The invisible snowflakes of answered prayer are falling down all around, millions of them. But it takes a special kind of sight to see them, and most folks never know that kind of snow’s falling. You have to learn to hunt for them, learn to see them, train your eyes—your inner eyes, the eyes that look out of your heart and your mind. Just about everything having to do with God and the spiritual side of life is like that—they’re things you have to train yourself to see.
And so I’ve been trying to train myself to look for buried, hidden, invisible things the more I grow as a Christian—the hidden meanings that are all around us, the invisible little glimpses of God that most folks don’t notice.
When I got back to the house, there sat Rev. Rutledge’s buggy out in front. I didn’t think anything much about it until I went inside. Everyone was sitting there all quiet and talking in low tones. The reason the minister’d come was to tell us that our mayor, Mr. Vaissade, had just died, and the pastor was making the rounds to tell as many people as he knew would be interested.
Mr. Vaissade was an older man, and I don’t suppose his death was all that much of a shock. But he had been in church with us just three or four hours earlier, and now suddenly was dead. He’d collapsed right on his own front porch after walking back to town from church, and was found lying there by a neighbor an hour later.
Although we all liked Mr. Vaissade, we weren’t close friends, so his passing away like he did wasn’t in itself an event that changed everything for me or for our family. But it turned out to have a huge effect on the future of the town, and an even bigger effect on our family.
Mr. Vaissade had been mayor of Miracle Springs for a year and a half. I don’t think during all that time I heard of one thing in particular that his mayoring had done or changed. He just was the mayor, and everybody went on about their business as usual. Maybe he had to sign papers or something, but I never heard anything about it, and didn’t really see what difference having a mayor made to Miracle Springs.
But folks had gotten kind of used to the idea of having a mayor, and almost immediately talk began to stir up about who was going to replace him. Miracle was a respectable town now. Including all the folks round about in the foothills and farms and ranches for several miles around town, there were fifteen hundred or two thousand people, and the area was growing back into the kind of size it’d boasted right after the first gold strikes. No town of the importance of Miracle Springs, they said, could be without a mayor. And in addition, political fever was in the air that summer of 1856 after Mr. Vaissade’s death.
California had changed so much, even in the four years we had been there. We were by now among the old-timers, the early settlers in the West. For the first several years, just about everybody coming to California from out East was coming because of the gold. Right at first it was the gold miners themselves, then later the people like the Parrishes and others—businessmen and suppliers and merchants and others who hoped to make a living because of the gold rush, though they may not have been directly involved themselves.
But by now, people were pouring into the West to settle it and live here, just because there was space and freedom and adventure, and because they heard the land was good. Schools and churches were being built all over the state, and thousands of families were putting down roots. Farmers were turning the valleys into land that produced food. Cities and towns were growing. Railroads joined the different parts of California, and there was even talk of a railroad someday to hook up California with the rest of the states back East.
California wasn’t the only place that was growing. People were coming west—the whole west. California’d been made a state in 1850, and by this time there was lots of talk that Oregon would be the next new state. Settlers were coming across the Oregon Trail by the thousands.
It wasn’t only because of all the new people coming west that folks were more interested in politics that year. In the only other election since California’d been in the union, statehood had been so fresh and the gold rush so much on people’s minds that folks just didn’t pay that much attention. After all, Washington, D.C. was thousands of miles away, and Californians didn’t figure it made much difference whether they voted for Franklin Pierce from New Hampshire or General Winfield Scott.
But now in 1856, everything was different!
A new political party, the Republicans, had been formed only a couple of years earlier. The issue of slavery, though not really involving California too much, was still talked about, because the new party was more or less based on anti-slavery. I suppose Californians were interested in the Republican party too because one of the state’s most well-known men, John Charles Fremont, was one of the leaders in getting it established. Fremont was rich from the gold that had been discovered on his huge estate. He had been one of the first explorers to California, had fought the Mexicans, and was one of the first new senators in 1850 right after California became a state. All in all, John Fremont was the most famous Californian there was.
