by Les Weil
She couldn't be more than nineteen or twenty. She had almost black hair and almost black eyes and a complexion almost milk-white. She said, "How do you do, Mr. Evans."
"It's a pleasure," he said and remembered that Gorham had said the same thing. He needed a black broadcloth frock coat and a black tie like Gorham's, not this cowpuncher outfit that must seem showy and outlandish to her. He extended his hand, knowing too late that he shouldn't, and she put out her own, quickly as if to cover the blunder. Her smile put life in her face, sudden and unexpected.
"Evans," she said. "Sometimes in Indiana they pronounce the name Ivans." Her eyes were fluid. Somewhere else, in someone else, they could be teasing. She drew her hand away. It had felt small but strong.
"We're hoping Joyce will stay here a while," Mr. Strain was saying. His gaze went smiling to the girl. "People manage to live outside Hoosierland. But take a chair, Lat. Sit down, Mr. Gorham! It will be a few minutes till supper."
Lat took a chair side-lined to Miss Sheridan's. He noticed how that an old dog lay stretched on the carpet beyond her. The dog blinked a sleepy eye and raised his head and, seeing nothing worth his attention, laid it back down.
Mr. Strain went on, "I hope Mr. Gorham will settle here, too. There's a place for him now, and there'll be a bigger one. I see statehood for Montana. I see Chouteau County which must be about the size of all Indiana, Joyce- I see it split up. Tansytown will be a county seat." Mr. Strain waved his hand. "We could use some law here."
The girl said, "It all seems so bare, so lonely." She had a nice profile-high forehead, straight nose, upper lip tipping out to the lower, chin just firm enough. It was her eyes, though, that struck a man, against her pale skin the dark eyes that turned to him now as if she had felt his gaze on her.
"Pshaw!" Mr. Strain told her. "In time you'll be glad you can see beyond the end of your nose without climbing a sycamore. Eh, Lat?"
"It suits me. It always has."
"When we first moved to Helena from Ohio, my wife felt as you do," Gorham said to the girl. He wasn't a suitor, then.
"You'd be surprised," Mr. Strain went on. "The ladies aren't as lonesome as you think. They get together to visit and sew. If plans pan out, we'll have the Eastern Star here before long. There's already the Ladies' Industrial, connected, of course, with the Methodist Church. The Methodists organized more than a year ago. No church house yet and no regular preacher, but a church just the same."
"Wesley in the wilderness," Gorham said pleasantly.
Mr. Strain nodded, smiling. "That brings up a surprise. Brother Van Orsdel rode in today, up from Sun River, and would like to hold a service tonight. I don't want to push you into attending, but, if not, I'm afraid you will have to excuse us a little early." He looked at his watch. "No hurry, though. We had to get word to the members, and some of them live out a piece."
"It's worth it alone as a lesson in the art of persuasion," Gorham said. "I wish I could talk to a jury as Brother Van talks to us sinners."
The girl's dark gaze came to Lat. "Why not?" he said and saw a smile touch her lips.
"Good." Mr. Strain raised his eyes as Mrs. Strain bustled in from the kitchen. He got to his feet. "Mother, you know Lat Evans."
She came over and shook hands like a man. A big, fullbreasted, motherly woman, flushed now by the stove's heat, she was one of a kind that seemed always to carry along the good smells of the kitchen. She might have dropped in on Ma to talk chickens and children and to trade recipes. She said, "Welcome! I've been hearing about you."
"Thanks, Mrs. Strain. I'm glad to be here." He had remembered to get up.
"It's ready, folks."
They went into the dining room and sat down at the table, set with white linen and napkins, and Mr. Strain cleared his throat. "Blessed Lord, make us truly thankful For these, Thy bounties! Bless this food to our use and us to Thy service! Amen."
The girl, seated beside Lat, gave an "Amen," and he lapped the end of it with his own. How long since he'd listened to grace? How long since he'd sat at a gentle table, with the Lord's blessing on the chicken and dumplings Pa and he used to gobble up? He was home again, close to home, home from the rough, outside years.
