The Wounded Yankee

by Gilbert, Morris

Her messages were more like a friendly talk than a sermon. Most of the Methodists in the West were rough fellows, many with little education. Their congregations were prone to judge the quality of a sermon by its volume rather than its content. “Lots of thunder—no lightning!” was the criticism thrown at them by the more educated Presbyterians.

  Bron always began with some sort of homely truth, usually embodied in a story from the Bible or her own experience. Then she would move through the Bible, reading texts that added or expanded her thoughts.

  Today she began with a personal account. “When I was a little girl of nine years, my parents took me to London. That was a long journey for me—at the time it seemed as far off as China!” She told briefly of the wonderful things she’d seen. As she spoke, the back door opened and Billy Page walked in and took a seat on the back row. She did not acknowledge his entrance, but continued. “The one place I remember best was the Tower of London. Like all little girls, I loved jewelry—though I had very little, you can be sure! But I remember going through a long passage with guards everywhere staring at us. Then we came to some cases with heavy glass in front—and there behind the glass were wonderful jewels! Diamonds, blazing their reflections; sparkling red rubies, big as pigeon eggs; and sapphires bluer than any sky you ever saw—all of them so bright and dazzling. I tell you! Case after case, and all containing gems worth a kingdom!”

  She looked out over the rough building, built of alder logs and filled with people dressed in the simplest attire. Their eyes were riveted on her. She lowered her voice. “And in the last case, the crown of England with the biggest diamond in the world right in the top of it shone like the sun under the lights. And I knew, even as a child, how that one diamond was worth more money than many states and nations!”

  Then Bron raised her voice and motioned toward her hearers, saying, “How many of you would like to have a chance to go through that treasure and fill your pockets with those diamonds and rubies and precious stones? All of you, I see,” she smiled. Then she opened her Bible and said, “In Matthew, chapter six, and verse 19, we have a description of the real value of those jewels: ‘Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt and where thieves break through and steal—’ ”

  She raised her eyes. “What will happen to the gold that men in this camp—and women, as well!—are scraping out of the ground? You all know well—most of it will be stolen in some way. The gamblers and the prostitutes and the thieves are gathered around this camp like vultures! We have a growing graveyard filled with the bodies of men who were killed for their gold—and what good does it do them now?”

  Her cheeks were flushed, oblivious to her beauty, Page thought—and every other man in the building. He wondered how many came to hear her sermon, or if, like himself, they came to feast their eyes. Bron herself, he knew, sought no praise or admiration; but these men, far away from good women for the most part, could not be blamed for exulting in her beauty.

  “Gold is only yellow gravel,” she said, then smiled. “Ah, but the color makes a difference! you tell me. Well, in this world, yes—but go to the pharaoh who stood against Moses. Ask him, ‘Do you still run your hands over your golden crown?’ Ask the kings of this world who are in their gorgeous tombs, ‘Do you still fondle the jewels you loved when you were alive?’ No, they do not, for verse twenty gives us the truth: ‘Lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through and steal.’ ”

  Then she looked up and said, “For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.” She spoke for twenty minutes on the nature of true riches, and how that when death came, the hands would open and all prizes would fall to earth. Billy found himself swayed by her words, and leaned forward as she came to the end.

  “And what are these true riches that God tells us will never rust, will never be stolen?” she asked, “Why, the one who spoke these words—Jesus Christ, the Son of God. He is the only one we can have forever. He is the gold and the diamonds, the pearl of great price—and since I came to possess Him—all else is ashes!”

  She pleaded with them to come to the cross. “We sang a few moments ago of the blood of Jesus. It can wash away our sin, we sang. And nothing else will do that work! As God told Moses to speak to the children of Israel on the night of the Passover, telling them to put the blood of a lamb on the doorposts, saying, ‘When I see the blood, I will pass over you.’ So now the true Lamb of God is come, and when you stand before God, He won’t ask you for your gold or your diamonds, nor if you are educated. He will look for one thing only—the blood of Jesus Christ.”

  As Billy sensed the service drawing to a close, he slipped out. But for many days afterward, her words rang in his mind: He will look for one thing only—the blood of Jesus Christ.