And now, for the presidential election of 1856, the new Republican party had chosen John Fremont as their nominee.
That made all of California stand up and take notice of national politics. Now it made a big difference who people voted for—James Buchanan from far-away Pennsylvania, or John Fremont from California! We may have been the newest of the Union’s thirty-one states, but all of a sudden we were one of the most important.
“Why, just think of it,” everyone was saying, “a Californian in the White House!” That election of 1856 was just about the biggest thing to hit California since the discovery of gold!
John Fremont was one of those kinds of men that not everyone liked. When people talked about the election, lots of folks like Alkali Jones didn’t have that much nice to say about him. But one thing was for sure—he was our John Fremont . . . from our own state! And folks figured that made him worth voting for no matter what else they thought.
So politics and John Fremont and Washington, D.C., and slavery and Republicans and Democrats were all topics in the air and on people’s minds and lips that summer.
And as part of all that, and maybe because of it, almost immediately after Mr. Vaissade’s death, folks started saying Miracle Springs needed to have an election for mayor.
Chapter 19
The Candidate
An election for mayor in a little town like Miracle Springs may not sound like a big event, especially with an important presidential election going on at the same time. But around the Hollister-Belle claims, the minute Franklin Royce announced that he intended to run for mayor, all discussion about Buchanan and Fremont faded completely into the background. The Miracle Springs mayor’s election was all at once the only election anyone cared about!
“I telled ya afore, an’ I ain’t changed my mind none since,” said Alkali Jones. “The man’s a polecat!”
“A snake!” put in Uncle Nick.
They were sitting around the table in our house talking about Royce and the election. Alkali Jones’ high laughter had ceased. The men didn’t seem to know whether to be angry or miserable over the turn of events. So they wound up being a little of both.
“You talked t’ Rafferty again, Drum?” asked Mr. Jones.
“I’ve talked to him half a dozen times,” Pa answered, “and so has every other man in town. But he says he’s got all he can do as sheriff, and he don’t want to be mayor too. None of us can convince him.”
“Ol’ Vaissade didn’t do nuthin’. What makes Rafferty think he can’t jest combine the mayorin’ an’ the sheriffin’?”
“He says the town’s growing, and needs both a mayor and a sheriff.”
“Well, one thing’s for sure,” added Uncle Nick. “The mayor’s job won’t be a do-nothing job no more with Royce in it.”
“Simon says he can keep him from doing any mischief,” said Pa. “That’s another reason he doesn’t seem too worried.”
“What harm could he do?” asked Katie, who had been list
ening from the other side of the room, where she and Almeda were sitting. “After all, he’s still got his bank to manage.”
Pa turned his head, then gave a shrug in answer. “Who knows? But if you give a man like Royce a chance, he’ll find some way to turn it to his advantage, and I reckon that’s what has the rest of us worried. Especially if we just let him have the job for the taking.”
“I’ll tell you what he could do,” said Almeda. “Once a man like that’s in power, he can do all kinds of things. I’ve seen it happen in other towns. There’s been corruption in the governments of Sacramento and San Francisco, and any time you have money involved in political decisions it can be dangerous. As mayor and the town’s only banker, Franklin Royce could control this town. He could bring in his own people and set up a town council. He could control decisions that were made. He could levy taxes, commission building projects, change laws. He already dictates how the money in this community flows. He could put Parrish Mine and Freight Company out of business if he wanted to. What if, as mayor, he wanted to get rid of Simon Rafferty as sheriff and appoint one of his own men? I’m sure he could find a way to manage it. Before we knew it, warrants on Drum and Nick would start to appear from the East. I tell you, the possibilities are frightening. I don’t trust Royce, even though I’m forced to do business with him.”
“But the mayor’s never had that kind of power. Vaissade couldn’t have gotten rid of Simon if he’d wanted to.”
“Power has a way of sneaking up on you if you put it into the wrong hands. Once you start something, it’s sometimes impossible to undo it. I for one would feel a lot more comfortable if the door were not opened in the first place.”
