THE SOUL-SAVERS
Helen parted from her sister at the little old Meeting House. But
first she characteristically admonished her for offering herself a
sacrifice on the altar of the moral welfare of a village which reveled
in every form of iniquity within its reach. Furthermore, she threw in
a brief homily on the subject of the outrageous absurdity of turning
herself into a sort of "hired woman" in the interests of a sepulcher
whose whitewash was so obviously besmirched.
With the departure of the easy-going Kate, Charlie Bryant suddenly
awoke to the claims of the work at his ranch. He must return at once,
or disaster would surely follow.
Helen smiled at his sudden access of zeal, and welcomed his going
without protest. Truth to tell, she never failed to experience a
measure of relief at the avoidance of being alone with him.
Left to herself she moved on down toward the village without haste.
Her enthusiasm for the new church meeting at the house of Mrs. John
Day, who was the leading woman in the village, and, incidentally, the
wife of its chief citizen, who also owned a small lumber yard, was of
a lukewarm character. She had much more interest in the building
itself, and the motley collection of individuals in whose hands its
practical construction lay.
She possessed none of her sister's interest in Rocky Springs. Her
humor denied her serious contemplation of anything in it but the
opposite sex. And even here it frequently trapped her into pitfalls
which demanded the utmost exercise of her ready wit to extricate her
from. No, serious contemplation of her surroundings would have
certainly bored her, had it been possible to shadow her sunny nature.
Fortunately, the latter was beyond the reach of the sordid life in the
midst of which she found herself, and she never failed to laugh her
merry way to those plains of delight belonging to an essentially happy
disposition.
As she walked down the narrow trail, with the depths of green woods
lining it upon either hand, she remembered how beautiful the valley
really was. Of course, it was beautiful. She knew it. Was she not
always being told it? She was never allowed to forget it. Sometimes
she wished she could.
Down the trail a perfect vista of riotous foliage opened out before
her eyes. There, too, in the distance, peeping through the trees, were
scattered profiles of oddly designed houses, possessing a wonderful
picturesqueness to which they had no real claims. They borrowed their
beauty from the wealth of the valley, she told herself. Like the
people who lived in them, they had no claims to anything bordering on
the refinements or virtues of life. No, they were mockeries, just as
was the pretense of virtue which inspired the building of the new
church by a gathering of men and women, who, if they had their
deserts, would be attending divine service within the four walls of
the penitentiary.
She laughed. Really it was absurdly laughable. Life in this wonderful
valley was something in the nature of a tragic farce. The worst thing
was that the farce of it all could only be detected by the looker-on.
There was no real farce in these people, only tragedy--a very painful
and hideous tragedy.
On her way down she passed the great pine which for years had served
as a beacon marking the village. It was higher up on the slope of the
valley, but its vast trunk and towering crest would not be denied.
Helen gazed up at it, wondering, as many times she had gazed and
wondered before. It was a marvelous survival of primaeval life. It was
so vast, so forbidding. Its torn crown, so sparse and weary looking,
its barren trunk, too, dark and forbidding against the dwarfed
surroundings of green, were they not a fit beacon for the village
below? It suggested to her imagination a giant, mouldering skeleton of
some dreadfully evil creature. How could virtue maintain in its
vicinity?
She laughed again as she thought. She knew there was some weird old
legend associated with it, some old Indian folklore. But that left no
impression of awe upon her laughter-loving nature.
Farther on the new church came into view. It was in the course of
construction, and at once her attention became absorbed. Here was a
scene which thoroughly appealed to her. Here was movement, and--life.
Here was food for her most appreciative observation.
It was a Church. Not a Meeting House. Not even a Chapel. She felt
quite sure, had the villagers had their way, it would have been called
a Cathedral. There was nothing half-hearted about these people. They
recognized the necessity of giving their souls a lift up, with a view
to an after life, and they meant to do it thoroughly.
