills. "Oh, Laura, hear the wind! Hear how terribly it moans like a human being!" She shuddered, and began closing the windows. "Never mind, Mis' Swallow. I aint afear'd o' the wind." "But I can't stay here alone, Laura. I'll go over to Martha's with you, when you go for the pony." They ate supper in silence, and without stopping to clear away the dishes, shut up the house, and started to the Channing home. As they neared the gate they heard the sound of hoofs. "Wait, Laura! Maybe it's Dick!" Nancy cried. The rider was galloping hard. Flakes of foam broke from the bridle-bit and flew away on the wind. It's not Goalie it's not Dick," said Nancy. "It's Bronson," said Laura, as the cowboy turned down the street they had just crossed. Nancy went into the house, while Laura went to the barn to saddle the cayuse. The wind was blowing in gusts as she led the pony up to the back door. Throwing the rein over a post, she was about to go in for her cap, when she saw Bronson swing his horse in towards the house. "Whar's old man Swallow?" he cried, reining up. "WHAT HAST THOU BELIEVED?" 261 "In the house," said Laura. "I'll call him. Anything the matter?" "Yes. Dick Swallow's hurt dying, I guess bit by a rattler. He's up to camp, on the Ahtanum, 'bout five miles. Doc Kimball's gone. Tupper's man's goin' up with the spring wagon. He'll stop for the old man. Tell him." He nodded toward the door, partly open, put the spurs in deep, and flew out of the yard. Laura stood still, speechless. Suddenly she heard a scream. She was aware that someone had pushed by her, and was climbing on the pony's back. She heard the smoth- ered cry of a child, and the next moment they were gone Nancy, with little Maidie hugged tight to her bosom, was flying toward the Ahtanum trail. Over at the parsonage, a few blocks away, the gray twilight had crept in through the windows of the room, where the minister sat reading a letter. The discordant click-clack of the big clock, in the hall, grew louder and louder, till, presently, Raines lifted his head, picked up a bit of crumpled lace, a woman's handkerchief, and placed it tenderly in the open drawer at his side. Then he folded up the letter, and called to his sister. "Janet," he said, when she had come into his study, "we are going away. I have been transferred to San Fran- cisco, and we are to leave Old Town in a fortnight." "Gracious me! Thomas! What has happened? And youlve only got started here! and with all your work to get the new church built!" "It was my wish, Janet my prayer. I asked for a change. I fear I fear, Janet, I have failed, here. Yes, I have not done the work I thought I would be able to do, here. Something has stood in the way! aye, something has stood in the way!" "It does seem, Thomas, as though bad luck came to 262 SONS OF ELOHIM Old Town with Dick Swallow, and that harum-scarum wife of his. Ever since " "Tut, tut, Janet! It's not that. Mrs. Swallow is ten times more of a but no matter, lass! No matter, now. We are going away, thank God ! We're going away." Janet looked at her brother with a keen, quick glance. She may have recognized something behind this sudden de- sire to leave Old Town ; but, discreetly, she said nothing. At the same moment, she heard the low, plaintive wail of the wind. She lighted the lamp, at his elbow, and hast- ened to close the doors and the windows. Raines opened his Bible and turned the pages listlessly, seeing nothing. Presently he heard a loud knocking at the door. He heard a neighbor saying something to Janet about Dick Swallow. He laid his Bible down and went into the kitchen. "What is it? What has happened?" he asked the woman, whose voice told him she was the bearer of ill news. "Dick Swallow's dyin' up in the hills from a rattler! The doctor's gone, flyin,' and Tupper's followed in a wagon with old man Swallow." The minister's face whitened as he staggered back into his study, and locked the door. Falling on his knees by the side of his chair, he cried aloud : "O, God keep me strong ! O, Father save me from one unworthy thought; and sus- tain her and those near and dear to him, in this great trial, for Christ's sake!" He arose, calm. He took up his Bible again, still opened as he had left it, and, seating himself, he began read- ing, at random, in the last chapter of St. Mark : "And he said unto them : Go ye into all the world, and preach the gospel to every living creature. He that believ- eth, and is baptized, shall be saved. But he that believeth not shall be damned. And these signs shall follow them "WHAT HAST THOU BELIEVED?" 263 that believe: In my name shall they cast out devils; they shall speak with new tongues; they shall drink of any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them; they shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover." "Them that believe! Them that believe! O God, why will they not believe!" "And what hast thou believed, Thomas Raines?" The minister started. He glanced about the room, but saw no one. The lamp flickered ; the flame was dying down. "What hast thou known of faith, Thomas Raines? or of the signs that follow faith?" Hast thou spoken with a new tongue? Hast thou cast out devils ? Hast thou put hands upon the sick ? Hast thou healed the sick? "What hast thou taught of faith ? Hast thou made the blind to see? Hast thou made the deaf to hear, the dumb to speak, or the lame to walk? Hast thou cleansed the leper? Hast thou raised up the dead? "O ye of little faith ! For, verily, I say unto you : He that believeth on me, the works that I do, he shall do also; and greater works than these shall he do; and whatsoever ye ask in my name, that will I do, that the Father may be glorified in the Son. "And all things whatsoever ye ask in prayer, believing, ye shall receive. For, lo, I am with you all the days, even unto the consummation of the age." The light flickered, and went out. The minister's head had fallen low on his breast. For a long time he was motionless ; then his lips moved : "Christ! Master! I believe! O God, forgive! for- give mine unbelief." CHAPTER XXXIII "FOR SWALLOW'S KID!" On the edge of the table-land that overlooks the Ahta- num and the flat distant plain, a big black horse was biting at the bunch grass. His master stood beside him, one hand resting on the saddle-horn, the other holding the sombrerro, while the light breeze, the hills had coaxed up from the Valley below, pushed back the thick hair. "Poor little woman !" Billy Ki-Ki drew his hand across his eyes, and looked toward the village, way off to the east. It was dinner time, and he could see smoke rising from many chimneys. But he knew there was one home in which there was no thought of dinner, nor of night, nor of the days to come. "Poor child!" he said, again, and shut his lips tightly. She had always been a child to him, flitting about the house, at one moment singing or whistling, gaily ; the next, catching up little Elizabeth Jane to kiss a small bruised finger, and mingle her tears with the child's, while he lay with half- closed eyes, silently watching from the soft, white pillows of the bed. She was not singing, now. The world had suddenly grown dark, and drear, and futureless. He could see her going about the house, with the same dazed, wild look that had come into her eyes when she knelt beside her husband, in the wavering, ghastly light of the campfire. "FOR SWALLOW'S KID" 265 He was glad, now, that Tupper's wagon had lost a wheel, and only got to camp, with the old preacher, after Dick's suffering was over, and Nancy had no longer strength to cry, and scream, and curse God, in her wild frenzy. For she would need them all, now. "Well, so geht's!" Billy shrugged his shoulders, and leaping into his saddle, rode back to the camp in the hills. "Jim, air ye ready for bizness? he asked, riding up to where Crawley was struggling with a lot of marks and figures, in a book that had seen many seasons in the round-up camps. Crawley had been appointed tally-man, and his duty was to enter in this book the marks of owner- ship of the cattle branded and to be shipped. "It ben't as I war ever cut hout for a dark o' the bank, capt'n. The thing's easy like till I gets 'em down, then some'ow they look like a pile o' bloomin' hangleworms, w'at tips hout o' yure bait-box." Billy threw himself from his horse, and began to ex- amine the branding irons. He selected two. "Jim," he said, tossing them down near the latter's feet, "keep these handy. Thar'll be work for 'em today. And, Jim, ye better practice a little on them marks, for ye'll have to make 'em a lot o' times before ye see Betty again." "Poor Mis' Swallow!" said Crawley, deciphering the letters, "R. S." and "M. S.," with the crudely-shaped bird beneath. Then something broke into his thoughts. He looked up to Billy's face, his eyes suddenly wet. "Ye air right, capt'n!" he exclaimed; "an' ye can slap one o' them irons on all o' Crawley's critturs w'at's marked, or aint marked, as ye can get a whack at, today." As he well knew he had no unbranded calves on the range, he picked up a vent iron, and tossed it with the other two. "Who's brandin' today, capt'n?" he asked. 266 SONS OF ELOHIM Billy was thoughtful a moment. I'll handle 'em myself, Jim," he answered, grimly, un- coiling his rope and preparing to tether his horse. The men were already coming in with cattle, and the ground trembled and vibrated with the jar of hoofs. Men were heard in the distance, yelling and charging at the herds. Others were dragging fresh mounts from the im- provised corral; and some of the riders were already in the midst of the cattle, "cutting out" the fat steers, and spying out the Mavericks and the late calves. The fires were burning hot and fierce, where the irons were heating. Billy stationed himself beside two men, who were to hold the animals down while the new brand was made, or an old brand vented. Presently a rider dashed up to the spot, dragging a heavy calf at the end of his rope. The men lay hold, stretching back the legs of the half-dazed brute. "W. C. in the ring!" cried the man on the pony. "M. S. Swallow!" Billy Ki-Ki yelled, hoarsely, as he slapped on the hot iron. "M. S. Swallow!" yelled back Crawley, while the men looked up with astonishment; for the letters, "W. C." were Billy's own. But the rider was already away to make room for the next. "L. W.," called out the man, this time, who had brought the second calf in. Almost before the noose was slipped, there was a puff of smoke and a stench of burnt hair. "M. S. Swallow!" Billy called out, defiantly, to the tally-man; and Crawley answered back in a louder voice: "Aye, aye, cap'n! M. S. Swallow!" This time the cowboy jerked his cayuse back, and stared at the round-up captain. "FOR SWALLOW'S KID" 267 "They'll be all fer Dick Swallow's kid, today, I recken," one of the men told him, with a grin. The cowpuncher rode off to the herd, a lump in his throat as he recalled the scene of the night before ; and from out the smoke of the branding fires came the voice of the big ranger, swinging the hot irons as he called: "Tally again! M. S. Swallow!" And then the answer of the tally-man : "Aye, aye, cap'n ! M. S. Swallow !' A lusty Maverick broke away from the herd, and bounded across the rider's path. There was a swish of the rope, as it shot through the air, a quick halt of the trained mustang, and the young heifer lay on the ground, her hind legs tight in the lariat's noose. Then a jerk of the rein, a sharp dig of the heel, and the surprised animal was sliding toward the fire in a trail of dust. "For Swallow's kid!" the captor cried, rising in his stirrups. "An* charge 'er to me, cap'n!" "Tally a stray to Coyote Bill! an'd bring 'em along, boys!" Billy answered, a grim smile working over his face. The men were on. "W'at the bloomin' 'ell!" burst from Crawley, all be- sweat, as the tally-book nearly dropped from his awkward fingers. But the young cow, no longer frisky, staggered away, and Crawley discerned the letters "M. S." and the crude outline of a bird, still smoking on her buttock. The men on the ponies had caught from the others what was going on. Each strove to rope the fattest, sleekest of the herd, an effort requiring the greatest strength and skill. Old brands were vented, and amid the hoarse shouts of the men, the bellowing of cattle, and the snorting of ponies, Crawley tried to keep some record of the change of, owner- ship. At last the herd was separated, the market cattle all cut out, and the others turned back upon the range. The day was nearly done. Two hours before, the red 268 SONS OF ELOHIM sun had hid behind the mountain; but twilight lingered on. The branding fires were out. The men were gone, all save those who were left to guard the herd that was to follow on the morrow, increasing as it moved from camp to camp, on its way to the shipping point. The night herders were singing to the cattle, to quiet them, and through the still air of evening came the words of an old hymn: "In the sweet bye 'n' bye, We shall meet on that beautiful shore; In the sweet bye 'n' bye, Bye'n bye, bye'n bye, bye'n bye." CHAPTER XXXIV DEFEAT AND VICTORY The departure of Parson Raines bore unexpected fruit. The cowboys had shaken his hand, at parting, with little apparent feeling; but the stage had scarcely passed from sight, when they went, in a body, to Skinner's saloon. Just what happened was never told; but the next day Skinner left for parts unknown, taking his stock of liquors with him; and lawlessness was thereafter a thing of the past, in Old Town. The Reverend Obed Swallow, because he was the father of Martha Channing, succeeded Mr. Raines as shepherd of the flock. But he did not draw many of the ranchers and cowpunchers into the new meeting-house. However, they had learned to respect the church, and treated the old parson with reverence. He stalked majest- ically along the village streets, his black coat tails flapping about his thin frame; his face stern above a long, white beard. He seemed, veritably, an avenging angel, ready to swoop down upon the wrongdoer. The sudden tug of a double grief upon his heart-strings, had intensified the natural tendencies of the old man, making him a being whom his grandchildren feared, and on whom other children looked with awe. Soon after his son's death, with a little money he had been able to save from the failure of an Eastern bank, he 270 SONS OF ELOHIM established himself in a business, which appeared to be a consistent adjunct to his calling an undertaker's shop. So, as minister and undertaker, the old parson not only showed us the straight and narrow way, but ushered the dying through the very gate itself. He baptised the infants, married the young people, and buried the old ones, all with the same countenance of awful, retributive justice. As for Martha Channing, between her poor health and the conviction that Old Town's salvation rested on her shoulders, she was anything but cheerful. Poor Martha had weathered the grief of her brother's death, and her own uncertain widowhood, with all the fortitude of one who felt she had done her duty, and that God's will had been in all. Soon after the death of Dick Swallow, Jim Crawley leased the Swallow ranch, which had been partially under cultivation, and by his thrifty management, or, more cor- rectly speaking, by the thriftiness of his wife, Betty, it provided a good living for both families. The ranch was less than a mile from the town, adjoin- ing Luke Water's thousand or more acres. A strong friend- ship grew up between Luke and Crawley, based, seemingly, upon the very opposite tendencies of their natures. Perhaps Betty had something to do with it ; for Betty had taken root in the Western soil, and had become a part of the village life. It was only a rude cabin, this home she had found in the far West, after thirty years' waiting ; but she was happy in it. Her pantry shelves were never empty, and her beam- ing countenance gave every visitor a welcome. She was especially cordial to Luke, the crabbed old ranchman who had been first to welcome her to Old Town, and who seemed to find so little happiness in life. Nancy Swallow, too, found in Betty a great comfort DEFEAT AND VICTORY 271 during those days of early widowhood; and many a time she eased her heartaches on that motherly breast. But to Laura Waters, always, Nancy dung the most tenaciously, never permitting that good friend to leave her for long at a time. In the reaction of her great grief, the spirited, frank impiety, went out of Nancy's life forever. She could not comprehend a personal God; but she feared Him. Her spirit was conquered. She submitted to Martha, attended the services, helped at oyster suppers, made ham sand- wiches for church socials, listened patiently to Martha Chan- ning's disquisitions, and brooded over the strange ways of the world. From Martha, Nancy learned the worldly estimate of human beings and their errors; the penalties of wrong- doing; the impossible escape from the results of sin the sins of the fathers that are to be "visited" upon the children. Like other followers of frightful, threatening creeds, Martha never reasoned for herself, nor read beyond the plajce! pointed out by the man in the pulpit; so she did not know that "the sins of the fathers are visited upon the children of them that hate me," and not on those "who love God and keep His commandments." Nancy began to realize what "sin" is ; and oh, it was a terrible thing ! that the world, as well as God, is so unfor- giving. For, among other things, Martha had told her that a woman, once sin-stained, could never, again, gain a place among virtuous women; and Nancy, long ago, had learned what the world thinks of fallen women. She felt that a veil had been drawn between herself and the God- world. So, perhaps, she was not to be permitted to understand. Nancy missed her husband. He had been kind. He had given her quite all the love a man, like him, could give. With her baby in her arms, she would go through the rooms, 272 SONS OF ELOHIM stopping before a picture, or a cozy corner, or shelf, that she and Dick, together, had arranged, and she would say, "Your papa did this, Maidie, your papa who, they say, is in heaven. You will know about heaven some day, little sweetheart, when Aunt Martha will teach you about God, who punishes us horribly if we do wrong." Strange, that a million cycles of this earth's travail leaves us still groping and cringing in the dark alleys and byways of a half-lived life, through a fear of God, whom no man of us has seen, or knows if He will ever see us. Strange that a woman should believe, and know, that "true love casteth out all fear," yet, let herself be blinded by such shallow doctrines and man-made creeds as send more men and women to hell, than sin itself. All the while, under the weight of her sorrow and loneliness, bringing alternate happiness and remorse, was a consciousness of something which made her keen for life and the future. Hopless and hated in that day of its sudden birth, when wifehood and honor made it hideously wrong; hopeless now, yet a sweet rilling joy to an empty, lonely heart, her love for the big ranger tortured and weakened her, tugging at the shackles of womanly restraint. There were times, when the wind raged through the Valley, that she mounted her pony and rode away to the wide stretch to the north, to let herself be carried along in the fury of the storm. Again, in a dead day of summer, she would throw her- self down on the river bank and, child-like, cry herself asleep. Who made the rule that womanhood must bend and break with unrequited love, because a woman dare not say "I love you !" to the man she loves ? Who passed the law for woman's soul to be a shuttle- cock of man's desire a thing to take or leave, as he may DEFEAT AND VICTORY 273 choose ; or take and crush like a camas bell beneath a siwash heel? Who locked the lips of loving women and threw away the key? sending them to harlotry and hell for other part of self God made them hungry for ? Revoke the rule ! Repeal the law ! Let's find the key ! and give to womanhood the right to tell her love to the man she loves, that marriage vows shall not be broken like dan- delion chains, nor infidelity become an honorable sin to rid a man of a wife whose purchased soul has gone astray. Years passed over the Valley, years in which nothing happened more than the angry mutterings of Luke Waters, the semi-annual round-up, the coming of spring with its flowers, and patches of green; then, winter, quiet and cold under a thin blanket of snow. The planted saplings of the once bare village, touched by the magic of sand, and water, and lava ash, rose into stout trees, to shelter and shield the little homes from the sweeping storms. Wild roses clustered about each doorway. Young men and maidens loitered, lover-like, under the trees and along the shimmering streams of irrigation ditches, where, now, other children sailed their tiny boats. Old Town had become, veritably an Arcadian village, nestling among the foothills, unknown to the rest of the world. Someone had named Nancy's home "The Swallow's Nest." Truly, it was like a great bird's nest, built in a garden of multicolored flowers, under a leafy bower. Birds flitted about in the confusion of vines and shrubs. Doves cooed their ever-wooing messages of love, each to its trust- ing mate, above the kitchen door. Hens clucked in a motherly way to dozens of discontented chicks, chasing grasshoppers in the sun warm grass ; while Maidie's Maltese 274 SONS OF ELOHIM cat, pretended sleep upon the doorstep, though, treacher- ously, from the corner of her eye she watched the birds. Even, here, in this segregation of life in the waste of a sand- swept desert, was an oasis of contented beauty Mother Nature all dressed up and nowhere to go. But a new sorrow was to come to Nancy. Laura Waters, strong and healthy girl as she always had been, fell a victim to the white plague. Laura was not thought to be ill ; and if she realized that disease was undermining her, she never spoke of it. She may have felt she was only growing weary of life, in the doomed patience of her one great passion. With the pass- ing of years, her love, too, for the same big ranger had become the light of her whole being. She held it out before her, to fade the shadows of a rising hopelessness ; wondering if he would ever see. She, too, not knowing why, but feel- ing the fetters of that strange unwritten law for woman- kind, dared not let him know; but knowing, too, in the crude reasoning of an unselfish, untutored mind, that Nancy's heart was just as heavy with the same resignation, the same longing, the same dread of failure in life's great design. It was only just before Laura passed away that Nancy learned her secret. "I jest would be glad to die " the sick girl said, rais- ing her large, honest eyes to Nancy, "if I could die fer him." Yes, yes, dear; I know," the other answered, seeing the sudden light in the girl's face. "An' Mis' Swallow, will you tell him some time, if you get a chance? Tell him I wa'n't afraid to die, because I never done no wrong thing in my life. I allwus thought of him w'en I prayed. I allwus know'd that somethin' had broke his whole life, an' I jest kep' thinkin' how I c'ud make DEFEAT AND VICTORY 275 him ferget an' be happy. Mebbe I'll git another chance over there, w'en he comes." "Yes, yes, Laura, you will. Oh, you will, dear !" The girl lay quiet, Nancy holding a hand in both her own. "Mis' Swallow," she whispered, and Nancy knelt to put her face against the girl's "Mis' Swallow will you tell him not till I'm gone, and buried tell him I'm goin' to wait fer him, over there, till he comes." Laura Waters, virtuous, naturally sexed, and intended for just as great a part in God's Plan as Esther, Mary, or the mothers of Jacob's twelve sons, went out of life with only one thought stilling her honest heart: that sometime, somewhere, she might have the chance, of which she had been cheated here. She had seen others, her own kin, her friends, neigh- bors, and strangers within the gates, laid away in the earth, most of them before they had accomplished any more than to evidence how puny Life is in the hands of its pitiless foe, Death. She had once said to Hank Evans, the cobbler, "I can't b'lieve in any sech thing as the devil." It was true. To believe in an unseen, always invisible personality, strains the reason of the most imaginative brain. The argument of the willingly unbelieving man has been, and always will be : "I cannot believe in a God I never saw, that no one has ever seen." But, did you ever see pain? Did you ever see the life principle? Did you ever see love, or joy, or hate? Did you ever see heat, or cold, or electricity, or good or evil, or the merciless Hand that leads men into war, misery, and despair ? 276 SONS OF ELOHIM Is there anything more real, even to the dullest brain, than pain, life, joy, sorrow, misery, despair, or death? It is the evidence we see not the agency. It is the vis- ible result of a great, mysterious, invisible manipulation of hands and brain and reason, behind the curtain of the Infinite, that makes us certain these things are real. To say, "I believe in Nature, but I do not believe in God," is the babbling of an unbalanced brain. To say, "I believe in pain, and sorrow, and misery and death, but I do not believe in the devil, because I never saw him," is evidence of a warped conception of truth and an obstinate desire to remain a fool. The word, "God," would have no meaning except there be an antithetical character as a creator of antithetical con- ditions, which we call "evil." Jesus tells us that God was a man, is a Man, Father of the Semitic race which has de- scended from Shem's great grandfather, Adam; and that every man whose Heavenly Ancestor was one of the Elohim, shall some day reach the same plane of perfect manhood through which their God has passed in the evolutionary process of the diviner realm. The very meaning of evolution implies an antithetical process with a consequent condition. Therefore, in the im- mortal realm, where spirits strive for and against diviner progress even as mortal flesh willfully falls behind or, over- coming, pushes on toward the godliness of perfect manhood, we can well determine that spiritual forces are ever in clever, deathless combat to recruit their armies from the ranks of men who are susceptible to their invisible, divinely ingenious wiles; and it should be quite reasonable to conceive a Gen- eral, leading the hosts of hell, as a Commander-in-Chief of those who have chosen the wiser way. DEFEAT AND VICTORY 277 Because we cannot see the great mechanism of the Higher Worlds, we wonder about them, and we seek to learn about them. Nancy Swallow touched the keynote of the Great Purpose when she said to Hanks Evans: "Someone must know; and because we can wonder about them, and talk about them, and really want to know, it seems as though zi'C ought to have a chance to learn, sometime." Laura Waters had no chance to learn, here. No man has lived, no woman gone, or yet to come, who will have enough of a better chance, here. Laura Waters did not believe in the devil. She had never been shown, in a way that appealed to her crude, natural, quick reasoning, that life, itself, is a perpetual chain of overcoming links, overcoming the enemies of God's Plan, overcoming temptations and ' lures of an invisible, demoniacal realm. No one had read to her, "The author of death is the devil !" But she had learned, from her Sunday School days to the day she whispered her last words to Nancy Swallow, that "The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away." No one had read to her how "Jesus of Nazareth went about doing good, and healing all who were oppressed of the devil, for God was with him." No one had told her of God, as the Healer, who was waiting her call, who must wait until asked for His help, and who would drive the death angel away. Had Laura Waters been taught to pray for life and healing as she prayed for things of lesser worth, Heaven had a million ways to answer her, to extend her years. Laura died, at eighteen years, as millions of others have died, at the very threshold of useful purpose; while the churches, patched and propped by endowments from mental paupers who hope to buy their passage to an unmer- 278 SONS OF ELOHIM itcd Paradise, stumble along in the wreckage they have made of God's Plan, among the uncountable tombs of human hopes, whence comes the cry of millions for another Man, to show Truth to a despairing world. Nancy saw the true friend of all her years in Old Town laid away beneath the gray earth; and now there were two places, in the little cemetery, where her hands trailed the blossoming vines of springtime. Billy found her, there, one day in the spring twilight. He saw her pony at the gate and, riding over from the trail, he dismounted. All at once she found him at her side. He saw the tears, wet on her cheeks, the sudden flash of red beneath the quick life in her eyes, as she looked up to his face. She knew he was to understand, now, at last; and although her heart leaped wildly, she turned her eyes away, and went on arranging the flowers. He held out his hands to her. "Come, little woman," he said. "Let us both leave the past here, among the dead. Let me be, to you, what others might have been, Nancy; and I believe aye, I know I can make you happy. Come." With a quick, glad cry she sprang up and clasped his neck, soiled and dirt-begrimed as her hands were from the training of the vines. "Oh, Billy ! It has been so long, so long !" She pulled him down by her side, to help finish the work she had begun, telling him, as fast as words would come, of the days, she could recall so vividly, when first she saw him, at Crawley's hut, on the morning the wind had carried away a part of the new homesteader's ranch; and she laughed, now, just as merrily as then, so like her old self the birds rose out of the sagebrush, and fluttered away. DEFEAT AND VICTORY 279 Then, suddenly, she grew quiet; for there came & thought of the dead girl, in the grave, there, at their feet She crept closer to Billy, frightened for a moment, at the echo of her own, happy voice; and she told him all about the last days of the dying girl, and of the love that had never been answered. He did not speak, for awhile, and her hand stole quietly into his, while her tears fell among the flowers on the mound. "Poor girl!" he said, presently. "Love gives us life, and love sometimes makes death welcome, too." Nancy, caring only that Billy's great strength was hers at last, smiled through her tears and nestled in his arms. Whether or not he loved her, did not matter. He was the other part of her life she had hungered for. He was hers to love, to help, to live for, to make his life also worth while, and to teach her that men do not love as women love ; that a man but feels the prompting, heaven-born spirit of desire for some one, less than he, whom he may care for; and this is, more often, first implanted in the sacred con- sciousness of husbandhood. Man's love is something which a woman craves, but cannot take away; which unfolds in