Uncle Nick now spoke up again. “He’s always wanted this land of ours,” he said.
“An’ every other piece he could git his slimy white hands on,” Jones added.
“Then, why doesn’t one of the other men in town run against him?” asked Katie.
“No one wants to,” replied Pa. “Bosely, Simon, Lewis, Miller, Griffin—me and Nick and Rutledge, we talked to all of them. I even tried to get Avery to consider it, but he keeps saying religion and politics don’t mix.”
“Wouldn’t do no good anyway,” said Uncle Nick. “Royce would win, whatever anybody else tried to do. He holds mortgages and notes on eighty percent of the property in the whole area. Nobody’s gonna cross him up when it could mean he’d call due what they owe him.”
“But they could still vote against him,” I suggested. “I can’t see why everyone can’t simply choose not to vote for him, or vote for nobody. “He’d never know.”
“Economics, Corrie,” said Almeda, looking over toward me. “Sad to say, money dictates power. If Royce doesn’t win, he could call everyone’s mortgages due. When they can’t pay, he forecloses on whatever properties he wants, and winds up owning all the land for miles. Such a prospect might even be worse than calling him our mayor. Nobody knows whether he’d do that, but just the threat can be enough to frighten people into doing what a man like that wants. He wouldn’t even have to say anything—a mere rumor circulating that foreclosures would result if he wasn’t elected would probably be enough to insure his victory. That is if someone was running against him. As it is, he probably won’t even have to go that far.”
Chapter 20
The Two Campaigns
Mr. Royce continued to be unopposed in the election for Miracle Springs mayor, which was scheduled for November 4, the same day as the presidential voting between Fremont and Buchanan. He gave a couple of speeches in town in June, but nobody paid much attention since he was the only one running. And after that, he didn’t do much else. About the only sign that would let a stranger know there was even an election going on was a banner in the window of the bank that said, “Royce for Mayor.”
Nobody liked the idea of Franklin Royce being mayor of Miracle Springs, but gradually they got used to it and the hubbub and complaining slowly died out. Out in the open, no one really said much. I guess what Almeda said was true—they didn’t want to get on Royce’s bad side for fear of what would happen. Royce didn’t have any “paper” against our claim (that’s what Pa called it), but Parrish Mine and Freight still had business dealings with the bank, so we had to be careful like everyone else.
One other thing quieted down all the initial worries, something that was a surprise to everybody. Mr. Royce started making himself agreeable. He didn’t give any more speeches, but he walked around town, smiling, shaking people’s hands, visiting in the stores. He even came into the freight office a time or two for a minute, saying he was checking up on his customers, seeing how they were doing, wondering if there was any way the bank could be of service to them. He was so polite and friendly you almost couldn’t help liking him!
The words “election” or “mayor” were never mentioned once. He never said a thing about asking people to vote for him. Of course, he didn’t need to—there was no one else they could vote for!
Mr. Royce knew, I suppose, that folks were suspicious, not only of him but of bankers in general. And he probably knew that he wasn’t the best liked man in Miracle Springs, and that people were nice to him only because they had to be since he was the banker.
That could hardly make a man feel too good about himself, knowing people had more fear than liking for him. I can’t imagine anyone finding it pleasant inside to know that people were afraid of him. But I figured that Mr. Royce decided he’d rather have people liking him as mayor than being afraid of him, so he had vowed to himself to change his ways and be nice from now on. Rev. Rutledge talked sometimes about giving people what he called “the benefit of the doubt”—thinking the best of them. Maybe that’s what I was trying to do with Mr. Royce.