They had no intention of mending their ways. They had no thought of
abandoning any of their pursuits or pleasures, be they never so
deplorable. But they felt that something had better be done toward
assurance of their futures. A Meeting House suggested something too
inadequate to meet their special case. It was right enough as far as
it went, but it didn't go far enough. They realized the journey might
be very long and the ultimate destination uncertain. A Chapel had its
claims in their minds, but Church seemed much stronger, bigger, more
powerful to help them in those realms of darkness to which they must
all eventually descend. Of course, Cathedral would have been _the_
thing. With a cathedral in Rocky Springs they would have felt certain
of their hereafter. But the difficulties of laying hands on a bishop,
and claiming him for their own, seemed too overwhelming. So they
accepted Church as being the best they could do under the
circumstances.
Quite a number of men were standing idly around the structure,
watching others at work. It was a weakness of the citizens of Rocky
Springs to watch others work. They had no desire to help. They rarely
were beset with any desire to help anybody. They simply clustered
together in small groups, chewing tobacco, or smoking, and, to a man,
their hands were indolently thrust into the tops of their trousers,
which, in every case, were girdled with a well-laden ammunition belt,
from which was suspended at least one considerable revolver.
There was no doubt in Helen's mind but that these weapons were loaded
in every chamber, and the thought set her merry eyes dancing again.
These men wanted a church, and were there to see they had it. Woe
betide--but, was there ever such a gathering of unclean, unholy
humanity? She thought not.
Helen knew that every man and woman in the village had had some voice
in the erection of the new church. There was not a citizen--they all
possessed the courtesy title of "citizens"--in Rocky Springs, who had
not contributed something toward it. Those who had wherewithal to give
in money or kind, had given. Those who had nothing else to give gave
their labor. She guessed the present onlookers had already done their
share of giving, and were now there to see that their less fortunate
brethren did not attempt to shirk their responsibilities.
For a moment, as the girl drew near, she abandoned her study of the
men for a rapid survey of the building itself, and, in a way, it held
her flattering attention. As yet there was no roof on it, but the
walls were up, and the picturesqueness of the design of the building
was fully apparent. Then she remembered that Charlie Bryant had
designed the building, and somehow the thought lessened her interest.
The whole thing was constructed of lateral, raw pine logs, carefully
dovetailed, with the ends protruding at the angles. There was no great
originality of design, merely the delightful picturesqueness which
unstripped logs never fail to yield. She knew that every detail of the
building was to be carried out in the same way. The roof, the spire,
the porches, even the fence which was ultimately to enclose the
churchyard.
Then the inside was to be lined throughout with polished red pine.
There was not a brick or stone to be used in the whole construction,
except in the granite foundations, which did not appear above ground.
The lumber was hewn in the valley and milled in John Day's yard. The
entire labor of hauling and building was to be done by the citizens of
Rocky Springs. The draperies, necessary for the interior, would be
made by the busy needles of the women of the village, and the
materials would be supplied by Billy Unguin, the dry goods
storekeeper. As for the stipend of the officiating parson, that would
be scrambled together in cash and kind from similar sources.
The church was to be a monument, a tribute to a holy zeal, which the
methods of life in Rocky Springs denied. Its erection was an attempt
to steal absolution for the sins of its citizens. It was the pouring
of a flood of oil upon the turbulent waters of an after life which
Rocky Springs knew was waiting to engulf its little craft laden with
tattered souls. It was a practical bribe to the Deity its people had
so long outraged, were still outraging, and had every intention of
continuing to outrage.
Helen's merry eyes glanced from group to group of the men, until they
finally came to rest upon an individual standing apart from the rest.
She walked on toward him.
He was a forbidding-looking creature, with a hard face, divided in its
expression between evil thoughts and a malicious humor. His general
appearance was much that of the rest of the men, with the exception
that he made no display of offensive weapons. It was not this,
however, that drew Helen in his direction, for she well enough knew
that, in fact, he was a perfect gunpark of concealed firearms. She
liked him because he never failed to amuse her.
"Good morning, Dirty," she greeted him cheerfully, as she came up,
smiling into his bearded face.
Dirty O'Brien turned. In a moment his wicked eyes were smiling. With
an adept twist of the tongue his chew of tobacco ceased to bulge one
cheek, and promptly distended the other.
