Parson Small rose. From the tail-pocket of his long broadcloth coat
he pulled a red bandanna handkerchief and blew his nose. He put the
big blunt forefinger of his right hand on the text of the open Bible
before him.
"Suffer--" he said. He glanced over his flock--the blacksmith, his
wife, and her child, the old miller and Aunt Betsey, the Mission
teacher and some of her brood, past Pleasant Trouble with his crutch
across his half a lap, and to the heavy-set, middle-aged figure just
slipping to a seat in the rear with a slouched hat in his hand. The
parson's glance grew stern and he closed the Great Book. Jeb Mullins,
the newcomer, was--moonshiner and undesirable citizen in many ways. He
had meant, said the parson, to preach straight from the word of God,
but he would take up the matter in hand, and he glared with doubtful
benevolence at Jeb's moon face, grayish whiskers, and mild blue eyes.
Many turned to follow his glance, and Jeb moved in his seat and his
eyes began to roll, for all knew that the matter in hand was Jeb.
Straightway the parson turned his batteries on the very throne of
King Alcohol and made it totter. Men "disguised by liquer" were not
themselves. Whiskey made the fights and the feuds. It broke up meetings.
It made men lie around in the woods and neglect their families. It stole
brains and weakened bodies. It made women unhappy and debauched children.
It turned Holy Christmas into a drunken orgy. And "right thar in their
very midst," he thundered, was a satellite of the Devil-King, "who was
a-doin' all these very things," and that limb of Satan must give up his
still, come to the mourner's bench, and "wrassle with the Sperit or else
be druv from the county and go down to burnin' damnation forevermore."
And that was not all: this man, he had heard, was "a-detainin' a female,"
an' the little judge of Happy Valley would soon be hot on his trail. The
parson mentioned no name in the indictment, but the stern faces of the
women, the threatening looks of the men were too much for Jeb. He rose
and bolted, and the parson halted.
"The wicked flee when no man pursueth!" he cried, and he raised hands
for the benediction.
"Thar's been so much talk about drinkin'," muttered Aunt Sis Stidham as
she swayed out, "that hit's made me plum' thirsty. I'd like to have a dram
right now." Pleasant Trouble heard her and one eye in his solemn face gave
her a covert wink.
The women folks had long clamored that their men should break up Jeb's
still; and the men had stood the nagging and remained inactive through
the hanging-together selfishness of the sex, for with Jeb gone where
then would they drink their drams and play Old Sledge? But now Jeb was
"a-detainin' of a female," and that was going too far. For a full week
Jeb was seen no more, for three reasons: he was arranging an important
matter with Pleasant Trouble; he was brooding over the public humiliation
that the parson had visited on him; and he knew that he might be waited
upon any day by a committee of his fellow citizens and customers headed
by a particular enemy of his. And indeed such a committee, so headed,
was formed, and as chance would have it they set forth the following
Sunday morning just when Jeb himself set forth to halt the parson on
his way to church. The committee caught sight of Jeb turning from the
roadside into the bushes and the leader motioned them too into the
rhododendron, whispering:
"Wait an' we'll ketch him in some mo' devilment." In the bushes they
waited. Soon the parson hove in view on a slowly pacing nag, with his
hands folded on the pommel of his saddle and deep in meditation. Jeb
stepped out into the road and the hidden men craned their necks from
the bushes with eyes and ears alert.
"Good mornin', Parson Small!" The old nag stopped and the parson's
head snapped up from his revery.
"Good mornin', Jeb Mullins." The parson's greeting was stern and
somewhat uneasy, for he did not like the look on old Jeb's face.
"Parson Small," said Jeb unctuously, "las' Sunday was _yo'_ day." The
men in the bushes thrust themselves farther out--they could hear every
word--"an' this Sunday is _mine_."
"Every Sunday is the Lawd's, Jeb Mullins--profane it not."
"Well, mebbe He'll loan me this un, parson. You lambasted me afore all
Happy Valley last Sunday an' now I'm a-goin' to lick you fer it." The
parson's eye gleamed faintly and subsided.
"I'm on my way to preach the word of God, Jeb Mullins."
"You'll git thar in time, parson. Git off yo' hoss!"
"I've got my broadcloth on, Jeb Mullins, an' I don't want to muss it
up--wait till I come back."
