CHAPTER XV
Pat Bylow's Spree
At the time of the incidents at Fort Ryan, Belle was away on a visit toDeadwood. Otherwise, Hartigan would surely have consulted her andprofited by her calmer judgment in the matter of the race. As it was,his torturing sense of moral iniquity led him to preach a sermon inwhich he poured forth all the intensity of his nature. Quietly to dropthe subject was not his way; he knew that every one was talking aboutit, so nothing would do but a public denunciation of himself, and allthat followed the race track.
The text he chose was: "My wounds stink, and are corrupt, because of myfoolishness" (Psalms XXXVIII:5). Jim's thought was that once the sinneris saved, all his sins become peculiarly and especially repugnant tohim. They acquire nothing less than a stench in his nostrils, andhenceforth are as repellent as once they were attractive, no matter whatthey may be; and he enumerated drunkenness, swearing, gambling, andhorse-racing. At mention of the last a smile spread over the faces ofthe congregation. He noted it at once, and said:
"Yes, I know what you are thinking. You are wondering how I came to ridemy horse in a race at Fort Ryan. Well, it was the devil laid a snare forme, and I fell in. But this I will say: I promise you I will never dothe like again, and if each of you will stand up now and give me thesame promise about your own particular besetting sin, then I'll feelthat we have made a great gain, and I will be glad I rode that raceafter all."
In this land of the horse no one was long inclined to take the matterseriously. A nature so buoyant as his could not long be downcast, andHartigan's sense of sin for his part in the race was soon put behindhim. Then happened an incident that gave him a chance to score atriumph.
In a remote part of the valley some five miles back of Cedar Mountainwas Bylow's Corner, a group of three or four houses near the road, thelog cabins of homesteaders. These men had, indeed, few pleasures inlife. Their highest notion of joy was a spree; and every month or twothey would import a keg of liquor, generally of a quality unfit forhuman consumption. The word had been passed around that Pat Bylow hadgot a keg of the "real stuff," and the rest of the Corner assembled on acertain Saturday night for an orgy, which it was expected would lastabout two days. Word of it reached Hartigan, too, and he decided thathere was a glorious opportunity to save bodies and souls at once.Without consulting any one he mounted Blazing Star, and in half an hourwas at the Corner. Tying his horse to a tree, he went to the house thatwas the known meeting place. There were lights in the window andboisterous noises issuing forth. At the door he stopped and listened;rough voices were grumbling; there was an occasional curse, a laugh,then a woman speaking shrilly; a minute's silence, during which thesweet song of a night bird was heard in the dark bushes by the stream,whereupon a hoarse, brutalized voice shouted:
"Oh, hurry up and start that bung, you act like a schoolgirl."
The Preacher knocked. There was no answer. He knocked again and muchlouder. There was a moment's silence. Then a heavy voice:
"Who's there?"
"It's me," was the unhelpful reply.
A man moved to the door again demanding:
"Who's there?"
"It's a friend who wants to join you."
There was some discussion, then the door was cautiously opened. The maninside got a glimpse of the tall form of the Preacher, let off a savagesnarl and oath, and attempted to slam the door. But he was not quickenough; the Preacher got his foot in and pushed irresistibly. There werecurses from within and others came to help. But the Preacher was toomuch for them; the door went back with a clatter and he stood in themiddle of the room. The rude log cabin held five men, three women, and atable on which was a small keg of whiskey and some glasses. The keg hadnot yet been opened, and the glasses were empty.
"What do you want here?" growled the biggest of the men, advancingthreateningly.
"Sure, I am here to spill that accursed stuff on the ground and hold aprayer meeting in the hopes of saving your souls," was the answer.
"Get to h--l out of this and mind your own business," he said, fingeringan ugly knife he had snatched from the table.
Hartigan did not move. As the big brute edged in, not at all quickly,for the fight was scarcely yet on, Hartigan landed a swift football dropkick under the hand that held the knife. The weapon was dashed up to theceiling and stuck shivering in the logs, while its owner stumbled andfell with a growl of pain, one hand hanging helpless. Two other menrushed to the attack. They had no weapons, and the Preacher man[oe]uvredto take them singly. With two chops and an undercut he laid them ontheir backs, and the remaining men refrained from declaring war.
"Sure now," said the Preacher, as he looked calmly around, "I regret tohave the meeting open so unrestful, when it was my intention to start itwith a prayer, followed by a hymn with all of you joining in. But youseemed to want it this way and, of course, I had to humour you. Now Iwill begin by pouring out a drink offering on the altar of God."