the tender touch of womanly devotion, faithful, sacrificing, true. Man's love develops in a realization of the helplessness of woman: that she is a fragile flower, on a slender stem, tossing about in the storms of life, and all too often broken by the wind ; that she needs him for a shield and a shelter, when the sun has gone from the rose ; after the mists come out of the wood, and the deep silence threatens. Man does not love as a woman loves. He holds in his heart a deeper thing, a divine consciousness that needs the perfume of the rose, the pure lips of the lily, the soft melody 280 SONS OF ELOHIM of heart-chords, to fire him with the courage of God and the strength of a rising tide. Woman gives her love; and, given, finds quite soon that she has given all a womanly woman has to give. Man is the rock to which God hoped to anchor her; and in the shelter of his strength she should be satisfied. CHAPTER XXXV THE GREATER GLORY The next day was one of the glorious days of spring In Old Town. To Nancy, whose heart was full of the greatest happiness of her life, the warm, fragrant day, outside, seemed but a reflection of her own nature, in which, at last, in reality, had come the springtime of love. Maidie, who had grown into a romping girl, felt the impulse of her mother's joyousness, and ran in and out through the rooms, singing snatches of songs; or, with the inheritance of her mother's happy girlhood, whistled back to the birds. Even the big Maltese caught the spirit of the day, and tumbled about on the rug, trying to capture a rub- ber ball at the end of a string. In the afternoon Martha Channing came over, bring- ing some of her father's cast-off garments for Nancy to work upon, and make wearable for the village poor. For Old Town had been rapidly growing of late and there were many who had come to the valleys of Washington at the expense of all they had in the world, only to find that gold does not grow upon the sagebrush; nor was there demand for wage-earners where, as yet, there were no manufac- turing industries. After Martha had gone, Nancy took up an old black coat, fashioned after the style of clerical costumes with long rows of cloth-covered buttons, and settled down io 282 SONS OF ELOHIM work. She laughed outright, as she mentally pictured a lazy siwash, strutting about Old Town in the garb of the church. She felt in all the pockets, woman-like, but they were, empty. Afterward, in repairing a place in the lining, she discovered a stiff, folded paper that had slipped through a rip in an inside pocket. She drew it out and opened it. It was a letter written in a homely scrawl, and addressed to Mr. Obed Swallow. She put aside the coat and began to read. As she made out the misspelled words, the happy flush that had been in her cheeks since yesterday went out and left her pale. She read the letter through again, then the sheet fell to the floor and doubled itself up in the creases that had held it folded all these years. Billy came in and found her sitting there. He was startled at the look in her eyes, the white in her cheeks. "What is the matter, child? What is it, Nancy?" he asked, as she neither spoke nor rose to greet him. "Oh, Billy," she said in a whisper, "read this letter. Tell me oh, tell me what it all means." He picked up the letter, glanced over the first page, then crushed it in his hand. "Where did you get this?" he demanded. She told him. "Oh, Billy! Is it true? about the about the child, and and the woman? Did you know have you known about it all this time?" She rose and stood in front of him. "It is true," he said in a low voice. "Dick told me all that night in camp, before before you came." "Oh, why did you not tell me ! Why have I not known before!" "I promised him." THE GREATER GLORY 283 "And did you know they were there, suffering, hungry, perhaps?" she asked, stopping before him in her walk about the room. "They have not been in want, Nancy." "Oh, Dick, Dick ! How could you do it ! Oh, how could you do it!" She threw herself down on a chair and stared up into Billy's face. Then she sprang up again. "I understand it all, now," she said, calmly. "I under- stand what I must do. I shall go to them, Billy. I must know of them I must care for them. Yes, yes, I must go to them. I could never be happy thinking feeling no, no; I could not be happy! And Billy," she whispered, putting a hand on his shoulder, "it is best to forget what was said last night. Yes, it will be best. I see it plainly now. It can never, never be now. Oh, Billy 1" She tried to be brave, but it was too mu f h. and she burst into tears. He led her to the big chair, where he sat down and took her in his arms, letting her sob out her emo- tion on his shoulder. He saw, at once, that it would be useless to protest; that she had made up her mind. He knew, too, that, to do what she thought to be her duty, it would be necessary to feel free; and, somehow, he knew that she must take this burden wholly upon herself, that she might realize the true joy that comes only with sacrifice of oneself for the hap- piness of others. He was proud of her proud for her womanhood, and her womanly courage. "Yes, I shall go," she said, when she had calmed her- self. "I shall start at once tomorrow. Oh, I cannot wait not a day, even. They may need me now or someone. Tell me, Billy, is it not better so?" "Yes, Nancy," he whispered; "you are a brave little woman, a woman of all womankind." 284 SONS OF ELOHIM "Then leave me, now ! Billy, now ! Go, while I can let you go before I change my mind" He drew her to him and kissed the quivering lips. She slipped away and ran out of the room, that she might not see him go. She had waited for him so long ! It had been a dream of joy coming true at last a joy her girlhood had never known; for the love that makes or breaks a woman is a love that weaves slowly and firmly into the fabric of hu- man hopes and plans, unfelt, unknown, until, with the touch of divine color, the pattern becomes real : a great tree with its sheltered branches to shield a tender, clinging vine. She had needed just such a soul as his all her life ; and sharing, as he had, with the world his part of pain and of long suffering that merges into sympathy and forgiveness, he could give to her, now, that wonderful strength which she had been craving since she first realized that life should have a purpose; and in that strength she could find accom- plishment. But now a new reality had come. Not her life, not theirs together, offered so great an opportunity to a peni- tent soul, as the helplessness of a deserted woman and fatherless boy, somewhere struggling together in the brutal surf of storm-tossed, hopeless years. It was suddenly made plain. Accomplishment, to her, must mean a sacrifice. Real joy, a realization of a duty nobly done. PART II CHAPTER XXXVI GRIST OF THE WORLD'S MILL "Mother, where are you?" "Here, Arthur; here by the window." The boy, guided by her voice, groped through the dark room to the woman. "Is it late, Arthur?" "About eight o'clock, mother. Hasn't grandpa beea home ?" "Not yet, dear." He flung his cap into a corner, boylike, and, sitting on the arm of his mother's chair, he put his face against hers, "Do you think he'll he'll be" "I'm afraid so. I'm glad you got home, Arthur." She drew him tenderly against her and kissed him. "Shall I light the lamp, mother, dear? Is supper ready?" "Yes, dear. We may as well eat. Your grandpa will not come home, now; not till late. Tell me what you've been doing." He lighted the kerosene lamp, and the yellow flame dimly illumined the room, almost bare of furniture. The table, on which stood the lamp, held also a few homely dishes that partly hid some of the jagged holes in the 286 SONS OF ELOHIM oilcloth cover. A cookstove, with broken hearth and cracked covers certified to a long companionship with the two rickety chairs in the room. The restless embers in the stove now and again sent out a spark through the broken draft, and the low singing of the tea-kettle seemed to still the simmering stew in the black iron kettle by its side. In the space between the stove and the window was an old-fashioned rocker in which sat the woman, still youth- ful, though her face was drawn and white. There was something uncanny about the large eyes, wide-open and staring. She was blind. As the boy, a lad of about ten years, began investi- gating the contents of the pots and kettles and to stir the fire, she arose. "You sit still, mother mine," he said, "and I'll put things on the table, and get this water to boiling again in a jiffy. It's getting pretty cold out. Mr. Ascher thinks it's going to snow. Isn't there any more coal?" "I'm afraid not, Arthur. I don't know what we'll do, I'm sure." She drew her chair nearer the fire. "There's a little wood in the pantry, and your grandpa says, when that's gone, we'll have to break up the shed floor. Oh, dear, dear, me!" Putting her face in her hands she began to cry. "Now, mother, don't; please, please, mother, don't cry. We'll get on all right, sure. Listen, mother ! I've got some- thing to tell you. I'm going to make lots of money, and we're not going to be poor, and you won't have to worry about anything, because I'm going to make just heaps of money." He raised her head from her tear-wet hands and stroked back the soft hair. His face showed a mind in GRIST OF THE WORLD'S MILL 287 advance of his years; and, as he strove to cheer up his mother with a boyish tale of his plans, he betrayed a seri- ousness rarely found in one so young. "I'm going into business, mother," he said, after she had let him wipe the tears away with a soiled handker- chief. "I'll tell you all about it when we get to eating; and I'm hungry that is, just a little; not much." Thought- fully, he added the words, remembering there would be lit- tle for one hungry stomach; and there were two. He hustled about and soon had the tea-kettle singing loudly and the stew simmering again. Then he dove into the pantry and brought out half a loaf of bread and a jar of jelly. He paused, now and again, to cast an anxious look toward the rockingchair ; but his mother showed no further disposition to cry. There were things which went on the table only after furtive glances toward the door, coming from hiding- places known only to himself ; for, in some matters, he was not quite sure of his mother; and his grandfather was not to have any of the good things that came into this poverty- stricken home, if he could prevent it. His grandfather! A tyrant! a drunken brute! Curs- ing him and beating him from the day he could first re- member. He did not care so much for the beatings. But there was often red rage in his heart when, coming home at night with a profit of a few dimes, happy-hearted in the thought of something he had planned for his mother, he had found her sobbing in the old rocking-chair by the window, from which her sightless eyes each day stared into a darkened world. Then, fearful himself, but more to get rid of the man, he gave up the money he had made, and was left alone with her, to kiss the tears from the blind eyes. "I met Miss Ross my Sunday school teacher, you 288 SONS OF ELOHIM know, mother, on my way home from the store tonight, and she told me how she used to make lots of money when she was young as me; and I can do it the same thing myself, and not have to stop my papers or anything." They were now at the table; and besides pouring out her tea he had spread two large slices of bread with the jelly and placed them at his mother's plate. "I'm afraid you will try to do too much, Arthur, and you'll get sick, and then I don't know what we would do, I'm sure." "Never you mind me, sweetheart. I'm not going to get sick; and what I'm going to do won't be work at all. What Miss Ross used to do I guess I can do. It's only this, you see: There's a store in New York City where they sell packages of needles a whole lot of them in little envelopes, with printing on them, saying just what's in- side, and saying to open the envelope and if there ain't a lot of them! Say, everybody will pay a quarter after they see what's inside, Miss Ross says. And all I have to do is just leave them at houses one day and go for 'em the next or, I mean, for the money, you know. I can make ten cents on each package. See, mother, ten packages a a day, and I make one dollar. Won't we have money, though!" "But, my child, how are you going to buy these pack- ages? You haven't any money, and probably you will have to buy a lot at once; maybe ten dollars' worth." "I don't know just how, but I hope there'll be some way. Perhaps Miss Ross will help me, and maybe I can get a few to start, and you know when I get them sold, I can buy more next time. I know all my paper customers will buy." The woman smiled. "You're a good boy, Arthur, thank God. What would GRIST OF THE WORLD'S MILL 289 I do if I didn't have you! Oh, if I could only see! We would work together, my boy, and we'd make money, too. And we'd have a little home in one of the pretty cottages I used to see, on Clinton avenue, when I used to go to work in Hartford. I made twelve dollars every week, and some- times more. Then you came; and when I looked at you, I couldn't see you, for I was blind. But it's my punishment yes, God knows. God knows! And I shall never see, again." "Why do you say that, mother? You say, so many times, 'it's a punishment,' and that 'God is punishing you/ What for ? Why should God want to punish anyone ? Peo- ple have enough trouble, anyhow. God loves you, I know, mother mine, because He knows what a good mother you are, and how much I love you. You remember what grand- ma said, 'fore she died? that if I always would be good to you God would take care of us." He left his chair and went round to his mother's side. He put his arms around her neck and kissed her. Then he put the things away and washed up the dishes and the ket- tles, as he told her about his work at the store, where he was employed as errand boy; and of the people he had seen, and some incidents which he thought would interest her. She had returned to her seat by the window, and when he was through with the work he went to his favorite perch on the arm of her chair; then together they sang some familiar hymns. "Dearest mother," he said presently, "shall I read to you? oh, yes; my Sunday School lesson. I promised Miss Ross I would look it up in the Bible and read all the chapter." He pulled from a pocket a crumpled paper and spread it out on the table. Then he brought from the next room 290 SONS OF ELOHIM an old Bible, one of the few things his grandfather had not fpund a purchaser for. It had been his grandmother's in her lifetime. After her death the blind daughter for the first time turned to it for consolation. A man, afflicted, curses his luck; a woman, usually, turns to God. "Matthew, Matthew Mark first, second, fifth here it is; fifth chapter. Are you listening, mother?" "Yes, dear. Is there any more wood? Seems to me it's getting colder. What will we do for breakfast? I didn't think your grandpa would find that money, Arthur. I must have left it sticking out of the bowl and didn't see it. Well, go on and read." He read to her about the little daughter of the great ruler in the city of Jerusalem, who had died and the father, hearing of Jesus and the wonderful manner in which he healed people, believed that he would also bring his beloved child back to life. He read also about a woman who had heard about Jesus, and who came to touch but his clothes, that she might be made well. According to the New Testament record, this woman, like countless thousands of our day, "had suffered much of many physicians, but was nothing bettered, but, rather, became worse," and, even as today, the physicians had taken all she had and turned her away to die. Arthur began the story, reading dutifully, and mechan- ically, as almost all do when reading from the Bible. There was a heavy step on the stairs. The boy slipped the book under the table and turned the light low. Silent, they waited; but the steps passed by to an apartment in the rear. With a sigh of relief he took up the Bible again and began looking for the place. As he read along to himself his forehead wrinkled into a thoughtful scowl. "Aren't you going to read any more?" she asked. GRIST OF THE WORLD'S MILL 291 "Listen," he said. "Jesus didn't heal her. It says: 'And Jesus, immediately knowing in himself that virtue had gone out of him, turned about in the crowd and asked: Who touched my clothes ? And his disciples said unto him : Thou seest the multitude thronging thee and sayest who touched me? And he looked round about to see her that had done this thing. And the woman, fearing and trem- bling, knowing what was done to her, came and fell down before him and told him all the truth. And he said to her : Daughter, thy faith hath made thee whole. Go in peace.' "See, mother, Jesus didn't do it. She was healed by touch- ing him, and he didn't know even that she was there. If she had touched some other man by mistake and thought it was Jesus, would she have got well just the same?" "Maybe she would, Arthur ; maybe so, dear ; but let us go to bed now." Relunctantly he closed the Bible and put it away in its hiding-place. After he had crept between the blankets on an old mattress at the door of his mother's room his thoughts upon the story he had read, he began to say his prayers: " 'Now I lay me down to sleep' suppose she'd touched some other man than Jesus! 'I pray the Lord' she was all well before Jesus knew! 'I pray the Lord my soul to keep;' maybe God saw her and knew she had been doc- tored and doctored and they had taken all her money and she kept getting worse; 'If I should die' yes, it must be God was sorry for her, and He saw how busy Jesus was! 'If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord' if God did it then, why couldn't He do it now? Of course He could, but why wouldn't He if he saw how awful it was to be blind. "Oh, Jesus, why didn't you stay on earth?" "What is it, Arthur?" 292 SONS OF ELOHIM Unconsciously his thoughts were bursting forth in choking words which had startled his mother. "Nothing, mother," he answered, quickly. Then he drew the blanket over his head and lay perfectly quiet for some time. "And Jesus said, Lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world !" It was a painted sign he had seen every day, of late, when passing by a Gospel Mission down the street. The words came to him plainly, now, and he was repeating them to himself. Suddenly a meaning came; Jesus was there in the room then that very moment! Would he hear? Would he do it? In a moment the cover was thrown back. He raised himself and knelt on the mattress with his hands stretched toward the ceiling. "Dear Jesus, are you here, now? Can you hear me, Jesus? I want my mother to see. Please, Jesus, take her blindness all away, and make her vrtll . Don't let grandpa come home drunk any more; and, oh, Jesus, make my mother's eyes well. Make her see; oh, please, Jesus, make her see again." The clock struck eleven and the strokes vibrated through the room. He sprang out of bed, ran to the kitchen and lighted the lamp. With the light in his hand he went to his mother's couch. "Mother! Mother, dear! Look at me! Can you see me ? Look ! Oh, mother, tell me !" She turned her face toward him, but did not answer for a moment. His hand trembled so he had to set the lamp down on a stand. "What is the matter, child? Of course I can't see you. Are you dreaming?" GRIST OF. THE WORLD'S MILL 293 For answer he gave a pitiful moan and fell across the bed. For a long time the convulsive sobbing of the boy drowned the sound of the clock; then the tick-tock grew louder, and his deep breathing showed that he had fallen asleep. The lamp burned brightly for awhile, then flickered, and went out. It was near daybreak, when there came a heavy knock at the door. Arthur awoke, with a start. "Who is it?" he asked. "I am a police officer," a voice answered. "Is this where John Rugby lives?" "Yes, sir." "Well, he's hurt and took to the City Hospital, an' ye'd better come at once if ye want to see him aloive. The wagon's here, an I'll take yei" Arthur lighted the lamp, and opened the door. The policeman entered the kitchen. He glanced about the place, critically. "Guess ye won't miss him!" he muttered. "Who's here?" "My mother, sir." "Well, get ready, both o' ye, an' be quick about it." A half hour later, just as the sun was coming up in the east, Arthur led his mother up the steps of the public hos- pital, and they were shown to the ward where the unnatural parent lay groaning, with bones broken, and injuries from which they said he could not recover. Old John Rugby was soon to pay the price. He did not recognize his daughter, and shortly after passed into unconsciousness. At about the noon hour he died. For awhile, the doctor let them sit there, the woman and the boy, both staring at the bed, one not seeing, and 294 SONS OF ELOHIM neither knowing he had passed away. Then, as attendants were about to lead them out, a nurse came to the ward, fol- lowed by a woman, who carried in her hand a newspaper. She had asked for John Rugby. "I fear he is dead, madam," the nurse said; and the doctor bowed. "This is his daughter, and grandson," he said. "Who are you?" the blind woman asked. The other took the outstretched hand in both her own, and kissed the slender, white fingers. "I am Nancy Swallow," she answered. Nancy Swallow had begun to pay the debt of her own redemption. PART III CHAPTER XXXVII A BROTHER IN ISRAEL It was Decoration Day, but Hank Evans sat at his bench industriously hammering away on a piece of thick leather. "Good afternoon, sir." Hank looked up and saw a man with a satchel, to which was attached a shoulder-strap; and his practised eye observed that the strap was in need of repair. "Busted?" he asked, holding out his hand. The man detached the strap, and handed it to the shoe- maker. Then he pulled a chair up before the open door, and sat down. "Nice day," he remarked. "Yep," said Hank. "I just came in on the train," the stranger said. "Can you recommend a hotel? or, better yet, a good boarding- house? I may have to be here for some time." "Thar ben't any hotel good fer much, 'cept DeLand's, an' he said, last night, as how he war chuck full to the neck. But thar be the Swallows " Hank paused, and looked the stranger over critically. The man was dark, good-looking, neatly dressed, and, 296 SONS OF ELOHIM unmistakably, a Jew. He had drawn a cigar from his pocket, and lighted it. He waited for Hank to go on. "An' thar be Mis' Heath's, over yonder," said the shoe- maker, pointing to a vine-covered veranda, partly visible be- tween two buildings opposite. "She's needin' a boarder or two, I'm thinkin'. From the coast?" "From San Francisco. I am here on business. I under- stand this town used to be four or five miles south of here. What caused it to change location?" "Railroad, principally an' Jim Crawley," said Hank. "Didn't ye hear how it come to be done?" The Jew said he had not. "Wall," said Hank, after he had waxed a piece of thread, carefully, "it war three year ago it tuk place, but it war in seventy-one, or seventy-two, when Jim Crawley showed up here, busted flatter 'n a pancake. He got a job takin' care o' Doc Kimball's garden, w'ich mebbe aint to do with the matter. Leasewise, one night Jim had a pecooliar dream. It war that an old sweet'art she be Jim's wife, now, w'ich may not have no pint to th' story. Wall, Jim he dreamed she war thar, right afore his eyes, though he hadn't sot eyes on her fer nigh thirty years. She pints her finger at Jim, an' sez, f ]im, ye air to go in a bee line,' she sez, 'from here to the North Gap, an' ye'll find a house w'at nobody owns. Git a-hold o' that land, Jim,' she sez, an' then she ha' gone, quicker'n ye c'ud say, 'scat!' so Jim ha' told me." "Did he do it?" the other asked, as Hank paused in his work, and looked vacantly toward the hills. "Jim he didn't pay no value to the dream, but the next night same thing come agin ; an' Jim tells DeLand ; an' DeLand hitches up his cayuse, an' they goes north, near as they c'ud cal'clate, in a bee line. They found the shanty, sure enough, but the land warn't worth shucks. It war scab A BROTHER IN ISRAEL 297 land, an' not worth the money to file on it. So back they druv, DeLand a pokin' fun at Jim fer eatin' o' suthink that ha' g'in him nightmare, so Jim ha' told me. "But same night, Jim ha' dreamed it agin, an' the girl ha' been so persistent-like that Jim he goes next day an' files on the hull layout, nigh on to two sections w'at no one ha' wanted afore. Jim ha' next gone to grubbin' the land, but arter he got a patch o' brush cleared, if the wind didn't carry off the hull piece! Sho, Jim orter know'd better?" "How was that?" the Jew asked. "Wind scooped out the hole, ye see, fer thar warn't no irrigation thar, then. Some fellers would ha' thrown up the hull caboodle; but Jim war English, an' the English ha' got grit, if they don't allus have ambishun. So Jim he hung on to the old scab land, like a dorg to a root, nigh on to a dozen year or more. Then the engineers come along, and began cal'clatin' on a railroad. They war sot on gittin' a lot o' land free fer nothin' fer the pleasure o' stoppin' trains at Old Town ; but Luke war agin 'em from the start." "Luke who?" "Luke Waters," said Hank. "Luke, he owned most all the land therebout, bein' as he got in the Valley ahead o' most anyone else, an' his children tuk claims, o' course, or them as didn't take a noshun to die, po'r critturs. The railroad fellers war sot, an' so war Luke. Then the agent said as how they'd run through the town 'thout stoppin'. Luke said as how that war pleasin' to him, fer he never did want 'em nohow. Some war sided with Luke, an' some war agin him; fer them as had nothink, thought the road would be their fortun's." "One would naturally think all of them would want it," said the Jew. "Jim Crawley war for the road, an' he let out on Luke time an' time agin, not sayin' as they warn't the best o' 298 SONS OF ELOHIM friends. Then Jim does some calc'latin'; or some says as how it war Betty; fer the woman, w'at had been in Jim's dream, ha' come to Old Town, an' ha' been his wife, fer years. Wall, leastways, Jim goes to the agent an' sez he, 'I've got a propersishun,' he sez, 'an' likewise I've got a thousin' acres more or less, further up the Valley, w'at'll make a handsome town,' he sez. 'But ye aint got nothin' on it/ sez the agent, thinkin' Jim war talkin' like a goat, mebbe. But Jim, he sez, 'if ye say the word, I'll supply the willage; an' w'at's more,' sez Jim, 'we'll go halves on the profits. If ye'll say it's a go/ sez Jim, 'I'll move the hull o' Old Town, Luke an' all/ he sez, mebbe, 'in six weeks, on to my thousin/ 'It's a go/ sez the railroad feller, soon's he got over his surprise, 'if ye'll leave out old Luke/ he sez, mebbe." "That was a strange proposition, surely," commented the Jew. "Wall, it war a go, sure enough; fer soon's the rail- road planted that thar station on Jim's scab land, the com- pany ha' gi'n out a procklymashun, statin' as how they'd pay the hull expense o* movin' fer them as wanted to git in the new town inside o' six weeks. Sure enough, Jim ha' done it, an' the hull caboodle war thar afore the time war up. Old Luke he staid, sot all through. Some other fellers ha' held out, likewise fer awhile, but, sho! arter they see the houses creepin' out o' town fer a week, they got into a similar noshun. But thar war a lot o' bad feelin* fer a time, an' thar be some yit. The office o' th' Old Town paper war blown up by dinnymite. Colonel Holland, the land agent, war near killed. His office war next door to the Signal, an' next day he an' Cap Tolman makes track fer New Town. Ye didn't see much more'n trees thar w'en ye come through today, I reckon." A BROTHER IN ISRAEL 299 "It reminded me of a great lower jaw with all the teeth extracted," said his listener. "An' Jim Crawley war the dentist, sure'n you're a foot high," said Hank, chuckling, as he tested the strap to see if the work satisfied him. "Jim ha' made a bier lot o' money by the extraction ; an' he ha' built that big house ye see over thar. Luke ha' never got over it, an' he haint spoke to Jim to this day. "Did you ever know a man named Gorin. who lived here in the Valley somewhere, fifteen or twenty years ago ?" the Jew asked, as he slung his satchel over his shoulder and handed the shoemaker the price of the job. "Gorin? Gorin? Tears to me thar war a man living here onct, leastwise in Old Town. But he moved away arter his boy war shot." "Which one?" "Only one he had as I knew on, Larry Gorin, as war kilt in a fight at Skinner's saloon. He's down in Old Town cemetery, an' no one is puttin' flowers on his grave today, I reckon." Hank looked away to the hills, thoughtfully. When he turned back to his work, the Jew was gone. CHAPTER XXXVIII DECORATION DAY Out from among the trees of Old Town into the May- day sunshine of the hot afternoon came a youth and a maiden leading their ponies. The girl's arms were filled with flowers poppies and wild clematis, camas lilies and wild roses, syringas and field daisies. They were going toward the Old Town cemetery. "Don't you wish, sometimes, that you were still living here, among the trees?" the boy asked. "New Town al- ways seems such a barren place after I have been here." "I love Old Town, Arthur; I always shall." The girl paused and looked back. "Sometimes I wish we had staid there when the others moved. I would rather be here alone, if I could just be among the trees. Do you know, Arthur, sometimes when I have been here with Arch and Maidie, in the twilight, and we've stood under the trees that grow around our old home, and where Uncle Richard lived, it has seemed just as though someone was there that is, just like uncle, and papa, and others, who are dead, were walk- ing round, and talking to us, though, of course, we couldn't see them." He came to a sudden halt as the girl finished. "Are you sure, Bess, that that " "Sure of what, Arthur?" DECORATION DAY 301 "Oh, nothing," he answered, hastily, his face suddenly flushing. "I wonder where Maidie and Archie are?" "Isn't that them yes, see ? -coming from the river. If they stop for more flowers we will get to the cemetery ahead of them." "Say we mount ; it's a long walk in this hot sun. Look, Bess ! at the hacks driving away. Everybody will be gone by the time we get there." They started off on a brisk canter, pretending not to hear the shrill call of the other two riders galloping swiftly toward them from the river. In a few moments they were at the cemetery, a deso- late, flat ground, barren of everything save a number of mounds more or less covered with wild grass and marked by plain painted boards, or small marble headstones. Here and there a vine had crept across a long-neglected grave, its blossom adding a touch of color to the dreary, dull gray earth. What a place for the dead ! So God-forsaken it seemed, we used to wonder if the angel Gabriel would pass it by un- noticed on the Resurrection Morn. Some may yet recall, too, an oft expressed hope that they might escape the fate of those whose names we read, time and again, on the dust- covered white slabs, wondering if they ever turned over in their graves to let the hot sun bake their other sides. What a sleep ! even for the dead ! The boy and the girl dismounted, tied their ponies to the rickety gate, and made their way to a far corner of the enclosure, where stood a modest, white column of gran- ite, bearing the inscription: RICHARD SWALLOW Born Jan. 27,1847. Died Sept. 7, 1872. 