by John Boyd
“I ordered the ten dollars a day fine,” Ian told him bluntly.
“Ain’t that kind of high, deputy?”
Not only was the Mormon untrustworthy—he was unreasonable.
“High?” Ian flared. “It’s low. Jeb’s worth twelve ordinary Gentiles when it comes to hard work. Next to that red-haired Irishman, down yonder, J.C. is the best man I got. He’d be better than the Irishman, except Mickey O’Shea’s got brains, and Jeb ain’t.”
Peyton eyed the deputy sheriff with confused understanding, as if giving Ian a new appraisal, and when he spoke, some of the iron was gone from his voice.
“You sound like a just man, deputy… I know Jeb’s a good worker. He’s a law-abiding, God-fearing man, and he ought not to be in a jailhouse gang. He’s got three wives and sixteen children to support.”
“J. C. oughta thought about them before he set out to break the law,” Ian snapped.
“But he ain’t no lawbreaker, deputy.”
Ian waved his hand toward the work gang below.
“Super, you go down and talk to any of them convicts. You won’t find a one that ain’t the most innocent, law-abiding, God-fearing man you ever met—by his own lights.”
“I don’t reckon no man’s going to poor-mouth his self,” Peyton admitted, “but I’m speaking up for J. C. He tithes regular.”
“What’s tithing?”
“He gives ten percent of all he makes to the church, like all good Mormons do.”
Ian had not realized the Mormons were so generous, but with the knowledge he saw an opportunity.
“You think I ought to give J. C. ten percent off for good behavior,” Ian asked harshly, “when the judge’s done give him three days?”
Aware of the penalty for contempt of court, Peyton skirted the subject cautiously. “No, I ain’t saying that. But J. C. is a head of families. Now, I brought you two unmarried boys, one’s a tobacco chewer and the other smokes behind the barn, and I’ll let you have them both for Clayton in a dead-even swap because these boys need discipline.”
Peyton’s remark explained the presence of the two scruffy-looking specimens farther up the hill; they were not flanking gunmen, they were outcast Mormons.
“Super, I ain’t running no reform school for Latter-Day Saints, but seeing as how you and me always seem to hit it off, I’m willing to do you a favor… You see that little point of land, down yonder, jutting off from the road?”
Still wary, Ian lifted his left hand and pointed down the hill beyond the road to the spur where O’Shea had piled the boulders from the blasting operation. Peyton followed the point with his gaze and nodded.
“That’s your land,” Ian continued. “If you’re willing to donate it for a school for Miss Gabriella Stewart, I’d be willing to accept your proposal, but it would have to be between you and me, win, lose, or draw.”
“Why between you and me?”
“I can’t speak for Jebediah Clayton,” Ian explained. “Jeb’s sort of took a personal interest in the road, and he might not want to quit. For one thing, he’s taking part in the dedication of the stone bridge tomorrow. He’s placing the keystone in the arch by hisself . Another thing, he’s got a suit of work clothes free that’s all his own since no other prisoner in the territory’s big enough to wear them, and Jeb, being honest, might figure he ain’t earned them yet. Then J. C. might not be willing to go back to all them wives and children since he’s got a taste of the free life in jail.”
Peyton seemed to have forgotten Jebediah Clayton as he looked down on the point of land below. “There’s nigh onto three acres of good farmland down there.”
“Two acres of rock,” Ian snorted.
“You put a Gentile school too near us folks, and our young ones will be wanting to go to it.”
“Makes no difference. Book learning’s book learning.”
“I don’t want to mix our angels with them Gentile angels,” Peyton demurred. “Seeing as you got a powerful fondness for angels, deputy, you can understand that. I done lost one Mormon to the Methodists. He warn’t much good, but I’d hate to lose a whole passel of good, tithing Mormons… No, I couldn’t give up them three acres for less than ten dollars an acre.”
“Super, you can see from here that land’s too rocky for farming. Them two acres ain’t worth ten dollars an acre.”
“I could lose ten tithing Mormons to that school,” Peyton insisted.
“All Miss Stewart’s going to teach is reading, writing, and ciphering,” Ian said. “It’s against the law to teach religion in school.”
