The Silver Star

by Gilbert, Morris

  “Dorothy, I have something to talk to you about.” He got her attention and hesitated only for a moment. He ran his hands with some agitation through his auburn hair, then said quickly, “Last week I got a letter from Faith Temple in Los Angeles.”

  “Did they want you to come speak?”

  “No, it wasn’t that. You know my cousin Cassidy has moved there. He’s become a farmer, of sorts, raising oranges, and Priscilla’s there, too, making those motion pictures.” He frowned and said, “I’m not sure that’s a good thing for her to be into.”

  “She’ll be all right. Remember the letter we got from your parents last week? Priscilla doesn’t seem happy, but she’s doing well after that awful affair with that man in New York.”

  “In any case, there’s a very large church there. Their senior pastor has left, and Cass recommended me to the deacons.” He saw some interest flicker in her eyes, and he said quietly, “They want me to come and preach for them.”

  Dorothy could not take this in at once. Andrew had never mentioned any other sort of ministry except his job as Superintendent of Missions. She asked in a puzzled tone, “You mean they want you to come until they find a pastor?”

  “No.” Andrew reached over and took her hand and held it in his. “I mean they may want me to come as their pastor.” He held her hand and said quietly, “You’ve been unhappy, Dorothy, and I’m sorry for it. I feel responsible.”

  Her love for him rose quickly, and she said, “You’ve done a fine job. I’m very proud of you, Andrew.”

  He sat there quietly for a moment, then finally said, “I think we’ll go to that church.”

  “Do you mean just to preach?”

  “No.” He had thought this out and prayed about it considerably, and now said strongly, “I feel I’ve done all I can as superintendent. Our quarrel hit me pretty hard.”

  “I’m sorry I said those things.”

  “You were right. I haven’t been a good husband or a father. This job ought to be done by a single man. I see now what Paul meant when he said it’s better not to be married, for a married man cares for his wife. But I’ve got a wife and children, Dorothy. As I prayed about it, it seems that God is giving me permission, and I’m excited. I’d like to be a pastor, and it’s a great church.”

  Dorothy listened as he described the church, excitement rising in his voice. Finally he said, “And the parsonage, according to what Cass says, is almost a mansion. You’d like it, sweetheart! Your own house, your own garden, your own place.”

  Dorothy could not control the tears that came to her eyes. She tried to, but her eyes filled, and then the tears ran down her cheeks. “I . . . would like that, Andrew. Very much.”

  The tears hit Andrew Winslow hard. He had been made aware of Dorothy’s loneliness, and now he reached forward and put his arms around her. She began to sob, and he stroked her hair until her body ceased to tremble. He kissed her and said, “This is the right thing. You and the children deserve a home.”

  “Do you really think it will happen?”

  “Yes,” Andrew said and smiled. “I think God’s in it. It’s going to be Faith Temple for us, and we’ll do it together.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  A Preacher Comes to Town

  Although Jason Ballard had been apprehensive about hiring Easy, his fears had proven groundless. True enough, the small man spent as much time falling off a horse as he did getting on, but Easy was quiet and threw his energies into learning his new profession. He was also fiercely superstitious, as was quickly discovered by the crew, and the riders all loved to tease him about it, although they did so often with a straight face. Jason suspected that the small man knew he was being ribbed, but Easy let nothing show on his poker face.

  On Tuesday morning at breakfast in the dining room, Jason’s riders all made it a point to sit at the same long table. They consumed enormous stacks of pancakes, dozens of eggs, ate biscuits as if they were popcorn, and kept the room ringing with their loud voices and raucous laughter. They are a fine group, Jason thought as he slid into his place across from Easy Devlin and Peter Winslow. He pitched into his half a dozen fried eggs, hiding a grin as the hands were all poking fun at Devlin.

  Pudge Jones, who was a confirmed hypochondriac by the age of twenty, sat next to Devlin and was complaining about his rheumatism. If it had not been rheumatism, everyone knew it would have been arthritis or some other disease. The more unusual and rare, the better Pudge enjoyed the symptoms of it. But this morning it was rheumatism, and he said mournfully, “I wish old Doc Mortimer were here. He could always cure me up. Always had a pill for whatever ailed me.” He glanced at Easy and said, “Devlin, you ever have rheumatism?”