302 SONS OF ELOHIM "First time I came here was with Aunty Nan," the boy said, as they began to arrange the flowers. "It was the next week after we got to Old Town six years ago. We came alone, and didn't bring any flowers. I didin't want to come, but Aunty Nan said I must, and I remem- ber how she burst out crying when she said it; and she cried again when I stood here reading the name, and the year when he died. I felt so sorry for her, and I never wanted her to come again. She made me promise I would come every little while, when the flowers were out, and put some on. I've been here so much it seems like it was my own father's grave." "Say, Art, what was it you started to ask when we were leaving Old Town? You wanted to know if I was sure about something." "Did you ever have God answer your prayer, Bess? that is, just as you prayed?" "Yes, why?" He looked off toward the clump of trees that marked Old Town's deserted site. "Maidie and Arch are coming," he said, throwing himself down beside her. "I'll tell you something, Bess. Just you. I never told even Maidie, nor anyone but mother. It's about my grandfather. He got hurt and died, you know. They said he was awfully drunk and was almost home when a cab ran over him. It was just exactly eleven o'clock, so the policeman told us, afterward, although it was nearly morning when we heard of it. The policeman came and took us to the hospital, where he died. He would often come home drunk, and would swear at mother dread- fully. That night, when he was killed, I was saying my prayers and I remember I said, 'Don't let grandpa come home drunk again, ever,' and just then the clock struck eleven just that moment grandpa was hurt. I think some- DECORATION DAY 303 times I was to blame for his death. Do you think I was, Bess?" "God did it," the girl answered, solemnly. "He just answered your prayer, that's all ; and that doesn't make you wicked. You didn't mean for God to kill him, you see ; but- God punished him." "I don't know I don't always feel right in thinking that God does some awful things, and doesn't do some of the good things we pray for. That same night, Bess, I prayed for God to give mother back her sight. He didn't answer that prayer, though He killed grandpa. It seems queer, doesn't it, to you?" "God does what is best, Arthur; and we must remem- ber that if he makes us sick, or to suffer, or blind like your mother, it is all for our own good." "If God makes people sick, Bess, isn't it wicked to have doctors, and to take medicine and try to get well?" "She burst out laughing at the seriousness in his voice. "Why, you goosey boy, of course it isn't. Don't the churches all have doctors and and grandpa always takes medicine when he's sick; and he's a minister. But what was it you wanted to know if I was sure about?" "Your father. Are you sure he is dead?" "He must be, Arthur. We never heard from him after he went away that night. Mamma is sure he is. I was a baby then; it's sixteen years last fall." "Do you know why he went away?" "No; mamma never knew. She thinks Uncle Dick knew; but he died so suddenly, you know. There was something mamma says he tried hard to tell Aunty Nan, but he died before he could say it. Mamma used to think, every year, that papa would come back ; but now she is sure he is dead." 304 SONS OF ELOHIM At that moment Maidie Swallow and Archie came up with their arms full of flowers. Archibald Gower, the eldest of the group, had become a broad-shouldered young man, the opposite in physique of the more delicate Arthur. Bessie Channing bore a striking resemblance to Arthur. Her blond beauty was heightened by a delicate, almost fragile look, and the color in her cheek was too vivid for perfect health. As they grouped about the flower-covered mound, the contrast between the two girls was even greater than that of the youths. Maidie's hat had slipped back, exposing an abundance of dark curls clustered about her flushed face. Her lips, overfull and red, and perfectly shaped, her big, luminous eyes in many ways so like her mother. She was at the threshold of budding womanhood, with a full tropical promise of sixteen years a picture of warm, red life in her big hat hanging back, her arms full of tangled flowers. "Why didn't you wait?" she demanded, throwing down the vines and dropping among them. "No use waiting for you two," said Arthur. "You are forever poking along behind, when you are together." Maidie gave him a quick, questioning glance. "You don't want me when you can ride with Bess," she retorted. Archie's face clouded. He thrust his hands in his pockets and drew away from the others with a show of dignity. "Louise Kimball and her mother came home on the train this afternoon from Missoula," he volunteered, and watched the effect of his words. But Maidie did not ap- pear to have heard. "How nicely you have fixed papa's grave, Arthur," she said. "There is hardly room left for our flowers." DECORATION DAY 305 "Let's put some on the two Heath children's graves, for Perry is away, and mamma would like us to do it," Bess suggested. "And on the grave of mamma's old friend, Laura Wa- ters," added Maidie. 'The Waters never pay any atten- tion to any of the family after they die." "Nor while they live, for that matter," said Archie. "Think of having a great big house and nothing but nail- kegs and soap-boxes to sit on!" "And no butter nor milk in the house, and more than a thousand cattle on the range, too." "Sh-h! Here comes someone," said Arthur. "It's only Remnant," said Archie ; "and some man with him I don't know who it is." Old Patrick Remnant had been the village grave-digger ever since the little patch of wild ground had been fenced in, after the first settler had been forced to locate there; and when Old Town had to bow to the inevitable and, in- cidentally, help Jim Crawley to another fortune, it was found that provision had been made only for the living. So the square patch of sunbaked ground continued to multiply its white slabs and little mounds. But, recently, ar- rangements had been made for a new burial place at New Town, and already negotiations were under way for the re- moval of bodies. Remnant went past the group, walking with all the dignity of a king's chamberlain, his tuft of chin whiskers pointing straight before him like the index-finger of a sign post. He led the stranger to a long neglected and sunken grave. Here the man examined closely the inscription on the weather-beaten head mark. "Getting ready to move the body to Nob Hill," said 306 SONS OF ELOHIM Archie. This was the name given to the new cemetery on the Ahtanum. "Who's buried over there, Arch?" Bess asked. "I don't know. Oh, I remember, now, where I saw him in Mr. Evan's shoe shop, just after the train came in. "Looks like a Jew," said Bess. "Here comes Mr. Remnant; let's ask him." The stranger had spoken a few words to the caretaker, made an entry in a book, and then strolled off, carelessly, toward the gate. The grave-digger came up the group, his dignity lim- bered a trifle by something he put carefully away in a well- guarded pocket. "Who's the man?" Archie inquired. "He's wan o' the Gorin family, I belave, from Frisco. An' a nice mon be all the signs, sure. He's afther thrans- portin' the c'orpse o' Larry Gorin, what wor kilt onct in Skinner's saloon at the Ould Town, to summare or ither, he sez." "He's a Jew, isn't he" said Bess, with unmistakable contempt. Jews were practically ostracized in this Western town. "Be the heavins so I belave he is!" exclaimed the old caretaker. "Sure now, niver wor the Gorins sheenies. Niver will ye find an Irishman a Jew. It wor afore yure toime, byes and gurrels, and afore yure father's toime, too, Miss Maidie." He looked from the girl to the flower-strewn mound, and shook his head solemnly. "As good a mon as iver I put under ground," he went on. "An' I hov put many a wan here, more's the pity ! But we'll hov another afore long," meaning the new cemetery. Throwing his head back to bring his whiskers to their cus- tomary level, he surveyed the area of white-staked ground, DECORATION DAY 307 much as a general looks over the field of recent battle, and sees the burial trenches of dead friends and foes. To the old grave-digger every mound in that dreary bleachery was a friend; every slab a greeting. Then came the thought that his work, here, would soon be through, and like a defeated general, he walked slowly away, his whiskers crushed against his breast. The ponies were whinnying at the gate, and the quar- tet of young people silently followed the guardian of the dead out of the enclosure. When they were mounting and Arthur had paused to lift Bess to her saddle, he looked into her eyes. "Jesus was a Jew," he said, simply. The flush in the girl's face deepened. Through the twilight came the sound of church bells. Presently, raising her head, she looked off to New Town, her glance resting on the distant spires. "I'm sorry," she answered, penitently, a mist in her large blue eyes. Smiling, he held out his hand for her. The next moment she was in the saddle and they were galloping homeward. CHAPTER XXXIX NEW TOWN The years that have come and gone, since Dick Swal- low rode to the hills, for the last time, up to this May day, in 1888, had brought many changes to the Valley. Through the magic of irrigation, the once desert plain had been trans- formed to an Eden garden. The long expected railroad had been completed to the coast. From the hills, where the cowboys gathered their herds, and sang improvised hymns beside the round-up fires, could now be seen hundreds of farm houses, and the shimmering waters of many irrigating streams. Excitement had stirred the Valley with the coming of the engineers. Everyone knew what that meant. Some re- joiced ; some grieved. Some, like Luke Waters, took to the hills, only to return and curse at everything and everybody, and settle down again to make the best of it. From miles around the settlers came to see the first train come in; and, to many it was the first they had ever seen. Men stood in groups about the streets, talking loudly and gesticulating; men stood in long lines waiting their chance to enter land ; men, men, everywhere, all suddenly pos- sessed with one idea; that the moment had come for them to make a fortune. Came the climax; the moving of the town; and, for a long time, afterwards, it seemed that the bitterness and en- NEW TOWN 309 mity it caused, between even the best of friends, would never die out. East and West were becoming fused; but the Western freedom still clung to the Valley, and to the older settlers, and made a lively background for the Eastern customs, and the more serious struggle for a livelihood. New comers were mainly from among a more cultured class of Easterners, and were quick to discern the better element of the pioneer village. A social caste had begun to manifest itself, in which, however, the money of the cattleman or rancher softened the discord of frontier ways. Few people of New Town went fishing, now, on Sundays; but trim, young ladies, demurely carrying prayer books, went to church, insitead. Many of the villagers had built larger and better houses in New Town. The streets were wider, and were laid out with some idea of what the future would require. The pop- lar switches, stuck in the soft earth besides the narrow water borders, had grown, in three years, to yield abundant shade; for things take on a magic growth when land, under the desert sun, is watered. Old Town had been deserted by all, save Luke Waters. The trees and the footpaths, hedged with vines and pink roses, now offered a trysting-place for lovers. Cows grazed beside the running water, and slept among the poppies and the camas lilies, the clanking of their bells mingling with the bleating of the lambs. At night, the coyotes howled in the lonely streets, adding their dismal cries to the plaintive sobbing of the winds. Old Luke's prophecy had come true. "Billy Ki-Ki" was, now, known as Mr. William Carruthers; and "Bron- son" was, now, Mr. Bronson. Both had prospered. Many, however, had not. Strange perhaps as it seemed to the new settlers, the old timers, with 310 SONS OF ELOHIM few exceptions, were even poorer than they had been before the coming of the railroad. In one of the best-appointed homes in New Town lived big Jim Crawley and his sweet-faced wife, Betty. For forty years he had struggled against the stream, to see at last the gold pile up in his strong box. And now that he was the wealthiest, by far, of all the men in New Town, there was something lacking something for which both he and Betty would gladly give their all and go back to the little hut on the wind-swept ranch ; it was to hear the patter of baby footsteps over the floor, the merry laughter of a child, the cry of "father," "mother," and feel the heart- response of parenthood. "It's a bad mistake, me 'appy 'earties," he would say to us, when we had gathered about his big fireplace at his in- vitation, on a Hallowe'en night, to listen to his tales of ad- venture in Australia and Brazil. "Get married w'en ye air young! Aye, w'en ye air young! For a fortun's not the honly thing, me lads an* lassies !" And he would shake his head sadly for a moment, while, merrily, we would throw the apple-parings over our shoulders, to get the initial oi him, or her, who was to be our mate. Sometimes it would come a "C," whereupon, laughingly, the girls would turn to Betty and ask about her health, and if her husband had always been good to her. It was late in the afternoon, following Decoration Day, and on the broad veranda of the Swallow home, facing the Western sky and Mount Tacoma, a little company had gath- ered. The early supper was just over, and through the open door and windows came the clatter of the dishes as the servant gathered them up. Maidie was sitting on the rug-covered steps, humming a low air to the accompaniment of a guitar which she held, languidly, in her lap. In a willow rocker, so dose that the NEW TOWN 311 girl had found a resting place for her head, was Nancy, clear-eyed, though with a trace of sadness where had been the old fire of independence and the grace of carelessness. "Mamma," said Maidie, presently, letting her fingers come to a sudden stop on the strings, "here's a man coming down the street, with a valise, and I'll bet he's coming here." The Swallow home was now the principal village boarding-house, and when a stranger came to New Town, and made inquiry for a place to stop, nine times out of ten he was directed to "The Swallow Nest." "We cannot accommodate another one, Maidie, and you can tell him so." Nancy rose and went into the house, paus- ing a moment to pat the cheek of a quiet, little woman near the door. "You shouldn't run away, Nancy," the latter called after her. "He may be handsome, and and eligible, per- haps; and I'm not a good judge, you know." There had previously been some bantering along this line at her ex- pense. "He's handsome, auntie, I can see from here. And he's broad shouldered and strong-looking." Maidie glanced up, a little vengefully, to a small, thin German, who was busy cleaning out a black-stemmed pipe, much to the obvious dis- gust of two other men, who were smoking cigars. "You haf goot eyes ven you see a man, Mees Maidie," he said, without turning his head. "But ven I was young as you arretty, I haf many ya, many gompliments." Maidie's laughter rang out, incredulously; then she turned, startled ; for the new comer was at her elbow. He was a man around forty, with whitened hair about the temples. *Mrs. Swallow?" he asked, glancing from her to the woman in the chair. Then he stared hard at Maidie. 312 SONS OF ELOHIM "Mamma is in the house, sir," she said, rising. "Were you looking for a boarding-place?" "I was referred here by a friend." "We have no more room, I believe," Maidie told him. The woman in the rocking-chair caught the tone of re- gret in her voice. "You can give him Arthur's room," she said. "Arthur can sleep on his cot in the attic; and he's been talking of doing it, anyway." "Oh, no; I wouldn't put you to that inconvenience," broke in the stranger, hastily. "Only I hoped I might avoid going to a hotel." "If you will take a seat, sir, I will speak to mamma," Maidie said, inwardly hoping some arrangement might be made. There is something about a man with prematurely gray hair that appeals to the sentimental natures of young women. The stranger's glance followed her with a puzzled expression. "Mrs. Heath haf a room, I hear Arthur say," volun- teered the German, as the man put down his satchel and dropped into the chair. "No," said the woman by the door, "Arthur said the man who came on the train yesterday went there." "No one else would take him," said one of the men. "He was a Jew." At this moment Maidie reappeared followed by her mother. "I am sorry, sir," Mrs. Swallow began, taking the card the man held out to her, "but but Tom Payne !" She let the card drop from her hand and stared at him. "Yes, yes; it is Tom! Don't you remember me? the litde girl you played with, years ago, and taught to read and write, and everything?" "Pat Weath " NEW TOWN 313 "Yes, yes; in the camps." She stopped suddenly, weak and trembling. In a second she had summed up the days of her life since she had seen him last, in camp, years ago. He didn't know of course, nobody knew ! Only, it seemed as if he had brought to her a book that she had long ago shut up and put away forever; and now he was opening it before them all. "Take this chair sit down, here, Mrs. Swallow." His voice seemed to be far away. She let him push her gently in the seat. "How glad I am to find you again, and with a daughter older than you were when I left you in camp, twenty years ago. How time melts away! Young lady, you're a true picture of your mother, then. Twenty years ago! You were 'Midget,' then, Mrs. Swallow. Well, well. Tell me about it how you came here. Did you finally get to school?" "Yes," she said in a low voice. "I went to school, and and then I met Mr. Swallow and we came here. That was in seventy or seventy-one. Maidie was born a year later, and a few months afterward Mr. Swallow died." She introduced him to the men, Doctor Rogers, Mr. Gordon and Professor Swartz; and to Mrs. Brown, the woman in the rocking-chair. I cannot see you, sir," the woman said, putting out her hand, gropingly. "I am blind." He took the hand gently and looked into the large, staring eyes. "It seems a cruel affliction, Mrs. Brown," he said. "But when one sees the misery and suffering everywhere in the world it is, after all, a partial blessing." "And have you seen much of the world, sir?" she asked. "I have travelled a great deal, madam, in Mexico, South 314 SONS OF ELOHIM America, Australia and the Orient; and I have seen much I had rather left unseen." "Oh, will you tell us about your travels about those countries, Mr. Payne?" Maidie asked, making room for him beside her on the step. "Sometime, later, I will. But first tell me about your village, and if you appreciate the glorious sunset yonder. In all other lands I have never seen anything in nature more beautiful than these Western sunsets. How the colors spread out over the mountain tops; just as though they were painted against the sky. They remind me of the multi- colored shawls worn by women in Mexico. Does it ever seem wonderful to you how the peak of Mount Adams changes from red to gold, and how purple the snow on Mount Tacoma becomes in the same moment?" "Are you an artist?" she asked. Girls are always dreaming of artists and authors. "I might say I am, in a way," he answered, smiling at her. "I am a landscape artist a surveyor or was a civil engineer." "Maidie is encouraging me with the progress she is making with her painting," her mother said, with a touch of pride. This brought an audible grunt from the profes- sor. "Professor Swartz would like to say as much about my music; wouldn't you, professor?" "You haf vat you call talent, Mees Maidie, but not of batience? no, not of vat you call garefulness." He shrugged his shoulders as though to transfer the respon- sibility elsewhere. At this moment Arthur Brown turned into the yard. With him was a boy about twelve years of age, a cripple, afflicted with what is termed congenital deformity. In NEW TOWN 315 walking he was obliged to drag one twisted foot over the other. "Ah, here comes my little friend, Perry," said Mr. Payne. "Perry Heath? Do you know Perry Heath?" Maidie asked in surprise. "We came together from Pasco on the same train tjoday. It was he who directed me here. And this is Arthur, of whom he told me much much to the young man's credit," he added, as the boys came up the steps. "Perry has also told me about you, Mr. Payne," Arthur said, shaking hands with him. "And just think, Art," said Maidie, "Mr. Payne knew mamma when she was a little girl ; and he has been all over the world in Australia, and Mexico, and India." Perry sat down on one of the lower steps, and Arthur went to his favorite place on the broad arm of his mother's chair. "There's a man over at our house who knows you, Mr. Payne," said Perry. "His name is Cohen, a lawyer from San Francisco. He says he came on the train with you as far as Pasco, from Butte, yesterday; and he's coming over, after a while, to see you. I told him you would probably be here, sir." "He is a Jew," said Payne, "and seems a very intelli- gent man. He is from San Francisco, but has been in the East on business. We had quite an interesting talk on the train about religion, of course. He is well read in the Scriptures, but broadminded, indeed." "He called here yesterday," said Nancy, "and I sent him to Mrs. Heath's. I hadn't any room," she added, hastily, seeing Payne's quick, questioning glance. "I will have to put you in the attic, I fear." "Arthur will sleep there," said Mrs. Brown, quietly. 316 SONS OF ELOHIM "Now, Art, you and Perry listen," said Maidie. "Mr. Payne is going to tell me what makes colors and about other things. Go on, please, Mr. Payne." "I'm afraid my story will seem more like a lecture," Payne said, laughingly. But he went ahead and told them the sun being a great electrical carbon, giving off heat that causes light by the vibration of atmospheric forces. He explained how, at one time, the light and heat for the earth was probably in the shape of huge electric bands, such as now encircle Saturn; that the sun and moon were undoubt- edly made from these very bands of light, in the course of natural operation of the laws which control the making of worlds. Some day, he told them, the earth would resolve again into the vaporous essences from which it came, and a new earth, and a new heaven would be created. Nancy sat very quiet, listening. She was thinking of the morning when Parson Raines started to tell her the world's beginning. It had all passed from her years ago. "Do you have to know about all these things to be an engineer?" Maidie was asking. Payne laughed. "Hardly," he said. "But we learn many things that are interesting, in electrical engineering; and, too, I haven't al- ways been an engineer. It had taken root in me, though, before I left school and straggled into the railroad camp, where I met your mother. But, afterward, I took a course in college. Then I went abroad, to India. Then I found myself in Australia, where I made the acquaintance of an evangelist, a most noble fellow, and becoming interested in his work, I took a notion to study for the ministry. We were together more than a year, and I found him a mine of wisdom, knowledge, and practical ideas, both as to re- ligious and material things. His faith in God and in the power of faith led him to the verge of miraculous manifes- NEW TOWN 317 tations. Sydney is one of the greatest educational centers in the world." The German professor shrugged his shoulders and drew vigorously at his black-stemmed pipe. "Did you preach?" Maidie asked. "Yes, for a while. But in going about among the peo- ple of the parish I found so much sickness, so much dis- ease and physical suffering, I felt I ought to study medicine, so that I would be able to help their bodies as well as their spirits. When I had learned something of the so-called science of medicine, I found I could not consistently be a doc- tor and at the same time a minister of the gospel, and vice versa ; so I chucked the whole business and came back to the States." "How about you, Doc?" Mr. Gordon asked of Doctor Rogers. "You stuck to medicine, I see." "I never tried to be a preacher," replied the doctor, winking at the professor. "You vould not haf to make a vorse breacher as a doc- tor," the German retorted, knocking the ashes from his pipe. Then he got up and went into the house. "What do you know of Christian Science, sir?" Mrs. Brown asked, in a quick, interested tone. "Arthur has been reading to me some things that are said about it. Do you believe they heal people?" "Christian Science, Mrs. Brown," he said, taking the chair vacated by the professor, to be nearer the blind woman, "is but one of several religions of this century which have sprung up as a result of church apostasy that is out of harmony with the natural intelligence of men. 'The profession of surgery is a confession of ignorance,' said a prominent surgeon, recently. It is a confession that medi- cine is not a science. Scores of thousands are murdered every year in church hospitals, through medical and surgical 318 SONS OF ELOHIM experiment. Christian Science is no new discovery and, strange to say, offers no scientific principles whatever. The great covenant between God and Israel was a promise of God to keep the Israelites from sickness and disease if they would keep His commandments." "But, sir, are people healed of disease, and and af- flictions in this Christian this new church?" pursued the blind woman. "Undoubtedly!" declared Payne. "Anyone who will stop using medicine and drugs and will have faith in God, should, naturally, get well. The medical profession would gladly cease administering drugs and poisonous chemicals, could all agree to do so and have confidence one in the other. However, they realize that healing really depends upon faith, even though that faith be in their worthless potions." "It seems unjust," ventured Nancy, "that persons must suffer for a whole lifetime, because they do not happen to know about a certain medicine, or a certain doctor. If we do not know what causes life, how can any man know how to make a sick person well?" "But Mrs. Eddy has a large following, has she not?" persisted Mrs. Brown. "None of whom, so far as I have talked with them, know any more about the so-called 'science' than you do. They claim to be following the teaching of Jesus; but he said 'they shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall re- cover.' Christian Scientists do not lay hands upon the sick, for the reason, I am told, they could not then charge a fee for their prayers, else they would be classed as doctors, and be required to pass a medical examination." "There's a crazy preacher here in New Town, right now," interrupted Doctor Rogers, "who is trying to make some ignorant people believe they can get well if they'll let NEW TOWN 319 him lay his hands on them. All he wants is to get his hands in their pockets." "What troubles you, Doc, is that you're afraid he'll beat you to it," chaffed Gordon. "It does seem so," sighed the blind woman. This last hope was about to be taken from her. "But some are healed, even of blindness," the papers say." "If any are healed," said Payne, sympathetically, "it is through a simple faith in God, and not because of any scientific treatment. Mrs. Swallow is right. It should not be necessary to know a certain science or a certain drug or a certain doctor. This new religion is misleading and greatly perplexing to educated people. It calls evil a thing; and says, because God made all things, evil is good. But evil is a condition not a thing; and conditions made by men are mostly responsible for physical ailments. It mixes up soul, spirit, mind, matter, God, error, principle, and other terms, all more or less mysterious and abstract, and in such confusion, a hundred generations of human progress will not be able to disentangle them. It is a fascinating theory like its mother, Theosophy a bridge of ambi- guity that spans the gulf 'twixt reason and despair. That is my conclusion." "She says 'Christ' means, 'soul outside of body/ " broke in Gordon. "That's too deep for me." "That, and other statements in Mrs. Eddy's book, called 'Science and Health/ are the result of her apparent ignorance of the meaning of these terms. The Book of Leviticus tells us that 'soul is the blood of the flesh/ Imag- ine a man with his blood on the outside of his body ! Again she quotes what she may think is the correct translation: 'The kingdom of heaven is within you/ The Greek text never read that way. It plainly says 'The kingdom of heaven is in the midst of you' just as we say, now, that 320 SONS OF ELOHIM 'anarchy is in our midst.' The kingdom of heaven must be built up by the Semitic race and, therefore, the work waits upon us is 'in our midst.' " "Christian Science books are not on sale here; I en- quired," volunteered Arthur. "Not if your church can prevent it," said Gordon. "The preachers don't want competition any more than Doc, here, wants a faith healer 'round." "But think of the millions who will never hear of Christian Science at all," pursued Nancy, "even though they could buy the books. Shouldn't there be some way in which everyone can have an equal chance to be healed? and without having to pay for the remedy? No one asked to be born; no one wanted life. If they had, they would have chosen a life that would be free from sickness and pain, and sorrow, and death." "Right, O!" cried Gordon. "A sick man isn't hanker- ing for a thousand pages of theology. All he wants is one leaf from the tree of life; and he wants it quick!" Doctor Rogers crackled a match on the porch rail to light a fresh cigar. "That quack preacher at the Second church needs you," said he, to Gordon, with a sneer. "He imagines he's got the tree; and you could pick off imaginary leaves at a dollar a pick." "He doesn't even take up a collection, Doctor Rogers," ventured Perry with a touch of juvenile reproach. "But, Perry, grandpa says he's a fake ; and he ought to know," said Maidie, confirmatively. "Grandpa says the doctors are ministering angels; and if the sick people die, it's because God wants to take them home to heaven." "Let me feel !" said Gordon, pinching the doctor's shoulders, to see if his wings had begun to sprout. Doctor Rogers laughed, good-naturedly. NEW TOWN 321 "Professionally, I