“If you’re talking about the United States Constitution”—Peyton shook his head—“I don’t know if it applies out here. Wyoming’s a territory.”
“I ain’t talking about anybody’s constitution. I’m talking about me. I’m the law in Shoshone Flats, and I’m saying there ain’t going to be no talk about angels in that school, only the three R’s. I ain’t got nothing against Moroni or Namoo either, but I’m asking you this: Do you want to keep that miserable acre and a half of rocks, or do you want me to go down there and tell Jeb Clayton he’s free to walk off his job, take them two boys of yours and break their tobacco habit, and put up a stone schoolhouse overlooking the valley like a monument—the Bryce Peyton Territorial School?”
A glow lighted Peyton’s eyes and a sudden, warm enthusiasm came into his voice. “Deputy, ever since you started talking, that miserable half-acre of rocks is been getting smaller and rockier. If you’ll let J. C. make his own choice and take them two jackleg saints up the hill there, the school land is yours.”
Ian looked up the hill, regretting his own enthusiasm. The pair looked too seedy to really qualify for the road gang, and he could see no way to break the smoker’s habit. Curing the tobacco chewer would be easy; he could break the man’s jaw.
“Look, super. I’m running short of cell space. If J. C. ain’t willing to make the trade for them two, does our bargain still hold?”
“All I want is my rights as stake superintendent,” Peyton said. “If J. C. don’t want his, that’s up to J. C. Far as I’m concerned, the Bryce Peyton Territorial School is yours.”
G-7 slunk back into its host, feeling pride mixed with chagrin. Ian had not needed its guidance, was, indeed, on the verge of scoring a coup for the community’s good unassisted. The irony for G-7 was its awareness that McCloud must have had this scheme subconsciously in his mind when he ordered O’Shea to pile the rocks on the acreage.
What McCloud lacked in wisdom he made up in shrewdness and cunning, G-7 had to admit.
As Ian rode down the slope in the company of the stake superintendent, he realized he was taking a small but calculated risk that Clayton might decide to go with Peyton, but Ian doubted it. The big man had been allotted a two-box ration of Liza’s best chicken, and he had fallen in with the spirit of the road gang. As O’Shea had done, Clayton had developed an interest in stonemasonry and was personally involved in the construction of the bridge which had brought the largest turnout of female spectators in the history of territorial road building.
“Clayton, front and center,” Ian yelled as they rode up. The giant heaved a boulder he was carrying in the direction of the creek and loped over to the horsemen.
“Jebediah,” Ian said, “Mr. Peyton’s willing to swap two of his boys to serve out your time. He figures you’re worth more to your family than you’re worth to the people of Wyoming, or at least you’re worth as much as a couple of his boys.”
Clayton looked at Ian with disbelief and turned to glance at Peyton with scorn. When he spoke, he spoke only to McCloud.
“Deputy, if I ain’t worth more than that, I ain’t worth nothing. Anyhow, the mason’s cutting the center stone tomorrow, and I’m the only man who can hoist it into place. I’m staying to see that bridge finished if the creek floods tomorrow and I have to wait a week.”
Clayton turned and galloped back to the rock pile.
Shrugging his shoulders, Ian turned to the stake superi
ntendent. “Trouble with these boys, Mr. Peyton, is that they’re appreciated for what they’re doing, and they appreciate what the others are doing. They don’t get that kind of appreciation at home. You see I tried, but J. C. is bound and determined to finish that bridge, because I promised him the honor of putting the keystone in place.”
“Well, he ain’t bushwhacking our proposition,” Peyton said. “You go ahead and put up that Bryce Peyton Territorial School, and I’ll speak to the Elders about sending the children. You can have my eighteen young ones, that’s a promise.”
Riding back at the head of the column with O’Shea after quitting time, Ian said casually, “You seem sort of taken with stonework, Mickey. How’d you like to build a schoolhouse?”
“One thing at a time, boss. We haven’t finished the road yet.”
“I mean, how’d you like to be a contractor, build it for the town?”
“No, captain. This road’s my last charitable contribution to Shoshone Flats.”
“I ain’t talking about charity, O’Shea.”