  Easy was chewing thoughtfully on one of the fluffy biscuits layered with fresh yellow butter and orange marmalade. “Nope,” he said when he swallowed an enormous bite and turned to look at his neighbor. “There ain’t no sense in a fellow sufferin’ from rheumatism. It’s easy enough to cure.”

  Smiles went around the table. Pudge stared at Devlin and then asked truculently, “Well, what do you do to cure it? I tell you it’s killin’ me!”

  “Why, there ain’t nothin’ to it,” Easy said, shrugging his thin shoulders. “Just carry an Irish potato in your pocket. That’ll take care of it.”

  “Is that right, Easy?” The speaker was Xeno Bruten, a short, muscular man from New Mexico. He had a bald spot with a fringe of brown hair around his head and winked across the table at Jason. “I bet you even know how to cure warts.” He held out his hand, and on the back of his wrist was a large brown wart. “None of the doctors been able to do much with this. It’s gettin’ bigger, too. What do you think, Easy?”

  “Well, I reckon if I had that thing on my wrist, I’d take a green pea, cut it, and rub it on the wart.” He took another bite of the biscuit, chewed it carefully, then added, “Then I’d take that pea, wrap it in a piece of paper, and throw it away.”

  “What’ll that do?” Xeno demanded.

  “The fellow that picks up that piece of paper will get the wart, and it’ll fall off your wrist.”

  Laughter went around the table, but Easy Devlin’s face did not break. He had gained color in his brief time in California, and the hacking cough was mostly gone. He finished off his biscuit, drank his coffee down, then said, “ ’Course, there’s other ways.”

  “Like what?” Xeno asked.

  “Well, you can take a grain of corn, cut out the heart, and cut that wart until it starts bleedin’. Then you take a drop of the blood and put it in the corn where the heart was taken out. Then,” he added mildly, putting his brown eyes on Xeno Bruten, “you throw the grain to the chicken. As soon as that chicken eats it, the wart will fall off.”

  Xeno laughed loudly, but there was affection in it.

  Ben Temple had been listening to all this. He was twenty-seven, an even six feet of bull-chested strength. He had black hair, a cavalry mustache to match, and the most unusual eyes. They were violet with heavy black lashes, eyes that any girl would be proud to own. Temple was from Texas and had heard plenty of tall tales. Now he said with a straight face, “I been havin’ chills, Easy. Been thinkin’ about goin’ to the doctor.”

  “Go on and waste your money,” Easy remarked. “What I’d do if was I you, Ben, is I’d get my temperature took when that fever’s on you. Tie as many knots in a piece of string as you have chills, then you go out in the woods somewhere and tie the string around a persimmon bush, then turn around and walk away not lookin’ back.”

  “What if there’s not a persimmon bush around? I don’t think there is any in California. Do I have to go all the way back to Texas? Won’t an orange tree do?”

  “Nope. Nothing but a persimmon bush,” Easy said matter-of-factly.

  Peter had finished his meal and sat grinning as the men kept probing at Easy Devlin. He was very glad that he had met the southerner and had grown very fond of him. Looking across at Jason, he asked, “What’s on the menu today, Jase? Are we
going to be outlaws or heroes?” In the movie business, their job was simply to gallop across the flatlands shooting blanks out of their pistols. Whether they were villains or heroes, only the story line of the motion picture would reveal.

  “Ought to be pretty interesting this morning,” Jason said. “Gonna do that scene with Priscilla where she gets in front of a stampede and almost gets run down. Then the hero gallops in, scoops her up, and saves her life. Nothing to it.”

  “Sounds like it could be a bit dangerous, Jason,” Peter said. “You take care of Priscilla.”

  “Don’t you go worrying now. I’m never gonna let anything happen to her. You know that,” Jason said. Then turning back to the hands at the table, he said, “All right, you yahoos. Let’s get movin’. We got a picture to shoot.”

