AND NOW, THE CLERGY
Two-bits was the last into the bunkhouse the following evening. He had
ridden his Nigger horse in from the westward hills and had not come
through the big gate so not until he stepped across the threshold were
the others aware of his presence.
"Here he is!" said a rider from down the creek who was stopping for the
night and the group in the center of the low room broke apart.
"Two-Bits, here's your brother," said Curtis.
A small man stood beside him. He wore a green, battered derby hat, band
and binding of which were sadly frayed. He wore spectacles, steel
rimmed, over searching gray eyes. He was unshaven. A celluloid collar,
buttoned behind, made an overly large cylinder for his wrinkled neck.
He wore a frock coat, also green with age, the pockets of which bulged
and sagged and their torn corners spoke of long overloading. His
overalls, patched and newly washed, were tucked into boots with
run-down heels. In his hand he held a fountain pen.
At the entrance of Two-Bits all talk had ceased; at Curtis'
introduction, Two-Bits stopped. He swallowed, setting his Adam's apple
in sharp vibration. He took off his hat. He flushed and his mild eyes
wavered. Then he advanced across the room, extending a limp hand and
said in a thin, embarrassed voice:
"Please to meet you, Mister Beal."
Tom Beck bit his lips but one or two of the others laughed outright;
they ceased, however, when the Reverend Beal, in a voice that was
tremendously deep and impressive for such a small man, said:
"My brother, I extend to you the right hand of fellowship! It is a deed
of God that enables me to look once more into your beloved face after
these years of separation. Give me your hand, brother. May the
blessings of Heaven descend upon and abide with thee!"
He shook Two-Bits' paw, looking up earnestly into his face, while the
blushing became more furious.
"Marvelous are the ways of Providence!" he boomed. "Let us give thanks."
He doffed his hat, and still clinging to Two-Bits' hand, lowered his
head.
"Almighty Father, whose blessings are diverse and manifold, we,
brothers of the flesh, give our thanks to Thee for bringing about this
reunion on earth. We realize, oh Lord, that these mundane moments are
but brief forerunners of greater joys that are to come, that they are
but passing pleasures; but joy here below is a rare thing and from this
valley of tears and sin we lift our hearts and our voices in thanks
that such blessings have been visited upon us by Thy blessed
magnanimity!"
He lifted his head and honest tears showed behind his spectacles.
"And now, brother,"--in a brusk, business-like manner, "you, too, will
be interested in this article which I was about to demonstrate to the
congregation."
He replaced his hat with a dead _punk_, held the pen aloft in
gesture, drew a pad of paper from one of his sagging pockets and
continued:
"Made of India rubber, combined in a secret process with Belgian talc
and Swedish, water-proof shellac, this pen will withstand the acid
action of the strongest inks. It is self-filling, durable, compact,
artistic in design. The clip prevents its falling from the pocket and
consequent loss.
"The point is of the finest, specially selected California, eighteen
carat gold. It was designed by that peerless inventor, Thomas Edison.
Its every feature, from the safety shank to the velvet tip, is covered
by patents granted by the authority of this great republic!
"It does not leak!"--shaking it vigorously. "It does not fail to flow.
It does not scratch or prick. Follow me closely, men; watch every move."
With facility he guided the point across the paper in great flourishes,
sketching a crudely designed bird on the wing.
"See? See what can be done with this invention? How can any mature man
or woman do without this article? _Such_ an article!
"This, men, is a three dollar commodity, but for the purposes of
advertising I am permitted by the firm to charge you--Two-fifty? No!
Two dollars? _No!_ One fifty? NO! For the sum of one dollar,
American money, E Pluribus Unum and In God We Trust, I will place this
invaluable article in your possession. One dollar, men! _One
dollar!_
"But wait. Further"--diving into another pocket, "we will give away
absolutely free of charge to every purchaser one of these celebrated
key rings and chains, made of a new conglomerate called white metal,
guaranteed not to rust, tarnish or break except under excessive strain.