“Begging your pardon, deputy, but if you’re talking about building a schoolhouse for this town, you’re talking about charity.”
“You leave the contract up to me. How much do you figure it would cost the town for you to build a four-room schoolhouse out of native stone?”
O’Shea thought a moment before answering, “Not more than five hundred dollars.”
“That’s about what I figured,” Ian agreed. “But I’ll get you a contract for seven hundred, with a two-hundred-dollar advance for incidentals. You can pay me fifty for my half of the two hundred and you can pocket the rest. Is that fair?”
“You got a quick head for figures, captain,” O’Shea said, “But I’m all for it.”
After supper, Ian broached the subject to Mayor Winchester, who agreed to the proposal with reservations.
“O’Shea can’t build a schoolhouse for any seven hundred dollars. I’ll advance him the retainer, all right, from the administration fund, but I’d like to look over his cost figures. No sense letting that boy lose his shirt on his first contract with the town.
“Tell you what. You bring him by the church, Sunday. I’ll go over the figures with him after the sermon, and I’ll personally see to it that he gets back to jail.”
O’Shea had not complimented Ian on his quick head for figures without, a reason. After a few seconds’ reflection, Ian realized that the mayor wanted to get the contractor alone only to raise the price of the schoolhouse, and Ian took immediate countermeasures to insure himself his share of the mayor’s profits.
“Your word’s as good as gold, Winchester, but I can’t release a prisoner without a ten-dollar bond. That’s a town ordinance.”
“Of course,” the mayor agreed, reaching for his wallet. “As mayor of this town, I’m always happy to abide by its ordinances, even the ones I forgot to sign.”
Surprisingly for Ian, the only obstruction he encountered in his plan to construct the schoolhouse for Gabriella came from the prime contractor, Mickey O’Shea.
In a casual, offhand manner designed to cloak his intentions, Ian asked Gabriella if she had any pictures of buildings she liked. On Saturday evening after supper she dropped by the jailhouse office bringing a huge book, Architectural Treasures of Europe, which she laid on the sheriff’s desk and opened to a full-page, mezzotinted engraving.
“Ian, I’d like to show you the world’s most beautiful building, and I’d like to explain the architectural details which lead me to think so.”
Rather dismayed by her tutorial manner, he demurred, “No use showing me Gabe, Mickey O’Shea’s the man I want to look it over.”
Turning, he shouted down the corridor, “O’Shea, front and center!”
O’Shea swung open his cell door and advanced at a quick step down the corridor, a questioning look on his face as he emerged into the office and noticed Gabriella.
Feeling that now was as good a time as any to make his intentions known to the girl, Ian waved his hand toward the book on the desk and said, “Mickey, take a gander at the schoolhouse you’re building for Miss Stewart on Peyton’s Point.”
Across the desk from Ian, Gabriella’s head snapped up, and she was looking at Ian in astonishment. A veil seemed to float over her eyes, and she continued to stare at Ian as O’Shea glanced at the picture.
Though Gabriella was petrified with amazement, her astonishment was less than O’Shea’s. Leaning over the book, he, too, went rigid as a low whistle broke from his lips. Standing beside them, Ian waited patiently for the tableau to break, and O’Shea broke it first.
His voice rose to a high whine of incredulity as he said, “What the hell, boss? This is Chartres Cathedral.”
“Watch your language, boy,” Ian snapped, “There’s a lady present… Now, I don’t care who owns the building, just shut up and build it.”
Ian knew O’Shea would disobey the order because O’Shea had never heard it. In a stupefied monotone, he said, “It took four thousand Frenchmen four hundred years to build this building.”
“Snap out of it, O’Shea… Are you telling me you’re willing to let a few Frenchmen outdo an Irishman?”
Gabriella was still in a trance caused by Ian’s oblique announcement. O’Shea had turned pale, but he was continuing to argue.
“But, captain, Miss Stewart doesn’t need a four-hundred-foot bell tower.”
“Mickey,” Ian explained patiently, gently, “she’s got to have a building to impress them Mormons. Superintendent Peyton will be sending her his young ones, but that don’t mean the others will fall in line…”
“Ian McCloud, are you telling me that Bryce Peyton’s already agreed…” Finally, snapping out of her trance, Gabriella hurled the partial question, but O’Shea did not let her finish.
