The Preacher of Cedar Mountain

by Ernest Thompson Seton

  The mockery of it horrified as the immensity of it all swamped him. He had no mind, no equipment, for the subtleties of theology, and his head was a whirl of maddening contradictions, till the memory of his mother's simple devotion came like a cooling drink in his fever: "Never mind trying to reason it all out; you can't do it; no one can. Only ask what would the Master have done?" Yes, that was easy. "Feed the hungry, clothe the naked, visit the sick"; and turning, he wheeled homeward. The upheaval of all foundations seemed less dreadful. He could not expect to reason it all out. It was enough to do as the Master would have done; and, whether it was the feeding of the multitude, the healing of the lepers, the gentleness to the woman taken in adultery, or the helping of the man who fell among thieves, there was no doctrine, no preaching—only kindness shown as sympathy and physical help in their troubles, here and now. The words of another childhood friend came back to him—those of Fighting Bill Kenna. He used to say, "I don't care a dom what he is, if he's a good neighbour." Yet the neighbour in question was a papist and they were kind and friendly every day of the year, except on those two set apart by the devil to breed hate. Kenna was right where his heart led him and wrong where his creed was guide.

  Hartigan could not have told why he went alone on that walk. He only knew that in this crisis something cried out in him to be alone with the simple big things. Why should the worldly-wise companion he had chosen be left out? He didn't know; he only felt that he wanted no worldly wisdom now. He wished to face the judgment day in his soul all alone. He would not have done so a year before; but the Angel of Destiny had led on an upward trail and now he was brought aside to the edge so that he might look over, and down, and know that he was climbing.

  * * *

  Belle met him at the door. Her face was anxious. But his look reassured her. He took her on his knees as one might lift a child and, sitting with his arm around her and gazing far away, he said: "I had a landslide, Belle. All my church thought and training were swept away in a moment. I was floundering, overwhelmed in the ruin, when I found a big, solid, immovable rock on which I could build again. It was not the Church, it was my mother gave it to me. She used to say: 'Don't try to reason it all out; no one can. Only try to do as the Master would do'; what that is we are not always sure; but one who followed Him has told us, 'Keep cool and kind and you won't go far astray.'"

  She looked into his face and saw something that she had never seen there before. The thought that flashed through her mind was of Moses and how his countenance showed that a little while before he had talked with God. She was awed by this new something he had taken on; and her instinct hushed the query that arose within her. She only gripped his hand a little and looking far away, said slowly: "There are times when He comes to talk with His own. I think he wanted to walk with you alone by the lake and talk, as He one time walked with His men on the shore of Galilee."

  "My mind is clear now, Belle," he continued, "if these people want me to begin here merely as orthodox pulpit preacher, I must give up the post. That is what I want to be, but this is not the time or place for it. If, on the other hand, they will let me try to help those who need help, and in the form in which they need it—well and good; I will do my best to understand and meet the problems. But we must at once have a clear understanding."

  She put her arms about him and after a little silence said: "I am with you to the finish, Jim. I know you have received a message and have guidance as to how it should be delivered."

  It was in the little flat, with sagebrush in the vases, that they thought it out, and reached a solution that was the middle of the road. The first presentation of his new understanding Jim made to the Board of Deacons two days later. He said:

  "When a man is swimming for his life, he does not want to discuss politics. When a man's children are hungry, he can't be expected to respect the law that prevents him from feeding them. When a man has no property, you needn't look to him for a fine understanding of the laws of property. When a man has no chance for lawful pleasures in life, he cannot be blamed much for taking any kind that comes within reach. When a man's body is starved, cold, and tormented, he is not going to bother about creeds that are supposed to guide his soul."

  "All of which we freely admit," said Mr. Hopkins, with characteristic gravity. "The problems that you name are very real and grave, but they are the problems of the nation. Rest assured that every man of force in America to-day is aware of these things, and is doing all he can to meet them squarely. Moreover, they are being met with success—slow, but continued success.

  "Are you prepared to outline the plan by which you would contribute to the local solution of these national problems?"

  Yes, Hartigan had it there on paper. "I must approach these people through the things which they know they need. They don't feel any need of a church, but they do feel the need of a comfortable meeting place where the wholesome love of human society may be gratified. Their lives are devoid of pleasure, except of the worst kinds. This is not choice, but is forced on them; there is not a man, woman or child among them that does not—sometimes, at least—hunger for better things—that would not enjoy the things that you enjoy, if they had the chance. I want harmless pleasures in abundance put within their reach.

  "Man is an animal before he is a soul; so I would begin by providing the things needful for a body. All men glory in physical prowess; therefore I want a gymnasium, and with it, the natural accompaniments of bath house and swimming tank. In short, I don't want a church; I want an up-to-date People's Club, with a place for all and a welcome for all."

  The deacons sat back and gazed at one another. "Well," said Deacon Starbuck, president of the Stock Bank, "you surely have a clear-thinking business head among your gifts."

  There was a distinct split in the views of the Board. The older men objected that this was an organization for propagating the Gospel of Christ, not for solving economic problems, and proved with many Scripture texts that we must "first of all seek the Kingdom of God and His righteousness," after having secured which, the rest would follow.