  The rest of the people stayed to express their appreciation to Bron, and she was truly grateful for the work God had done in hearts—even bringing Billy to church. She expressed this to Parris as he walked her home.

  “I’m glad Billy Page was there. I long to see him converted!”

  “He’s an engaging young man, Bron, but don’t get your hopes too high. He’s hanging out with the Ives crowd. Then again, I guess God is able, isn’t He?” He turned to leave, hesitated, and said, “By the way, my clerk Jenkins broke his arm. I’ve got to hire someone to help with the work. Do you think Buck Smith wants a job?”

  “He’s coming to take me back tomorrow. I’ll ask him.”

  When Buck arrived she told him about Pfouts’ offer.

  “I don’t know anything about clerking,” he responded.

  “Well, he thought you could use the money, but it’s up to you, Buck.” She picked up her bag. “I’m ready to go. Could we go by Pfouts’ store? I forgot to get the needles Jeanne asked me to bring.”

  “What about Lillian?” he asked as he assisted her into the wagon.

  “She’s going to stay with the Rogers girl for a week.”

  He frowned his displeasure but didn’t say anything.

  Pfouts saw them enter and asked Buck, “Miss Bron tell you I needed a man?”

  “Yes—but I’ve never worked in a store.”

  “Oh, Jenkins can do the bookwork; he just can’t lift anything heavy. This won’t be permanent, you understand, but I thought you might need to pick up a little extra money.”

  “I guess it’ll be all right. I’ll have to drive Bron back, though.”

  “I’ll drive her back,” Parris said. “Jenkins can show you where to put the goods; some are piled pretty high. I think by the time I come back, you should have most of it done.”

  Bron had listened to the exchange and broke in, “I can drive back by myself.”

  “No. I’d like to get away for a few hours.” He explained the work to Buck and said, “Jenkins will be here, and he’ll show you around.” He turned to Bron. “I’m ready if you are.”

  He tied his horse to the back of the wagon, and they drove out of town. As they passed the gallows, Bron shivered. “Ugly thing, isn’t it, Parris?”

  “Yes. So are the two graves Beidler dug for Stinson and Lyons. But sooner or later it’ll come to that. The evil in this place is rampant!”

  It was a relief to drive into the countryside, passing onto the road leading along the creek. Along the way men crouched with their pans, slowly dipping and rocking. Back from the creek other men had staked dry bars, shoveling up the soil in buckets and carrying it to the water; farther up the hill, men scraped away topsoil to reach gold-bearing gravel.

  Eventually the road wound away from the creek and began to rise as they passed out of the valley. The air seemed cooler, but that may have been an illusion created by the sight of the blue line of hills in front of them. The crispness in the air brought some relief from the hot July sun, and they talked amicably as the wagon wheels lifted the dry earth and sifted it back in a steady flow.

  When they came to Dancer Creek, he halted the team and le
t them drink. A large oak spread its branches over the creek, and he said, “Let’s cool off, Bron.” They got out of the wagon and walked, following the creek around a bend shaded by a line of alders. They stopped at a spot where a large pool had been formed. Parris reached down and picked up a stone and tossed it in.

  “This is nice,” Bron said. She sat down and leaned back against the trunk of a large tree and closed her eyes. “It’s so quiet, isn’t it, Parris?”

  “Yes.” He inched closer to her. She opened her eyes and smiled. Flustered, he moved his feet nervously, took a deep breath, and blurted out, “Bron—” and stopped, swallowing hard. He was a straightforward and direct man, though not eloquent.

  Bron was puzzled. She had been in his company a great deal, and one of the things she admired him for was his decisiveness. He always seemed to know what to do. Now there was an uncertainty in his manner that aroused her curiosity.

  “Is something wrong, Parris?” she asked quietly.

  He forced a smile, paused, and turned to face her. His jaw was set as if he had a difficult job to do and was determined to carry it through.

  “Bron—I’m wondering if you have ever thought of me as a man you might marry?”

  His words caught her off guard, and a quietness settled over them. Then her eyes opened wide and her lips parted, and she said evenly, “Yes, I’ve thought of that.”