He stepped toward the keg. It was unopened. He raised it in his handsand dashed it down on the floor. It bounded up unhurt. Realizing hispurpose for the first time, the men gave vent to savage oaths backed byan assertion of property rights. Then, seeing that he was undeterred,they set upon him with a rush.
Jim, it must be confessed, found a new joy in that new attack. It gavehim a chance to work off his superabundant energy. The confined space ofthe cabin was in his favour. He blocked all attempts to encompass him,while his mighty arms did terrific execution, and when the finish cameit showed the would-be revellers lying around in various positionseloquent of defeat.
"Sure, it's mighty sorry I am, but I have to tend to my job."
Going to the fireplace, and picking up one of the bricks used to supportthe logs, he smashed in the head of the keg and spilled the odorouscontents on the floor. The final splash he threw toward the fire,expecting to see it blaze into a blue flame, but it acted as water andthe room was filled with an evil stench. The Preacher knew what itmeant; his contemptuous "Humph!" expressed it all.
"Where are you going?" he demanded, as the tallest of the ruffians movedto the door.
"You mind your own business. I am going home," was the answer.
"Come back and join us, we're going to have a prayer meeting," and Jimstepped over to the door.
"Now get down on your knees, all of ye," and he himself kneeled. Thelittle man and two of the women followed his example.
"Get down on your knees!" the Preacher thundered to those standing. Thebig fellow had got a stick of firewood for a weapon and, despite hiscrippled right hand, was disposed to fight.
"Oh, ho! shillelah play," chuckled Hartigan, "that's an ould, ould gamewith me."
He rose and picked up a leg of the table broken off during the struggle.It was not a heavy club, but it was in skilful hands. There is one moveof the shillelah that the best experts have trouble to parry, that isthe direct thrust. The slash right and the slash left, the overhead orthe undercut have a simple answer; but the end-on straight thrust isbaffling. Jim knew this of old, and a moment later the big woodsman wason the floor with a bloody nose, a sense of shock, and a disposition tosurrender.
"Now come, every one of ye, and join in our prayer meeting. Come on," hebeckoned to the other two, "or it will be me duty to knock sense intoye."
And so he gathered that graceless group around him. Kneeling in theirmidst, he prayed for help to make them see that he wanted to be theirfriend, that he was acting for their interests, that he knew as well asthey did the hankering for drink.
"O Lord, you know. And I know that anyway that stuff was not whiskey atall, at all; that it would not burn in the fire, and I'll bet it wouldfreeze if it were put out of doors"; and having contributed these expertremarks, he closed with, "Amen."
"And now we will sing a hymn," and he led them in "Come to Jesus." Butit was not a success, so he fell back on the praying, which was hisspecialty, and more than once his congregation joined in with an "amen."Sulky Big Pat had to be threatened again, for he was of fig
hting stock;but the prayer meeting closed without further hostilities and the orgyhad been made physically impossible. As he rose, Hartigan said in hisinimitable way:
"Now, friends, I want to apologize to you all for seeming uncivil, butthere are times when a man has to be a little abrupt, and if I have hurtyour feelings or annoyed you in any way I am very sorry for it, becauseI'd rather be friends. Let's shake hands before I leave, and I will beglad to see any of you in church."
Then a strange thing happened. The little man had shaken handseffusively, the big one sulkily, but there was one there who took thePreacher's hand warmly and in a husky voice said:
"Mr. Hartigan, I want you to know you have made me think different. I amcoming to church. I know you are right." Then turning to a woman by hisside: "This is my wife--she feels as I do."
"Thank you for coming to-night," said the woman. "You _will_ pray forus, won't you? We will try; only it is terribly hard, once you havetaken on the habit."
"Sure, it's myself that knows it," said Hartigan. "I've been through itall, I tell you."
There was a brotherly warmth in the Preacher's handclasp and in hiswords as he turned to go out in the calm and beautiful blue night. TheBlack Hills' coyotes howled and Blazing Star whinnied a mildremonstrance at the long desertion. The Preacher mounted and as he swunglightly down the wagon trail, he had a sense of joy, of triumph, ofuplift that had seldom been his. Here for the first time he had put hisgreat physical strength to the service of the new life. It was aconsecration, so to speak, of his bodily powers. And overtopping thiswas another happiness, which, he was just beginning to realize,completely filled his thoughts these days: the prospect of crowning eachday's adventures by telling them all to Belle.
The Preacher of Cedar Mountain: A Tale of the Open Country Page 16