The girl's eyes offered a penny for his thoughts.
He felt enough at ease to say, "Two bits in this country."
"What?"
"No pennies. No nickels or dimes. Two bits minimum, even for a thought."
"Two bits?"
"A quarter."
Again the brief smile lighted her face. "Are your thoughts worth a whole quarter?"
"More than that, Joyce," Mr. Strain broke in. "Men like Lat will make this country, they and their sons after them." He paused and went on with a grin, "But it's a little early to talk to you about sons, isn't it, Lat?"
Mrs. Strain said, "Marshall!"
"I just remarked it was early, Mother," he made believe to protest.
Lat looked away. The old dog had padded in and sat close to Mr. Strain, his whole face asking if he couldn't have just one bite.
"Oysters!" Gorham said as he plied his fork. "A feast in themselves in Montana, Mrs. Strain." Speaking for a mulligan bachelor, Lat thought, he could have mentioned the fresh pork, the dressing and gravy and light rolls and butter and apple butter and even the peach pie served for dessert.
Afterwards Mr. Strain asked, "Shall the men excuse themselves now?"
"Please do," Mrs. Strain said. "We'll clear the table and join you." She came to her feet and spoke to the dog. "You, Roamer, come on!"
Mr. Strain led the way back to the parlor and offered cigars. He and Gorham lighted up.
"To get to the point, Lat, Mr. Strain said when he'd got himself comfortable, "we're overdue for a school."
"I see," Lat answered, not seeing. "To have a school, you have to have a board."
"Yes?"
"I want you on the board."
"Me!"
"You, my boy."
"I'm not a family man."
"Ah-h." With his cigar Mr. Strain brushed the objection away. "What matters is the make-up of the board."
"I would guess," Gorham said, "that there'd be no question of your election, not with Mr. Strain's backing."
"But I'm not much educated."
"No?" Mr. Strain took a deep puff and blew it out in a gust. "Look around you. Who do you see?"
"I haven't looked," Lat said. He looked now, with Mr. Strain's words warm in his ears.
"Sleep on it." Mr. Strain drew on his cigar and studied the ash and carefully tipped it off. "But, Lat, I can tell you it's a starting point. From there the right man -meaning you- could go on if he wished, to county office, to the territorial legislature and even farther. Right, Gorham?"
"So long as he's a Republican," Gorham answered with a little smile.
"Gorham's initials stand for Abraham Lincoln," Mr. Strain said. "Without knowing I'd still know you're Republican, Lat. Most solid men are."
"That leaves me out," Lat answered. Mr. Strain's words made him feel solid among solid men. "But my family, though from Missouri, stood solid for Union."
Mr. Strain nodded. "I want you to know that my niece may apply for the teachership, but don't think you have to support her. No strings at all, Lat. But I can say with complete honesty that she has all the qualifications except experience. Honor graduate of Earlham College in Indiana. Took a lot of elocution." He pulled out his watch. "If they'd get done with those dishes, she'd have time to recite something for us." He yelled toward the kitchen. "Mother, Joyce, get a move on!"
He needn't have shouted. They were just coming in, followed close by the old dog.
"Joyce, how about speaking a piece?" Mr. Strain asked.
"Uncle Marsh!"
The dog was letting himself down in the middle of the room.
"'The Wreck of the Hesperus' maybe. I've been bragging. You can't go back on me."
"Don't insist, Marshall," Mrs. Strain said.
But Gorham, without thought of the girl'
s feelings, insisted, "It would be much appreciated."
Her liquid gaze went from one to another.
"Please, Joyce," Mr. Strain asked.
As if she had noted Lat's silence she said, "If Mr. Ivans agrees, I'd rather give something newer. It's by a western poet named Joaquin Miller."
Gorham alone nodded to the name.
With no show of embarrassment then, with an opening gesture both delicate and sure, the girl started speaking.
Once, morn by morn, when snowy mountains flamed
With sudden shafts of light that shot a flood
Into the vale like fiery arrows aim'd
At night from mighty battlements, there stood
Upon a cliff high-limn'd against Mount Hood,
A matchless stag, fresh forth from sable wold ..