"Howdy," he retorted, with as much amiability as it was possible for
him to display.
The girl nodded in the direction of the other onlookers.
"It's wonderful the interest you all take in the building of this
church."
"Int'rest?" The man's eyes opened wide. Then a gleam of scorn replaced
the surprise in them. "Guess you'd be mighty int'rested if you was
sittin' on a roof with the house afire under you, an' you just got a
peek of a ladder wagon comin' along, an' was guessin' if it 'ud get
around in time."
Helen's eyes twinkled.
"I s'pose I should," she admitted.
"S'pose nuthin'." The saloonkeeper laughed a short, hard laugh. "It's
dead sure. But most of them boys are feelin' mighty good. You see, the
ladders mostly fixed for 'em. I'd say they reckon that fire's as good
as out."
The interest of the onlookers was purely passive. They displayed none
of the enthusiasm one might have expected in men who considered that
the safety of their souls was assured. Helen remarked upon the fact.
"Their enthusiasm's wonderful," she declared, with a satirical laugh.
"Do you think they'll ever be able to use swear words again?"
Dirty O'Brien grinned till his discolored teeth parted the hair upon
his face.
"Say, I don't reckon to set myself up as a prophet at most things," he
replied, "but I'd like to say right here, the fixin' of that all-fired
chu'ch is jest about the limit fer the morals of this doggone city.
Standin' right here I seem to sort o' see a vision o' things comin' on
like a pernicious fever. I seem to see all them boys--good boys, mind
you, as far as they go--only they don't travel more'n 'bout an
inch--lyin', an' slanderin', an' thievin', an' shootin', an'--an'
committin' every blamed sin ever invented since Pharo's daughter got
busy makin' up fairy yarns 'bout them bulrushes----"
"I don't think you ought to talk like that," Helen protested hastily.
"There's no necessity to make----"
But Dirty O'Brien was not to be denied. He promptly cut her short
without the least scruple.
"No necessity?" he cried, with a sarcasm that left the girl
speechless. "How in hell would you have me talk standin' around a
swell chu'ch like that? I tell you what, Miss Helen, you ain't got
this thing right. Within a month this durned city'll all be that
mussed up with itself an' religion, the folks'll grow a crop o' wings
enough to stock a chicken farm, an' the boys'll get scratchin' around
for worms, same as any other feathered fowl. They'll get that out o'
hand with their own glory, they'll get shootin' up creation in the
name of religion by way o' pastime, and robbin' the stages an'
smugglin' liquor fer the fun o' gettin' around this blamed church an'
braggin' of it to the parson. Say, if I know anything o' the boys, in
a week they'll be shootin' craps with the parson fer his wages, an',
in a month, they'll set up tables around in the body o' the chu'ch so
they ken play 'draw' while the old man argues the shortest cut to
everlastin' glory. You ain't got the boys in this city right, miss.
Indeed, you ain't. Chu'ch? Why they got as much notion how to act
around a chu'ch as an unborn babe has of shellin' peanuts. Folks needs
eddicatin' to a chu'ch like that. Eddicatin'? An' that's a word as
ain't a cuss word, and as the boys of this yer city ain't wise to."
"It seems rather hopeless, doesn't it?" said Helen, stifling a violent
inclination to laugh outright.
Dirty O'Brien was less scrupulous. He laughed with a vicious snort.
"Hopeless?--well, say, hopeless ain't a circumstance. Guess you've
never seen a 'Jonah-man' buckin' a faro bank run by a Chinaman sharp?"
Helen shook her head while the saloonkeeper spat out his chew of
tobacco with all the violence of his outraged feelings.
"He surely is a gilt-edged winner beside it," he finally admitted
impressively, before clipping off a fresh chew from his plug with his
strong teeth.
Helen turned away, partly to hide the laugh that would no longer be
denied, and partly to watch the approach of a team of horses hauling a
load of logs. In a moment swift anger shone in her pretty eyes.
"Why!" she cried, pointing at them. "Look, Dirty! That's our team; and
Pete Clancy is driving it."
The man followed the direction in which she was pointing.
"Sure," he agreed indifferently.