disagree with the Reverend Obed Swallow," he confessed. "The good Lord won't get any of my patients if I can keep 'em here." "Wonder why God had to use a tape worm to take Mrs. Remming to heaven," mused Nancy, with a trace of sacre- ligious scarcasm. But a flash of memory dashed the smile from her lips a scene in a night camp on the Ahtanum range, years ago : Dick, in convulsions, dying from a bite of a snake. God's way, indeed ! "God's way, indeed !" exclaimed Payne, as though he read her thought. "God's way, indeed ! that men shall die, and women's hearts shall break! their children go to hell! that God may take the parents home to heaven! It is a cowardly creed of a cowardly priesthood, to hide their spir- itual malpractice and degenerate faith behind a bulwark of sham divinity!" "Here comes Mr. Cohen," said Perry, as a man stopped at the gate, hesitated a moment, then came slowly up the walk. The twilight was getting deeper and the blue-white peaks, rising above the foothills, were sharply outlined against the darker blue background. Payne went down the steps to meet his fellow traveller of the day before, and introduced him to the others. "What a long twilight you have here, Mrs. Swallow," he said, turning to the ladies. "It was fully three hours last night after the sun went down, before it was dark. I was thinking how much the Eastern cities should envy you." "I dare say we do not properly appreciate the beauties of our scenery here," she answered. "Mr. Payne spoke of the sunset immediately on his arrival." "I am going to ask you to let me have his company for a while," said the Jew. "I am going for a walk about the 322 SONS OF ELOHIM town, and, as I reached New Town ahead of him, it be- comes my duty to show him around." "Is it settled thait you are to take care of me?" Payne asked, turning to Nancy. "I will try to give you better accommodation than you used to get in the railroad camps," she said, with a smile. "Mamma, dear, tell us about your knowing Mr. Payne so many years ago," Maidie said, as the two men went down the path. "Sometime, Maidie, not now." She rose and went into the house and Maidie again took up her guitar. CHAPTER XL THE HOPE OF ISRAEL "A typical Western town, this," said Payne when he and Cohen were in the street. "Just natural, half-done hu- man beings who seem to wonder why they came, and care not when nor where they go." "It requires the tragedies of life to waken one to the reality of his existence," said Cohen. "There has been tragedy in the lives of those two women I was talking with tonight. It is remarkable that I should find in one of them the little girl I lost in the West- ern desert more than twenty years ago. Her father was Pat Weatherbee, one of the contractors on the Central Pacific. She hasn't heard from him for nearly twenty years." "Weatherbee ? Weatherbee ?" mused the Jew. "I know a man by that name in San Francisco. He was a contractor, I believe, too ; but last I knew of him he ran a tough joint up near the docks and was a sort of clearing house for the City Hall gang. When I get back there I will look him up." "Just as well you don't, maybe, if it should be the same man. The daughter seems to be comfortably settled here, and might not be thankful to learn her father was of that character." "The Heath boy," said Cohen, "has been telling me the history of some of the villagers. It seems Mrs. Swallow's husband died from a rattlesnake bite, a year or two after their marriage, and a brother-in-law, named, Burke Chan- 324 SONS OF ELOHIM ning, disappeared about the same time. Never was heard of again. The ranchers thought he had been killed by some redskins from the Reservation, and came near lynching them. Peculiar thing about it is that a fellow named Burke, who was a runner for a hotel up in Barbary Coast, used to live in Old Town, and it was from him I got the in- formation that brought me here." "It would be strange if it should so happen that you could find both the missing men," said Payne. "I shall be going to Frisco myself within a day or two and I will see if I can find him." "Here's the address of the hotel this fellow Burke worked for a few months ago." "I'll get some information about him before I leave," said Payne, putting the card in his pocket. "Have you given any more thought to the subject of our discussion on the train yesterday?" Cohen asked. "About the restoration of Israel?" "Yes, and the preparation of the way by Elijah." "I find you are right about the Christian Testament requiring that Elijah come again," said Payne. "I com- pared the fourteenth verse of the eleventh chapter of Mat- thew with the Greek text, and it reads, 'He is Elijah who is to come.' Strange that the incorrect translation has never been discussed among theologians." "I will tell you something else they haven't seen," said the Jew. "The 'commandment to restore,' mentioned in the ninth of Daniel, which is to begin the four hundred and ninety year restoration period, was to go to Elijah. The Hebrew word, there, translated 'restore,' is shub, the same word used in Malachi's prophecy of Elijah's coming, and there translated 'turn.' Elijah was to receive that com- mandment to 'turn back Israel.' " THE HOPE OF ISRAEL 32* " 'And many of the children of Israel shall he turn unto the Lord, their God,' " Payne quoted, from the first chapter of Luke's Gospel. "You are speaking of John Baptist," said Cohen. "Compare the Message given to John, through his father, Zacharias, by the angel Gabriel, with Gabriel's words to Daniel 'From the going forth of the commandment to turn back Israel.' In the chapter you are quoting from, you will find, there, Gabriel giving this very 'commandment to restore/ and saying that John Baptist is to do that work as Elijah." "In which case," said Payne, thoughtfully, "the proph- ecy of the Restoraton had not been fulfilled up to the begin- ning of the Christian era. It has always seemed to me an error to connect the return of the Jews from Babylon, under the decree of Darius, with Ezekiel's prophecy for the restor- ation of the twelve tribes. Practically, only two tribes of Israel were there. The other ten tribes are still 'lost.' " "Yes; and after the two tribes had returned, and the Temple was rebuilt, Jesus came to call back the ten tribes. He, himself, said he 'was not sent except to the lost sheep of the house of Israel.' His disciples understood this to be his Mission; but he told them Elijah must come again. Peter, afterward, declared that Jesus would remain in heaven until the times of the Restoration shall have begun. I think most of the commentators were led ifito error by attempt- ing to connect the words in Daniel, ' the Messiah shall be cut off/ with the Crucifixion. It refers to the next betrayal, at the close of the Restoration, when the treacherous host turns him over to the armies of the nations, and he 'is caught up to God and His throne,' as told in the twelfth chapter of Revelation. It is to come near the close of the Restoration period, about seven years from the end. In 326 SONS OF ELOHIM this the Book of Daniel and the Book of Revelation are in agreement; and the entire Book of Revelation covers only a seven year period the last shabbua of the Restoration period." "You will pardon me, Mr. Cohen, if I express my sur- prise at your familiarity with the New Testament. I have never before found a Jew who had even read it." "Had they done so," said Cohen, "they had found there the very defense they have needed through all these cen- turies, to defend them against the persecutions by ignorant and fanatical Christians. They had found there that the Jews had no alternative but to reject Jesus of Nazareth as the Messiah." "Why, what do you refer to?" Payne asked, in aston- ishment. "Listen!" said the Jew in an earnest tone. "Did not Malachi say, 'Elijah shall come first that he shall prepare the way for the Messiah ?' " " 'He, it is, of whom it is written, He shall prepare the way before me/ " Payne quoted, recalling Jesus' words con- cerning John the Baptist. "Absolutely!" said Cohen. "But John didn't prepare the way. He denied he was the man the Elijah whom the angel Gabriel said he should be; and having denied his Mis- sion, having declared he was not Elijah, how in the name of God could any godly Jew believe upon Jesus as the Messiah whom they were looking for?" "Why why " Payne stammered, "you astonish me! John denied he was Elijah?" "Absolutely! Have you never read in the first chapter of the Gospel of John? how 'the Jews sent the priests and Levites to John Baptist to ask him 'Art thou Elijah? Art thou that prophet?' And John answered, 'No!' How in THE HOPE OF ISRAEL 327 the name of all your Christianity could the Jews scripturally accept Jesus, or any man as the Messiah, when there was no Elijah come?" "But John the Baptist was the Elijah it tells us." 'I, too, say he was. I believe from the evidence in your Christian Testament that John did receive the command- ment to begin the four hundred and ninety year restoration period ; that he did receive that Commission as Elijah. But he denied that Mission. He told the Jews he was not Elijah, and with that lie he betrayed God, he betrayed the Jews, he betrayed the very Son of God ! That cowardly lie of John the Baptist caused the rejection and crucifixon of your Man of Gallilee!" Payne stopped short and stared at Cohen, dumbfound- edly. "Oh, but it is a cruel, cruel truth," said the Jew bit- terly, "coming to us, now, after all these centuries. But it is not my word I give you. Read the words of your Jesus, who said of John after John had denied he was Elijah, after he had proclaimed the angel Gabriel a liar after God Himself had turned away from John, leaving him to his fate in Herod's hands. Jesus said, 'No greater prophet hath been born of woman than John the Baptist. Nevertheless, he has become the least of all men.' My God! What a fall that was! from the highest prophet to the lowest of man- kind! and because he had denied the greatest Mission ever given of God to man to prepare the way for the Redeemer to come to Zion! It is no wonder Jesus said Elijah must come again! John had brought the restoration to a sudden end. Gabriel had told Daniel, 'from the going forth of the commandment to turn back, there would be forty-nine years to the Messiah' forty-nine years of preparation be- fore the Messiah should be revealed. But John died at thirty-one. He did not prepare the way." 328 SONS OF ELOHIM "Yes," said Payne, softly, "he died, deserted of God, de- serted of Jesus, himself, whom he had declared the Mes- siah." "And that declaration, violating the sacred command of prophecy, caused the crucifixion of the Messiah!" said Cohen. "'Of the Messiah!' Payne echoed, astounded. "Do you believe Jesus was the Redeemer sent to Zion?" "I do! I believe it now. I believe if John the Bap- tist had said, 'Yes ! I am Elijah ! I am the preparer of the way! The kingdom of heaven is at hand! The Messiah will be revealed just forty-nine years from the day the angel Gabriel, through my father, gave me this command- ment to turn back Israel !' if he had said that there would have been no crucifixion. For no one would have known that Jesus was the Man, until the way had been prepared so completely Rome would have had no power to crucify him. And Jesus of Nazareth would have restored Israel. I believe it now. It was John's denial that caused the re- jection of Jesus. And the Jews were scripturally right in refusing to dccept a Messiah who knew he could not fulfill his Mission." "As you see it," said Payne, "the first forty-nine years of the four hundred and ninety year period must be for the preparation of the way for the Messiah's coming. Malachi said, 'Behold, I send my messenger, and he shall prepare the way.' What do you understand this 'preparation of the way' to mean?" There's a book of the Talmud which deals with this subject. I do not believe it has ever been translated from the Hebrew, and is practically unknown. It gives the first step to be taken in the 'preparation of the way.' It is 'to restrain from the transgression of the laws' the laws of Israel, of course. There is only one practical method for THE HOPE OF ISRAEL 329 doing this and it was first established by the early house of Israel. It is for Elijah to keep all the land of the New Kingdom, in one ownership, and give leases instead of deeds. One of the traditions of the Hebrews was, that the land never should be sold in fee, as, in such cases, the gov- ernment could not restrain the people from doing evil. But with leases, the laws were put in as covenants to which the purchaser must affix his signature, agreeing to keep the laws, under penalty of forfeiture of his residence. This automatically restrains all from transgression of the laws. I've been thinking that, when the United States became a nation, if they had done the same thing had never sold the land in fee, but issued, say, five thousand year leases, there wouldn't be much law breaking in this country." "Why, that is a remarkable thought !" Payne exclaimed. "No doubt about it, in my mind," said Cohen. "And, when Elijah comes he will build a city for the Messiah, a city where all shall, willingly, be restrained from breaking the law. He will put the Ten Commandments, as leasehold covenants, in every lease." "Then you believe the four hundred and ninety year period does not begin until Elijah the Elijah, Jesus said must come gets 'the commandment to restore ?' ' "Absolutely! And, after forty-nine years of prepara- tion, the Messiah will become the leader, and will lead for over 434 years. This is what Gabriel told Daniel." "Then, as you see it, if a man, claiming to be the 'Elijah,' shall build a city under leasehold covenants which include the Ten Commandments of Israel, it will be a sign that the second coming is at hand." "Positively! But, wait a moment. Your parable of the 'Ten Virgins' symbolizes the second advent not the third coming, as is being taught by your theologians. It re- 330 SONS OF ELOHIM quires that the very time, place and manner of the Messiah's coming shall be declared, else the 'Virgins' would not go out to meet him. Yet, it tell us in that parable, that he will 'tarry,' that he will not appear at the time designated, but will wait till the 'midnight hour,' the hour when all who had knowledge of the declaration will have soundly forgotten it. However, the time set for his appearing should be, proph- etically, exactly forty-nine years from the time the next 'Elijah' shall receive a divine inspiration that shall cause him to begin a 'preparation of the way.' Anyone who shall know the day that the 'commandment' went out to 'the Elijah who is to come,' will be able to declare the very time appointed for the Messiah's coming. I do not find that any- one has ever set the time, place and the manner of his ap- pearing. Some, ignorant of the original texts of the prophecies, have set the time for the 'end of the world' and the resurrection, mistakingly believing that 'the end' comes with the next coming of their Jesus. Why, the very proph- ecy of the second coming, given in the first chapter of Acts, emphatically states that 'he shall so come in like manner as they beheld him going into heaven.' As there was no resur- rection no important manifestation of any nature at the time of the Ascension there described, it is quite likely few, if any, will see the next coming. Scarcely any of the the- ologians of today appear to know that both the Old and New Testaments of the Christian Bible tell us of three advents." "I have never heard of it, and confess I have not seen any such prophecy," said Payne. "In Paul's second letter to the Thessalonians, he says the Messiah 'will be revealed in the heavens with his angels in flaming fire.' In the twenty-fourth of Matthew, Jesus tells his disciples the signs that shall follow his coming, not THE HOPE OF ISRAEL 331 precede him, as some have mistakingly assumed. The dis- ciples did not ask him for signs of his coming, but the signs that would show he had come. And after giving some events as logical proof of his presence, and his second ascension, he pictures, as a final climax, the 'coming of the Son of man upon the clouds of heaven.' Again, in the nineteenth of Revelation, John pictures the third advent with the Messiah on a white horse. In neither of these writings can the second advent be meant, as the next coming is to be 'in like manner as they saw him going into heaven.' Moreover, in the third of Acts we are told that the Lord Jehovah will send the Messiah, at the next coming ; while in the seventh of Daniel and in some of the chapters of Revelation, we find that at the time of the more spectacular advent, the Lord Jehovah will, Himself, have come." "I was once told, by a Hebrew scholar, it was an an- cient belief of Israel that the Messiah would be received by exactly eight men," said Payne. "Yes, that is believed by many of the best Hebrew scholars, as it is so foretold in the third chapter of Zechariah, and confirmed in the fourth chapter of that prophet's writ- ings. No doubt in my mind, whatever, that had John the Baptist loyally fulfilled his Commission, he would have been the 'Joshua' there mentioned as the high priest to receive the Stone of Israel, along with the other seven men whom Zech- ariah calls 'men of wonder.' That prophecy has not yet been fulfilled, and may, quite consistently, be the manner of the next coming, according to the New Testament record, also." "Perhaps," said Payne, thoughtfully, "it is because these eight men will not be ready to receive him, that he will not come at the appointed time, and will then wait till every- one has forgotten about it." "That may be true I had not thought of it. But, re- 332 SONS OF ELOHIM cently, I found in a book of the Talmud an opinion of a writer that the time, place and manner of the Messiah's coming will be declared by two witnesses, and refers to the fourth chapter of Zechariah as authority. That prophet did call attention to two sets of two witnesses each, one being the 'sons of the golden oil/ and the other 'sons of the clear oil.' The two 'sons of the clear oil' are, in that chapter, closely identified with the two witnesses mentioned in the eleventh chapter of Revelation, who are to witness to the coming of the Lord Jehovah, Himself. In each case the testimony of the witnesses is to be given immediately pre- ceding the advent. I think if protestant Bible students had seen that the entire Book of Revelation deals only with a period of seven years the last seven years of the 490 year period which is to begin with the next Elijah, they should have seen that both Jehovah God and the Messiah are to be here on earth during the thousand years which follow the resurrection. The fourteenth chapter of Zechariah and the twenty-third of Isaiah assure us that our God, Himself, will come. The seventh of Daniel and one of the chapters in Revelation give us a vision of the coming of the Messiah after the Lord Jehovah has come." "Cohen," said Payne, earnestly, "if you are right and I believe you are all the books yet written on the ninth of Daniel, can be junked. They are not worth the price of the paper wasted in their making. But is it not strange that so many have thought the resurrection occurs at the coming of Christ? I confess I have thought so." "There's not a line in the New Testament that supports this doctrine. I will tell you something: In the English translation of the Hebrew Scripture, you will find the word, 'Lord' capitalized. It signifies that the word, Adonoi, was substituted for the Hebrew name of God, Jehovah. In THE HOPE OF ISRAEL 333 the Greek Testament every Hebrew writing originally must have shown the same word in capitals, when referring to God, Himself. Translators, ignorant probably of this sig- nification, did not capitalize the Greek equivalent, Kurios, and thus the word, 'Lord,' standing for Jehovah in many places, has been thought to refer to Jesus. This error of interpretation is conspicuous in Paul's first Letter to the Thessalonians, where he spoke of the resurrection of the dead. The words 'the Lord,' there, was, originally, Adonoi, in capital letters. It stood for Jehovah. Paul usually said 'Our Lord,' when referring to Jesus. It is the Lord Je- hovah, Himself, who is to come down from heaven and cause the resurrection. And this does not take place until the four hundred and ninety years of restoration are ful- filled until the descendants of the twelve tribes are again at Palestine, and are being trodden down by the armies of the nations. "You believe they are to be led back to Palestine under the Messiah himself ?" "Absolutely! They must wait for Elijah to come. If they start back to Palestine without Elijah, without the Mes- siah, they will have, now, no excuse for disobeying the Word of the Eternal God, who said, 'I will send you Elijah the prophet and he shall prepare the way.' This second coming of the Messiah is to do the same work that he was not able to do before : He will bring together the descendants of the twelve sons of Jacob. . I am surprised that your Christian scholars have never seen the importance of this restoration. They would have seen how they are interfering with the plan of God in bringing into their churches men and women who are not of the Semitic race at all not descendants of Adam." "Then you would say that a church which is catholic is 334 SONS OF ELOHIM contrary to the divine plan and cannot be a Christian church," Payne said. "The word 'catholic' is a contradiction of Messianic purpose, and the time will come when every man who be- lieves himself to be a descendant of Jacob will come out of a church that takes in all races. Otherwise, they will have no part in the restoration the greatest event of the whole plan of God. Inasmuch as all these twelve families are rep- resented more extensively in the United States than any other country, it seems logical that the restoration will begin here. It is also logical to say it will begin with the building of a city. However, there'll be a sign which, should you be living when these things come to pass, will assure you that the advent is close at hand. Following a declaration which shall give the time, place and manner of the Messiah's coming which, of course, must wait upon Elijah's prepar- ation of the way the Jews of every nationality and remarkably in the United States and in England, where they have been welcomed more honestly than elsewhere, shall become the target for a most uncalled-for persecution and abuse, instigated and perpetrated by fanatical members of Christian churches. They will have to endure prejudice and intolerance, unprecedented in these countries, on the part of men and women who, although of the same flesh and blood as the Jew, have never understood that the word, 'Jew,' denotes a religion not a nationality the very religion of Jesus, whom they call, God, and of Mary the mother of him they call Christ. Any man can become a Jew ; but only descendants of Adam will participate in the fulfillment of the restoration prophecies." "Why," said Payne, reflectively, "here is a remarkable thought: that this belief should be a common ground on which the Christians and the Jews can come together ; the THE HOPE OF ISRAEL 335 Christians, seeing that John's denial made impossible the acceptance of Jesus ; the Jews agreeing that Jesus may have been their long-looked- for Messiah, who, having had no place prepared that he might call his own, confessed the failure of his Mission; and let himself be killed, to prove that men may pass through death, and live again." "When that day comes," said Cohen, with great earnest- ness, "Judaism will pass away, and Christianity remain only as a hideous nightmare to the world both swept away by the Zion of humanity which shall surely be established on earth." They had paused at the Heath gate. Payne looked into the other's face, truth-fired and bright burning with conviction. "A tremendous thought! A wonderful possibility!" he exclaimed. In the Jew's dark eyes quick tears had come, glistening in the glancing rays of the far-off stars. "Then ! then !" he cried, his hands reached out as though clutching at these hopes of twenty martyr centuries, "then, the world shall learn that God never gave His glory to an- other! never gave His son for man to crucify! never built a church for Assyrian popes, whose light was to be the fires of inquisition! whose creeds hatch hatreds in human hearts! that spilled Love in the altar fires, and swept like an evil scourge through a thousand awful years! racked, raped and tortured, in the name of Him their soldiers cru- cified ! Then ! then ! your idol-worshipping Christianity shall learn that to carry about a Roman cross has been but a shameless boast of a Roman victory, when their Assyrian ancestors killed the Man of Gallilee!" Awestruck, Payne could not answer. When, finally, he found his voice, the Jew was going up the gravelled walk. CHAPTER XLI "JOHN LIED!" When Payne returned to the Swallow's, he found Nancy in the sitting room. He asked to see an album of family photographs, and she named the various persons whose pic- tures were there. When she showed him one of Burke Channing, he looked at it, intently. Nancy told him about the sudden disappearance of her brother-in-law, and of the attempted lynching of the three Indians. "I don't believe Channing is dead," he said. "I believe he is in San Francisco. If he is the man I have in mind, he has become a dissolute wretch, and his family might not care to own him." "No, no, Tom; don't say that! If we could get him home we maybe we could help him be a man again. Do you really think it is he?" "I will look up the man when I go to Frisco again. I'll let you know." "I would go myself, and bring him back." she said. Later, they went out on the veranda, where the moon- light had begun to filter through the rose-vines. They sat there quietly listening to the song which Maidie and Arthur "JOHN LIED!" 337 were singing together, hardly louder than the notes of the guitar: "Just a song at twilight, when the lights are low, And the flickering shadows softly come and go " For half an hour, perhaps, Nancy and her girlhood friend, sat quietly listening to one song after another, songs of love, that send a breath of love and tenderness into the hearts of others. Then Arthur took the guitar from Maidie's hands, and struck a different chord : "Nearer my God to Thee; nearer to Thee: E'en though it be a cross that beckons me." As they sang this old, familiar hymn, Nancy leaned forward. She seemed to feel a significance in the words. She was sitting close to Payne, and, as though she feared he might stir, or speak, and break the spell, she laid a hand upon his arm, resting on the arm of his chair. When the boy and girl had finished the duet, and had gone into the house, Nancy looked up and found Payne regarding her curiously. She felt he must be reading. her thoughts. "Do you believe in God, Tom? you, who know so much about the world and of of things?" He was touched by the piteousness in her voice. "And do you not?" he asked, wonderingly. "I I don't know. There is so much I don't under- stand so much I can't believe." She rested her chin on the palm of her hand, and stared out into the moonlight. He did not answer ; in truth, he did not know just what to say. 338 SONS OF ELOHIM "If everything is true in the Bible or what the min- isters read out of the Bible, is true," she went on, delib- eratingly, "I should hate to believe He will have anything to do with with any other world that that I may have to go to, as they say. He seems to have made an awful mess of this. Can't He do anything? or don't He care? Has everybody always had to suffer, and be sick, and and be burned to death, perhaps, and and go without everything, or what you want most of all? I don't see how anyone is to know God was." For a moment he was silent, and she did not mind. She did not expect an answer. "Mrs. Swallow," he said, presently, "if you could see the misery of the world, as I have seen it; if you could know the millions of hearts that are aching, because of ignorance, of sickness, of the most awful afflictions; who have longed to fulfill the purpose of life, but have never had a chance. When you have known some of the millions who have lived without friendship, without sympathy, without love, but with all the inborn yearning of human hearts for the natural joy of living, and have gone into despair, to be swept away by death when you have seen something of this, you will know that God was, and that He is, and that, someday, He must disentangle this awful snarl of human lives, and give humanity another chance." She did not ask anything more. Presently he said good night, and went into the house. In his room, Payne opened his suitcase and took out his Bible, well thumbed and pencil marked. He turned to the first chapter of Luke, and read : "Thou shalt call his name John .... For he shall be great in the sight of the Lord .... And he ''JOHN LIED!" 339 shall go before his face in the spirit and power of Elijah, to turn the hearts of the fathers to the children." Then he turned to the last chapter of Malachi. "Behold I will send you Elijah the prophet .... and he shall turn the hearts of the fathers to the children." "Yes, John was Elijah who was to come," he said, to himself. Then he opened the Book, at the first chapter of John's Gospel, and read : "And this is the witness of John, when the Jews sent unto him from Jerusalem priests and Levites to ask him, whoartthou? .... Art thou Elijah? And he saith, I am not. Art thou the prophet? And he answered, No!" For sometime he sat, thinking. Then he rose and went to the window. "Cohen is right!" he said; "and John lied. It is the Christians not the Jews who have been blind." For sometime he stared out toward the moonlit hills. Then he threw his Bible into his grip. "Yes, John lied 1" he repeated. "No wonder that Jesus said of him, 'He was born the greatest of all prophets ; nev- ertheless he has become least of them all.' And, after all, the Jews were loyal to the word of God. Cohen is right. The Jews had to reject Jesus or reject the word of God. Elijah must come again !" He undressed, blew out the light and went to bed. CHAPTER XLII CONVERGING TRAILS Jeane Kimball, on her way over to the Channings with some fresh eggs from the doctor's ranch, met her father coming out of the drug store. "Here, Jeane," he said, "here is some medicine for Mrs. Heath, that was to have gone yesterday. Take it over before you go to Aunt Martha's." Jeane glanced from the bottle to her basket of eggs, then, looking up, she saw Hank Evans in the door of his shoeshop. "Oh, Uncle Hank, I want to leave my eggs till I go over to Mrs. Heath's," she said, running in and depositing the basket in a safe place. "How we do grow 'em in the Valley !" exclaimed Hank, to Luke Waters, now a decrepit old man, who, with the aid of a crutch, limped into the shop. "What? Vegetables?" "Vegetables, be hanged, Luke! I mean purty girls." The pioneer of Old Town, now a confirmed rheumatic, with a chronic