The Union Belle

by Gilbert, Morris

  She rose at dawn and found Shep already up and moving around. After fixing and eating a large breakfast, she changed into a simple gray dress and wide-brimmed straw hat with a matching ribbon. Shep grinned at her. “We look just like respectable folks, don’t we, Lola?”

  She noted that he wore a freshly pressed dark blue suit and a pair of highly polished black boots. “Well, that’s what we are, Shep,” she smiled. “You look nice.”

  He ducked his head at her compliment and pulled his coat back to show her the .44 he wore, saying, “Guess most folks don’t wear a gun to church, but you can never tell. Might be a few young bucks along the trail who could give us a hard time.”

  The August sun burned down on them as they rode along the dusty road that led to Fort Russell. Shep talked animatedly about the prospects for the Union Belle, and although Lola responded, her mind was on the situation that lay ahead of her. By the time they pulled into the stockade wall, she was keeping a tight rein on herself, and said in what she hoped was an idle tone, “Not a very pretty place, is it, Shep?”

  He looked at the unpainted buildings that formed a double line inside the walls and shook his head. “Army posts ain’t much to look at, and that’s a fact. This one looks better’n most of them, though.” He drove the wagon to a hitching post, got out and helped her down. “Guess we’d better find out where the preachin’ is gonna be.” He stopped an undersized corporal who was walking idly along the building. “Hey, corporal, where will the preachin’ be this morning?”

  The soldier gave them a curious look, then waved his hand to a large building across the parade ground. “Over in the storeroom,” he said. “You come in just for that?”

  “Why, course we did,” Shep said, emulating surprise. “And you ought to be there yourself, boy. Lots of temptations in this part of the world. Young fellow like you needs a good dose of religion to keep himself out of trouble!”

  The corporal shook his head in disgust. “I ain’t had a good temptation in so long, I probably wouldn’t know what to do with it,” he muttered, then left them, wandering down the sidewalk.

  “Looks like part of the congregation is already here,” Shep said, leading Lola across the hard-baked earth. He indicated ten or twenty Indians who were outside the storehouse watching them. Shep sized them up and told her quietly, “Agency Indians, most of ’em. The wild ones won’t come in except in winter when their bellies get empty.” He stopped outside the door and asked a middle-aged Indian, “Preaching started yet?”

  The man grunted and gave a slight nod, his obsidian eyes emotionless. At that moment, singing began to come from the interior and Shep opened the door for Lola, saying, “Guess we’re just in time.”

  The room they entered was stacked from floor to ceiling with everything from food supplies to cavalry gear, but the inner part of the room had been cleared. There were no chairs, so Lola moved with Shep to stand in front of a large shelf filled with uniforms. There were about thirty or more Indians standing in the center of the room, most of them women and children. At the far end a man stood behind a desk that held a heavy-looking Bible.

  The preacher was a large man, almost six feet tall and weighing close to two hundred pounds. His large hands, bulky shoulders and heavy legs gave him a durable look. He noticed them as soon as they walked in, and examined them with a pair of dark blue eyes. His reddish hair was thinning in front, and a short red beard framed a firm, pointed chin set in a square face. He sang a song that Lola had never heard before in a strong baritone voice. Few of the Indians were making any attempt to sing, but he sang five or six verses with great vigor.

  Lola had come merely to see Jude Moran, not for any religious motivation. She had never been to any service other than Mass, and she stood there watching Moran carefully, marveling over the strangeness of the setting. The Indians stood stock still, even the smaller children, watching the preacher with solemn faces. Only a few of them made any attempt to join in the singing, but that did not seem to bother Moran. He sang the first song at least five times, then two others before he finally paused and picked up the thick Bible from the table in front of him.

  He nodded toward an Indian in white man’s clothing, saying, “I wish I could speak your language, but Little Wolf will help me out.” The Indian repeated this for the congregation. He spoke rapidly, the words guttural and from the throat, then paused, looking expectantly at Moran.