  ****

  The scene was shot on a flat plot of ground that looked a great deal like Wyoming’s terrain. Jason had the riders holding the herd, but his eyes were on Priscilla as she walked along with her head held high. Then he heard Lem say, “All right, Jason—get them running!”

  “Drive ’em!” Jason lifted his voice, then kicked his big buckskin into a run. He gained fifty yards on the herd and saw that Priscilla had turned to face them, then had started to run. “Come on, Duke!” Jason shouted and kicked the big horse into a dead run. As he looked over his shoulder, he saw the herd was closer than he’d like. Going to be close . . . !

  Priscilla kept facing the cameras, her mobile face registering the fear the scene called for—and not all of it was acting. The horns of the big steers looked suddenly very deadly, and she paled, then turned to see Jason driving toward her, leaning over. If he misses me, I’ll die! she thought. She lifted her arms, the thunder of the sharp hooves filling the air. Then he was there, blotting out the herd. His right arm closed around her waist, and she felt like a child as he lifted her high and cradled her safe in his strong arms!

  When they were clear of the herd, she smiled at him, excited by the success of the stunt. “You were wonderful, Jason!” she cried. Her face was only inches from his, and without warning he suddenly pulled her tight against his chest and kissed her. Shock ran through Priscilla at the pressure of his firm lips on hers. His arms were like iron, and against her better judgment she found herself responding to his caress. Then she pulled away and whispered, “You must never do that again, Jase!”

  “I probably will,” he said, then turned his horse toward the director. He set her down on her feet, then wheeled the buckskin around and rode back toward the herd.

  Priscilla stood there and watched him as he started to round up the herd. The memory of his lips on hers lingered, and she knew she would remember it for a long time.

  Stan Lem had been more worried about the stampede scene than he had permitted anyone to see. When Peter Winslow had come to protest the danger of the scene, he had been within a hairsbreadth of insisting that one of the smaller cowboys double for her. He was, however, a stickler for accuracy, and it was difficult for a man to impersonate a woman. A man did not have the walk, the air, and so he dismissed Peter’s concern and let Priscilla endure the danger. He had heaved a great sigh of relief when Ballard had swept down and hauled her off, and muttered to his cameraman, “That cowboy is something, isn’t he?”

  “Sure is, Mr. Lem. I wish he were starring in the picture instead of Ken Nix. That fella’s nothing.”

  Lem did not permit himself to comment on that. “Get that film ready. I want to be sure it came out right.”

  “The light was good,” the cameraman said. “And we were in close enough, I think, to get a good shot on the expression on Priscilla’s face. She didn’t forget to show fear, did she?”

  “I’m not sure that was acting. When I saw the horns on those beasts thundering toward her, it gave me the shivers.” He turned away and returned to the studio to prepare for the next scene, which was to be shot indoors. On his way he stopped at the wardrobe room, where he found Lily Doe and the young girl, Jolie Devorak, busily getting the costumes ready. He smiled at them, asking, “Costumes all ready for the next shot?”

  “Yes, they are,” Lily said.

  “Good,” Lem said. “We’ll shoot as soon as they get dressed.” He turned to go, making his way back to his director’s chair. He was sitting there waiting for the actors and the technicians to put things together when he heard a voice behind him.

  “I brought your tea, Mr. Lem.”

  Stan Lem turned and saw Jolie standing there with a cup of tea. His eyes lighted up and he smiled, which made him look much more pleasant. Taking the cup, he sipped it, then looked up at her. “Why . . . I thank you, Jolie. You’re the only one I’ve found around here who knows how to make a real pot of tea.”

  “I just make it like you told me, Mr. Lem.”

  Jolie was wearing a light blue cotton dress with pink ribbon trim along the edges of the neck, the short sleeves, and at the bottom of the skirt that came to just above her ankles. She kept her face turned slightly away, concealing the scar, which brought a stab of pity to Lem. He started to tell her there were things that could be done for that but then thought, I’m sure she’s heard that before. Something poignant about the child. I wish she didn’t have that scar. Aloud he said, “You’ve done a great job, Jolie. You’ve taken a lot of pressure off of me and the others. I’m very satisfied with your work.”

