by Win Blevins
Craw didn’t know about any sunlight coming from any ground, and he never saw any watercolors he’d rather look at than the actual, real-to-God hills and rivers. But on lots of winter afternoons, late afternoon especial, he did think there was something about the light in Californy.
“God’s finest country,” he summed it up.
Flare wished Sima could see it and paint it in those watercolors. Holy Mother of God, Flare chuckled—him and Sima, Catholic and heathen, sun worshipers both. Well, at least the sun was real.
My heart aches when I think of Sima, Flare thought. Then he snapped at himself, Next ye’ll be wearing bleedin’ skirts and ridin’ sidesaddle.
Skye said it might be God’s finest country, but the people here befouled it—crowded it up. People always made things worse, he said. He looked sidelong at both Craw and Flare, and Garrett and Innie riding beyond them. “Worse especial for breed kids,” he added.
“That’s why we moved to Californy,” said Craw. “It was here or Taos, and you can’t grow orchards in Taos. Seems like it’s gonna be diffrunt here. Spanyard and Injun, now a few Americans. Even some Russians over to Bodega Bay. Half the people mixed-bloods anyway, no call to look down at anybody else.”
Innie snorted. He and Garrett were a funny pair, not related by blood, but looking alike—good-looking lads of middling size, strongly built, with the reddish-black hair breeds sometimes had. Flare thought Innie had enough anger for a war party—bitterness, too. He didn’t say much beyond what was sociable. Funny, his anger and bitterness, living with the Crawford family. Garrett was genial and easy, like his dad. Craw always liked the world, however it was.
They got to Old Yount’s in time for supper, and in time for Yount to get out the word for the mountain campañeros to come share a cup—Flare and Skye had blown in.
They straggled in one by one and two by two, told Flare and Skye they were glad to see those beavers still had their hair, accepted a cup, squatted against a wall. A half dozen Flare knew from the mountains and a half dozen others.
Flare was surprised so many mountain men had left the beaver country for the settlements. Aye, and beaver was down, but life in a town? Life at half mast, as Skye sometimes called it?
Over the cups their stories came out. Most were busy making crops by day and children by night. Most were bored. They asked questions about beaver and the price of baccy and what was doing to Laramie. They marveled at the just desserts them Blackfeet got, near wiped out by the pox. They acted disgusted, those that didn’t know, that missionaries had come across, and held their tongues when told that Flare himself had guided some. To a man, they sounded homesick.
Save for Craw. Craw sounded content with what he was doing, rewarded in some way that eluded Flare’s eyes. But then Craw was maybe fifty, had come to the mountains with Henry in 1810, had had his full time in the mountains.
Flare angled in and asked quietly why they’d left the mountains at all. Maybe a beaver couldn’t make money, but he could roam, explore, live.
It was time, was the consensus, no more than that. Most of them sounded like they wished it wasn’t.
Well, hell, Flare thought, a man doesn’t have to let thirty-nine birthdays spoil his fun.
Toward midnight Flare and Mr. Skye sounded out the thought to them.
Why, old sons, we could run off some horses, drive ’em north, and trade ’em.
Old Bill Williams done that, warn’t worth it.
There be settlements in Oregon, use for horses. It’s not so far.
There’s planting to be done.
Plowing’s for those as like it.
One old hand, Dick James, said the padres might not take kindly to their horses gettin’ stole.
E. L. Bulow said he didn’t give a damn whether they took kindly to it or not.
Murphy Fox said they cared nothing about those horses, had no claim on them anyway. Bunch up in Alexander Valley the vaqueros hadn’t even seen, let alone put a brand on. Good horseflesh—yellow duns, steeldusts, copperbottoms, and bluecorns—no spotted ponies in California.
“Like to see that Oregon country,” said Bulow.
Wide grins and sly looks everywhere.
“It’s agin what they call the law here,” some observed.
“That’s as may be,” said Mr. Skye.
More grins.
“Mebbe troubles,” someone else said.
“Praise be,” said Flare.
Grins everywhere.
“Shining times,” drawled young Garrett.