conviction that everything was "going to the devil," spat a mouthful of tobacco at the box of sawdust, but made no reply. The shoemaker, white-haired and white-bearded, helped the aged rancher to a chair. CONVERGING TRAILS 341 Luke took off a boot and gave it to Hank, who looked it over critically, and sat down at his bench. "What be these things Heath's boy is handin* 'round town this morning?" Luke asked, when he had got com- fortably settled and could feel the draft of air coming in from the open back door. "These things be cards, Luke," said Hank, pausing in his work to adjust his glasses and scrutinize the bit of paste- board the other handed him. "Wall, ye aint told me nothin' yit I didn't know!" snapped out the old man, as a twinge of his rheumatism made him swallow a little tobacco juice. "What do they say? What do they say?" "It be a free lectur' on human dinnymos, w'ich, it goes on to say, is a reason fer life, death, evil, an' all kinds o' sicknesses," said the shoemaker, reading. "Human dinnymo! Never hearn tell o' that disease afore. Do it say how it takes holt on a man, Hank?" "It ben't no disease, Luke; leastways, it goes on to say that the aforesaid things is all account o' ignorance." "I've hearn tell o' the human smokestack, w'at eats a lot o' fire an' smokes fer a day'r two ; an' I hearn tell o' the human snake w'at has a clus fit pair o' striped pants, an' a shirt, and twists hisself up into a knot or somethin'; but I never hearn tell o' the human dinnymo, afore," declared Luke. "Mebbe he eats dinnymite, or some kind of exploshun- stuff," volunteered the shoemaker. "Here comes the old parson; mebbe he can tell us. Wat's the meanin' o' this mess, parson?" Hank gave the aged minister the card and proceeded to extricate a pair of gaiters from the shoe pile. 342 SONS OF ELOHIM The Reverend Obed Swallow put on his reading glasses and read aloud: FREE LECTURE on The Human Dynamo. Life, Death, Good and Evil, and Sickness and Health, Properly Understood Disease, Deformities, and Death, are all the result of ignorance. All fully explained at The Second Church, Saturday Evening, June 2nd. THOMAS PAYNE, E. E., Demonstrator. "It's a lecture on electricity," the parson explained. "This man was brought here by that erratic new preacher at The Second Church. He is probably a vendor of some panacea, and uses this means to get a hall full of people, and then offers them some kind of stomach bitters or kidney cure." He paid for the repair work and went out. "So it's 'lectricity," said the shoemaker, sitting down at his bench again, and beginning to work on Luke's boot. "Wall, it beats all I hearn tell w'at 'lectricity can do. They say it comes out o' now'ere. They jest run a wire in the air, and hitch a wheel to t'other end an' hauls it in like nil git out." "It's one o' them superstitional things I calc'late it's best to leave alone," said Luke. "These smart Alecs come here an' run a lot o' wires 'long on poles. Then the feller at the deepo makes a clickclack on a thumbscrew or 'nother, an' sez in less nor a minnit he knows if a train's left St. Paul on time. They're in cohoots with the devil, the hull dinged lot, an' I don't want nothin' to do with 'em !" "Thar aint nothin' to be afeard of, is thar, Luke? The CONVERGING TRAILS 343 wires be isolated, I've hearn tell, w'ich means they can't hurt ye." "Wall, they air talkin' o' puttin' up a isolated hospital here. Mebbe it's fer them people w'at gits some kind o' a 'lectric disease," suggested the old rancher. "No, Luke; it be a 'noculated institushun, fer some o' them fellers' families w'at comes here from the states, with them 'noculated diseases. There have been already five deaths in secreshun from w'at the doctors say war stoppages o' the heart. Must be terribly onhealthy in the states, Luke." "Wall, it war toler'bly healthy here, Hank, afore the railroad come. Ye can't say it warn't, Hank, not if ye war whoopin' 'er up fer it to come. An' now thar be fifteen doc- tors here if thar be one, an' not countin' Doc, the Pillmaker, neither," said Luke. "That tuberlocus disease air worse'n any disease I ever heerd on afore." " 'Taint nowise as deadly as 'nother disease most on 'em dies of," said Hank, as he paused in his pegging to put another liberal supply of foot-powder in the boot. "Wat's that?" Luke asked, his jaw movement coming to a dead stop. "Medical treatment," said Hank, with a grin. "Let me see that card agin," said Luke, after he had spat a few more times in the sawdust, and had changed his position. "Says Thomas Payne, E. E.'" said Hank, who had again picked up the card, and read it through. "Wonder what 'E. E.' stands fer." He tossed it to the rancher. "Dunno's I know," said Luke. "Them engineer fel- lers had a lot o' letters on the tail o' their names." "They war 'C. E.' w'ich is fer 'Civil Engineer,' " said Hank. "If this war 'L. E.', now, I'd think it war meant fer 'Lectrical Engineer.' " 344 SONS OF ELOHIM "Shore it aint 'L. E.' ?" Luke asked, studying the bit of pasteboard, laboriously. "Did ye ever hear tell how Buck got a new pair o' boots fust year the tellygraph war put through?" Luke shook his head. "Buck war stayin' with old Bumpy, ye reckerlect, Luke. An' ye also reckerlect the old man war durned clus fisted. Buck had been doin' the chores 'round the place till spring, 'cause he didn't have nothin' else to do. Wall, he got to needin' a pair o' boots mighty bad, an' he war bound to make old Bumpy pay fer 'em. One day the old man gits a letter from his boy who war in school somew'ere in the States, an' he gives it to Buck to read fer 'im. "Thar war one thing the kid wanted worse nor all, Buck ha* told him, an' it war a pair o' boots. Old Bumpy couldn't read, so Buck he supplied the distress fer the boots. Any- ways, he sez to Bumpy if he war him he'd git the boots and ship 'em to the kid. 'But it'll cost a powerful lot,' says Bumpy. 'Send 'em by tellgraph,' sez Buck. 'It'll cost a heap more, won't it?' sez Bumpy, 'I'll 'tend to that,' sez Buck, 'an' it won't cost ye a cent,' he sez. 'How can ye do it?' sez Bumpy. 'Jest wait till it's dark,' sez Buck, an' ye can climb up an' hang 'em on the wire yerself , an' zip !' sez Buck, 'they'll go fer nothin'. "Wall, this war pleasant to Bumpy, so he gits the boots arter Buck had tolt him w'at size the kid 'ud need, an' that night w'en it war dark, Buck takes a pair o' climbers one o' the engineer fellers left thar sometime afore, likewise a bill fer grub, an' he clomb the pole like a cat, an' hangs the boots on the wire right afore Bumpy's eyes. They war all nice wrapped up in a box, an' Buck ha' made a hook fer hangin'. "Wall, next mornin', w'en old Bumpy gits up, first thing he sees is a pair o' played-out old boots a hangin' w'ere Buck ha' put the box, night afore. 'Drat the kid !' sez CONVERGING TRAILS 345 Bumpy, w'en he sees 'em. 'He might a had some regard fer my pride/ he sez, 'an' sent his old boots back in the box I sent the new ones in,' sez he. Then he give Latimer's boy two bits to climb up an' git the old stogies. Buck lit out same day, an' Bumpy never knew till he died that it war Buck's old boots w'at come back by tellygraph." "This dinnymo feller is a demonstratur, w'atever the Sam Hill that means," said Luke, without passing any re- mark on Hank's story. "It don't say anythink about liver medicine, or rheumatic oil, leastwise not on this here card. Mebbe he's got suthin' w'at '11 help this dinged rheumatism o' mine. I'll come up if I don't feel too sot up. It don't cost nothin', do it, Hank?" " 'Free lectur,' it sez, w'ich I take, means all 'at goes with it, rheumatiz remedies an' all." "Mebbe thar's some catch in that word, 'demonstra- tur.' " said Luke, meditatingly. "Have ye got that boot 'bout done?" Hank took a few more stitches, cut the thread, and spat on the leather. "It'll last, now, fer quite a spell, Luke," he said, rub- bing his hand back and forth over the patch to make it smooth. Then he handed it over to the old rancher. "Them heels be purty bad, Luke," he suggested. "Bet- ter let me do the hull job, now's ye're here." "Don't know's I'll git 'nother chance right soon; so ye might's as well go ahead," said Luke, pulling off his other boot. . ,'ill( "There's a Jew feller in town," said Hank, after he had picked out some bits of leather of proper size. "He war in here t'other day, fer me to fix a strap. He's tryin' to find out suthin' about the Gorins." "Mebbe he will, and mebbe he won't," said Luke, bor- rowing Hank's knife to cut off a fresh piece of tobacco. 346 SONS OF ELOHIM "No one else ever found out much 'bout 'em. Takes a Jew to find out things if it's got any think to do with money." "Ye said a bucketful that time, Luke. The Jews be purty likely to own this airth, some day, an' all's in it. The scriptur' seems sot on it, too, fur's I see." "I haint got nothink agin a Jew, much as these church critturs talk agin 'em," said Luke. "Ye don't find 'em much in jails er looney houses, old Crocker ha' told me, onct. Beats me, Hank, why yure religious exhorters don't like 'em. Don't yure Good Book say as how yure Christ war a Jew?" "He aint my Christ any mor'n he's yourn, Luke. He ha' come fer all men that is to say, all that be o' the seed o' Abraham." Luke's toothless jaws worked rapidly to pulp the un- known ingredients of his cud, his eyes squinting at Hank, who was prying off the worn heels with a peculiar tool. "Them critturs w'at run the Cath'lic church them poops and card'nals, w'at that priest feller war spoutin' 'bout, here, a spell back they be'nt Jews, be they, Hank?" "They be Italyuns, Luke. Parson Raines ha' told me, once, the Italyuns come from the 'Syrians, w'at the Bible ha' warned us w'ud git holt o' Christianity, some day or 'nother. Beats me, Luke, how a 'Syrian poop can make a hull world believe he comes from the seed o' Israel, an' ha' got a right to say how the Jew church w'at Paul ha' 'stab- lished, sh'ud be run. The church o' Christianity war cal- c'lated to be a restrashun o' the hull twelve tribes, w'at the Lord ha' give to set the rest o' humanity right side up. How can they expect to make a fam'ly reunion w'en they invite in all sorts o' critturs w'at haint come from the seed o' Israel, a-tall? The Lord ha' give a prophecy, onct, that the ten tribes w'at ha' got away from them 'Syrians arter they made 'em slaves, 'ud come together agin." CONVERGING TRAILS 347 "Who be they, Hank?" "Wall, I reckon as how ye air one on 'em, Luke, bein' as how yure grandfather war Irish extracshun. The Irish 'pear to be a long time findin' out they haint got no excuse fer bein' in a cath'lic church. The parson ha' tolt me, onct, how the word, 'cath'lic,' means fellers from all kinds o' races, w'en it sez plain enough in the Bible that the kingdom o' heaven air to be jest them w'at ha' come from the seed o' Israel. The parson ha' tolt me, onct, how the Irish air from the seed o' Israel, an' how they kept the stun o' Jacob, w'at Jacob ha' gone to sleep on, w'en he see the angels comin' an' goin' inter heaven, an' how the stun ha' been tuk to Ireland more than six hundred years afore Christ, by Jeremiah, the prophet w'at writ the Lamenshuns o' the Bible. 'Cordin' to the parson, the Irish war a great people fer a thousan' years, nigh 'bout, w'ile they war proud o' bein' descendants o' Israel, afore they got to follerin' a 'Syrian poop, w'at air Italyun an' haint o' the seed o' Israel a-tall. Now the Irish air 'bout the only ones left o' the lost tribes w'at haint emit bein' in a church w'at is cath'lic. Beats me how they stick to follerin' Italyun poops w'at haint o' the seed o' Israel, an' haint to be 'mong the hundred and forty-four thousan' serv- ants o' the Lord tolt 'bout in the Book o' Revelashuns." "W'at ye mean by 'the seed o' Israel,' Hank?" "The parson ha' tolt me, onct, the 'lost ten tribes' air them ten nashuns, like England, Scotland, Wales, Ireland, Danmark, Swedan, Norway an' Germany, an' one or two I forgit. He sez they air 'bout all the prot'stant nashuns o' the airth, an' w'at b'lieve in the same God the Jews ha' b'lieved in. He 'lows no Israel feller can jine a church w'at's cath'lic, fer that means all sorts o' critturs, w'ile the Bible sez an' I ha' read it, myself that jest them that air the descendants o' Jacob air to be the church o' the Lord. 348 SONS OF ELOHIM He sez as how Jesus ha' come to bring the hull twelve tribes together, agin, in a new kingdom w'at '11 be called, 'Zion,' an' w'ich air to be the kingdom o' heaven on airth. He know'd he c'udn't make a fam'ly reunion o' the twelve tribes if all sorts o' critturs come in 'fore they git the new nashun 'stablished. Ye see, Luke, thar ha' been a lot o' diff'rent kinds o' races o' peoples started new on this airth, arter the others ha' had their times, in the last million years or more, like the Jew race ha' come from Adam, 'bout five or six thousan' years ago. An' ev'ry new race ha' had their own God an' their own Saviour, an' ha' got to work out, their own way, w'at their Lord ha' wanted 'em to do, an' sech, like w'at Adam ha' been tolt w'en he war with the Lord, face to face, afore he ha' got blood in his body, an' w'at he ha' tolt Knock an' Methusely, an' Noah, w'ose sons ha' tolt it to Abraham an' Jacob, an' how they air to make a kingdom on airth like the kingdoms o' heaven be. An' o' course, seein' as how them other races ha' had their chanct, the Lord o' the Jews, an' t'other tribes o' Israel, air to use jest them to work out His way o' doin' things afore His Judgment Day comes." "He aint done it yit, Hank. An' that war a couple thousan' years ago or therebouts," said Luke, missing the sawdust box by about three inches. "Haint ye got no respect f er my floor !" Hank scowled, pushing the box nearer the other, with the aid of an um- brella handle. "Can't spit straight, Hank, w'en ye air quotin' scrip- tur'. I had rather go to hell straight account o' not knowin' nothin' 'bout it, rather'n be racin' 'roun' like a herd o' crazy Mavericks, tryin' to find the straight road to glory jes' to play a harp w'en I git thar." Hank chuckled. CONVERGING TRAILS 349 "I reckon ye'd be more like a bull in a chiny shop, if ye got to heaven, Luke; fer ye c'udn't chew tobacker thar; leastwise, I aint thinkin' ye c'ud." "Wat's that yure Good Book sez 'bout eatin' pig, Hank? All yure church critturs 'pear to fergit w'at the Lord ha' said, w'en they git to eatin'. The new parson sez so Jenks ha' told me that the Lord ha' said all them as eats o' pig- meat '11 go to hell, straight, 'long with the wicked. W'at you sayin' 'bout that, Hank?" "Wall," said Hank, driving his pegs vigorously, "1 reckon as how the fellers w'at writ the hell doctrin' o' the churches, ha' got a taste o' hog meat afore they writ; an' they ha' made out as how the Lord war wrong, and how some other feller war right, w'at ha' said, 'the Lord ha' made all meats good to eat,' or suthin' like that. I haint no vegetable cuss, Luke, but I 'bout as soon eat the gut of a rattler, as a shank o' pig. W'en I git to thinkin' I know more than the Lord, Luke, I'll quit peggin' boots, and start raisin' wings." "Be thar anythink in yure Good Book agin tobacker, Hank?" Hank turned his face toward the window a moment, and Luke correctly sensed he was chuckling to himself. "Luke," said he, presently, "from all accounts the Lord air perfectly willin' fer any feller w'at's usin' tobacker, to keep to usin' it w'ilst he's here on airth, leastways. I haint writ it, Luke, an' ye can't blame me fer w'at the new parson o' the Second Church sez to Red. Red ha' arsked the par- son, did the Bible say as a feller sh'ud n't eat tobacker." Hank paused, to smoothe his grin to a more serious ex- pression. "Wall, w'at the parson tell him?" Luke asked, testily. "He tolt Red, the Lord 'pears to ha' know'd someday 350 SONS OF ELOHIM fellers 'ud use tobacker an' snuff an' sech; fer it be writ in the Book o' Revelashuns an' I haint writ it, Luke, an' haint nowise to blame fer w'at it sez, Luke ; but, sez the new par- son to Red: 'Red/ he sez, 'it sez thar: If any man be holy, let him be holy still ; an' if he be filthy, let him be filthy still.' The parson ha' tolt Red that, Luke; an' ye ha' arsked me did the Bible say anythink, an' I jest tell ye w'at the parson ha' told Red." Luke's jaws worked rapidly for a moment, his eyes squinting into the shoemaker's face. "Wall, Hank, from all ye say an' partic'lar the way ye say it, I ha' got a noshun ye don't use tobacker, yureself ," he snapped. "Haint ye got them boots done yit?" "Not yit, Luke ; ye know I haint, bein' as I ha' jest got the heels off." "Wat's this Christian Seeance they be talkin' 'bout, Hank, w'at some woman ha' writ in a book?" "Fer as I see an' I haint seen none o' her books, yit it be suthin' agin doctors an' medicin'. Jedge Lattimer war tellin' the old parson, t'other day, it be a new religion, w'at be goin' to revolushunize Christianity." "W'at 'd the parson say?" "He said Christianity an' the Meth'dist church war good enough fer Peter, an' Paul, an' John, an' he 'lowed they'd be still goin' w'en this woman war forgot so the Jedge ha' told me." "The Widder Heath ha' let Sary take one o' the books to read. She haint been able to make head or tail o' w'at be writ in it. She sez the Heaths an' the Widder Swallow ha' all tried to git suthin' out o' it, but ha' had to stop, afearin' they'd go looney. The Heath boy ha' been wantin' to go to a horspital fer one o' them deadly operashuns ye CONVERGING TRAILS 351 talk about, Hank; but his ma's 'fraid he wont come out live agin." "Wall, Luke, from all accounts it's 'bout nip and tuck. If ye go inter Christian Seeance to git well, ye'll lose yure reason, an' if ye go inter medical seeance, ye'll lose yure life. Seeance is gittin' more wonderful ev'ry day, Luke, 'spe- cially w'en a woman air pardoocin' it." "Aint thar suthin' in yure Good Book, Hank, agin women runnin' the church doin's? That Dinkelstein Jew cuss ha' told us that day you remember, Hank? right here, that the Jews' Bible is agin a woman spoutin' religion. Ben't yure Good Book same as the Jews, Hank?" "Yas, I reckon it's 'bout six o' one and half dozen o' t'other w'en it air all read the Lord's way. Paul ha' made a great noise agin women mixin' in church doin's. I reckon that 'thorn in his hide,' w'at he ha' told 'bout, war put thar by some woman." "War he one o' them 'Syrian poops, Hank?" "Paul war a Jew, Luke; an' he ha' raised hell with Matthew and Mark an' the rest o' them 'postle fellers, till one night suthin' ha' gi'n him a nightmare; an' arter that he ha' writ more stuff w'at nobody can understand, than all the other fellers w'at ha' writ. He ha' started out to build the church o' Christ; but arter people got to readin' w'at he writ, they got to startin' new churches, jest to find out w'at he didn't mean by w'at he didn't 'tend to say." "He war some parleyclucker, warn't he, Hank?" "He war, Luke, s' help me !" Luke's jaws wrestled his cud to the other cheek, as he made a few vainly vicious jabs at the flies, mobilizing on his knees. "Hank, w'at war them eunicks that priest feller war 352 SONS OF ELOHIM sayin' ha' had to be sech, 'count o' servin' the Lord? He warn't one, war he, Hank?" "Wall, Luke, from all accounts, a eunick be jest the thing w'at none o' them priest fellers haint. It beats me, Luke, how a feller can b'lieve the poop's church air the church o' Christ w'en the Jews' Bible ha' writ 'Ye shall git married an' multiply.' I ha' heerd say the Cath'lic church war founded by Peter. He warn't no eunick, Luke; an' he ha' had a wife, fer I ha' read he rebuked his mother-in- law or mebbe it war the devil in her, w'at he rebuked." "More'n likely," said Luke. "Some on 'em air chuck full o' devils, so I ha' hearn tell." "Ye got a great imaginashun 'bout w'at ye ha' heerd tell, Luke." "W'at ye think 'ud happen, Hank, if all them priest fel- lers w'at haint 'lowed to marry, an' sech, war tolt they got to be eunicks?" "Guess thar'd be a revolushun in the church quicker'n ye c'ud say, 'scat!' Luke." "Hank the Jedge tolt me, onct, all them big Bible fel- lers ha' had a lot o' wives an' sech. W'at ye got to say 'bout that, Hank?" "Wall, Luke, I reckon how, 'bout that time, the wimmen ha' come to thinkin' they war the hull thing, an' they c'ud make their husbands do anythink they tuk a noshun to want, or they'd lock 'em out o' the house an' sech like. So the Lord, w'at ha said the wimmin air not to be boss, jest give i feller a right to take more'n one wife, an' o' course the feller 'ud do the most fer the one w'at war best to him. Then, o' course' thar'd be competishun fer gittin' the feller to likin' on em both, an' they'd more'n likely be better wives. The .Lord ha' know'd a feller haint good fer much fer doin' CONVERGING TRAILS 353 things, if he's got a pesterin' wife w'at thinks she be a bigger feller 'n he be." "D'ye think time '11 come agin, Hank, w'en a feller '11 have a right to more'n one wife?" Hank held his hammer against the boot sole for a mo- ment as he looked, thoughtfully, into Luke's wrinkled face. "Luke, I haint here to say anythink agin the Lord's way o' doin' things, an' I can't help but think He never did b'lieve in pollyogomy, or w'atever they call it. But one thing ye can b'lieve, Luke, an' that be, the Lord never ha* intended a woman to be equal to man in the things a man ha' got to do to pervide fer her w'ile she ha' been give to take care o' the kids an' sech. 'Pears to me most divorces air caused by wimmin gittin' to thinkin' they can be boss o' the man, w'ich, o' course, starts a feller lookin' 'round fer some woman he can jest love, an' do things fer, w'at she'll appreciate. 'Taint natural fer a man to care much fer a wife w'at he can't feel 's dependin' on him, so he'll jest let natur' lead him. Then t'other wife'll think she's got a right to git a divorce, an' make the feller support her on allermoney." "Wat's all this parleycluck got to do with w'at I ha' arsked ye, Hank? I arsked ye, if time '11 come agin, w'en a feller '11 be give a right to a lot o' wives." "Like's not," said Hank, starting again, to hammer the nails into the boot heel. "If time comes w'en divorces air multiplyin' more'n people, an' wimmen git more and more sot agin havin' kids, there ben't no other remedy, fer's I see. Pollyogomy '11 git a woman to stay home an' make love to her man, 'stead o' prancin' 'round fer other feller's to see how frisky she can be away from home. No feller haint goin' to want more'n one wife to pervide fer, 'less he haint got a helpmeet, w'at the Lord ha' said woman air to be. W'en a woman aint no longer w'at the Lord ha' intended she 354 SONS OF ELOHIM sh'ud be, mebbe the gover'ment will make a law w'at '11 give a man 'nother chance 'thout his havin' to pay allermoney f er her to go galvantin' 'round the kentry with fellers w'at don't want wives. Mebbe the gover'ment will pervide a place fer sech wimmin w'ere thar ben't no men folks to keep 'em from bossing the roost. They c'ud jest pester each other s'long's they'd last." "Wall, Hank, w'en ye git to runnin' fer president o' 'Mericky like ye ha' said onct, ye better not say much 'bout yure ideas on pollywogamy, an* sech, or the wimmin '11 skin ye alive. Civil'zashun 's mostly w'at the wimmin makes it, an' she haint goin' to be satisfied till she can git a law passed w'at sez the men ha' got to have the kids." Hank sharpened his knife for a moment on the whet- stone. "Like's not," he said, presently. "Lanky ha' tolt me, Hank, he war member o' some church or 'nother, onct. Guess that war quite a spell back." "Wall, Luke, he be a member yit, 'cordin' to w'at he ha' tolt me. He said as how he war gone to see a doctor feller in Frisco, onct, w'at war a great church feller, 'count o' havin' to give pills an' sech to the sisters an' deacons. It war on Sunday, an' the feller ha' tuk Lanky to church, so he ha' tolt me. Arter they ha' sung suthin' 'bout bein' full o' holes, sez Lanky, all on 'em begun talkin' to onct, he sez, an' sayin' : 'O Lord, I ha' done ev'rythink w'at I orter not done, an' I ha' done nothink w'at I orter done, an' thar haint no help fer me.' 'I see, right then,' sez Lanky, 'I ha' been a member o' the 'Piscapull church 'bout all my life an' never know'd it till then.' I guess, Luke, he air still a member, fur's that be." "Hank, ye aint told me why yure church don't like the Jews. Wat's the Jews ever done agin the churches?" CONVERGING TRAILS 355 "Wall, Luke, my noshun be like this: Wen them Syrian poops got holt the church o' Christ, w'at Paul built, I reckon fust thing they ha' thought 'bout war the 'lost tribes o' Israel,' w'at the Lord ha' sed, war to come back, some day or 'nother, an' jine the Jews. The Jews be only two of the 'riginal twelve tribes, the two w'ich the Bible sez was allus to stick to them old thingamajigs w'at that feller, Moses, ha' made out the Lord tolt him to make 'em do, like circumstishun, an' throwin' their sins in the river, w'en a sartin day conies an' all talkin' to onct, w'en they git to tellin' the Lord w'at a great Feller He is; like that renegade cuss, Dinkelstein, w'at ha' tolt us right here in my shop, an' sez his father war a Jew robbay in a sinkel- gog in Noo Yark." "Wat's all this parleycluck got to do wit' w'at I ha' arsked, why yure church critters allus look at a Jew like he war a greaser or a drunk siwash. W'at the Jews ever done to 'em, Hank?" "Ye got 'bout as much patience, Luke, as a tub o' grease, bilin' fer soap. Ye're splutterin' fer ev'rythink to come to the top to onct. Ye got to git to the bottom o' yure shaker to git the nuggets." "'Bout all ye got to dig up from the bottom o' yure shaker, Hank, is suthin' w'at that feller, Moses, ha' sed suthin' 'bout the Lord. Wat's the reason a Jew hain't got jest as much right to play a harp as yure pig-eatin' church members ? That's all I arsk ye, Hank." "I reckon they have, Luke. I begun to tell ye that w'en them 'Syrian poops and card'nals got their hands on the church w'at Paul built, fust thing they see, prob'ly war that the Lord ha' made a plan fer them ten tribes, w'at war lost, to jine the Jews and build up a nashun w'at'd fill the hull airth. They see w'en that thing 'ud come the jig 'ud be up 356 SONS OF ELOHIM fer them. So they made out as how it war the Jews w'at ha' crucified Christ; an' they ha' made most ev'ryone b'lieve it, too. They ha' kept the Jews mad agin the Christians, an' ha* kept the Christians b'lievin' they sh'ud hate the Jews." "I allus heerd it war the Jews w'at did it, Hank? But the old parson ha' said so the Jedge ha' tolt me that Christ war sent here fer that very puppose, to be crucified. Tears to me, Hank, they sh'ud been give a metal, or suthin', for doin' w'at yure Lord ha' wanted done. Don't yure Bible say it war the Jews w'at did the dirty work o' the Lord?" "Wall, I ha' read, an' read, all it sez in my Bible, an' I never c'ud find thar war one Jew at that lynchin'. Mebbe them poops ha' writ a Bible w'at tells it that way. 'Tain't in my Bible. It sez them Italyun fellers w'at ha' put Herod to boss the Jews, 'cause he war one o' them Phillistin' cusses w'ose ancester war hit by a stun w'at David ha' thrun er mebbe it war wit' a jaw bone o' the ass. Any- ways, they ha' tolt Herod, w'en they heerd Christ war born, to kill the childurn, same age, so as to git him afore he grew up an' got the Jews to believe he war the Messiah. But the Lord ha'" "Thar ye go, parleycluckin' agin 'bout the Lord. I hain't arskin* w'at the Lord ha' done. Ye don't answer my question, Hank." "Wall, Luke, them 'Syrian poops an card'nals ha' tolt it their way so much, most ev'rybody got to b'lievin' it war the Jews, 'stead o' Pilate's Italyun soldiers, w'at did the lynchin'. Thar war hundreds an' hundreds o' years w'en church folks didn't dare have any more sense than ye got, Luke, 'bout Bible things in them dark ages. Ev'rytime a church feller 'ud see a Jew he'd say, 'Ye crucified Christ! To hell wi'ye!' Then the poops ha' give out metals to CONVERGING TRAILS 357 celebrate the lynchin' o' the Son o' God. They ha' made a cross with a dead man on it fer ev'ry church member to wear, an' them as didn't w'ich war, o' course, the Jews, they'd hang him on a tree or burn him to the stake. Ye never heard o' a Jew celebratin' the murder o' a Jew, Luke, much as the Christians 'pear' to be sot on doin' it. Wen the protestant churches war hatched, most o' the eggs ha' been laid by the poops an* card'nals. Sho! Ye can't git white chickens from turkle eggs, Luke, jest by puttin* a white hen on the nest." "I ha' learned that much myself since them dark ages ye know so much 'bout, Hank," said Luke, spitefully send- ing a liquid barrage half way to the sawdust box. "I reckon yure church critturs ha' got the noshun them dark ages air still here. I heerd a story onct 'bout a priest feller w'at got a Jew to jine the Cath'lic church. The priest feller he ha' poured some holy water onto the Jew an', sez he, 'Onct ye war a Jew, but now ye air a Christian,' an' he thought the Jew b'lieved it. One day, arterward, the priest feller ha* gone to eat supper with the Jew. It war Friday, but the Jew war only a half-breed Christian, an' he ha' roasted a chicken. 'Ye can't eat meat on Friday,' sez the priest feller, sorry like. The Jew got a dipper o' water an' arsked the priest feller to hocus pocus it fer holy water, w'ich he did. Then the Jew ha' tuk the chicken an' ha' poured the water on it. Sez he: 'Onct a chicken, now a fish! Onct a chicken, now a fish!' an' they ha' b'lieved it war a fish, sartin sure." "Sho!" said Hank. "That air story I ha' heerd afore I come to Old Town. I ha' heerd a better one 'bout a feller w'at met a Jew, an' 'thout sayin' 's much as 'How's yure liver?' he starts in to give the Jew a lickin'. The Jew war bigger'n he looked, an' purty soon he ha' got the wallopper 358 SONS OF ELOHIM a sittin' on his hind legs, arskin' fer peace. 'Wat ye jump on me fer?' arsks the Jew. 'Ye kilt Christ!' sez the feller. 'W'y, ye pig-eating' runt,' sez the Jew, 'Christ war kilt eigh- teen hundred years ago !' 'Never heerd it afore, till yes- tiddy,' sez the feller. 