  A flush touched Jolie’s cheeks, and she gave him a shy smile. “Thank you, Mr. Lem. I’ll just leave the pot here in case you want some more.”

  She went back to the wardrobe room, where she continued to help Lily put the costumes in order and helped some of the actors and actresses get dressed for the next scene. When they had all left, Lily leaned back and said, “That’s been a job getting this put together.” The scene had been set in a wealthy drawing room with men and women wearing formal costumes. Lily had worked hard to put it all together and now smiled gratefully, saying, “I don’t know what I would have done without you, Jolie. You’ve made life a lot easier for me.”

  “Oh, it’s been fun. It’s like playing dress-up, isn’t it?” Jolie was sitting across from the older woman, and her black hair framed her face in a most attractive way. She was still thin, the points of her shoulders showing sharply through the cotton dress.

  “What about your family?” Lily asked.

  “I really don’t have one anymore. Just a stepfather.”

  Something in the way Jolie pronounced the word told Lily that she did not want to talk about it any longer.

  Jolie put on a light jacket, although there was little need of it, and left the studio. She was surprised to see the surrey drawn up in front, with Peter sitting loosely on the front seat and Easy lying down in the back.

  “Come along, Jolie,” Peter said. “We’re going out to celebrate.”

  Glancing up quickly, Jolie climbed into the seat beside Peter, asking, “Celebrate what?”

  “Celebrate a good day!” He spoke to the horses, and they moved down the street with a sprightly pace, their hooves clattering against the hard surface of the road.

  Looking back, Jolie asked, “What’s the matter with you, Easy?”

  Easy groaned and said, “I fell off the horse again. I’ll never learn to stay on one of them animals.”

  “I thought you were from Kentucky. Don’t they have horses there?”

  “Yeah, they got ’em, but I grew up in a poor family, and we couldn’t afford such a thing as a horse. I hated them anyway. Got throwed off of one when I was a kid. Nearly killed me. I promised myself I’d stay off as long as I could.”

  “Well, I bet you got a remedy for sore spots,” she teased and waited until he gave his answer.

  “Well, there’s several things you can do for bruises,” he remarked. “But I ain’t had time to do none of ’em yet. Besides, there ain’t no balm of Gilead here.”

  “Balm of Gilead? What’s that?”

  “Plant that grows down south. You boil it in water and dip cloth in it and put it on sor
e spots. Heals it up almost instant like.”

  The carriage rumbled on as Jolie carried on a conversation with Easy concerning some of his folk remedies. She liked the small man very much and smiled as Easy groaned again. Finally she turned to ask Peter about the scene with Jason and Priscilla. “Were you worried?” she asked.

  “I sure was, but Jase is a good hand.”

  Jolie asked abruptly, “Had they known each other before?”

  Peter turned to look at her. “Why do you ask that, Jolie?”

  “Something about the way he looks at her.” She hesitated, then said quietly, “I think he cares for her.”

  Peter Winslow was surprised at the young girl’s quickness. “Yes, he does. He has for a long time. He was foreman of our folks’ ranch in Wyoming. Jase has always been in love with Priscilla, I think. When she left to go to New York it just about killed him.” He looked at her and smiled. “You’re pretty sharp to figure that out.”

  “It’s not hard. He’s got a sadness in his eyes when he looks at her.”

  “I didn’t know it was that obvious.”

  “It is if you look for it.”

  They said no more about it and soon arrived at a small cafe called “The Green Sombrero.” It proved to be a fairly good place to eat, and after putting down a fifteen-ounce sirloin, Easy said, “I reckon that’ll heal me up a little bit, but I’d just as soon go back and go to bed.”

  “So much for our big night out on the town,” Peter laughed. “Might be best, though. I think we’re gonna have to do some more riding tomorrow.” He drove back to the bunkhouse, and after Easy had slowly climbed down and bidden them good night, he turned the horses around and drove them slowly along. It was dark now, and the stars overhead were brilliant. Looking up he said, “I used to try to count the stars when I was a kid. I never did get the job done, though. Too many of them.”

  At that moment, a falling star scratched its way along the velvet blackness of the night, and Jolie took a deep breath, whispering, “Isn’t that pretty?”