  “This is the book of the Great Spirit,” Moran said, holding the Bible high for them to see. “In this book, He tells us why trouble comes. The Great Spirit says that once there was no trouble, that He made the world good.” He proceeded slowly, pausing periodically for Little Wolf to interpret, putting everything into terms the Indians could grasp. Lola had never read the Bible, and as Moran went on, she found herself listening carefully to the simple story. “There were plenty of buffalo to eat, and no winters when the women and children cried because there was no food. No one ever got sick—and no one ever died. Men and women walked with God, and obeyed Him. But we know that the world is not that way now. Sometimes sickness comes. All men die, even young children. War comes and the best of the young men are slain. Men are often liars and thieves. The world we live in now is not good. Why is that?”

  Moran waited until Little Wolf finished speaking for him, then opened his Bible and read, “All have sinned and come short of the glory of God.” He began to tell the story of Adam and Eve in the garden, how they fell and what that meant. Lola noticed that the congregation still showed no outward sign of interest, yet they were watching Moran carefully. It occurred to her that some of them were probably thinking that most of the evils that had come to the Sioux had been brought by white men like Moran—men who had taken their lands and were killing all the buffalo.

  Moran concentrated on the Indians, yet more than once his quick blue eyes touched on the two visitors. He spoke of how every man needed something within his heart to fill the empty space. He pointed out that life was more than this world, and then he raised his voice slightly, saying, “The book of the Great Spirit tells us all of this—but it also tells of what He has done. The books says that even though men have been disobedient to Him, the Great Spirit loves them. But someone has to pay for the way that men have sinned against Him. Who can pay for the bad things that all men have done?”

  The preacher paused, looking over the room, and then he smiled and said, “Let me read what the Great Spirit has done. He has found one who can make all men good.” He opened the Bible again and read slowly, “For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish but have everlasting life.” Then he closed the book and spoke about the saving power of Jesus Christ.

  Lola found herself listening to his words carefully. Her religion had never been more than a ritual. When she was younger, she had gone to church and tried to be good, yet had never connected Jesus and His cross with her own life. Jesus had been a statue on the wall of the church, and the cross had been an ornament she had worn around her neck. But as the preacher spoke about the blood of Jesus and His sufferings on the cross, an uneasy feeling began to grow in her.

  “Every man and woman, and every child needs peace in his heart,” Moran continued. “But the only way to find that peace is through the Lord Jesus Christ, the only Son of the Great Spirit. He says in the Bible that if we give up our wrong-doing and cry out, we will be forgiven of all our bad deeds, and we will have this peace.” He closed his Bible, stepped out from behind the pulpit and asked, “Would any of you like me to pray with you, that the Great Spirit will forgive you all your wrongs and give you peace in your spirits?”

  Lola cast a quick glance over the room and saw that three of the Indians, two women and one older man, had their hands lifted. She wondered what Moran would do next, and watched carefully as he went to each of them and prayed a simple prayer. It was not like any prayer she had ever heard, for she was accustomed to the memorized prayers she had been taught by the n
uns as a child. But this man spoke to God as he would speak to a friend! With the old man he said simply, “Oh, God, you know this man’s heart. He wants to be forgiven. He wants to know your love and peace. As he calls on you, I ask that you hear his prayer. Forgive his sins as you have promised, and let him be accepted into your kingdom. I ask this in the name of Jesus Christ.”

  Lola saw that tears were rolling down the old man’s face, and Moran said, “God bless you! I can see that God has saved you. Is that right, my brother?” The old man apparently understood some English, for he nodded his head, and said, “Yes—Jesus God—He is good!”

  Moran looked around and said, “I will be here for the rest of the day. If I can help any of you, come and talk to me. Now, let us pray. . . .”

  After the prayer, the Indians began to file out. Shep said, “Come on, Lola. Let’s meet the preacher.”