  Her honesty was a marvel to him. “I’m not a dashing sort of man, Bron, as you know. Not much to look at. Most young women find me a little dull.”

  It was typical of him to be so forthright, and she admired him more. “Are you a rat with green teeth, then?” she asked. “You tell me all the things you think are wrong with you. But I’ll expect a little more than that, Parris Pfouts!” She stood up suddenly and waited to see what he would do.

  He choked with alarm, then obeyed the impulse he had had the first time they met—he wrapped her in his arms and kissed her, gently, yet demanding; and as she responded to the pressure of his lips, she knew this man was much stronger than he appeared. She waited until he stepped back, then said, “Well, you’ve taken quite a while to come to that!”

  The kiss had shaken him more than her. He stood before her—frank, honest, guileless. “I love you, Bron,” he said simply. It was typical of him: direct and matter-of-fact. But the rapture in his heart radiated from his eyes.

  “We will think on it, yes?” she asked.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  BUCK AND LILLIAN

  After the leisurely pace and quiet at the cabin, Buck was confused by the noise and almost frantic tempo engulfing him in Virginia City. The first two nights he tossed and turned, for he slept in the office of the supply store, and the constant noise of the saloons and gunfire filtered through the thin walls of the building.

  During his waking hours, Buck thought of the past months, which had been the happiest of his life. Before that he had known only cuffs and blows, unkindness and abuse. Indifference from others used to be a welcome reprieve—it kept him free from physical harm. But that had changed after Zack Winslow caught him trying to steal. Thoughts of the following days were warm and pleasant. That had been only eight months ago, but it seemed as if he had known Zack forever. They had spent much time together, hunting, fishing, working. At first Buck had been shy and stand-offish, but Winslow had never forced his way into Buck’s private life, letting him slowly learn to trust—and that trust had become the strength of Buck’s life.

  Now something had entered their lives to spoil those good days. Buck had absorbed enough of life to understand that in the world a man had to fight—and Zack’s refusal to fight was an enigma to him. Zack had become a branded man in the Gulch. Even on his first day at the store, Buck became acutely aware of the stigma. He was working in the back of the store when he overheard a fragment of conversation: “Yeah, that’s the kid who stays up in the hills with Winslow—you know, the hermit that runs like a whipped dog every time Red Yeager shows up!”

  Even today as he ate his breakfast at the Rainbow, he was sure one of the miners sitting across the room with two others pointed him out. He finished hurriedly and returned to the store just as Pfouts arrived.

  “Morning, Buck,” he said as he took off his coat. “You’ve got this place in good shape. Not much more to do except carry supplies out for customers. I’ve a lot of bookwork in the office, though. Why don’t you help Jenkins wait on customers? If you run into problems, just give me a call, all right?”

  “Sure, Mr. Pfouts. I’ll probably be calling a lot.” Buck picked up a broom and went out to sweep off the front walk, then came inside as customers appeared. He was slow, but as the day wore on he could handle nearly all the sales. Most of the customers were miners, wanting hardware of various sorts, but a few housewives came in as well, looking at the rather small selection of ladies’ wear and accessories. To Buck’s relief, Jenkins took care of these.

  At ten he took a break and had coffee with Pfouts. Twenty minutes later, Pfouts took a canvas sack from his desk and said, “Take this down to the stage office, Buck.” He smiled briefly, adding, “Try not to get held up—that’s the cash from the last two days.”

  Buck took the heavy bag filled with a mixture of greenbacks, gold dust, and coins, and gave Pfouts a peculiar look. “You trust me with all this money?”

  Pfouts gave him a steady nod. “Of course.” He leaned back in his chair. “There’re mostly two kinds of men—the good and the bad. Sometimes the distinction gets a little blurred, but any man in business has to learn to tell which is which—or he’ll get trimmed. There’re the Ives, the Yeagers and the toughs—and there’re Simpson and Doc Steele and Zack Winslow, men who’ll stand by what they say. Honest men, and you’re one of those, Buck.”