'Ye sh'ud read the papers,' sez the Jew, lettin' the feller up." "Hank, I allus know'd Bud 'ud go to Tennessee sooner or later. Beats me how he ha' got a noshun he sh'ud sup- port the feller's widder an' children, arter he kilt the feller in the war. Think he cal'clates to marry her, Hank ?" "Likes not," said Hank, pausing in his work to look soberly at the old rancher. "Bud air one o' the real kind o' heroes w'at air writ about, but a feller don't get a chanct to see more'n onct in a lifetime, Luke." "S'pose the feller w'at ha' kilt Jack Powers ha' tuk the same noshun, Hank. Guess ye don't find fellers like Bud 'mong them rebels w'at hide their heads in a piller case an' burn a nigger to death." "Wall, Luke, I reckon no feller w'at ha' been licked air goin' to feel jest as forgivin' as the feller w'at ha' licked him. Molly ha' done purty well, 'thout any man, since she ha' been carryin' the mail." "Remember how the parson ha' kep' 'em from lynch- in' them siwashes, Hank? I ha' never told ye how it war the Widder Swallow w'at done it. I heerd her say to him 'If Billy Ki-Ki war here he'd stop 'em.' The parson ha* looked like he wanted to kill Billy fer a minnit. Then he ha' tackled the job as good as Billy c'ud a done it." "Nancy warn't a widder, then, Luke; an' ye ain't got no right to make out as how the parson war in love with Dick Swallow's wife. She ha' been a good woman, Luke; an' she be liked mor'n any other woman in New Town." "That's 'cause she never jined yure church, Hank. CONVERGING TRAILS 359 Them w'at has air a lot o' backbitin' hypocrites or they be too stiff neck'd to bite. Burke Charming ha' had his belly full o' church dope 'fore he took a notion to light out. Think he'll ever turn up agin, Hank?" "Like's not he will, someday," said Hank, hammering unnecessarily hard on Luke's boot heel. Then he let his hammer rest on his aproned knee a moment, looking at the grizzled rancher, a grin twitching at the corners of his mouth. "Ye be an ornary cuss, Luke, w'en ye git to talkin' 'bout religion. I have a right smart suspishun yer con- science ain't none too 'commodating' to ye, an' some day ye'll be hikin' to the mourner's bench w'en ye think yure Judgment Day's come." Luke snorted angrily and spat savagely at the sawdust. Before he could answer, Jeane Kimball ran into the shop for her eggs. "Good morning, Uncle Luke," she said, smiling pleas- antly at the old man. "How's your rheumatism?" "Purty bad! Jeanie. Purty bad! How be all yure folks?" "Oh, everybody's well at home." "W'ich means ye don't take much o' yure father's medi- cine, I'm thinkin', said Luke with a grin. "Them as does be purty sick." "Were be ye takin' the eggs, Jeanie?" Hank asked, as she drew her basket out from under a pile of leather. "Over to Aunt Martha's." "Will ye take these shoes along with ye, Jeanie? They be for the Widder Jenkins across the street. She hain't got more'n one pair, I'm thinkin' ; mebbe she don't want to come fer 'em in her stockin' feet. CHAPTER XLIII JIM CRAWLEY'S DINNER PARTY From the day Jim Crawley rode into Old Town on his cayuse and found Betty awaiting him, to a certain morn- ing in 1885, when he stood in the door of his old shack and saw, in the distance, hotel, houses, and store buildings coming slowly northward to the tune of creaking rollers and yelling pony-drivers, the big-hearted, red- whiskered Englishman had taken his wife down to De Land's hotel every Sunday afternoon to supper. And the first Sunday of each June he had always invited the same guests, or so many of them as were able to come, whom he had invited on the day of his wedding, to celebrate the anniversaries of that memorable occasion. Since the advent of the railroad, the removal of the village and the consequent change in Crawley's financial condition, the list had grown to include a dozen guests, all of whom looked forward to these suppers as one of the principal features of New Town's bills of enjoyment. One, only, of the original coterie of participants could, but wouldn't, take part in the annual feast. Old Luke Waters had fallen away. He had never sat at table with Jim Crawley since it broke upon him that the Englishman had trumped his ace, as it were, and had stolen his village from under his very nose. JIM CRAWLEY'S DINNER PARTY 361 Luke had been missed from the circle, and never did Crawley fail to drink a toast to "those who war gone never to return, and to Mister Luke Waters, the pioneer o' the Valley, w'ose presence air to be 'oped fer on the next hocca- sion." The women folk also came in for a goodly share of the genial host's compliments; and many a hearty laugh had helped to bring the roses again to Nancy Swallow's cheeks and to make the good wife of Doctor Kimball forget her own domestic worries and, for the time being, the physical suffering of her husband's patients, with whom she always tried to keep in touch. On the Sunday afternoon following Tom Payne's ar- rival in New Town, there were few vacant seats in the dining room of the DeLand House, as it was now called. Some of the guests we have not known; but one of our old friends from whom we have heard nothing for many years, was there on Crawley's right hand Billy Ki-Ki, formerly, but now William Carruthers, the cattle king. "As ha' been our custom," began Crawley, at the head of the table, as the guests prepared to seat themselves, "we will feel, in our 'earts, thankfulness fer this 'appy hocca- sion, and 'ope them as can't be 'ere today will jine us next time." Then he turned to his wife, Betty, and with as tender a look as a lover ever gave a sweetheart in courting days, he added: "An' we'll now drink a wee bit to the wife o' me old 'eart, who's the best wife a man ever 'ad, an' who's goin' to fergive me some day fer bein' a fool fer thirty years." At which Betty blushed and smiled back at Jim exactly as she did years before when he kissed her lips beneath the bonnet of roses and green leaves. 362 SONS OF ELOHIM "Who war to 'ear the lectur' o' the helectrical feller last night?" he asked, when everyone had been served with soup. "I, for one, was there," said Doc Carmel, the post- master. "An' ye war 'bout thinkin' ye war in the middle o' no- where, wit' nothin' all 'round ye, now, warn't ye ? af ore he got through wit' all them demmystrashuns." Crawley chuckled and wiped the soup off his whiskers. "I understood it all perfectly, perfectly," said Doc, with a little egotism. "Tell us about it, Mr. Crawley, do !" urged the Widow Jenkins, otherwise known as the "relic of old Bumpy." "Wall, me an' Betty war thar, an' w'at wit' bells ring- in' an' the rattlin' o' some bloomin' contreevance agin a piece o' bladder, an' the bloomin' rope w'at kept a spittin' fire an' stinkin' the hatmosphere worse nor a lot o' calves under a brandin' iron, it war hinterestin' to the last ditch. Then w'at does Luke do but 'e 'oilers out an' 'e sez : 'Were do a feller git some o' your medicine, young man?' Luke war thinkin' it war a demmystrashun o' some helectric hointment or other." Crawley paused here to propose the usual toast to his erstwhile friend. "W'at did 'ee haf to sell, Jeem?" asked DeLand. "Honly a book, a 'booklet' 'e calls it, at a shillun, Eng- lish money, 'guaranteed,' 'e sez, 'to tell a man more largical facts about dinnymetrical construction ' " "Helectrical construction," corrected Betty. "W'at war it 'bout dinny, dinny " "You mean dynamo," prompted Doc. "Dinnymo it war, an' a bloomin' bit o' gearin' w'at went like a streak o' greased lightnin', an' reared up like a JIM CRAWLEY'S DINNER PARTY 363 house afire, as the " (interrupted here by a nudge from Betty), "an' it came near to kickin' hover the traces a time or two." "But what was it all about, Mr. Crawley? Tell us what he said, or did, please do!" again urged Widow Jen- kins. "Wall, I dunno but Doc can tell ye better, bein's 'ow 'e hunderstands helectrical demmystrashuns ; honly Doc's liable to be prejiced a leetle, seem' as 'ow the feller hit out right'n left agin doctors, an' partic'lar agin Doc's pills." Crawley started to chuckle, but stopped short at a poke from Betty. "Jim!" she said; and Jim knew he was off the track, somewhere. Everyone else, including Doc, laughed heartily; for, as they all knew, the postmaster, when not busy sorting let- ters and reading postal cards, was wont to adjourn to a backroom where he kept a big hunk of gray-looking dough which he dexteriously rolled up into little pills. That part of their secret which related to the composi- tion was kept from the prying eyes of the public, but the directions were printed in plain letters on every box and the dose was, undoubtedly, the most intricate part of the busi- ness. The quantity to be taken was governed somewhat by the law of subtraction, multiplication and division. The first dose was a lonely pill, on going to bed; the second, in the morning, was to be twice the one preceeding; the third, one-half the second plus twice the one preceeding that; and so on, before each meal and before going to bed until, it was said, it took a man all one day to figure out what his doses should be on the day following. Crawley had tried the efficacy of these pills, as he had 364 SONS OF ELOHIM related at a previous dinner, only he had "read the letterin' on the box, an' got so twisted up in the multiplication table and the rule o' three, that to save his bloomin' mind he tuk the hull mess to onct, an' it never teched him." "You're doing well, Jim," said Doc, good-naturedly, after the laughter had subsided, and DeLand's daughters had replaced their empty soup bowls with some canned sal- mon. "Wall," began Crawley, "thar war a goodly crowd, bein' as it war free. An' thar war a lot o' wires an' ma- chinery set up on the stage, as I war sayin'. Arter the feller makes 'is bow, 'e sez, sez 'e, 'The 'uman body 'as allus been a mystery to science,' 'e sez, 'because science never hunder- stood it; but w'en ye knows about it, hit's easy like knock- in' down a row o' nine pins.' 'Man,' sez 'e, 'is a perfect helec- tric machine, like a street railway w'at goes by helectricity. 'Is body is the power house, an' the wires on the streets air the nerves. The sparks w'at ye see fly off the wires, air thoughts,' 'e sez. W'en 'e sez that, he puts 'is finger on suthin' an' a dingus w'irled 'round a hummin', an' lot o' sparks flew off a black string as war stretched hover the hawdiences' 'eads. 'Them thoughts air physical things,' sez 'e. 'They're stinkin' things,' I sez to Betty; fer at onct I smelt a stink like burnin' o' feathers." "It was a chemical preparation that he applied," Doc volunteered. "He put a feather here and there on the wire ; that was what you smelt." ' "But there be some truth in that,' sez I to Betty, 'fer some fellers' thoughts do raise a stink, fer a fact.' Then 'e pushes a button, an' a bell w'at 'e 'ad fastened up on th' wall rings like hall git out. 'Now,' sez the feller, 'this is the helectric bell system. This button be one o' the five senses, an' w'en it feels my tech,' 'e sez, 'it goes through the hull JIM CRAWLEY'S DINNER PARTY 365 system lickity-split, till hit reaches the bell, w'ich is the brain, an' the bell rings off thoughts in accordance/ 'e sez, 'to the way the spirit in a man vibrates agin the mind/ or suthin' o' that natur'. 'Wat makes the bell ring?' 'e arsks; an' some kid 'oilers out, 'You did!' an' the feller laughs 'No/ 'e sez, 'hits hopposing affluences." "Hopposing influences," corrected Betty. "Anyhow, the feller sez, 'I've got two sets o' nerves 'ere, 'e sez, 'an' each wants to move agin the other. The result/ sez 'e, 'is vibrashuns. These vibrashuns/ sez 'e, an' with that 'e pushes another button w'ich makes a dingus buzz up and down so fast ye couldn't see nothin' but the noise. 'These air vibrashuns/ 'e sez, 'an' they go into the brain on these nerves. Now/ sez 'e, 'Christian Science, w'at's the new religion goin' round, hit sez ye must go to work on the brain if ye be sick or sinful. Hit's like 'itchin' the cart afore th' 'orse/ 'e sez, 'an' in a minnit I'll show ye w'y the cart can't pull the 'orse/ He takes a bottle o' suthin' an' puts a few drops in a big glass jar, w'ich 'e calls a bat- tery. The wires w'at war strung 'round 'is 'ead come out o' this jar, an' thar war a lot o' thingabobs in it besides. Then 'e pushes the button, but the bell didn't make no more noise than a snowflake. 'See/ sez 'e, 'I never teched the brain, an' it be jest as perfect as before. I honly put some liver'n vigerator an' kidney cure in the 'cart's blood o' the system/ 'e sez. 'This be the 'eart/ 'e sez, pintin' at the jar. 'Wat be the thingabobs in thar?' 'Hank Evans arsks. 'Be them the lights?' 'e arsks. Everybody laughed, an' the fel- ler fergot w'at the question war. " 'So ye see/ 'e sez, 'if yer 'eart ain't right, yer brain won't work right, 'cause the scriptur' sez all thoughts come from the 'eart. Ye can't make yer brain work yer 'eart no more'n ye can make a cart pull the 'orse/ 'e sez, 366 SONS OF ELOHIM w'ich did seem reasonable like, as I remarks to Betty. 'Now,' sez the feller, goin' on, 'a man's 'eart is like a dinnymo,' an' 'ere 'e pushes another button, an' a big w'eel goes round a kitin', an' no belts as I could see annyw'eres. 'This be a dinnymo,' 'e sez, 'an' it absorbs helectricity out'n the hat- mosphere, 'warn't it, Betty?" "There war seven kinds of helectricity 'e talked about/ said Betty, taxing her memory. "Right, Betty; An' 'e sez, 'w'en it habsorbs the right kind o' helectricity everythink goes lovely; but w'en the hatmosphere is full o' wicked thoughts, an' hevil smells, it makes unnatural vibrashuns, an* first thing a man knows, 'is 'eart is goin' in the wrong direction.' 'Eere 'e does suthin' w'ich makes the big w'eel go t'other way, an' the hull business near blew up. Everybody war scared fer a minnit, but the feller war cool, an' 'e sez, That's w'at 'ap- pens w'en ye gits to wantin' suthin' that air agin natur'l laws. Honly,' sez 'e, 'it don't bust ye up so quick. It goes slower with a man,' 'e sez, 'an' nobody can tell w'at ails ye, but the doctors give ye a lot o' drugs and pills w'at makes ye rot all over. Once,' 'e goes on to say, 'hev'ry man an' woman war perfect in hev'ry way, an' 'andsome,' 'e sez, 'but look at 'em now, or some on 'em,' sez 'e. 'Look at yer- self !' some feller hollers, sassy-like, but he didn't take no notice. 'Wat do doctors know about the 'human dinnymo ?' 'e arsks; but nobody answered. That war the time fer Doc to tell about 'is pills, but 'e let the hoccasion slip, as the wall, 'e goes on to tell that medicine conflicts with w'at the helectricity is tryin' to do in the human dinnymo, an' that everybody's got suthin' the matter with 'em; w'ich ain't no lie, right 'ere in New Town, spite o' Doc's pills." "Eet ees ver' true," said DeLand. "I haf count thir- JIM CRAWLEY'S DINNER PARTY 367 teen doctair here. Ees eet ee sells la doctair book, tomor- row, Jeem?" "Ye can git one on 'em, I guess, if ye git up airly enough ; but I 'card as 'ow 'e war goin' away tomorry." "Was that all, Mr. Crawley? If not, do tell us all, please, do," from the relic of old "Bumpy." "Arter 'e war through," Crawley went on, " 'e arsks anybody as wanted to arsk questions to come up to the platform. O' course Heath's boy wanted to know suthin', an' no wonder, po'r feller. 'E's 'ad 'is belly full o' doctor'n, an' none on 'em 'elped 'im more'n a rabbit. 'Wat makes the vibrashuns go from 'ere to the brain?' 'e arsks, pintin' at one o' the buttons, an' ev'rybody ha' listened to 'ear. 'The spirit,' sez the feller. 'Wat be that?' some woman on a front seat arsked, scared like. 'God honly knows!' 'e sez. 'Not them as knows all about it,' 'e sez, 'knows w'at it is or w'ere it comes from.' Then 'e goes on to say as 'ow the helectric spirit in the human body is made to git hot or cold by houtside natural influences, an' w'en it gits hot it burns up the disease, an' a feller gits well,' 'e sez. 'Wat makes it 'ot?' arsks Heath's boy. 'Faith in God,' sez the feller, pious like. 'C'ud it make'his feet straight?' arsks the po'r boy. I dunno w'at 'appened arterward, fer I sez to Betty, 'let's git hout afore 'e makes that rope stink agin. So we got one 'o the booklets an' lit hout." "Missus Remnant ha' told me 'e said suthink about devils," said Betty. "W'at were it, Mr. Carmel ?" "Young Lattimer arsked him w'ere the devil came from, and it stumped him for a minute. Then he told the boy to come over to his boarding house this afternoon and he would tell him about many kinds of devils." "Mebbe they can scare up a devil or two w'at's 'idin' hinside some o' the churches 'ere," suggested Crawley, and immediately he got a nudge from Betty. 368 SONS OF ELOHIM "Trouble with the churches now-a-days," said Billy, "is that the preachers don't want to offend those who might come in and help pay the fiddler. What the world wants now is something practical. The churches are crying: 'Come to us and be saved!' If some preacher would say: 'Come to our church and we'll cure your consumption and your rheumatism, and your crooked feet,' he'd have the other fellers skinned for a practical religion." "That air the kind the scripturj tells about," said Betty. "And the other churches would want him crucified at once," said Doc. And so the conversation went from one thing to another until the dinner had disappeared. Then Billy Ki-Ki left the party, happy in the hotel parlor, and, as was invariably his custom, went over to the "Swallows Nest" to spend the eve- ning. The day that Payne went away, Nancy sat for a long time at the window, looking after the trail of smoke that had scattered among the hills. "If he knew," she said, at last, aloud, "I believe he would understand. I shall always be afraid. Oh, if there was something I could do! some sacrifice! to feel that I had made things right. Oh, Maidie, Maidie ! May your God protect you! for I tremble, and I am afraid. Why? There is no danger. Yet I am afraid oh, I am afraid! If he should know and should find me here! My God! What could I do! God! God! I wonder if He was! Tom seems to believe it all." "Who is here, Nancy?" Mrs. Brown felt her way into the room. "I heard you talking to someone." Only to myself, Minnie ; only to myself." Hysterically, JIM CRAWLEY'S DINNER PARTY 369 she rose, and threw her arms around the other woman. "You are so patient, so trustful of the future, dear, while I fear ! I fear ! I fear ! I don't know what. Is it because you believe in God?" "I have none else but Him and you to trust in helpless outcast that I am," the other answered. "God brought you to me." "Oh, shall I? Shall I tell you?" Nancy cried. "Shall I tell you that I was an outcast, once ? Yes, yes ! I was ten times worse than you till Dick came. Perhaps your God sent him to me. Sit down, here, dear, and let me tell you. Maybe it will make me braver if you know." The blind woman sat down; and on the floor, at her feet, knelt Nancy, telling, between her tears, the chapter of her life that she had kept so long hidden away. When she was through, the other, crying softly, bent forward, and gently kissed the head of the sobbing woman. "God has forgiven you, Nancy," she said; "and can I do less now than forgive him who saved you from that awful life?" Outside, the roses moved gently in the breeze, and nodded at each other, as if they heard and understood. Who knows? Perhaps the color of the flower, its fragrance, its modest purity, is shaped, somewise, by the harmony of souls in sympathy. Surely, some great law of nature moves, when a human heart looks up to a new light, a new hope, a new world. CHAPTER XLIV THE POWER OF THE HEART'S DESIRE In the summer almost everyone in Washington goes to the mountains, to the springs, or to the coast to spend the hot days of July and August. It was the great event of New Town, to which all the young people, and many of the older ones, eagerly looked forward. There are silent voices in the trees and flowers, the mead- ows, the mountains, the seas and the flowing waters, all of which are telling us of the wonderful things we should know and do. And if we would but understand the silent voices of these natural, living things, we should ascend to heights of wisdom and accomplishment heretofore unknown. Have you never found, when you were in the heart of nature, that thoughts were coming into your brain thoughts that seemed to come, without your will, from a great, un- known source ? that seemed to fill your being with a strange, new kind of life, and to lift you out of the old rut, to a higher plane, to a higher conception of life's purpose? This is Wisdom that "cometh into the heart of man." And it is wonderful how one's nature broadens, and how the human heart warms to its kind Lmong the hills, the forests, or beneath the life-giving sunshine on the broad, boundless plain. How little and narrow and dead all the remainder of the year seemed, compared with those weeks in camp, be- THE POWER OF THE HEART'S DESIRE 371 side the clear water, where body and soul and spirit are re- established by the unpolluted, timber-scented air, and from the sweet vapors of the living, breathing, prairie flowers. The place to which one part of New Town's young folk turned their happy faces every summer was Lake Katchees. It is a beautiful, shimmering sheet of clear, warm water, fed by hot springs and lies, silent, among the peaks of the Cascades. Nancy, Mrs. Kimball and a few other mothers of the village made up a party of sons and daughters and pre- pared to go mountainward the first week in July. They packed their tents, camp utensils and the few things neces- sary to make outdoor life a pleasure. But at the last moment a disappointment had come, at the very moment the train was due to take them north- ward. Maidie had come from the postoffice with a letter for her mother. "It's from Mr. Payne," she said. Maidie caught a trace of excitement in her voice. "Will he be here to go with us" she asked eagerly. "He does not say. What he does say, though, makes it impossible for me to go with you now." "Oh ! Oh ! Oh !" came a chorus of voices. Maidie followed her mother into the parlor. "I must start for San Francisco at once," she said after she had closed the door. It is important. I will tell only you, Maidie, and you must say nothing about it to anyone else. Mr. Payne thinks he has located your Uncle Burke in San Francisco. If it is he, I fear the only one who can bring him home is myself. There are some things I cannot tell, even to you, dear; but I fear your Uncle Burke will never come back until I can see him and tell him something that I, alone, know. I shall start tomorrow. You go on 372 SONS OF ELOHIM with the rest to Lake Katchees and I will join you when I return." "Oh, I hope it is Uncle Burke! Won't Aunt Martha be happy; and Bess, too." "But you must say nothing, dear." "No, mamma." "I will telegraph you if there is any good news, and then you can come in from camp and tell Aunt Martha, so she will know Uncle Burke is on his way home." So, on the following day as the delayed camping party was speeding to the lake among the mountains, a train bore Nancy Swallow south to the city she had hoped never to see again. It was late in the afternoon of the fourth day when she got out of the train at Oakland and took the ferry over to San Francisco. Arriving there, she got into a carriage, and told the driver to take her to a first-class hotel, near the docks. "No first-class hotel there, lady not'at'll suit you," he said, looking her over, critically. "Well, the nearest one, then, where I can get a car easily." He cracked his whip, and she was soon whirling along the streets. She looked about for familiar scenes. She read the names of various streets and avenues, recalling them to mind. The driver stopped before the Grand, a compara- tively new hotel, with a footbridge suspended over the thor- oughfare, connected with a larger building across the way. She paid the fare, entered the hotel, and was shown to a room. They told her the dining-room should be open in an hour. She could only wait. So she drew a chair to the window and, seating herself, looked off into the clear, quiet sky. THE POWER OF THE HEART'S DESIRE 373 She had made up her mind to go out, immediately after supper, and begin her search for Burke. She would be more sure to find him at night, she reasoned. It did not occur to her how dangerous it might be, to go into that part of the city known as Barbary Coast, alone, after the lights were lit. Tom Payne had told her she would probably find him there, if he was not found at the place designated in his letter. She hoped she could start home with him that very night. She was already longing for the quiet of her home town. She wondered how a person could ever get accus- tomed to the rattle and clatter of busses and wagons over the pavement, the clanging of gongs, and the mad rush of people in every direction. Back again in the city to which her thoughts, of late, turned as to a hideous nightmare, she was not in the least afraid. She had, now, no* fear of meeting any of her former acquaintances. She even wondered if she could find the building that had sheltered her and had hidden a part of her life away, like a great chest that had passed, with all its con- tents, into strange hands. She recalled that it was some- where near Portsmouth Square, but the street name she had forgotten. She was not afraid. She had never been afraid for herself only for Maidie. She would like yes, she would even like to meet him, now that she was here. She would like to know if she must always fear that some day he would appear in New Town, before them all, and draw his lips apart in the way he used to smile, showing his even, white teeth. Yes, she would like to make sure of what there might be in store for her. She had not cared had not thought about it, at all, until the day Tom Payne had startled her, so suddenly, in her home. What if it had been Larrabie ! The sudden awaken- 374 SONS OF ELOHIM ing had sent her thoughts scurrying over the seventeen years ; and how often, since, had she asked herself that same question ! She had not thought of it before, but she wondered, now, if Dick, struggling vainly for life in the camp among the Ahtanum hills, could have told Billy anything of of that. She learned, long afterward, that he had told him of a little boy and a blind woman, wronged and deserted, back in an Eastern town; and Billy had kept the secret for her sake, sending, each month, the money that was to keep the blackmailing grandfather's lips closed. Then she had learned the story: only a paper in the pocket of a cast off garment; but the faded ink traced out the words that took her flying eastward. How strange that she had reached them just as the last bit of coal was gone, the last bit of food was gone, almost the last hope was gone ! Was it all chance? Or, was there some great Being called, God, who controlled everything, was responsible for everything? If so, He was a horrid monster but, maybe, this God had had something to do with it all, the letter, the old coat, the empty hearts, the blind eyes, Dick's death ! Yes, Dick's death! Surely Dick had done an awful thing! Had not Martha said, time and again, that God pun- ishes the wicked? And sorrow had come to her for she had been wicked. She could see it, now. Martha had said, and her father, the old minister, had said, too that whom God loves, to them he brings sorrow and trouble, and sick- ness. He had brought sorrow to Martha and she was good. What a strange God ! and what a strange kind of love ! She couldn't understand it Maybe God had brought her here, now, to find Burke just when most he needed her or someone. Perhaps there were a lot of things she might do, just when she would be needed most if she THE POWER OF THE HEART'S DESIRE 375 could only believe God was .... and could find out, some way, just what they were. Was there any way to find out? Surely, if God was, there ought to be some way ... to find out . . . if He knew she would be glad to do them ! The hurrying of feet through the hall aroused her. She opened her eyes, and realized the hour had flitted by, and that supper was being served. Looking from her window, she saw the big, red sun go down, into a great, stretched-out bank of fog, leaving it filled with a liquid gold, to float down, like a huge thing of life, among the hills of the city. An hour later, she was on a car going toward the bay. They had gone but a short distance, when the car stopped, and the conductor informed the passengers there was a blockade. He directed them to a parallel line, a short distance away. As she stepped from the car, Nancy found herself at the edge of a crowd, gathered about a man who was talking from the elevation of a packing-case. "They tell you every sinner goes to hell. It is a lie!" Nancy caught the words, and paused to listen. He was a young man, bushy black hair, finger-combed back from a high, white forehead. His intensely bright eyes held the attention of the crowd. His quick glance, skipping from face to face, went to Nancy, and she, too, felt the fascination. She pushed in closer to him. "We are all sinners. 