“Four hundred feet, captain. Don’t you think that’s overdoing it a mite?”
“Ian, I had no idea…”
“Lop off a few hundred feet if you don’t feel up to it,” Ian said. “Maybe three hundred will be enough.”
“Thirty’s enough,” Gabriella broke in. “But I don’t need a bell tower. I have a hand bell… Ian, what’s this about Bryce Peyton?”
“Peyton’s sending you his young ones.”
“Let’s see… eighteen young ones, that’s thirty-six dollars, head tax,” she said, and began to drift back into a trance when Ian aroused her.
“You’ll need a bell tower, Gabe. No sense going out to ring your own bell on a rainy day, and a bell rope will have all the Mormon boys coming just to ring your bell. Anyhow, when that bell sounds, I want the whole valley to know there’s a school in session.”
“Then, by all means, give me a bell tower, Mr. O’Shea, but thirty-six feet will do fine.”
“Make that a hundred, Mickey,” Ian ordered.
“Oh, but Ian…”
“No bother, Miss Stewart,” O’Shea turned to the girl abruptly. “I believe I can satisfy both parties in regard to the height—one hundred feet for the captain and thirty for you.”
“If you can do that, I’ll be flabbergasted, but I’m already flabbergasted. For me, the most beautiful schoolhouse in the world, and right here in Shoshone Flats.”
Standing, she seemed to be floating away, but O’Shea hardly noticed.
“What about the flying buttresses, Miss Stewart?” he asked, pointing to the page.
Gabriella had not heard O’Shea. She was drifting into a private world, her eyes misting over with happiness.
Ian glanced at the drawing on the page, to the abutments on the building O’Shea was pointing to, and he liked the looks of the exterior arches. They gave the building the straddlelegged stance of a gunfighter.
“I like them, Mickey, so throw in a few for her. Now, take the book and get cracking on them plans.”
Strangely, O’Shea, also, seemed to be withdrawing. Standing over Architectural Treasures of Europe, staring down at the drawing, he was talking to himself. “A little Chartres.
I never thought I’d start with a little Chartres.”
Suddenly, he snapped out of his reverie, “Captain, I’ll not only need the book, I’ll need a drawing board, T squares, French curves, pencils, drafting paper, and five more days on my sentence.”
“You ain’t getting no more time from me, unless that road ain’t finished on schedule. You’re doing this on your own time.”
Nevertheless, Ian had obtained the supplies from the general store by Monday, clearing almost as much from the purchase of the supplies as the $50 he earned from O’Shea’s retainer fee. In addition, he permitted O’Shea to set up his drawing board in the cell-block corridor for night work and scheduled a day off from road work for a small crew under O’Shea to dig the foundations for the Peyton School. Ian’s about-face followed the policy of generosity set by the town’s administration. There was little point in being stingy with the prisoners’ time since the mayor was not the saving sort. After reviewing O’Shea’s plans for the school, Winchester had upped the contractor’s bid to $910.27.
The mayor took the trouble to explain to the deputy why the contract had been upped; flying buttresses added considerably to a building’s overhead. Ian admired the mayor’s persuasiveness. He was convinced the additional cost was allowable until the banker greeted them on the sidewalk with a friendly, “Good morning, Mayor Winchester, Deputy McCloud.”
Ian admired even more the twenty-seven cents Winchester tacked onto the bid. Such little touches separated mayors from deputy sheriffs.
Mormons were beginning to use the road now. Not only were the Mormons and Gentiles in the valley being drawn closer, Winchester and Bain, erstwhile symbols of virtue and vice in Shoshone Flats, were being seen together more often. Bain pledged $100 to the mayor’s campaign fund to fight any possible reform candidate who might be entered into the race by the nonvoting wives of habitual poker losers.
Ian personally gained a feeling of accomplishment from the road. He was being paid well for his work, and the bank was gaining an increasing stream of depositors, but his feelings did not seem connected with the harvest, present and potential, he would gain in money. It was more a satisfaction in civic accomplishment, a pleasure alien to any he had ever felt before.