  Lola’s heart was fluttering, but she forced herself to accompany Shep, who went right up to Moran. “Mighty fine preaching, Brother Moran,” Shep said, putting out his hand. “I’m Shep Yancy. Me and this lady own a saloon in Cheyenne. Thought we might be in need of a prayer now and then, so we come to hear the preachin’.”

  “Glad to know you, Yancy,” Moran nodded. “I’ll be starting a church in Cheyenne soon. I hope you both will come.”

  Shep nodded. “My mama always took me to church when I was a little feller, but when she went on, I kind of got out of the habit.” He stood there, noting that Lola remained silent, then said abruptly, “Say, I gotta go pay a call on an officer while I’m here. Maybe you can look after the lady for a spell?” He turned without waiting for an answer and left.

  Lola knew he had done so to give her a chance to be alone with Moran, but she wished fervently he had not! She felt awkward and had not the faintest idea of what to say to this man.

  Moran said, “There’s some cool water in my office. Why don’t we go have some of it?”

  Lola stood there uncertainly, then decided to bring the matter out into the open. “I’m Lola Montez,” she said, watching his face carefully.

  Moran blinked his eyes and rubbed his hands together—but he responded quietly, “Yes, I thought you might be. You look exactly like your mother did when she was your age.”

  Lola’s heart beat faster and she could not think of a thing to say. She had come thousands of miles to find this man—and now that she stood before him, she didn’t know what she expected of him.

  Moran saw her difficulty, and smiled. “Come along. We can talk better at the office.”

  She nodded and followed him out of the warehouse and down the line of buildings. He paused at a door, stepped aside, allowing her to enter. The room was small, containing only a desk, two chairs and some rough shelves nailed to the wall. There was a pitcher of water and several glasses on the desk. “Sit down, Lola.” She took her seat, and he poured two glasses of water and handed one of them to her. “It’s not very cool, but it’s wet.” He drank his water, and she took several sips that helped open up her parched throat.

  “You’re a very beautiful young lady,” he began. “I’ve wanted to see you for a long time.”

  “I—I found a letter you wrote to Mother before she died,” she said. “That’s why I left Texas and came to find you.”

  “I was real sorry about your mother. How’s your sister?”

  As she told him about Maria, Lola regained some of her composure. She had been half afraid that he would be like a loud, shouting preacher she had seen once in Mexico—a red-faced man who stood in the middle of the streets and told people they were going to hell. It came as a relief to discover that he was not at all like that. She liked the way he didn’t pressure her, and she wondered if her mother’s description of his religious fanaticism had been warped by her own unhappiness with her marriage. She had always known her mother cared nothing for religion, and now Lola realized that she had not even been a good woman. Now, facing her father, she began to suspect that all the talk about his pushiness had been simply a reflection of her mother’s rejection of his way of life.

  She found herself speaking of her brother-in-law, Ramon, and though she didn’t say a great deal, Jude’s eyes showed a quick understanding. “Just as well you got away, I think,” he said. Then he asked, “Who is this man you’re in business with?”

  Lola hesitated, not knowing how to defend her position. There was no way to make owning a saloon acceptable in his sight, she realized, so she said evenly, “When I left Texas, I only had a little money. I had to earn a living, so I took a job dealing cards with Cherry Valance in Julesburg. Shep worked for him, and he was very kind to me. When Cherry left Julesburg, I had to do something, so Shep suggested we go into business. That’s all he is to me—just a friend.”

  “I see.”

  Lola braced herself, waiting for the sermon on the evils of saloons she was certain would follow. She was prepared to get up and walk away as soon as it started, but he sat there regarding her with a calm expression on his face.

  When he did speak, he did not even mention saloons. “For a long time, Lola, I’ve wished there was some way to help you—but it’s not been easy, with the way your mother felt about me. But now that you’re here, I hope I can do more.” He gave her a shy smile, adding, “I’ve never remarried, and I don’t know the first thing about being a father—but I’d like to see you from time to time.”

  “I would like that, too,” Lola said. She got to her feet and said, “Will you be in Cheyenne much?”