'He that saith he is without sin is a liar, and the truth abideth not in him.' " He was quoting from a book, closed, in an uplifted hand. "We are all sinners as sin is measured by the Word of God," he shouted. "They are not doomed to hell just because they sin. Ten thousand times ten thousand sinners 376 SONS OF ELOHIM scarcely know the false from true. They never had a chance. No, God pity them ! They never had a chance. "Born in the dark alleys of poverty and degradation, they push up through the bars of horrible environment, scarcely knowing they are born, and surely with but little chance of knowing why? "From the attic cradle to a stunted boyhood they look through the cob-webbed cracks of light to the brighter side of life, and it seems as far as to the blue heaven above. "They stagger along under a burden of inherited pas- sions, of lust and hate, into what should be manhood, nettled and irascible from the soul pains that come to all alike in struggling to free the fretting instincts of that God nature, which is the divine germ in every seed. They, all too early, learn to covet and to hate, to imagine wrongs that are not real, and to hope for a some-day brutal chance to even up the tilted side of life." "God pity them!" a woman cried, in earnestness, from the crowd. "Aye, God pity them !" he answered. "And then come men, or what should be men, graduated through these scut- tle-holes of life, dwarfed in wisdom, stuffed with a dan- gerous knowledge, and backed by the lie of Church and Creed, 'an eye for an eye, tooth for tooth/ they almost smother out the flickering sparks of that godly birthright, heaping fuel on the flaming malice and malicious envy. God pity them! God pity such humanity in the horrors of such soul-strangling environment." "Damned capitalists are to blame !" yelled a man, black- shirted, and grim with the day's sweat and grime. The speaker looked at him, and his glance swept from one to an- other, dark scowling faces, reflecting every burden of human toll. "You blame the capitalist. You claim it all should be THE POWER OF THE HEART'S DESIRE 377 laid at the door of those men of greed who pass by on the other side. This may be so, or partly so. But let me tell you that in the very midst of all that horrible environment, above the caldron of hopes and hates and hell which steams to heaven, in the very core of this ulcerating underworld of human lives, is a power a million times greater than capital- ism, or greed, or gold. "It is the power of the heart's desire ! Oh, the power of the human heart ! to reason, to hope, to desire. The vefy gates of heaven must swing back when a human heart awakes to all its force in the power of the heart's desire." "Amen !" "Amen !" came from several throats, strangely contrasting with the rough, unkempt appearance and surly looks. "Listen !" cried the speaker, his outsretched hands com- manding silence. "You men who want a change in govern- ment, a change from your lowly cringing fear of a heartless master, to a God-intended place in human life, you cannot get that change by votes. You cannot change your lot by changing governments by votes. You cannot change the heart of man or woman at the ballot box. You cannot change your lot by changing governments by force, by kill- ing those who rule. Listen! there is only one way never has been, never will be but one way to turn this misrule of men into righteous co-operation: It is through prayer through the heart's desire. Pray ! Pray to the Man above, who has a million ways to change your lot, and change your hatreds into love, your pains and miseries into joy and peace." "Pray ! hell !" came a gutteral voice from the crowd. "No, friend; not hell, nor what you mean. You may not believe in prayer. You may hate the name of God and hate the thought of prayer ; but there's never a day you do not pray. Never an hour in your wakeful moments you 378 SONS OF ELOHIM are not sending out a silent, destinationless signal of desire to be caught by wires invisible and carried on to the throne of hell or heaven. It is for you to choose. Prayer from the heart of him who hates, who would corrupt and kill, goes straight to hell. Prayer sent in sympathy, hope, faith, and love, will reach the very throne of God. Hope, faith, and prayer ! Evolution, divine, in the heart of man ! Hatred, hell, and hopelessness, the unionized attributes of men who think they can change their destinies by ballots, or by brutal force. We are all sinners sinners till we die. But, my friends, the worst of sinners can become the greatest power for good and God, for manhood, womanhood, and for right- eous government, if he will learn to pray and pray specifi- cally for the things he knows are right, and rightfully his. Have faith in God !" The man stepped from the packing case to mingle with the crowd, and Nancy went on her way, his words ringing in her ears: "The heart's desire!" "The power of prayer!" "Have faith in God!" A few minutes' walk brought her to an intersection of two noisy streets. No. car was in sight. A number of persons were gath- ered about a policeman who had arrested a woman and was waiting for a patrol wagon. The poor thing was whining, and begging the officer not to take her to the station. Nancy saw that she was a woman past middle age, with emaciated form, and watery eyes. Her hat had fallen to one side, and the loose strands of grayish hair were wet from the tears that spread over her face. Nancy was so intently watching the scene she did not know the car had come and gone. The officer was joking with the men and boys, who had gathered about him and his prisoner. She heard the woman say she was sick, that THE POWER OF THE HEART'S DESIRE 379 she had gone for medicine, that she was not drunk only sick. She heard the jeering men, the taunting remarks of the boys. And then she heard the clanging of the patrol wagon. The next moment she had sprung into the crowd and was pushing her way through to the woman's side. "Oh, sir, don't take her to the lockup !" she cried. "Let me take her. Let her go with me !" The policeman grinned. "You don't know her, Miss," he said. "She's an old 'un. It's not only a drunk, but it's disord'ly. You don't want nothin' to do with her, Miss." "Oh, no, no. She's a woman. She's feeble, and old. She can't hurt anyone. Let her go, please. Oh, let me take her." Nancy was tugging at the woman's arm. The patrol was backing up. "Oh, lady! Sweet lady!" the woman whined. "Don't let them take me ! Sweet lady ! It's so cold and the rats are there, lady ! and I can't pay ! Oh, lady, I'll never touch another drop; honest! Sweet lady!" "What's the racket?" the sergeant asked, leaping to the ground. "A disord'ly," the patrolman answered, saluting. "Young woman, here, wants to take her home." The sergeant turned and looked at Nancy. The light from the street lamp fell full on her face. "Do you know her, Miss?" he asked. "Yes, yes !" she cried, grasping at a new hope. "She is my m y mother, sir my mother! Now, will you let her come with me !" The patrolman, astonished, released his hold and stared at her. Nancy, seeing her advantage, began to pull the woman away. 380 SONS OF ELOHIM "Come on with me, mother ; come home," she said, ten- derly placing her arm about the frail form. "Thank you, sir ; oh, I thank you !" The crowd fell back. The patrolman made a move as if to detain her; but the sergeant waved him back, and the blue wagon drove away. Nancy drew her charge along the street, hardly know- ing where to go, but trying to escape the crowd. When they had reached the middle of the block, the woman had a fit of coughing and Nancy, wiping the wastrel's face with her handkerchief, saw blood coming from her lips. "Come in here, mother," she said, drawing the other into the doorway of a building. The crowd, pushed from behind by those wanting to see what was going on, pressed them hard. Inside Nancy could hear an organ playing. In the lighted window was a large card in a frame: "I am Jehovah God that healeth thee. Thou shalt have no other gods before me." She knew it was a church mission. She opened the door and pulled her charge inside. The coughing had so taxed the woman's feeble strength she nearly fell to the floor. Supporting her as best she could, Nancy looked about the room. The place was nearly full of people and they had just risen to join in the singing. A pleasant-faced man came forward, and taking the other arm of the outcast, assisted them to seats near the front. No one seemed to pay un- usual attention to them, for such scenes are not rare in these places where the light of hope flashes up in the midst of despair. Nancy's hand had pushed back the woman's thin hair, THE POWER OF THE HEART'S DESIRE 381 as with the other she pressed her fingers, gently, with her own; and this wreck of womanhood, this priest-forsaken, man-forsaken, almost God-forsaken being, nestled like a tired child against the heart of a woman who seventeen years ago had been an inmate in her house of shame ! For, Nancy Swallow, in pushing back the gray strands from the sin-stained face, saw a scar she had seen, a score of times, when dressing Madame Gorgen's hair, a red line of a bullet which had burned its seared mark through the scalp; and there came into her heart a strange feeling as of a cool draught to fevered lips, a sense of joy, deeper than she had ever known. "God be merciful, and bless us ; and guide our hearts and spirits from darkness into light, from misery and despair to everlasting joy and peace, through Christ, to thee, Amen." She heard the voice, and saw the tall, full-bearded man, whose hands reached out in earnest supplication for the blessing of God on the mission service. She closed her eyes, for it seemed like a dream ; then she opened them wide, and stared at the man. "Mr. Raines !" she cried, rising from her seat, oblivious of all, save that, in this moment of necessity, she had found a friend. The preacher was startled; but, in a quick glance, he recognized her. "Yes, yes," he said, kindly, motioning to her to sit down. "God bless you!" He had taken in the situation in that brief second, for he had seen her coming to the front, leading the old woman, like a lost sheep, into the fold. "She is an old friend, a dear friend of years ago," he told them; and the audience not knowing nor caring if the 382 SONS OF ELOHIM friend were the shepherd, or the sheep that was lost, an- swered heartily, "Amen!" Nancy sat down. Into her face had come a beautiful light, a wonderful shining. At last she understood ! God was. With her poor, withered face against Nancy's shoulder, this sin- weary, life- weary, soul-blighted being knew only that the God she had forgotten long ago had not forgotten her; and her tears of repentance fell over the satin sleeve of her whom she had once known as little Nanette. CHAPTER XLV THE GRAY WOLF Hank Evans sat at his bench hammering on the bottom of a boot. It was hot, even for a July day, and Hank told Cohen, the Jew, who had come in for a chat, that he had "half a mind to shut up shop, an' jine the picknackers at the Katchees." A man, nattily dressed in a gray suit, coming down the street from the depot, stopped before the shop, looked in at the shoemaker in his cool, opened shirt, and entered. "Howdy," said Hank, his mouth full of pegs. The stranger pulled forward a chair and sat down be- fore the open door, with his back to the stove, which stood there winter and summer. He had not noticed Cohen, stretched out on an old settee and hidden by a pile of boxes and strips of hanging leather. "Pretty warm," he said. "Jest come in on the train?" Hank looked the other over critically, and mentally calculated on the probable cost of his patentleathers. The stranger nodded, and removed his hat to wipe the perspiration from his brow. His hair, once black, was thick and streaked with gray; his moustache was neatly groomed and, as he smiled, his lips quivered and jerked in a peculiar, nervous manner. 384 SONS OF ELOHIM Perhaps you can tell me where I can find a man I am looking for," he said, presently. "Who be he?" "His name is Gorin, Kirby Gorin, and I have learned he came here about twenty years ago." Cohen started up so suddenly he nearly fell off the settee. "Thar war Pat Gorin, who came here in the sixties, an' who arterward sold his thousan', nigh Old Town, to a man w'at war kilt, mysterious like, in seventy-one," said Hank. "Let me see; his name war Kirby, but he war no relashun to the Gorins leastway, not as nobody knowd." "He was killed, you say?" "Yes; leastways, he died from a stab o' some kind in the lungs. It war mysterious, an' some ha' thought it war murder; but thar war no evidence. Doc Kimball war thar w'en he died, likewise our parson named, Raines, who war the preacher at Old Town them days." "Raines! Thomas Raines?" "Yas," said Hank; "know him?" "There's a preacher in Frisco from Australia that's stir- ring up things a little. He is holding meetings at a mission in Barbary Coast, run by a Thoman Raines. Raines has been in jail there half a dozen times, because he's preaching some kind of religion that's against the law, or rather against the doctors. He is what you call a 'faith healer.' " "Mebbe that be our parson," said Hank. "He war a man o' faith, and did a heap more good here than the old parson w'at tuk his place. But that war sixteen or seven- teen years ago." "Well, the fellow's got grit. He isn't afraid of man or the devil." "No," said Hank, "ye're about right thar." He was THE GRAY WOLF 385 thinking of the day when three siwashes were roped to the butcher's beam. On the settee the Jew moved, uneasily. "But, about the Gorins," said the stranger. "What became of the ranch when this man, Kirby, was killed?" "It's thar yit, fur's anybody knows. No one show'd up to claim the property, an' one day the old house took fire an' went up in smoke. Some Eastern fellers ha' gobbled it up lately, an' one o' them be puttin' up a new house w'ere the old 'un stood. They dug out a cellar, an' dug up a skeleton o' some dead person or 'nother, so I hearn tell, right under w'ere the kitchen war. O' course no one knows who it might ha' been. Luke Waters sez how he don't remember as knowin' fer sure that Pat Gorin ever went away; nor no one else remembers now." "Perhaps he was murdered by Kirby and buried under the house," the other suggested. "But there were two sons." "Old man had only one, Larry, an' he war shot in Skin- ner's saloon one night in a fight." Didn't you ever hear of another son Gorin had ?" "No, nor no one 'round here; leastways, he never showed up in these parts." A man died here about a month ago, so the depot agent tells me, that no one knew. Do you know anything about it?" "I heard as how a tramp tuk sick an' died in Tupper's livery, 'bout a month ago. Doc Kimball war tendin' him, an' afore he died he give Jeanie his watch. She had been takin' him grub. He war lame. Arter he died, they found he war fixed up with a wig o' hair, and likewise his whiskers. Only one man here who c'ud identify him. He war DeLand, the hotel man, an' he tolt how the feller war known to Nick Maloney, who's gone back to the old country fer his sister 386 SONS OF ELOHIM who war allus hesitatin' to come here, 'count o' bein' afeard o' buffylows an' Injuns. 'Nick could ha' tolt,' sez DeLand. DeLand sez as how Nick told him 'bout same kind o' a fel- ler comin' on the stage from The Dalles, same time Jim Crawley came, and Dick Swallow an' his wife." "Dick Swallow!" exclaimed the other. "Yas ; ye know him ? He war from the States. Nancy she war from Frisco, so I heard tell. Dick, po'r feller, war bit by a rattler a year arterward an' died up on the Ahta- num." The other was silent for a moment while Hank pro- ceeded to hurry the delayed pegs into the sole of the boot between his knees. "So Nanette is a widow." The man's lip twitched. "How does she get along?" "She keeps boarders over there," said Hank pointing with his awl to the home that could be seen plainly from the shop door. "Then she ha' got a ranch w'at ha' proved o' value; an' the girl, she ha' got a heap of critturs on the range, I heard tell." "The girl ! Has she a daughter ?" "As purty a girl as ye ever seen," said Hank. "She be now goin' on sixteen, or seventeen, an' a dead image o' her ma, w'en Nancy fust come." "I used to know her," the other said, getting up. "Guess I'll go and call on her." "She ben't home, now. She went to Frisco a couple days ago on some affair o' nother, an' she don't look to come back fer a week or more, the old parson sez." "And the daughter, did she go with her mother ?" "No, Maidie is up at the Katchees, picknacking with a crowd o' young people. She'll be thar till her ma comes home most likely." Hank hastened to give this information THE GRAY WOLF 387 for, somehow, he was becoming suspicious of the man from Frisco. He was glad the Swallows were not at home. The stranger sat down again and for some time he lis- tened with half closed eyes to the sound of the shoemaker's hammer on the pegs. "Who be ye, stranger?" Hank asked, presently, after several furtive glances from the boot to the dark face. The man started and then rose to his feet. "Who be ye ?" Hank repeated in a louder tone. "I'm a detective," he answered, giving the shoemaker a quick, keen look. "I've been sent here to trace the Gorin family. The man who died at the livery stable was not a tramp. He was a son of Pat Gorin, a twin brother of Larry Gorin, and the rightful heir to the thousand acres those East- ern fellows have gobbled up. He deeded the ranch to a man named Osmond, John Osmond, in San Francisco, before he came north, a month or six weeks ago." He threw a silver dollar in the shoemaker's tool box and went out. Cohen rose, stretched himself and came forward. "Heard that feller talk, I s'pose?" Hank asked, as he tossed the man's money into the street. "What d'ye think o' him?" "He is right about one thing," said the Jew . "Gorin had two sons ; but he also had a daughter who went on the stage. Afterward she married a man in California, some- where, and died ; but there was a little girl. I've been trying for a year to locate that girl, or rather, the woman ; for she must be more than thirty years old, now." "Ye don't say!" Hank exclaimed. "Beats all!" Cohen stepped to the door and looked up the street. The stranger was talking to the drug-clerk outside of the drugstore. He was asking the way to Lake Katchees. CHAPTER XLVI THE WOLF AND THE LAMB Archibald and Maidie had quarreled. It was only the third day of their camping, and they had taken the small boat, and a book, which he was to read to her, and had rowed across the lake, to where the wagon road from the station turned its crooked way to the far side of the Kat- chees. A warm attachment had Sprung up between them ; their confidences became sweeter with the clandestine touch of lips, and a tender pressure of hands. Young though they were, they had sworn, as others do, to love one another through time and eternity. So this quarrel was just a lovers' tiff. Maidie had taken up the book, and fixed her eyes hard upon the pages, not reading a word, and Archie had gone off into the woods, whistling loudly, that she might see how little he cared, caring all the while. When he was out of sight an impulse came to her to run along the bank a distance so that when he returned, as she knew he would, he would find her gone and would have to search for her. She came to a pretty spot, where a tree had fallen, years before, blown down by the wind, and, like a large rug inviting her, the green moss spread out before the log slop- THE WOLF AND THE LAMB 389 ingly toward the water. She sat down here and waited, wondering if it would be long and hoping it would not. Presently, she heard a step in the leafy loam and, think- ing it was he and ready to forgive, she held her face close to the book, pretending to be deeply interested. The footsteps came nearer. Curious because he did not speak, she glanced stealthily from the page. A man stood before her with bared head, smiling, his even, white teeth showing between his twitching lips. She let the book fall to the ground. The red color came into her cheeks and full lips from the quick palpitations of her heart, and the practised eye of the man read in her face the admiration and fascination he so well knew had always been aroused by his personal magnetism. Larrabie Harding stood smiling before Nancy Swal- low's daughter just as he had stood before little Nanette at the convent stables, and read in her excited eyes, in her re- solute mouth and flushed cheeks, that she was about to run away. "You are a picture of your mother, Maidie," he said in an easy manner that made the girl at once think he must be some old friend. "You know mamma, sir?" she asked, making room for him beside her on the log. "For nearly twenty years," he answered, throwing him- self down on the moss bed at her feet. "I met her in San Francisco just as I was about to take the train for New Town to visit you; and she told me I would find you here in the mountains." The man lied as easily and as naturally as he smiled and, at the same time, with such a straight glance into her eyes, she never doubted him. Yet, within her was a restless something a something that was whispering to her, warn- 390 SONS OF ELOHIM ing her; but she did not understand. She could only look, fascinated, into his dark, handsome face. "You met mamma in the depot at San Francisco?" she asked, trying to break the spell. "How fortunate ! And did she recognize you?" "I knew her at once. She seems to have grown no older in twenty years." He watched her closely, for he was feeling his way. "Yes," said Maidie, "people friends of ours in New Town, often say we look like sisters." "She is a pretty woman, but not prettier than her daughter," he said, and smiled as he saw the color deepen in her cheeks. "I hope she will be back earlier than she thought." He was feeling his way again. "If she finds Uncle Burke that is, if she is successful in what she has gone for " and then she remembered she was not to tell any one. "Yes," he said, "she told me." "About Uncle Burke?" He nodded. "It's been a long time," he said, wondering if it had. "Yes, ever since I was a baby. We thought he was dead until a month ago, a friend of mamma's, Mr. Payne, who was here, saw a photograph of Uncle Burke in the album, and recognized him." "And Payne told her where he was," said the man, hoping no one would interrupt them. "She got a letter from Mr. Payne the day before she went." "You should have gone with her, Maidie." "Why?" she asked, opening her eyes wide. "Because San Francisco is a large place, and and it will be lonely for her there." He was near not knowing why, himself. "She told me she wished she had brought THE WOLF AND THE LAMB 391 you," he added. "But tell me about your camp, and who you have with you here, and why you are out here all by yourself." He took a newspaper from his pocket and put it under his elbow to keep the moss stain from the light cloth. She told about Archie and their quarrel, about New Town and the people, and about her plans ; all the time she felt her inner self urging her to go to get away. She felt the blood coursing hot through her body. The warmth of her veins made her head burn. There was a sensation, with- in, that she had never felt, before ; and the muscles round her heart drew tight. "Maidie!" a voice called, somewhere off among the trees. She sprang up. For a moment she gasped for breath, as though someone had dashed cold water over her. "Must you go now?" he asked, slowly getting to his feet. "Maidie !" came the voice again ; but she did not answer. She only stood there with a fearful, startled look. "Go," he said, in a calm tone, which seemed to quiet her. "Aren't you coming, too ? Weren't you going to camp ?" she asked, hurriedly, hoping he would. "Not today, Maidie. I'll come over tomorrow prepared to stay a day or two. Au revoir, ma petite." He went away just as Archie pushed through the tangled vines and saw her standing, pale and trembling, her eyes fixed on the spot where the man had disappeared. "What is it, Maidie!" he asked, looking the direction her eyes were turned. She started, guiltily, and from very weakness fell back on the log. 392 SONS OF ELOHIM "What is it, Maidie?" he asked, again. "You're white as a sheet, dearie. Why do you tremble so?" "Nothing, Archie it's nothing; only I was frightened for a moment. Oh, Archie, I am so glad you are here! I'm so sorry we quarreled. Oh, Archie, forgive me! for- give me, won't you, dear?" Her arms went around his neck impulsively and she pulled his face down to hers. "Yes, yes, dearie. It was nothing all my fault. We will never quarrel again, never, will we, Maidie?" His kiss brought the red blood into her lips again. "It's all forgiven and forgotten now," he said. In a moment she was herself. "What frightened you, dear?" he asked. Something whispered to her innner consciousness ; some- thing moved her lips and her tongue. "Nothing no one !" she cried out, painfully ; and it seemed to her that someone else had answered. "Maidie !" he said, holding her away from him. "Dear- est! What is it? Who has been here?" His eyes fell on the newspaper, lying in the moss. He picked it up. "San Francisco Call," he read, glancing at the head- line. "Where did this come from? Who left it?" "Oh, Archie, Archie, I don't know! Take me back, back to camp! I I don't feel well." The next moment she had fainted. He jerked off his coat and put it under her head. Then he ran down to the water's edge, dipped his cap in, and hastened back to her side. The water revived her, and for a few moments he knelt there with his arm under the beautiful head. When she was able to walk, they went to the boat, and he rowed silently back to camp. She seemed so much better when they arrived at the THE WOLF AND THE LAMB 393 tents, that she got his promise not to mention the incident to Mrs. Kimball, fearing it would cause unnecessary anxiety. But, oh, how her head burned ! At the same moment, a dark man in a gray suit and flashy silk shirt, leaned over the counter, in the Ellensburg Station, and handed the agent a message to be wired imme- diately. It read : John Osmond, Parker House San Francisco. Content head maidie swallow sending station orange marble foot nancy swallow hard CHAPTER XLVII THE MIRACLE MAN. "What's that in your pocket, Arch?" asked Arthur, as they were dressing, the following morning. Archie tossed him the newspaper. "Found it in the woods last night. Haven't read it, but I'm going to help the girls get breakfast." Arthur tumbled back into his bunk and began reading the headings. Newspapers were rare in the mountain camp. Presently, his eyes fixed upon a column, with sensa- tional headlines: CLAIMS MIRACULOUS POWER THROUGH PRAYER Preacher in Barbary Coast Lays Hands on Sick for Healing Great Crowds Flocking to Mission. The Blind See, the Lame Walk, and the Ears of Deaf are Unstopped With quickening heart he read on, about a preacher, from Australia, who had opened a Mission in that part of San Francisco known as "Hell Garden," where he was preaching a new and, therefore, unheard of doctrine called, "Divine Healing." People with every sort of affliction were coming from all points of the compass to have him pray THE MIRACLE MAN 395 with them. Hundreds claimed to be healed, and, in fact, many who came on crutches walked away, leaving their crutches at the altar. The newspaper, fearing to be thought over credulous, disclaimed any personal knowledge of these things, and intimated that these supposedly lame persons might be fakes, employed to bring publicity to a charlatan. The City Hall had, the night before, hurriedly passed an ordinance declaring the Mission to' be a hospital and operat- ing without a license. The police were already on the way, probably, to arrest the preacher. They would compel him to reveal the method by which he was getting so much notoriety, or force him to close his Mission. Nothing in the article told how much or if any fee at all was charged for bringing about a cure; but, surely, thought Arthur, as he read to the bottom of the column, if he told him how long his mother had been blind, and that they had nothing in the world except what Aunty Nan gave them, he wouldn't send them away. He sprang from the bed, dressed himself quickly, and hurried to his mother's tent. She was sitting in a chair, outside, and was making ready some potatoes for breakfast. "Mother, dear, listen to what I found in this San Fran- cisco paper!" he cried. A preacher, there, is praying for blind people, and they get their sight." "Read it to me, Arthur. It can't be true, but read it, anyway," she said, disinterestedly, unable to see the great hope that had come into his eyes. At this moment, Bessie came for the potatoes. "Listen, Bess! I want you to hear this," he urged, motioning her to a seat on an arm of his mother's chair. He read the article to the close. "That's what this new preacher in New Town is trying to get the people to believe, but he's a fake, Grandpa Swallow 396 SONS OF ELOHIM says. He just gets these poor sick people there to get what money he can from them, grandpa says." "But, Bess, if they get their sight, or can walk, after being lame for years maybe all their life, like Perry Heath is, wouldn't they be glad to give him all they have? I would only I haven't much to give." "Were you thinking of having me go there, dear?" his mother asked. "I I thought I wondered if it might be true. Oh, mother, sweetheart! What wouldn't I give to have you see again!" Tears came to his eyes as he rose and went to the other arm of her chair. "I might sell Gipsy," he said. "I could get along with- out a pony. Uncle Billy would buy her. Or I might sell Mr. Crawley my two yearlings. That would pay the cost of going," he said, musingly. "I'll tell you what, Arthur," said Bess, "I have two hun- dred dollars, in the savings bank, you can have. You can pay me back whenever you can. I don't need it." "No," said Arthur. "I'll sell Gipsy, and the two year- lings. I would always want to feel I had done it, if if " "Yes, dear, I know what you mean," said his mother, patting his hand. "And I should want to feel that way, too.' So, after half an hour's planning, it was decided that Arthur and his mother would take the trip to San Francisco within the coming week. "Let's go tell Maidie," said Bess. They found her still sleeping. Not wishing to disturb her, they got some pails and went through the woods, look- ing for berries. When they returned to camp Maidie complained of a severe headache and decided to stay in bed. Arthur sat down by her cot and read to her the remark- THE MIRACLE MAN 397 able story in the San Francisco Call. He was so full of hope and enthusiasm, that she caught the spirit of his mood and began to plan, with him. After breakfast, a messenger arrived from the railroad station with a telegram for Maidie. She opened it and read : "San Francisco, July , 1888. "Maidie Swallow, Easton Station, Washington. "Come at once, first train, without fail. "Nancy Swallow." In a moment she was up and dressing, headache for- gotten, only one thought her mother needed her. She could tell no one anything, not even Arthur, except that she must start for San Francisco, on the train that would leave New Town the next day. There would be just time to get the local, by returning with the messenger who had brought over the telegram. A few days later, as the train from the North drew in alongside the ferryboat, at Oakland Mole, Maidie was as- sisted from her berth, and placed aboard the boat. "She has been ill the whole trip," the train porter told the attendant. "Friends are to meet her at the pier." Pres- ently, the boat was steaming across the bay. They were about halfway over when a well-dressed man approached the girl, who had been made as comfortable as possible in an invalid's chair. "Are you Miss Swallow ?" he asked. "Yes, sir," said Maidie, her face brightening. "Are you from mamma?" He told her he was. "She is ill," he said ; for he had a letter in his pocket, 398 SONS OF ELOHIM instructing him. Then, fearing his words might upset her, he added; "But she is nearly well again." "Poor mamma!" Her head fell back, again, on the cushion. "I've been so sick," she sighed. "I'm so dizzy; I feared I would never get here. I had never been sick in my life." "Let me get a doctor," he said, rising quickly. "There's always one on the boat." "No, no; please don't!" she cried, putting out her hand to detain him. He sat down again and looked at her, as she lay back in the chair, her eyes closed and the fever hot in her cheeks. "She's a beautiful child !" he said, to himself. "Are we almost across?" she asked, faintly. He didn't hear. "What is your father's name ? he asked, leaning forward and speaking in a low voice. "He is dead, sir," she answered, feebly, half opening her eyes. "His name was Richard Swallow." He pushed back in his chair, and looked off over the water. "I thought so! So he is dead! .... It's a damnable thing! .... But then, it has to be some- body's girl .... Why not his? .... And there's a thousand in it." He turned to the girl again. His eyes changed their expression just a little, as they rested for a moment on the sweet face, and he read, there, the hope and the helpless- ness of innocent girlhood. Then his glance went to the shore, that was drawing nearer. "It's a damnable thing!" he said again, half aloud. She raised her fever-red eyes to his face. THE MIRACLE MAN 399 "Oh, I am so ill," she said, wearily. "Will you take me to mamma, at once, sir? Are we most there?" "Yes," he said, letting the word answer both her ques- tions. When they were off the ferry, he motioned a carriage to drive up close. He lifted her in. "To the Weatherbee House," he said, to the driver. "Is mamma there?" she asked, too ill, now, to know what she was saying. The man looked into her face, but did not answer. In a few moments the carriage stopped. He helped her through the door into the hall entrance. "It's upstairs; I'll help you," he said. She let him take her in his arms and carry her up the stairs, into a small room. "Is mamma here?" she asked, more wearily. "Take off your clothes and get into bed; I'll go for a doctor." He went out and shut