Except for an instant's hesitation at the word "stag," the words came flowing, came almost singing. She had a clear voice, a little deep for a girl's, and she stood slim and poised, seeming to let the lines speak themselves, even though the old dog began barking softly in his sleep, chasing stags he'd never seen.
I ofttimes wonder'd much; and ofttime thought
The beast betray'd a royal monarch's mind
To lift above the low herd's common lot
And made them hear him still when they had fain forgot.
Lat had lost himself in the words until close to the end. Then he took a careful breath, making sure. The old dog, lying gassy, slipping wind no nose could miss!
They all clapped, not just to be polite, and she sat down. On her pale face was a glow from inward.
"That was splendid," Gorham said. "Now I have two people to envy, you and Brother Van. Knowing Miller's works, I suppose you know that introduction to the poem on Byron?"
The girl shook her head. Lat thought he saw the slender nostrils barely widen. The dog had done it again.
"Go on, Gorham." Mr. Strain got up. "Make way there, Roamer! Don't you know an attorney needs leg room?" He took the dog by the neck and put him outside.
"Let's see now." Gorham came to his feet and coughed and cleared his throat. He took a few steps while he tried to remember.
In men whom men condemn as ill
I find so much of goodness still,
In men whom men pronounce divine
I find so much of sin and blot,
I do not dare to draw a line
Between the two, where God has not.
He sat down, smiling, and said to the girl, "Something of a contrast with that line about the low herd's common lot?"
The common lot was improving now that the dog was gone.
"What's your favorite poem, Lat?" Mr. Strain asked.
It was like asking him to draw a card from the air, to reach out into nothing and come back with a bower. What did he know? Trail songs. Pieces of Mother Goose. Snatches of rhymes read and heard. Even if once he knew, a cowman forgot. "My grandfather didn't like England," he said, "and so he was strong for the patriotic stuff." He shouldn't have called it stuff. "That one about Concord?"
"Sure! 'By the rude bridge that arched the flood, their flags to April's breeze unfurled ...' "
Before Mr. Strain had gone any farther, Gorham and Mrs. Strain began helping out and then the girl and then Lat himself, for most of the words came back to him now; and they went on to the end, their voices warmer with each line.
There was a silent moment afterwards, and then Mr. Strain was saying while he held his watch, "Time to go, folks."
The meeting place was a building that had been a saloon. Faded across the false front of it was a sign: THE FAMILY LIQUOR STORE. Maybe twenty people were inside, children included. They were standing and moving around and shaking hands, their talk making a low clatter above which now and then rose the cry of a child.
Mr. Strain pushed in and began introducing his party. From his manner Lat might have known nobody. "Mrs. Cooper, I want you to meet Mr. Evans," or, "Brother McLean, meet Mr. Evans, if you haven't already." A man who hadn't made much of a point of getting acquainted felt as if he was standing for office already.
Brother Van was a long, black preacher's coat around a thick chest. Above the coat was a heavy, pleasant face topped by thinning hair. Mr. Strain shook hands with him. "I'm sorry you couldn't get around for dinner, but we'll wait for the fried chicken and green corn. Here, Brother Van, is my niece, Joyce Sheridan."
Brother Van swallowed her hand in his. "God bless you, Sister! "
"She's a Hoosier Methodist."
"Methodism is not metes and bounds." Brother Van shook with Gorham then.
"And I've brought you a real live sinner to work on," Mr. Strain said. "Lat Evans, here."
"You can do more with a live sinner than a dead saint." Brother Van's hand was warm and large. On second look his face was less heavy than merely oval. It smiled good will.
The people got seated, and Brother Van opened with prayer, asking the Lord in His love to be merciful, to lead sinners to righteousness and unbelievers to the truth and the light, to comfort the afflicted, to make His children worthy of His unceasing love and their hearts ever humble to His will, for His ways were mysterious and beyond understanding.
The strong voice went on and on. In the back a baby whimpered. An old voice kept saying, "Amen." From the corner of his eye Lat saw the girl's head bowed, her hands still and folded in her lap.