It was on Wednesday that Billy Wells went to Dr. Full. He had a heavy heart, he said, and Dr. Full heard many sighs from him.
“I need to unburden myself,” he said. “Not a confession—I’m no papist, I know you can’t absolve me.”
He fidgeted and looked up shyly and in general didn’t seem to know what to say. “I have something weighing terrible on my mind,” he ventured. “I need to get right with God. And with my fellow man. Truly, with my fellow man. I need to speak what’s in my heart. Tonight, really.”
Dr. Full told Billy, “Why, yes, go right ahead.” Out of compassion, Dr. Full said, “Sooner would be better, surely. Tonight would be fine.”
Billy Wells looked gratefully at Dr. Full. He asked if he could testify first at prayer meeting tonight. Before he lost his courage.
“Of course, my son,” said Dr. Full.
Billy left Dr. Full’s office looking shamefaced and heartened. And grateful for the help.
Dr. Full felt mystified. He knew all that went on in his little community. One of his special skills was putting it all together in subtle ways to make things work somehow. He put his hands into the morass that was the human heart, the iniquity, and made it all come together for the glory of God.
For once, though, Dr. Full was stumped. What had Billy Wells done? And what did he want? Dr. Full saw clearly that Billy wanted something, but Dr. Full didn’t have any idea what it was.
As for the sin, he could imagine as much from Billy Wells. But surely not Miss Jewel.
“Brethern and sistern,” Billy Wells began, “I would like to tell you tonight, as I’ve often heard from many of you, how the Lord Jesus has lifted up my heart. But I can’t, that’s the truth, I can’t. Because I have dipped my heart in pitch.”
He hung his head. He couldn’t look at anyone. He had noticed that Miss Jewel was not here tonight. He had hoped she would keep to her pattern, and he gave thanks for it.
“I hurt. Lord, how I hurt.
“I’m a coward. Truly I am. I have a dark secret, and I wouldn’t be trying to find the courage to tell you tonight, except that the hurt is so awful.
“So I pray that laying myself prostrate before you will ease the hurt. That’s my coward’s hope. I dare not even think yet that if I ask sincerely of the Lord Jesus, He will forgive me.”
He thought of his deeds that needed lifting from his heart. In imagination, he once more touched Miss Jewel’s bare, voluptuous breast. He kissed her and pressed her back on the bed. He rose over her.
The memory of these deeds made him shiver as truly as if they had actually happened.
“Though Scripture says forgiveness is His promise, I am so lost in iniquity that I cannot even hear His sweet words now, calling me to His bosom.”
He shed a tear or two, and let himself look around through the tears. They were with him. He saw it in their faces, and he felt it—they were with him. Oh, sweet Jesus.
“I have betrayed your trust. And Dr. Full’s trust. And the trust the Lord put in me. Even while seeking to become ordained, to become an instrument of God’s will, I betrayed His trust.
“You put me in a cabin with Miss Jewel, knowing our faith was firm enough to resist the temptations of the flesh, that we are people whose spirits are stronger than their bodies.
“I have sinned. I stand before your judgment, and the judgment of the Lord God almighty and terrible, and I confess that I have sinned.”
For a while he could not go o
n. Tears were running down his face and onto his shirt. He did not trust his voice.
Louder, with less quaver, he said, “I confess that I have sinned with Miss Jewel. Grievously.”
Again he felt the sickly sweet deliciousness of his fall into sensuality. He shuddered.
The congregation was fearfully quiet.
“All men are sinners,” he said.
“Amen,” a man’s voice called.
“I am a sinner,” Billy declared firmly.
“Bless you,” said a female voice.
“I stand before my God a sinner,” Billy declaimed loudly.
Oh, sweet Jesus, it was true. Already he could feel it. He could feel the cleansing hand of the Lord God in his breast. Oh, thank you, Jesus.
He got down on his knees where he stood. He threw back his head toward heaven. He opened wide his arms.
“Lord God almighty, I repent. Christ Jesus, I beg for your mercy.
“My heart is black. I pray you, Jesus, make it white once more.”
Other men testified that night, shyly, crudely, in a homey way, that they had sinned carnally as well. Until they confessed, they lived in a terrible darkness. Once they opened their hearts to God and asked forgiveness, heavenly light came into their eyes.