"Sure? Of course it's sure," retorted Helen sharply; "but
what--what--impertinence!"
Dirty O'Brien saw nothing remarkable in the matter, and his face
displayed a waning interest.
"Don't he most gener'ly drive your team?" he inquired without
enthusiasm.
"Of course he does. But he's s'posed to be right out in the hay
sloughs--cutting. I heard Kate tell him this morning."
O'Brien's eyes twinkled, and a deep chuckle came from somewhere in the
depths of his beard.
"Ken you beat it?" he inquired, with cordial appreciation. "Do you get
his play?"
"Play?" The girl turned a pair of angry, bewildered eyes upon her
companion. "Impertinence!"
The man nodded significantly.
"Sure. Them two scallywags of yours ain't got nothin' to give to the
building of the chu'ch. Which means they'll need to get busy workin'
on it. Guess work never did come welcome to Mister Peter Clancy and
Nick. They hate work worse'n washin'--an' that's some. Guess they
borrowed your team to do a bit o' haulin', which--kind o' squares
their account. They're bright boys."
"Bright? They're impertinent rascals and--and--oh!"
Helen's exasperation left her almost speechless.
"Which is mighty nigh a compliment to them," observed the man.
But Helen's sense of humor utterly failed her now.
"It's--too bad, Dirty," she cried. "And poor Kate thinks they're out
cutting our winter hay. I begged of her only this morning to 'fire'
them both. I'm--I'm sure they're going to get us into trouble
when--when the police come here. I hate the sight of them both. Last
time Pete got drunk he--he very nearly asked me to marry him. I
believe he would have, only I had a bucket of boiling water in my
hand."
Again came the man's curious chuckle.
"It won't be you folks they get into trouble," he declared
enigmatically. "An' I guess it ain't goin' to be 'emselves, neither.
But when the p'lice get hot after 'em, why, they'll shift the
scent--sure."
Helen's eyes had suddenly become anxious.
"You mean--Charlie Bryant," she half whispered.
The man nodded.
"Sure. An' anybody else, so--_they_ get clear." O'Brien's eyes
hardened as they contemplated the distant teamster. "Say," he went on,
after a brief pause, "there are some low-down bums in this city.
There's Shorty Solon, the Jew boy. He's wanted across the border fer
shootin' up a bank manager, and gettin' off with the cash. Ther's
Crank Heufer, the squarehead stage robber, shot up more folks, women,
too, in Montana than 'ud populate a full-sized city. Ther's Kid
Blaney, the faro sharp, who broke penitentiary in Dakota twelve months
back. Ther's Macaddo, the train 'hold-up,' mighty badly wanted in
Minnesota. Ther's Stormy Longton, full of scalps to his gun, a bad man
by nature. Ther's Holy Dick, over there," he went on, pointing at a
gray-bearded, mild-looking man, sitting on a log beside a small group
of lounging spectators. "He owes the States Government seven good
years for robbing a church. Ther's Danny Jarvis and Fighting Mike,
both of 'em dodgin' the law, an' would shoot their own fathers up fer
fi' cents. It's a dandy tally of crooks, but they ain't a circumstance
beside them two boys of yours. They're bred bad 'uns, an' they
couldn't play even the crook's game right. I'd sure say they'd be a
fortune to Fyles, when he gets busy cleaning up this place. They'd
give Satan away if they see things gettin' busy their way."
The anxiety deepened in Helen's eyes as the man denounced the two men
who were her sister's hired help. She knew that all he said of them
was true. She had known it for months. Now she was thinking of Charlie
Bryant and Kate. If Fyles ever got hold of Charlie it would break poor
Kate's heart.
"You think they'd give--any one away?"
The man shook his head.
"I don't think. Guess I know." Then, after a pause, he went on,
speaking rapidly and earnestly. "See here, Miss Helen, I don't hold no
brief fer nobody but myself, an' I guess that brief needs a hell of a
piece of studyin' right. There's things in it I don't need to shout
about, and anyway I don't fancy Fyles's long nose smudging the ink on
it. You an' Miss Kate are jest about two o' the most wholesome bits
o' women in this township, an' there ain't many of us as wouldn't fix
ourselves up clean an' neat to pay our respec's to either of you. Wal,
Miss Kate's got a hell of a notion for that drunken bum, Charlie
Bryant. That bein' so, tell her to keep a swift eye on her two boys.