  But the younger men took Hartigan's view that it was no time to talk politics to a man when he was swimming for his life. Fortunately, Hopkins was able to stave off action, pending a fuller discussion, and brought that on at once.

  "Let us understand. Is the club to be a charity, a benevolence, or a business proposition—that is, a free gift, a partly supported institution, or a dollar-for-dollar bargain?"

  The older men believed in charity. Jim opposed it as wrong in principle. As a business proposition it was hopeless, at present; so he definitely labelled it a "benevolence."

  "All right," said Hopkins, "now how much money do you want, and how long to make good?"

  Again Jim referred to the paper in his hand.

  "I want twenty-five thousand dollars cash to provide and equip a temporary building; I want five thousand a year to run it, and I want one thousand dollars a year salary paid to my wife, who is with me in all things, and will give all her time to it. I want three years to make good, that is to make a noticeable reduction in drink and crime, which is the same thing, and this we shall gauge by the police records. By that time I shall have fifteen hundred families in touch with the club, paying dues to it. I shall stand or fall by the result. If I satisfy you, I shall ask for a hundred-thousand-dollar building at the end of that time."

  "You say nothing about street sermons," said a plaintive old gentleman with a long white beard and the liquid eyes of an exhorter.

  "No, not one. I don't want them. I can work better indoors."

  The president said, "Well, Mr. Hartigan, perhaps it would be well for you to retire, in order that we may freely discuss your plan. As you seem to have it on paper, would you mind leaving the document?" Jim hesitated, glanced at it, then handed it to Mr. Hopkins. It was all in a woman's hand.

  In fifteen minutes, Jim was summoned to learn the decision. They accepted, not unanimously, but they accepted his entire proposition, wi
th the exception of one item; they would not pay salary to or officially recognize his wife. It was a bitter pill, and Jim's eyes were brimming with tears and his face flushed at the injustice when he went home to tell her. Poor little woman! Her lips tightened a trifle, but she said: "Never mind, I'll work for it just the same. I'm afraid they are still in the Dark Ages; but the light will come."

  * * *

  CHAPTER LII

  The Boss

  It had been a private dwelling, far out on the prairie once, but the hot, steady lava flow of the great city had reached and split and swept around the little elevated patch of grimy green with its eleven despairing trees. A wooden house it was, and in the very nature of it a temporary shift; but the committee—Hopkins, Hartigan, and Belle—felt it worth looking into.

  With the agent, these three went over it and discussed its possibilities and the cost. Ten times in that brief talk did Hopkins find himself consulting Belle when, in the ordinary process, he should have consulted Hartigan. Why? No man raises himself to the power and pitch that Hopkins had attained, without a keen, discriminating knowledge of human nature. And he felt the fact long before he admitted it even to himself: "Yes, he's a pair of giant wings, but she's the tail, all right." And he was not displeased to find this original estimate justified by events.

  The three years' lease was signed; and a bulletin board appeared on the bravest of all the battered old trees at the front—the very battle front. A gnarled and twisted cedar it was, and when a richer name than "Club" was sought for the venture, it was this old tree that linked up memory with itself and the house was named, not "The People's Club," as at first intended, but "Cedar Mountain House"—the word "mountain" being justified in the fact that the house was on a prairie knoll at least a foot above the surrounding level.

  The bulletin board displayed this to all passers-by:

  CEDAR MOUNTAIN HOUSE

  Notice

  A Meeting to organize this Club will be held here

  on these premises Sunday afternoon next. Men and

  women who are interested are cordially invited.

  REFRESHMENTS

  The Board of Deacons would have had a wrangle over each and every word of that notice. That was why they never saw it till long afterward.

  "Now what's going to happen?" said Hopkins.

  "A few will come and act very shyly; but I've a notion the refreshments will bring them," was Belle's guess.

  "I am afraid we have omitted something of importance," said Jim. "We are invading a foreign savage country without taking any count of the native chiefs."

  "What's your idea?" said Hopkins, sharply.

  "I mean, we have arranged matters with the real estate man, and the Church workers and the police; but we haven't taken the trouble to look up the ward boss."

  "We ignored the boss because we thought he was an enemy," said Hopkins.

  "I'm not so sure about that," said Jim. "I've been talking with the police sergeant, who knows him well. He says he's a queer mixture of prizefighter and politician. He can protect anything he likes, and pretty nearly drive out anything he doesn't like. Isn't it worth while making a bid for his support? It may please him to be asked."

  "Who is he?"

  "Oh, a saloon-keeper, Irish, ex-pugilist. His name is Michael Shay. He's easy to find," said Jim.

  "Let's go now," said Hopkins. "But I'm afraid that this is where you drop out, Mrs. Hartigan."

  So they went down to the headquarters of the boss. It was an ordinary Chicago saloon of less than ordinary pretensions. The plate-glass and polished-mahogany era had not yet set in. The barkeeper was packing the ice chest and a couple of "types" were getting their "reg'lar" as the two strangers from another world entered. The build of Hartigan at once suggested plain-clothes policeman, and the barkeeper eyed him suspiciously. Hopkins spoke first:

  "Is the boss in?"