  The boy ducked his head at the praise, then lifted his eyes and said, “Everybody says Zack’s a coward, Mr. Pfouts. Do you think so?”

  Pfouts studied Buck for a moment. “It’s hard to figure, Buck. Before all this business came up with Yeager, I’d have said no. But most of us have a weakness, and I guess Zack’s no exception. I knew a marshal in Bismarck. I saw him go out once single-handed and face three hard men who were armed and had sworn to kill him—but that same man was so afraid of high places he’d get physically sick if he got on a cliff no more than thirty feet high.”

  Buck thought of that, and sighed, “I guess you must be right.” He turned and left.

  An hour before closing time Buck looked up as George Ives entered the store and approached the counter. Since Jenkins was waiting on another customer, Buck stepped forward. “Yes, sir? Something for you?”

  “Haven’t seen you here before. Must be new, huh?” Ives said.

  “Just started a short while ago. My name’s Buck Smith.”

  Ives nodded and gave him the once over, as if filing the name. “I need this list filled, Buck. While you’re getting the things, let me see what you have in the way of razors.”

  “Yes, sir.” Buck turned and pulled a walnut case from the shelf behind him, put it on the counter and opened it. “Here’s what we have, Mr. Ives. The price is right beside them.”

  Ives seemed pleased to be recognized, and said, “I’ll look them over.” Buck moved away and began collecting the items on the list—bath soap, shaving soap, a few other toiletry items and several kinds of food.

  He was putting three ripe apples in a sack when the door opened and Lillian stepped inside with another girl he’d never seen.

  “Why, Buck!” she said in surprise. “I didn’t know you were working here.”

  “Just started, Lillian.” She was wearing a dress he’d never seen, an expensive one it seemed to him. He guessed that it probably belonged to the other girl. It was lightweight, not like the heavy ones she usually wore, ice blue and trimmed with a dark blue ribbon. It clung to her figure, and he was startled to see how much older she seemed.

  “This is Ann Rogers, Buck. I’m visiting with her for a while.”

  Buck nodded, “Hap
py to know you, Miss Ann.” She smiled and spoke, a girl of seventeen, with straight brown hair and dark skin. “Hello, Buck,” she said. “We want to see the prettiest dresses you’ve got.”

  “Sure. Let me finish with this gentleman—”

  Ives had turned to look at the girls and broke in smoothly, “Why, Buck, I’m in no hurry.” He took off his hat and smiled, adding, “And even if I were, it wouldn’t be courteous to let a pair of beautiful ladies wait, would it now?”

  He made an impressive picture, his eyes dancing as he gave a slight bow. He wore a well-cut suit and a large diamond ring, which he flashed as he lifted his hand to adjust the flowing black tie. When Buck said, “All right, Mr. Ives,” both girls gaped in wonder. He smiled more broadly. “Perhaps you’ll allow me to give you my impression on which dress is the prettiest?”

  Both of them had heard of Ives, for he was well known, but neither had ever seen the man. Ann Rogers spoke up with a sudden daring, “Why, you wouldn’t know that much about women’s fashions, would you, Mr. Ives?”

  He smiled and shrugged. “You may as well know—my weakness is for pretty girls in beautiful dresses. I was in New York a few months ago on business, and I confess that I may have paid more attention to the ladies promenading in their newest fashions than I did to business.”

  His boldness intrigued both girls, but Ann Rogers was quick to respond. “Well, you won’t find any of the latest fashions from the East here in Virginia City, Mr. Ives.”

  “That may be true,” Ives replied easily. “But the woman makes the dress, I’ve noticed. Why don’t we take a look and see what Pfouts has in stock?”

  He moved away with the two girls who were flattered by his attention. He was no more than thirty, and his reputation somehow made him more attractive. If either of them had been alone, it would have been improper to carry on such a conversation or to allow him to comment on the dresses they examined—but it didn’t seem wrong with two of them. They looked at the few dresses in stock, then gave up and began to examine the bolts of material. Lillian was drawn by Ives’ raw masculine power. Even though she knew he was probably an unsavory character, it was like being close to a wild animal—exciting and . . . a little frightening!