They're in with him, sure, an' they'll put him away if it suits 'em.
Savee? Tell her I said so--since Fyles is goin' to butt in around
here. I don't want to see Charlie Bryant in a stripe soot,
penitentiary way. I need him. An' I need the liquor he runs."
The man turned away abruptly. He had broken the unwritten law of Rocky
Springs, where it was understood that no man spoke of another man's
past, or questioned his present doings, or even admitted knowledge of
them. But like all the rest of the male portion of Rocky Springs, he
possessed a soft spot in his vicious heart for the two sisters, who,
in the mire of iniquity which flooded the township, contrived a clean,
wholesome living out of the soil, and were womanly enough to find
interest, and even pleasure, in their sordid surroundings. Now, he
hurried off down to his saloon, much in the manner of a man who fears
the consequences of feelings which have been allowed to run away with
him.
Left to herself, Helen only remained long enough to pass a few cheery
greetings with the rest of the onlookers; then she, too, took her
departure.
For some moments she certainly was troubled by the direct warning of a
man like Dirty O'Brien. With all the many criminal attainments of the
other citizens of Rocky Springs, she knew him to be the shrewdest man
in the place. A warning from him was more than significant. What
should she do? Tell her sister? Certainly she would do that, but she
felt it to be well-nigh useless. Kate was the gentlest soul in the
world. She was the essence of kindliness, of sympathy, of loyalty to
her friends, but she was determined to a degree. She saw always with
her own eyes, and would go the way she saw.
Had she not warned her herself before? Had she not endeavored to
persuade her a dozen times? It was all quite useless. Kate was
something of an enigma, a contradiction. For all her gentleness Helen
knew she could be as hard as iron.
Finally, with a sigh, she dismissed the matter from her mind until
such time as opportunity served. Meanwhile she must put in an
appearance at Mrs. John Day's house. Mrs. John Day was the social
pivot of Rocky Springs, and, to disobey her summons, Helen knew would
be to risk a displeasure which would find reflection in every woman in
the place.
That was a catastrophe she had no desire to face. It was enough for
her to remember that she had imprisoned herself in such a place. She
had no desire to earn the ill-will of the wardresses.
She laughed to herself. But she really felt that it was very dreadful
that her life must be passed among these people. She wanted to be
free--to live all these good years of her life. She wanted to attend
parties, and--and dances among those people amid whom she had been
brought up. She craved for the society of cultured folks--of men. Yes,
she admitted it, she wanted all those things which make a young girl's
life enjoyable--theatres, dances, skating, hockey and--and, yes,
flirtations. Instead of those things what had she--what was she? That
was it. What was she? She had been planted in the furrows of life a
decorative flower, and some terrible botanical disaster had brought
her up a--cabbage.
She laughed outright, and in the midst of her laugh, looking out
across the valley, she beheld her sister leaving the Meeting House,
which stood almost in the shadow of the great pine, far up on the
distant slope.
Her laugh sobered. Her thoughts passed from herself to Kate with a
feeling which was almost resentment. Her high-spirited,
adventure-loving, handsome sister. What of her? It was terrible. So
full of promise, so full of possibilities. Look at her. She was clad
in a big gingham apron. No doubt her beautiful, artistic hands were
all messed up with the stains of scrubbing out a Meeting House, which,
in turn, right back to the miserable Indian days, had served the
purposes of saloon, a trader's store, the home of a bloodthirsty
badman, and before that goodness knows what. Now it was a house of
worship for people, beside whom the scum of the earth was as the froth
of whipped cream. It was--outrageous. It was so terrible to her that
she felt as if she must cry, or--or laugh.
The issue remained in doubt for some moments. Then, just as she
reached the pretentious portals of Mrs. John Day's home, her real
nature asserted itself, and a radiant smile lit her pretty face as she
passed within.