the door. The key turned in the lock, outside. She commenced to undress, not hearing what he said; for the sight of the bed told her of something she wanted more than all else; rest, sweet, sweet, rest. At the same moment the porter of the saloon, down- stairs, picked up a bit of crumpled yellow paper, that had dropped from the sick girl's hand. It was the telegram that had brought her to San Francisco. CHAPTER XLVIII THE END OF THE TRAIL. Nancy Swallow had almost despaired of finding Burke. He had left the place to which Payne had directed her ; and, day after day, she had searched through the districts where, she learned, such as he had become, make their lairs. Her only clue was that he was familiarly known as "Burke." A week had gone, and not a word from home. The day following her arrival she had written Maidie, giving her hotel address. She could imagine no harm, no reason why she should have a fear that all was not well. Only, there was a strange feeling within her, just like the day Dick died. She was so lonely, so forgotten; and there was just a little pain with the thought that Maidie should have considered this. In subsequent letters she had told Maidie of the awful- ness of city life; the terrible crimes to which the newsboys called attention, at the top of their. voice, night and day; the poverty, the wretchedness of it all every day, someone in the clutches of the law. A note had come to Nancy from Raines, telling of the death of "Madame Gorgen," the day following the night she placed her in the care of the Mission. She had first thought of asking Mr. Raines to aid her in the search for Burke; but each day she had felt so close to finding him, THE END OF THE TRAIL 401 that she put it off, unwilling to let even the minister know how dissolute he had become. Finally, one morning she met a man who had been one of Burke's associates. She was sure, now, that her efforts were to be rewarded. He had given her the address of a saloon, only a few blocks away, where, he said, Burke was employed as porter. With the slip of paper tight in her hand, she reached the street and turned the corner. Just ahead of her, she saw a crowd gathering in front of a build- ing, that appeared to be a cheap hotel. Men were running, from every direction, to the scene. Two or three policemen had come up, and were trying to keep the crowd from enter- ing the place. Then she heard someone say, a man inside had been shot. "Makes two, this week," commented another. Nancy looked up to the sign over the door, and her heart suddenly stopped beating : "Patrick Weatherbee, Pro- prietor." And under the name was the street number, the very number written on the slip of paper in her hand. "Pass along, lady," commanded one of the policemen. "No, no !" she gasped, clutching at his arm. "It's no place for you, lady ; pass along," he said, sternly. "No, no !" she said, again, staring past the officer into the saloon, where she could see a man's form lying on the floor. Someone was bending over him. "Let me go in!" she cried, trying to push aside the bluecoat. "Who are you?" he asked, barring the way. "Let me go in! Oh, let me in!" she cried, again, in desperation. A thought had come that, after all, she was too late. The officer permitted her to enter. On the floor, in the middle of the room, a man was 402 SONS OF ELOHIM lying, just as he had fallen. A doctor knelt beside him, his hand on the man's wrist. Nancy gave a sudden, sharp cry, as she looked into the dark face, over which a tiny stream of blood was creeping. "Larrabie! Larrabie!" she cried, and fell on her knees by his side. She had only one thought, now. He was dying. It was different, now. He was there alone, no friends, and dying. She pushed back his hair, and wiped away the blood with her small, lace handkerchief. "Larrabie!" she whispered. He opened his eyes. "Larrabie!" she whispered again, putting her face close to his. The lip quivered, and he tried to smile. He seemed to recognize her. "He is dying," the doctor told her. "Oh, Larrabie! Look up! Do you know me? You are dying, he says. Larrabie ! Oh, Larrabie ! can you pray ? Look at me ! Ask God to forgive you as I do as I do ! Larrabie ! Listen ! I will pray. O God ! O God ! Forgive him! Oh, forgive!" It was her first prayer. The lip ceased quivering. "He is dead," the doctor said. For a few moments she knelt there, staring into the cold, set face. Then she heard the heavy tramp of feet on the stairs. Raising her head, she saw two policemen step into the room, through a rear door. Between them, his hands manacled, his face hard and defiant, was an old man. Nancy sprang to her feet. THE END OF THE TRAIL 403 "Daddy! Oh, daddy! What have you done?" The next moment she was lying on the old man's breast, her arm about his neck. Pat stared at his daughter, too surprised to say a word. "Come now, that'll do; that'll do," said one of the officers, gently removing her arms. You can see him at tht police station, tomorrow." They led him away. All this time there had been a silent watcher of the scene. Leaning against the bar was a man we have not heard from for years. He stepped forward. "I suppose you know me, too, Nancy," he said. "Yes," she answered; and in spite of his unkempt appearance, his dirty face, and the odor of whiskey and tobacco, she kissed him. "Burke," she said, "I have come to take you home." He shook his head, and looked shamefacedly at the floor. "It's all right, Burke; it's always been all right. Dick paid the note, and Billy never knew. They're waiting for you there. We've been waiting, for years, for you to come home. Now, you must come with me." "Beggin' your pardon, Miss, he must be goin' with us, first at least for a toime." One of the officers had come back, and had been quietly listening to their conversation. He stepped forward, and put Burke under arrest. "Why him?" she asked. "Witness, Miss, an' no fear. He'll be out shortly, an' he'll be safe till then; an' we'll keep him till ye want him, Miss." Nancy took down the address they gave her and went slowly away, followed by the curious eyes of the crowd. "Who is the loidy?" a man asked, running up all out of breath. He had a reporter's badge on the lapel of his vest. 404 ' SONS OF ELOHIM "Old Pat's daughter," someone told him. "An' some relashun to the new porter they took along," volunteered another. "She called 'im 'Burke/ an' said as 'ow she'd be at de perleese court tomorry." "What was the row ? Fight?" "Naw!" said the bum, in a tone of disgust. "Feller, w'at were kilt, is a high gun, as ha' been doin' a rummy busi- ness in dope, fer years. 'Side from that, if the truth is to be tolt, he's been close to the city gov'ment. I've 'card as 'ow Judge Osmond's son is a pal o' this guy, an' the two ha' been supplyin' loidies fer some o' the City Hall fellers." The fellow grinned as the reporter wrote, rapidly, on his tablet. "Old Pat'll git off all right, I'm thinkin'," said another. "He's worth a lot to the administration, an' knows all the fellers at the City Hall." "What caused the shooting?" asked the reporter, of the man who seemed to know most about the affair. "Wall, as fur's I ha' learned," answered the rounder, "Osmond ha' brought a little peach o' a thing 'ere a few days back, an' Pat wus to keep 'er till the dark guy got a right bid. Next day a man druv up wid a keeridge an' a woman in it, an' ha' took the girl off. Someone had squealed to the Mission people. This guy show'd up this mornin' an' raised a row wid Pat 'cause the girl wus gone. Next anny- body knowd there wus a shot, an' the dark guy dropped." "Thank you," said the reporter. He jumped into a cab that had pulled up, looking for a fare, and was whirled off to the police station. That evening, Nancy heard the newsboys shouting, "All about the murder of Larrabie Harding!" "Larrabie Hard- ing killed!" She bought a paper, and across the front page, in glaring headlines, she read : THE END OF THE TRAIL 405 PAT WEATHERBEE IN THE TOILS Shot and Killed Larrabie Harding, Chief of Opium Smugglers Had Been a Standing Reward for Harding'* Capture Government Officials Said to Have Been Protecting Him. WILL PAT GET THE REWARD OR THE ROPE? Daughter of the Prisoner Appears on the Scene as Man Is Taken to Jail. Mysterious connection of a young and beautiful girl with the tragedy. Son of a prominent citizen mentioned as procurer for dive keepers. Girl had been held a prisoner in the Weatherbee Hotel, but was taken away in a carriage by unknown party. Only witness to the shooting was the saloon porter, a dissolute character, to whom it is said the victim was well known. He will tell nothing. Arraignment tomorrow at the City Court. Nancy read on through the story as it had been printed, shuddering at the details which so vividly brought back the scene. She was thankful no mention was made of her recog- nition of Harding, and that Burke's name had been left out. But she felt thankful, more than all, that her own darling Maidie was hundred of miles away from such scenes of crime and infamy. CHAPTER XLIX "THE SUN OF RIGHTEOUSNESS" The next morning Nancy was at the City Court long before the business of the day began. The sergeant lis- tened with kindly sympathy as she told him of her interest in the tragedy of the day before, and showed him the ac- count printed in the evening papers. He gave her the morning papers to read. It had all come out again, and more details were given. Among other things, the later report gave Burke Channing's name, told something of the life of Pat Weatherbee. Pat had been married twice, according to the story, his first wife being a daughter of Patrick Gorin, formerly a San Francisco saloonkeeper and politician, and owner of considerable properly lying west of Larkin street, the title to which had been in dispute for years. Gorin had left San Francisco in the '60's, since which time the property had become valuable, and the title cleared, but all trace of Gorin was lost. About this time, Pat Weatherbee had appeared in San Francisco with a second wife and, as he seemed to be the only person who might set up a claim to the property, the parties in possession had obtained quitclaim deeds. Pat's second wife died shortly afterward and, later, he bought the hotel now called The Weatherbee House. "THE SUN OF RIGHTEOUSNESS" 407 But now, the story related, a daughter had appeared on the scene and it looked very much as though the property in question would be involved in litigation. Nancy read all this as she sat in the police court wait- ing for her father to be brought in. She did not try to understand the details. She did not care much. The sergeant was kind to her, and he told her that her father would have to be brought in "to plead," what- ever that meant. One thing she was sure about. She had found Burke, and would soon be able to start home. As for her father, probably he knew what he was to do. Anyway, she did not know. She had heard some one at the hotel say he would be out in a day or two. The "City Hall crowd," according to what she had heard, had a lot of "authority." Suddenly the door opened, and in walked Billy Ki-Ki, followed by Cohen, the Jew. Billy had a newspaper in his hand, and for a moment Nancy thought the news of the tragedy had reached New Town, and had brought these friends to her assistance; then she realized that were im- possible. "I thought we would find you here," Billy said. "We read about Burke here in the paper as we were coming in on the train." "What brought you to San Francisco and Mr. Cohen?" she inquired. Billy looked about the room before he answered. "Where is Maidie?" he asked. "Maidie?" she cried; "Maidie? She didn't come." "But you sent for her?" "No, no; I didn't; no. Isn't she home? Isn't she there? Oh, Billy! What is it?" She grasped his arm and, in her growing excitement, began shaking him; for 408 SONS OF ELOHIM she read in his face a corroboration of a terrible truth that began to dawn upon her. The girl ! The rescue ! Larrabie ! Oh yes ; it was all getting plain now now ! all that she had read in the papers. Then she let herself slip away from him; for every- thing was black, and there was a buzzing in her ears. Half an hour later, Nancy and Billy Ki-Ki were going up a street toward Barbary Coast. "This is the place," said the messenger who had come with them from the police court. "She is upstairs." Nancy's glance went to the black-lettered sign in the window of the Mission to which she had been led, a week ago, a welcome haven, indeed. Then they followed the man up the stairs. A young woman opened the door. With her finger at her lips she glanced, hesitatingly, from Nancy to Billy; but the messenger went on, leading them into a small cozily-fur- nished parlor. "You are the mother?" she said, inquiringly, taking Nancy's hand and putting an arm tenderly about her. "She is very low; but God's Spirit is with us, and we trust in Him, through the promises of Jesus." Nancy could utter no word. She only looked at Billy, helplessly. He stepped to her side, and took her other hand. "May we go in?" he whispered. The girl bowed. "She is delirious ; I fear she will not know you." She pushed aside a hanging portiere that screened the bed and drew the trembling mother through the arch. Billy followed. Maidie's eyes were closed and her face was so white among the thick black curls, crushed against the pillow, that "THE SUN OF RIGHTEOUSNESS" 409 Nancy would have screamed out had her strength not left her. "Be brave, dear," whispered the nurse. "She has lain just as you see her, since yesterday. She has been very, very ill." Nancy fell on her knees at the side of the bed and pressed her lips against the bared arm of her child. "Where is the doctor? What does he say?" Billy asked, in a hushed voice, glancing about the room. "God is our Physician," the young woman whispered. "He is always with us. What does He say? He sent His Son into the world to tell us that God alone is the Healer of every sickness and every affliction, and that we should have no other gods but Him. We believe in Jesus, and in his name God hears and heals. Have you faith in God? Do you believe?" The big man, seeing in her eyes a wonderful light of hope and faith and love, could only bow his head. Nancy, piteously waiting, sprang up with a low, glad cry. "Oh, Billy! You believe! You believe! Oh, Billy; God will hear us ! God must hear us ! Come, pray ! pray to God ! quick ! for me for Maidie !" She was pulling him to the bed, pulling him down on his knees beside her. "Oh God, hear us! O God, hear us! O God! O God!" she cried. The form on the bed stirred ; the lips formed the word, "Mamma," not knowing she was there. "O God, do not let her die ! She is my all, my all ! O God, hear met O God, hear me!" the frantic mother screamed; and the big man by her side buried his face in the bedclothes and sobbed. "Pray with me, Billy! Now, with me! O God, save her! O God, spare her!" 410 SONS OF ELOHIM "Our Father which art in heaven " he was praying, too. It was the prayer he used to say, years and years ago, when a boy. Perhaps he had never known another ; he only knew it was a prayer. And the Father in heaven was wait- ing. "Oh God, hear him ! Oh God, hear him !" the mother cried, in the agony of her grief. "Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done " "Thy will be done " she was repeating the words. "Give us this day " "Give us each day our daily bread " another voice had joined with them, the voice of one who had just come in, a man with full gray beard and marvellous eyes, who stood with his hands stretched out over the white bed, as though he knew just where God was. Rich and trusting and full of assurance came the voice to Nancy's ears. She felt coming into her heart again that same conquering peace which had come to her, a week ago, in the Mission down- stairs. There was a moment's stillness as the last words of the prayer stole out through the open window, up into the heavens. The man knelt down and laid his hand upon the sick girls' head. "Heavenly Father! Through Jesus, thy Son, who has promised us in his name that we, who believe and are con- secrated to serve thee with all our hearts and with all our lives, shall save the dying and shall raise the dead to life, hear our petition now for the girlhood life of this sweet child. "Unchanging God ! Be merciful to this mother, whose grief-stricken heart pleads to thee in blind faith, and in "THE SUN OF RIGHTEOUSNESS" 411 hope, and prayer. We know it is not thy will that this young girl, at the very threshold of life, should pass away in death. Hear us, now, O God! And in accordance with thy will and believing in the promises of thy dear Son, Jesus, we lay these hands upon her in his name. Let Thy Holy Spirit come, O God, and make her well !" Again all was still. Nancy's face was hidden in the quilt; but she knew that Mr. Raines had come in and had knelt at Billy's side. The form on the bed moved. Maidie raised a hand to her face and drew a long, deep breath. The marvelous eyes of the gray-bearded man, closely watching, turned heaven- ward. "O God, we thank thee for the precious life of this dear one ! Look up, my child ! Your mother is here and all, all is well." And Nancy knew that God had heard and answered. She lifted her eyes to the bright, soulful eyes of the man. She saw a light hovering about him that spread out into the room and fell across the face of her precious child. "Mamma, are you here?" Maidie's eyes were open, and she was smiling into her mother's face. The Sun of Righteousness had arisen with healing wings. The wonderful light streamed in through the un- shaded windows and drove the dark angel away. Nancy Swallow, at last, had learned why God was, and is, and ever will be; and she had found, for herself, the greatest power in all the world. CHAPTER L SONS OF ELOHIM "This air a great world !" said Hank, pulling the boot from Luke's foot, and diving among a lot of tools for some white powder, which he poured, liberally, inside. "It helps the last in a bit easier," he explained. "There'll be a cyclone hit them Eastern land-grabbers," said Luke, resting his foot on the edge of the sawdust box. "That air feller war the feller, sure enough." "Wall, it'll do the Widder Swallow a heap more good than a lot o' fellers w'at's galvantin' round the kentry, year's end to year's end," said Hank. "Here comes Jim Crawley, an' ye can't run, Luke, 'less ye go kitin' out the back door with one boot off an' one boot on, as they tell in Christmas books." It had always been Hank's opinion, freely ex- pressed on many occasions to the old rancher, that Luke "orter some day or nother git a change o' heart, and arsk Jim to let bygones be bygones." This morning Crawley saw Luke in the shop and passed by, going on to the postoffice. Hank looked at Luke and Luke looked at Hank; but neither spoke for a time. Pres- ently a smile began to twitch Hank's mouth. "Guess Jim saw ye had yer boot off an' c'udn't run, an' he didn't want to have the best o' ye," he said, cutting the thread in the wrong place. But Luke made no answer. SONS OF ELOHIM 413 "The Jew feller came back yest'day," Hank went on. "Sez as how he's got to move the Channings to Frisco old parson an' all. He ha' brought a letter from Billy Ki-Ki w'ich ha' got 'em all excited. The Jew sez as how the girl war tuk sick soon's she landed in Frisco. Sho! she war like a lily o' the valley in a patch o' burdocks an' thistles w'en she struck that pile o' corruption. The feller w'at war here arskin' arter 'em an' come to think on't, it war a bit curious how Billy tuk the trail fer Frisco on a jump soon's he heard the girl war gone." "W'at girl ye talkin' 'bout, Hank?" "Were ye been fer half an hour, Luke? I war speak- in' o' the Widder Swallow's girl, o' course, bein' as she ha' been Billy's proteejay since her pa war pizened. De Land sez as how thar came near bein' some doin's in Ellensburg deepo a couple weeks ago same time that feller with the patent leathers war here. De Land war waitin' fer the east local, an' nother feller, who from all accounts war the Frisco detective, war waitin' for same train. All o' a sud- dint the door opens an' who comes in the deepot but Billy. Minnit he sot eyes on Frisco he outs with his gun an' had Mister Patentleathers on the floor beggin' fer his life. Some old deal, De Land sez, back in the states. Wall, the feller begged fer mercy like all git out, w'en in comes the west local, an' Billy sez to the feller : 'Git up ye damn dorg, an' git!' an' Frisco gits out like a house afire; leatways, fast as the train c'ud take him 'way from Billy's weppin. Next night Billy heerd the girl war gone, an' he took the trail double quick." "D'ye think 'at Jim Crawley ha' done fair wit' me an' them railroad fellers, bein' how he an' I war friends ?" Luke asked, apparently not having heard a word of what Hank was telling. 414 SONS OF ELOHIM "Wall, Luke, w'en it happened, an' I fust heard o' Crawley's coo-dee-taw, as De Land said it war, I said as how I thought it served ye right, Luke. But I dunno. Ye know ye war allus peckin' at Jim 'bout his old scab patch, now, warn't ye, Luke?" "It warn't nothin' more, Hank; now, war it?" "It war a gold mine, I'm thinkin', Luke leastways, for Jim. Who'd ha' done different, Luke ? Now, man to man : who'd a done diff erentwise ?" Luke spat in the sawdust, but made no answer; while Hank hammered away on a thick piece of leather. "D'ye think Jim 'ud come in if I warn't here, Hank?" he asked, presently. "Dunno," said Hank. "Mebbe." "Dunno's I've got anythink much agin him," said Luke after a moment, talking partly to himself. Hank hammered away vigorously. "He ha' never forgot the day I introjooced him to Betty," Luke went on mumbling. Hank got his face down in his tool-box as if he had suddenly become nearsighted. "He war an ornery lookin' crittur on that cayuse; an' ye orter see his eyes stick out w'en he sot 'em on Betty. That war a happy day fer Jim. . . . An' he's been purty hap- py since, considerin' he war sot on kids. . . . An' them war good dinners, no sayin' they warn't. . . . Jim ha' never for- got. . . . Mebbe I wouldn't ha' done differentwise. Mebbe not." "Beats all I can't find one !" Hank exclaimed, though he didn't say what; and Luke never knew he had gone out till he saw him coming in with Jim Crawley. Crawley shook hands with Luke just as though there SONS OF ELOHIM 415 had never been any enmity. Hank stood looking on, his eyes glistening. "Wat be the excitement at the post office, Jim?" he asked. "Two things," said Jim. "Billy is married to the Widder Swallow, an' they be gone on their hunkymoon to the States, takin' the gal with 'em." "Ye don't tell!" said Hank. "I know'd it 'ud come some day or 'nother, if they both lived long enough. But that ain't makin' all that fuss. Wat's the other thing ?" "Wall, Hank, from hall accounts yure mirakel o' Jonah an' Daniel, an' the fi' thousan' loves o bread w'at 1 ,uke allus said c'udn't ha' been, 'count o' there bein' no hovens fer so many to bake in, is all beat to death by w'at 'as 'ap- pened right under yure nose, 'ere in New Town." " 'Bout the Gorin ranch bein' the Widder Swallow's ?" Luke asked. "That war strange, 'specially 'bout the bloomin' box," said Crawley. "Wat box?" asked Hank. "Ye remember the night old man Kirby war kilt? I ain't fergot it, fer it war the next day arter I struck this 'ere town. Wall, afore Nick Maloney goes to Hireland fer that scared-o-nothin' sister of 'is, 'e comes to me 'ouse one night, an' 'e sez as 'ow 'e 'ad a bloomin' box w'at 'e 'ad found the night Kirby war butchered. Nick sez as 'ow a spook o' a dead man ha' come an' woke 'im, an' ha' took 'im to the old coop w'at war on that good-fer-nothin' scab land I war fool henough to 'ang onto harterwards. 'Take a spade,' sez the spook, 'an' dig fer a box ye'll find thar.' Nick ha' dug hout the bloomin' thing, an' it war chuck full to the top o' letters an' dockyments. Nick ha' gi'n 'em to me afore he left, an' next I 'ears was 'ow the Jew feller 416 SONS OF ELOHIM war lookin' fer some o' Gorin's heirs, an' I shows 'im the box o' papers. 'Weatherbee/ sez 'e, readin' one o' the letters, 'that's the name/ 'e sez, 'o' Mis' Swallow w'en she war a girl/ 'e sez. That feller, Payne, ha' told 'im, fer 'e 'ad known Nancy w'en she war in camp with her father, Pat Weatherbee, who ha' helped build the Central Pacific Rail- way. So Mr. Jew 'e lights hout fer Frisco, 'long o' Billy Ki-Ki." "Sho!" exclaimed Hank. "That ain't knee high to a grasshopper to the mirackel o' Daniel, an' Jonah, an' sech. Who'd say that c'udn't ha' happened?" "But I hain't told ye w'at the mirackel be, yit, Hank. Heath's kid w'at war crook'd in the feet, po'r feller, since 'e war born, can walk 's good as you or Luke can better'n Luke, fer the kid hain't got Luke's rheumatiz." "Sho! Ye don't mean it?" Hank exclaimed, dropping his awl. "That c'udn't ha' happened ! c'ud it, Luke?" "Tell me how it c'udn't an' I'll tell ye how it c'ud," Luke chuckled. "Wall," Crawley went on, "hit's as true as ye air a foot 'igh, Hank. It 'appens as 'ow the lad ha' been prayin' an' ex'ortin' like hall git hout, ever since that helectric preacher war 'ere an' 'sot the village by the hears/ as Doc Carmel sez. Last night, or the night afore, 'e goes to Smith the new parson, w'at ha' been preachin' about devils, an' 'e sez, sez 'e, 'Ye air to pray fer me/ 'e sez, 'like it sez in the scripture/ an' ye air to put yer 'ands on me feet/ 'e sez, 'as hit sez in the scriptur', an' me feet'll git like other boys, sez 'e." "Sho !" said Hank. "He war f uller'n Job o' faith. He ha' told me more'n a week ago 'bout a preacher in Frisco w'at war healin' a lot o' blind an' lame people in same way; an' that the blind-woman Brown's boy tuk his mother thar SONS OF ELOHIM 417 an' they be thar yit's fur's I know. But w'at ha' made Heath's boy's feet straight, Jim?" "Mirackel," said Crawley, solemnly. " 'E ha' prayed, an' the parson ha' put 'is 'ands on the boy, but nothin' 'ap- pened. Then the parson 'a prayed agin, an' nothin' 'appened. Then the parson 'a prayed agin, an' nothin' a happened agin. 'Come agin tomorry,' sez the parson, 'an' bring a lee- tie more faith with ye,' 'e sez, mebbe, though I hain't swear- in' as to that. Wall, this mornin' w'en the boy wakes hup, if 'is bloomin' feet hain't straight as any fellers, an' Vs down to the postoffice walkin' good's any feller 'is size, con- siderin* 'e never ha' known 'ow to use them legs prop'ly. 'The Lord ha' done it,' 'e sez." "Job ha' said same thing w'en he war tuk down with biles," said Hank, meditatingly. "He said as how 'the Lord ha' done it! The Lord ha' done it!' Looks like the Lord gits the blame both ways." "I can't believe it!" Luke exclaimed, limping about on his bare foot. "He must ha' took some 'lectric treatment, or suthink." "Dunno," said Crawley. "Doc Carmel sez as 'ow 'is pills ha' done it, fer he gi'n the boy some a year or two ago. They're jest workin', Doc sez. Jedge Lattimer sez as 'ow hippytizin' ha' done it. The Jedge sez 'e's suspected fer a long time the new parson be a hippytizer, w'at hever the bloomin' 'ell it be. Old Parson Swallow ha' agreed wit' 'im, an' sez as 'ow the prayin' parson orter be run hout o' New Town 'fore 'e gits to hippytizin' some o' the gals. Looks to me 's if the old parson air greatly put hout fer not knowin' the ways o' the Lord." "Wall, it be 'cordin' to scriptur', as I rekerlect it," said Hank, getting his Bible out from the drawer under his seat. Since the vears had brought the snow into the shoemaker's 418 SONS OF ELOHIM hair and stubbly beard, he had been getting closer to the Book of books. "Wat do it say?" Luke asked, chewing hard. The two old friends looked over his shoulder while he read from the sixteenth chapter of Mark, beginning at the seventeenth verse: "These signs shall follow them that believe: In my name shall they cast out demons ; they shall speak with new tongues; they shall take up serpents, and if they drink of any deadly thing, it shall in no wise hurt them; they shall lay hands on the sick and they shall recover." "But that ha' been most two thousand years afore they got doctors like we got," said Crawley. "Ye be wrong, Jim!" said Hank, turning the pages. "It sez here, 'A woman ha' been sick twelve years an' suf- fered from the doctors, who tuk all she had, an' she war worse'n she war afore. She jest teched the Lord, and she war healed quicker'n ye can say 'scat !' " "But that war the Lord, Hank. Ye don't say as ye c'ud do w'at the Lord ha' done, Hank ?" "Wall, Jim I hain't said as I c'ud do it, but here's w'at it says 'bout that, now. Listen w'at it sez, Luke. 'He that b'lieveth on me, the things that I do, shall he do also, an' greater things than these shall he do.' " "Sho now. Don't the preachers hever read that, Hank?" Jim asked. "I reckon they don't say it loud enough fer anyone to hear," said Hank. "Be that in all yure Bibles, Hank ?" Luke asked. "Guess it be," said Hank. "I never heard o' it afore," Crawley declared. "They don't preach much 'bout them texts anymore, SONS OF ELOHIM 419 these days. But, shol I never go to church," said Hank "Wat's the use?' w'en ev'ry preacher's got his own pecoo- liar way o' tellin' w'at the Lord ha' meant by w'at He sez This curin' o' the way the scriptur' sez, never will git pop'lar here, nohow ; f er the Lord ha' got too much competition. No one'll say the Lord ha' done it. The old man Swallow won't b'lieve the Lord ha' done it, much as he'd like to git shut o' the as'ma the doctor sez he's got." "Do the scriptur' say anythink 'bout rheumatiz, Hank ?" Luke asked, as he got into his boot, not seeing the work was only partially done. "Dunno; mebbe," said Hank. He began wrapping the Bible up in a piece of newspaper. "Luke, ye must go 'ome with me to supper," said Craw- ley, slipping his hand into that of the old ranchman. "Betty'd be powerful glad to see ye. She ha' been askin' fer ye fer a long time back." As the two men started away together Hank called to Luke. The latter stopped and the shoemaker slipped a package in his hand. "Ye'll find a lot o' things in it, Luke, w'at ye don't hear 'bout now-a-days in the churches. But I ha' read it from end to end, an' now's I remember, I never found any place w'ere it sez ye sh'ud take medicine fer rheumatiz. Mebbe ye can find it, Luke. Mebbe. An' then, agin, mebbe not." "Thankee," said Luke. POSTSCRIPT The complete plot of "Sons of Elohim" was conceived and written by Mr. Burnette in 1900-1902. No new charac- ters have been brought into the story; and the closing chap- ters, "The Gray Wolf," "The Wolf and the Lamb," "The Miracle Man," "The End of the Trail" and the "Sun of Righteousness" remain practically word for word as they appear in the original draft of the story, in our possession. We feel this explanation is pertinent, as many readers may recall scenes and characters, in recent plays, almost identical with the scenes and characters originated by the author of "Sons of Elohim" twenty years ago. THE PUBLISHERS. University of California SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY Return this material to the library from which it was borrowed. FEB20 1990 A 000 051 830