And witnessing that light, their loving wives forgave them. Having foolishly risked all, they were so grateful for forgiveness.
No woman offered similar testimony. Thought Dr. Full, it is ever thus.
Dr. Full offered a prayer that acknowledged the courage of Billy Wells and praised his Christian uprightness. He had fallen, true enough, as all men fall, but tonight he had raised himself back up, and stood in grace in the sight of God and man.
They closed the meeting with a wonderful old hymn:
Just as I am without one plea,
But that thy blood was shed for me,
And that thou bidd’st me come to thee,
O Lamb of God, I come! I come!
Just as I am, and waiting not
To rid my soul of one dark blot,
To thee whose blood can cleanse each spot,
O Lamb of God, I come! I come!
This was Billy’s story, the cleansing of one dark blot, which was why Dr. Full picked it.
Just as I am—poor, wretched, blind;
Sight, riches, healing of the mind,
Yea, all I need, in thee to find,
O Lamb of God, I come! I come!
When the meeting was over, Dr. Full himself led the way to Billy, embraced him tenderly, and told him how close he felt to Billy now, and promised to pray for Billy tonight and every night.
Almost every woman in the congregation gave a similar reassurance to Billy privately, and several men. Dr. Full watched carefully, and it went as he expected.
Well, he thought. Even Miss Jewel was fallible.
He pondered.
She knew his door was open. He would wait.
Chapter Twenty-three
A rap on the door.
Billy Wells, come back slithering on his belly?
He’d gotten his belongings from the stoop while she was gone, and Miss Jewel was sweeping up the cabin. He would come back, she was sure. She would show him no mercy. She was embarrassed that she’d let herself be charmed by such a man.
“Who’s there?”
“Maggie, it’s Annie Lee Full.”
Miss Jewel felt a thrill of gratitude, and then told herself no. She was lonely, but the truth was, Dr. Full’s wife had been a woman to keep her distance.
It wasn’t just Annie Lee but Elvira Upping and Susan Johnson as well, the women she’d come across the Oregon road with. They came in, looking at Miss Jewel with eyes full of emotion.
So they knew.
Tears flushed Miss Jewel’s eyes.
The tears flowed. Miss Jewel let them run down her cheeks.
Annie Lee Full opened her arms, and her eyes spoke her womanly feeling to Margaret Jewel.
They understood.
Miss Jewel hesitated, took one queasy step forward, and let herself fall into Annie Lee’s arms.
Maggie let go and bawled.
Annie Lee held Miss Jewel. Susan Johnson hovered close and made cooing sounds. Elvira Upping ran to the Full house and got tea to brew, as a particular treat for Miss Jewel.
Margaret Jewel wept for perhaps five minutes, the biggest cry of her adult life. It felt awful. When the sobbing eased, she felt better about one part: She had not permitted herself sisterly intimacies with other women—it seemed so much like the weakness men always smiled indulgently about. Now she knew what she’d been missing. It seemed especially nice that Elvira had come—Miss Jewel thought she’d sensed enmity from Elvira.
She recovered swiftly enough, and felt peaceful. Actually peaceful, for the first time since Billy began snaking his way up to her.
“Oh, Annie Lee, it’s so terrible,” she said, and burst into tears again.
“Yes, dear,” said Annie Lee Full sympathetically.
Miss Jewel laid her head on Annie Lee’s shoulder again. Women were marvelous. A woman felt for another woman.
“You don’t know,” Miss Jewel said. “He…”
Elvira offered the hot tea, and Miss Jewel took her cup gratefully. She held it with both hands, loving the warmth.
“He wouldn’t leave you alone,” Annie Lee said with a nod.
“He nagged you night and day,” said Elvira Upping.
“He begged,” said Susan Johnson.
“He prostrated himself,” said Annie Lee. “He rubbed up against the furniture like a hungry cat, and said he was going to go mad if he couldn’t have you.”
“Yes, yes!” Miss Jewel exclaimed, laughing and crying at once. The three woman comforters looked at each other with sisterly smiles. “How did you know?” Miss Jewel asked.