"Bless the Territory of Montana, we pray Thee, 0 Lordl Bless the good people here! Bless the mothers and the fathers and the lame and the halt and let the little children come unto Theel Make us strong in our faithl Make us strong in Thy works . . ." Underneath the long coat and the stout trunk it enclosed, Brother Van's legs appeared thin.
"Amen," the people said. "Amen." "Amen."
"Let us sing!" Brother Van started in a strong voice, and others joined in, stronger for him.
I love to tell the sto-hor-ee
Of unseen th-hings above,
Of Jesus and His glory,
O-of Jesus a-and His love.
Tunes remembered. Times remembered, high expressions. Mercy. Faith. Eternal love. Eternal life. The old, and sure simplicities. The Father and His sheep. The wind and the shorn lamb. Oregon and boyhood and a just God overheadWho had to have His ear chewed on, the deaf Old Gent. Wives and picket fences and a word called vice. Words called grace, called glory, called salvation.
It satisfies my longings . . .
"Sing!" the girl told him with that quick, surprising smile, between breaths holding the tones that had struck him as so true and so different.
Back in the Oregon of long ago he found the lines and sang them out, and in the rear a nosey tenor lifted just as in the days remembered, just like the voice of old Clem Bowers.
"We will read from the Scriptures," Brother Van said without opening his Bible.
He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High
shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.
I will say o f the Lord, He is my refuge and my fortress:
my God, in Him will I trust.
Surely He shall deliver me from the snare of the
fowler, and from the noisome pestilence.
The Almighty. The secret place. Trust. Refuge. Fortress. Deliverance.
They were singing again.
There's a land that is fairer than day,
And by faith we can see it afar;
For the Father waits over the way,
To prepare us a dwelling place there.
Over the girl's felt nearness, over the coughings and amens, the old phrases echoing, the old promises sounding, the call to righteousness calling again. Carmichael would smile, not in ridicule, if he knew. Whitey or Godwin would snort. Callie? Louder, he sang with the rest:
In the sweet by and by ...
Brother Van rolled out, "Brethren and sistren ..."
God loved the world, and the girl listened. God mourned at the evils of men, and a baby cried out and was hushed. God hated sin and the Devil. "Amen." But
God awaited the return of the sinner as the father awaited the prodigal son. God was love. God was mercy and justice, but woe unto them who observed not His commandments and repented not. "Amen." "Amen."
In the love of the Father Brother Van was uplifted. His voice swelled and broke. His eyes streamed with joy. In the crowd as he paused was a silence like the whisper of good, like the straining for grace.
Brother Van straightened his face and wiped his eyes and went on more calmly. "Under God, blessed people, we shall have a church house in Tansytown. We have put our hands to the plow, and we shall not falter, and then shall we be more than ever delivered from the snare of the fowler and the noisome pestilence."
Mr. Strain passed the plate. Lat dropped in a five-dollar bill. The girl lifted her eyes from his hand and leaned to him and whispered, "I peeked. It's too much."
"Not considering." In a way she was right, though.
"Now for a concluding hymn what shall we have?" Brother Van asked.
A man's voice answered, "Sing 'Diamonds in the Rough,' you alone, Brother Van."
"'Diamonds in the Rough.'" Brother Van rubbed his hands.
The girl leaned over. "Do you know it?"
"I don't think so." He didn't, it turned out. He let the unfamiliar words flow past his ears until he heard the beginning quiver of the hearty voice, the overflowing thankfulness, and saw the shine of tears again.
The day will soon be over,
And diggings will be done;
A few more gems to gather,
So let us now press on.
When Jesus comes to claim you
And says you've done enough,
The diamonds will be shining,
No longer in the rough.
The service ended with the Lord's Prayer, but not many of the congregation were quite ready to go home. They began to shake hands some more, talking about the weather and the new church and what a fine message they'd heard. It wasn't too often that some of them got out in company. The ranch people here would go back to their cabins and put a night light in a window as always, saying, without saying it would be someone to talk to, that someone might get lost and need shelter.