  The barkeeper made a gesture, pointing to the back room.

  "May we see him?"

  "I s'pose so." And again, with a jerk of the thumb, the back room was indicated.

  The two walked in. It was a small room, meanly furnished, with a square table in the centre. Sitting by it were three men. Two were drinking beer—one a small, thin man; the other a red-faced specimen with rotund outline. The third and biggest was smoking a briarwood pipe. He was a heavily built man with immense shoulders square jaw, and low, wrinkled forehead; deep under his bushy eyebrows were two close-set, twinkling gray eyes, which were turned on the visitors with a hostile stare.

  "Is Mr. Michael Shay here?" asked Hopkins.

  "I'm Mike Shay," said the smoker, without rising or removing his pipe; "what do ye want?" There was a sullen defiance in the tone that showed resentment at the different dress and manner of the strangers.

  "We have come to ask for your support for the club we are going to open in the old house down the street."

  "Support nuthin'," was the gracious reply.

  Hopkins began to explain that this was not to be a rival show—no drinks would be sold; the idea was merely to found a place of amusement for the people. The only effect on the boss was to evoke a contemptuous "E-r-r-r!" and an injunction, in Chicago vernacular, to get out of that as soon as they liked—or sooner. And, by way of punctuation, he turned to expectorate copiously, but with imperfect precision at a box of sawdust which was littered with cigar stumps. The interview was over—he wished them to understand that. He turned to his companions.

  Hartigan felt that it was his chance now. He began: "See here, now, Michael Shay; you're an Irishman and I'm an Irishman——"

  "Oh, g'wan!" and Shay rose to walk out the back way. As he did so, Jim noticed fully, for the first time, the huge shoulders, the strong, bowed legs, the gorilla-like arms; and the changing memory of another day grew clear and definitely placed. There could be no doubt about it now; this was bow-legged Mike, the teamster of seven years before.

  At once, a different colour was given to Jim's thought and manner; no longer cautious, respectful, doubtful, he began in his own more boisterous way, "Say, Mike. I have a different matter to talk about now."

  Mike stopped and stared.

  Jim proceeded. "Were you ever at Links, Ontario?"

  "Maybe I was, an' maybe I wasn't. What's that to you?"

  "Well, do you remember licking a young fellow there for jerking the roof log out of the hotel with your masting team of oxen?"

  "Bejabers, I do that"; and Mike's eyes twinkled for the first time with a pleasant look.

  "Well, Mike, I am that fellow; an' that's what ye gave me." Jim raised his chin and showed an irregular scar.

  "Well sure, that's the Gospel truth"; and Michael grinned. "By gosh, that's the time I had to skip out of Chicago. A little election fuss ye understand," and he chuckled. "Set down. What'll ye drink?" and the huge hand swung two chairs within reach.

  "No," said Jim. "I'm not drinking to-day; but I want to tell you that I was only a kid when you licked me. I swore that some day I'd meet you and have another try. Well, I've filled out some in the last seven years, an' some day, when ye feel like it, we might put on the gloves together."

  Mike chuckled, "Now you're talking! What's the matter with right now?" and he pointed to a room farther back. "But, say, ye ain't in training, are ye?"

  "No; are you?"

  "No."

  "Then come on."

  Mike opened the next door and led the way into a larger room, with the fixings of a regular boxing academy, followed by his friends and one or two additional customers from the bar room.

  Hopkins followed Hartigan, and was filled, apparently, with strange and mixed emotions. "Really, Mr. Hartigan, as President of the Board of Deacons, I must protest against this whole shocking procedure." Then, in a different tone: "But, as a man, by jinks! I'm going to see it through."

  "Why not?" said Jim. "Sure it's simple and easy. In about three rounds, I'll get him or he'll get me; then we'll shake hands and all be good friends ever after. It couldn'
t have happened better."

  Both men stripped to the waist, and the contrast was as great as the resemblance. Broad, equally broad, and superbly muscled, the saloon-keeper was, if anything, heavier, but there was just a suspicion of bloat over all his frame. Jim was clean built, statuesque—a Jason rather than a Hermes. He was by six inches taller, but the other had just as long a reach. And, as the officious patrons of the "pub" strapped on the gloves and made the usual preparation of wet sponge and towel, it seemed in all respects an even match—in all respects but one; Jim was twenty-odd, Mike was forty-odd.

  The small man with a squeaky voice installed himself as timekeeper. He struck the gong, and the boxers met. Jim always smiled and bared his teeth while boxing. Mike was one of the bull-dog jaw; he kept his lips tight shut, and his small eyes twinkled with every appearance of rage.

  On the first round, the great experience of the pugilist enabled him to land one or two heavy jolts, and when the gong sounded the time-limit, Jim had got rather the worst of it.

  The second round opened much like the first. Jim landed on Mike's under jaw more than once; and Mike got in a body blow that was something to think about.

  It was the third round that told the tale. What chance in a fight has forty-five against twenty-five? The extra weight of the prize fighter was mere softness. His wind was gone; and half the time had not passed before Jim landed under his left jaw the classic punch that Mike had one time given him, and Mike went down like a sack of meal.