When he’d come around, I’d watch his face real careful and look into his eyes to see if I could see the change. I like to watch people and try to imagine what they’re thinking. But I couldn’t see anything in Mr. Royce’s face. His mouth had a nice smile on it when he talked, but there was just no way to tell what he was thinking. His eyes didn’t seem to look exactly at you when he spoke. It was like he was looking just a little bit off to one side, and so the conversation back and forth was just a tiny bit crooked, though such a little bit that I doubt anyone else even noticed. I didn’t talk to him much myself, only to answer when he’d come into the office and say “How are you today, Corrie?” before going on to talk a minute with Almeda or Mr. Ashton. So maybe that crookedness was just something I noticed that he didn’t do with everyone else. But his eyes didn’t sparkle, they just kind of looked past me.
I watched other people, too, as they talked to him. I was real curious about this changed friendly Mr. Royce. Mr. Ashton seemed to be drawn into the banker’s friendly smile, and their words back and forth were jovial and lighthearted. Almeda, however, always seemed to be looking into those dark gray eyes of Mr. Royce’s as if she was trying to figure out the thoughts behind them too. She smiled and was very gracious, and their talk was polite. Her eyes didn’t sparkle at such times either. Despite the smile on her lips, her eyes remained serious and seemed to be turning over more thoughts inside than her words let on.
Even Pa and Uncle Nick gradually started speaking more kindly about their future mayor.
“We may as well get used to him,” said Pa one evening. “I never liked the man, an’ I’d rather see someone else run. But we’re stuck with him. He’s gonna be the mayor and he’s gonna be the banker, and it’s for sure we don’t want to be on the wrong side of his fence once he’s that important.”
“I reckon you’re right,” said Uncle Nick, “though I’ll still feel a sight better once I get the $450 I owe him for lumber paid back. I don’t like to be indebted to no man, least of all him. Politicians and bankers are both a mite too full of smiles to suit me!”
“I don’t trust the varmint nohow!” put in Alkali Jones. “Jest like I don’t trust ol’ Fremont neither. Anyone what’s been in California as long as me knows too much
’bout what Cap’n John’s really like! I ain’t gonna vote fer neither o’ the skunks!”
“And a big difference that’s gonna make, Alkali!” said Pa, laughing. “Fremont’s gonna carry California so big they might as well take Buchanan off the ballot, and Royce don’t need nobody’s but his own vote to win.”
“It’s the preenciple o’ the thing, I tell ya, an’ I ain’t gonna vote fer neither o’ ’em!”
Pa chuckled to himself, but said nothing more.
“Well if I could vote,” said Katie, who had been following the conversation with interest, “I would vote for anybody, just to have my say in what happens. You men are lucky, Alkali, to be able to vote. You shouldn’t throw the chance away just because you don’t like the candidates.”
“Aw, but Drum’s right. What blame difference is it gonna make anyhow who we votes fer, or even iffen we votes at all?”
“It’s the American way, Alkali,” said Pa, smiling, and giving his friend a poke in the ribs. “When you came out West it was just a wilderness. Now we’re a state and our man’s running for the White House, and we got our duty as citizens to do. Come on, Alkali, you got to get into the right spirit for this election!”
I couldn’t tell at first how serious Pa was, but when I saw him throw Uncle Nick a quick wink, I knew. I think he meant the words but was using them to make Mr. Jones squirm a little.
When they’d get to talking about Mr. Royce, Pa was pretty kindly disposed toward him and seemed willing to forget about the past. Uncle Nick was more cautious, but not as critical as they had both once been, though he did say one time, “It’s easy for you to forgive him, Drum. You don’t owe him a dime. Why, you got four thousand dollars in his bank! But me, I gotta still worry some, till I get that house all paid for.”
Pa only laughed. He’d worked hard in the mine these last two years, getting enough to add on to the house, and save money besides. Since they’d both got married, Pa and Uncle Nick had kept their earnings separate, and as much as Uncle Nick had settled down, he still wasn’t half the worker Pa was. And Zack had by now begun to make a pretty big difference in the Hollister share of the output of the mine. I didn’t know how Pa’s and Almeda’s money was being handled now that they were married—the Mine and Freight Company, that is. That’s something they never talked about to me.
On the Trail of the Truth Page 12