"You can take it off, parson, or brush off the dust atterwards--climb
off yo' hoss." Again the parson's eye gleamed and this time did not
subside.
"I reckon you'll give me time to say a prayer, Jeb Mullins!"
"Shore--you'll need it afore I git through with ye."
With a sigh the parson swung offside from Jeb, dexterously pulling a
jackknife from his trousers-pocket, opening it, and thrusting it in the
high top of his right boot. Then he kneeled in the road with uplifted
face and eyes closed:
[Illustration]
"O Lawd," he called sonorously, "thou knowest that I visit my fellow man
with violence only with thy favor and in thy name. Thou knowest that when
I laid Jim Thompson an' Si Marcum in thar graves it was by thy aid. Thou
knowest how I disembowelled with my trusty knife the miserable sinner
Hank Smith." Here the parson drew out his knife and began honing it on
the leg of his boot. "An' hyeh's another who meddles with thy servant and
profanes thy day. I know this hyeh Jeb Mullins is offensive in thy sight
an' fergive me, O Lawd, but I'm a-goin' to cut his gizzard plum' out, an'
O Lawd--" Here Parson Small opened one eye and Jeb Mullins did not stand
on the order of his going. As he went swiftly up the hill the committee
sprang from the bushes with haw-haws and taunting yells. At the top of
the hill Jeb turned:
"I was a-goin' anyhow," he shouted, and with his thumb at his nose he
wriggled his fingers at them.
"He'll never come back now--he'll be ashamed."
"Friends," called the parson, "the Lawd is with me--peace be unto you."
And the committee said:
"Amen!"
The Japanese say: Be not surprised if the surprising does not surprise.
When Jeb walked into meeting the following Sunday no citizen of Happy
Valley had the subtlety to note that of them all Pleasant Trouble alone,
sitting far in the rear, showed no surprise. Pleasant's face was solemn,
but in his eyes was an expectant smile. Women and men glared, and the
parson stopped his exhortation to glare, but Jeb had timed his entrance
with the parson's call for sinners to come to the mourners' bench. It was
the only safe place for him and there he went and there he sat. The parson
still glared, but he had to go on exhorting--he had to exhort even Jeb.
And Jeb responded. He not only "wrassled with the Sperit" valiantly but
he "came through"--that is, he burst from the gloom of evil and disbelief
into the light of high purpose and the glory of salvation. He rose to
confess and he confessed a great deal; but, as many knew, not all--who
does? He had driven the woman like Hagar into the wilderness; he would
go out right now and the folks of Happy Valley should see him break up
his own still with his own hands.
"Praise the Lawd," said the amazed and convinced parson; "lead the way,
Brother Mullins." _Brother_ Mullins! The smile in Pleasant's eyes almost
leaped in a laugh from his open mouth. The congregation rose and, led by
Jeb and the parson, started down the road and up a ravine. The parson
raised a hymn--"Climbing up Zion's hill." At his shack Jeb caught up an
axe which he had left on purpose apparently at his gate, and on they went
to see Jeb bruise the head of the serpent and prove his right to enter
the fold. With a shout of glory Jeb plunged ahead on a run, disappeared
down a thickened bank, and, as they pushed their way, singing, through
the bushes, they could hear him below crashing right and left with his
axe, and when they got to him it was nearly all over. Many wondered how
he could create such havoc in so short a time, but the boiler was gashed
with holes, the worms chopped into bits, and the mash-tub was in splinters.
Happy Valley dispersed to dinner. Lum Chapman took the parson and his
new-born father-in-law home with him, his wife following with her apron
at her eyes, wiping away grateful tears. At sunset Pleasant Trouble swung
lightly up Wolf Run on his crutch and called Jeb down to the gate:
"You got a good home now, Jeb."
"I shore have." Jeb's religious ecstasy had died down but he looked
content.
The parson was mounting his nag and Pleasant opened the gate for him.
"Hit's sort o' curious, parson," said Jeb, "but when you prayed that
prayer jes' afore I was about to battle with ye I begun to see the
errer o' my ways."
"The Lawd, Brother Mullins," said the parson, dryly but sincerely,
"moves in mysterious ways his wonders to perform." The two watched
him ride away.
"The new still will be hyeh next week," said Pleasant out of one corner
of his mouth. One solemn wink they exchanged and Pleasant Trouble swung
lightly off into the woods.