“Oh, women know,” Annie Lee said. Three pairs of eyes were tickled.
Miss Jewel burst into tears again. “It was awful.” Suddenly she was sobbing, remembering.
After a bit she raised her face bravely into their eyes. She studied the souls in those eyes and saw nothing but affection and understanding. She let herself bask in it. It felt wonderful.
Tea sloshed onto her hands a little. Elvira handed her a handkerchief.
She looked from face to face of her friends.
They didn’t know the worst, Miss Jewel thought. They don’t know that Billy Wells actually threatened to administer poison to the entire community.
Miss Jewel decided instantly that she would not tell them. It was too despicable, and it didn’t matter now. Her friends understood how men crept around begging, true enough. They didn’t know how really snaky…
Miss Jewel felt besmirched by what Billy had threatened to do. She wanted it out of existence. She was sure that, on reflection, even Billy would repent of it.
Miss Jewel would accept the sisterly affection of her friends for her broken engagement. She would not tell them all of her afflictions.
She studied Annie Lee’s face. Once she had thought it a tired, subjugated face. Now she saw it was a face of cares, troubles, faith, and gallantry in the midst of the vicissitudes of life. Why she had not seen, until now, what this woman had to offer another human being?
“Maggie,” Annie Lee said warmly, “we do understand. We are touched to see what our understanding means to you. But our understanding…our love…are not enough. There are two further steps you must take.”
Miss Jewel was puzzled. “I don’t understand.”
“It is one thing to open your heart to your friends,” Annie Lee said. “But it isn’t enough. You must come to all the sistern and brethern and speak. They are waiting to welcome you into their hearts. Most important of all, you must openly ask the forgiveness of God.”
Miss Jewel felt her heart shrivel. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said coldly.
“Oh, Maggie,” said Elvira, “if only you’d seen Billy. He was beautiful. He felt so awful about his sin, and it
was awful, but when he confessed, the Lord transformed him. Transformed him.” Her face was rapturous with the memory.
“We all loved him in that moment,” said Annie Lee.
“Tell me,” said Miss Jewel, “exactly what he said.”
Annie Lee Full knew that Satan hardened hearts, and you could never tell where or when he would succeed, at least for a moment. With a look she asked Elvira and Susan for even more understanding for Maggie, their sister in sin.
Then Annie Lee reported to Maggie fully what happened last night at prayer meeting. She let the beauty of it shine through her words. She let the love she and the entire congregation felt for Billy glow from her tale. She let Maggie hear how the merciful love of God had ennobled Billy and all his listeners.
At last she reached out and grasped both of Maggie’s hands. “Maggie,” she said, “all this is waiting for you. But only you can take the step of opening your heart to this community. Only you can ask forgiveness from the Lord Jesus.”
Maggie stood up. She withdrew her hands. She looked at the three of them most peculiarly. Annie Lee could not have described it, but hateful was not exactly right.
“Get out!” hissed Maggie.
They went not in anger but in sorrow.
Sometimes Satan wins, Annie Lee told the others outside the cabin. Remember, his victories are but temporary.
It took nearly a week to get the herd really going. In the Alexander Valley they split up. Two men volunteered to go kick horses out of the canyons on the west side of the valley. Flare took another pair; the youngsters, Craw’s son Garrett and his friend Innie, not yet out of their teens, rode canyons on the other side, scouring the rest out.
That left Skye, Bulow, and Fox to round up the horses grazing everywhere on the valley floor and ease the main herd north. Flare thought they made the damnedest trio. All of them were over six feet and the better part of three hundred pounds and dwarfed little mustangs as they rode. If big trouble was going to come, it would be on their shoulders, which would permit them some entertainment.
Flare had some fun bringing in the horses. Innie had worked with vaqueros on the big ranches and had some skill with his reata. It was a handsome piece of work, sixty-five feet long, braided of rawhide, cured with liver and brains, supple and alive in your hands. Innie could swing it once around his head and lay it over the head of a horse neatly as a collar, or could forefoot the critter—rope him by his front two feet, dally the reata on the saddle horn, and jerk him down.