  He rose with her. “Quite a bit,” he nodded. “I’ve decided to lay off work for a while. I’ve saved up some money, and as I said to Yancy, I’m going to try to start a church in Cheyenne.”

  She expected him to pressure her to come, but he said only, “Maybe we can have supper together once in a while.”

  “Yes!” she said eagerly. “That would be nice.”

  He walked outside with her and they found Yancy leaning idly against the side of the trading post. Lola shared her news at once. “Shep, this is my father, just as I hoped.”

  “Well, sir, you got a mighty fine daughter,” Shep said quickly. He was somewhat awkward as he faced Moran, and he seemed to have trouble finding what he wanted to say. Finally he shrugged and said bluntly, “Preacher, saloons is all I know. Been raised in ’em and I’ve seen the worst. But I wanna tell you that Lola here ain’t no saloon girl. I been watchin’ her, and bad as I am, I can spot a good woman when I see one. What I mean to say is, you don’t have to worry about her. Her and me is friends—and I’m keeping an eye on her.”

  Moran smiled and put his hand out. “I think my daughter is very lucky to have a friend like you, Shep,” he said heartily, “and I appreciate your concern.” Then he nodded and said, “I’ll see you both in Cheyenne.”

  On the way back to town, Shep said, “You know, that’s not a bad fellow—your dad. He ain’t much like the hell-fire-and-brimstone type.” He spoke to the horses, adding, “I might just like to hear a little more of that preaching, Lola.”

  Lola thought about Jude Moran and smiled. “He’s not what I expected, either, Shep.” She sat there for several moments, then added softly, “But he’s what I hoped for!”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  A New Season

  The combination work-passenger train strained as it huffed up the valley of the Lodgepole toward Cheyenne. Mark sat loosely, his long legs across the opposite seat, watching dust-devils form and dance along the desert. This was April, and spring had come late this year of 1868. A gusty wind boiled against the car’s sides and scoured down the aisle, laying its burning edge on him. On the plain a band of antelope rushed up from a coulee, then scudded away into grassy hills that stretched away endlessly.

  Conductor Jamie Lord passed by, glancing at Mark. “Be in Cheyenne in ten minutes, Mr. Winslow.”

  “All right, Jamie.”

  As Mark began to pull his gear together, he thought of the task that lay in front of him. This April marked the beginning of anothe
r construction season. The Union Pacific’s steel had stretched 240 miles across Nebraska from North Platte the year before, stopping eight thousand feet high in the snowy jaws of Sherman Summit, just beyond Cheyenne. But now with the arrival of spring, ten thousand men of all kinds—graders, steel layers, bridge builders, gamblers, freighters, gunmen, ex-soldiers, tradesmen, mule skinners, cowhands, doctors, lawyers and politicians—were set to join in a great tidal wave from Cheyenne to see the end of track for another turbulent, wicked year.

  They’re ready for it, Mark thought, looking the passengers over. They had a buoyancy that made them impatient with the long ride, and he had it himself. The fifteen-hour ride on the train from Omaha had been intolerable, and now he stretched his muscles, anxious to get on solid ground. He made his way through the car, stopping several times to talk about the work ahead with men who grinned and spoke to him. Many of the men had the ruddy faces and tuneful, lilting talk of Ireland. Nearly all were war veterans, and in their cowhide boots, formless store suits and round-brimmed hats, they made a rough show, but Winslow knew them well. They were the kind of men who could stand the bitter blast of winter and the merciless heat of the desert sun better than any others. He had learned during his apprenticeship the previous year that they could throw their shovels down, pick up their stacked guns and fight off the Cheyenne and Sioux when they made their lightning swift raids on the track.

  Mark moved down the aisle, swaying with the motion of the train, and came to a stop beside two men. “Hello, Cherry,” he said, stopping to pay close attention to the men. It was a way he had, changing quickly from a lazy attitude to sharp attention. He ignored Lou Goldman for the moment, concentrating the full power of his gaze on Cherry Valance.