Keeps your keys safe and always handy. Free, with each and every
individual purchase!
"Still more!"--making another dive into the inexhaustable
pockets--"Another article used by every gentleman and lady. A hand
mirror, a magnifying hand mirror. Carry it in your pocket, have it
always handy for the thousand and one uses to which it may be put.
"Think! This magnificent fountain pen, this key-ring and chain, this
pocket mirror, a collection which regularly would retail for from four
to five dollars, are yours for one dollar....
"Now, who's first?"
Two-Bits who had watched and listened with a growing amazement, mouth
open, Adam's apple jumping, was roused.
"I am, Mister Beal," he said eagerly, digging in a pocket for the money.
"Ah, brother, part of being a Beal is knowing a bargain! Who else, now?"
He sold six of the pens before the big bell at the ranch house summoned
the men to supper; then slipped his stock back in the pockets of that
clerical looking garment and, grasping Two-Bits by the arm, beaming up
into his face, stumped along by his side.
At the table he ate and talked, at one and the same time, doing both
with astonishing ease. No matter how great the excess of food in his
mouth, he was still able to articulate, and no matter how rapidly he
talked, he could always thrust more nourishment between his lips.
"Oh, it warms the heart of a seeker after strays from the herds of the
Master to look upon the bright, honest faces of stalwart men!" he
cried, brandishing his fork and helping himself to more syrup with the
other hand.
"Blessed are the pure in heart, it is written, and I know that when in
the presence of such men as you, I am among the blessed of the Father!
I can see integrity, devotion to duty, uprightness and honor in all
your faces. Or, that is, in _most_ of your faces. What
contrast!"--heedless of the uproar his qualification of a broad
statement caused. "What contrast to the iniquitous ways of those who
dwell in the tents of the wicked.
"Why, brethren, only last night I stood in the hotel in yonder
settlement and watched and listened to the cries of a lost soul, a
young man sunk hopelessly in sin. He was a stranger in a strange land,
but he had not yet felt the heavy hand of a slowly-roused God, had not
yet become the Prodigal. He had tasted of the wine when it was red and
out of his mouth flowed much evil.
"A man possessed of a devil, I am sure, and I spoke to him, asking if
he did not desire to seek redemption in the straight and narrow way
which leads to the only righteous life.
"'Righteousness, hell!' he shouted at me, his face black with ungodly
thoughts.
"'That's what I want _less_ of: righteousness! That's what's
raised hell in me!'
"Oh, it was terrible, brothers! He drank continually and finally they
carried him off to bed, cursing and swearing, cherishing bitterness in
his heart, which is against the word of the Almighty. A definite wrong
was in his mind, I was led to presume, for he cried again and again:
'I'll break her if it's the last thing I do! I'll ruin her and bring
her back!'
"I tell you, my fellow men, I prayed fervently for that lost soul
through the night. Something heavy is upon him, something tremendous."
"Likely some of that high-pressure booze," remarked one, at which
everybody except the Reverend and Two-Bits laughed.
"Goin' to stay long?" Oliver asked.
"Alas, I am not my own master. My feet are guided from up Yonder. To
tarry with my dear brother is my most devout prayer and wish, but we
have no promise of the morrow. I may remain in your midst a day, a
month. I cannot tell when the call will come."
Tom Beck had watched with a glimmer in his eye until the newcomer told
of the scene in the hotel. It was not difficult for him to identify the
sin beset young man as Hilton and at that he became less attentive to
the garrulous talk of the itinerant preacher-peddler. In fact, he gave
no heed at all until, returned to the bunk house, the Reverend made a
point of seeking out Dad Hepburn and talking to him in confidence.
Dad's bed was directly across from Tom's and he could not help hearing.
"I waited to get you alone," Beal said, dropping his elocutionary
manner, "because what others don't know won't hurt 'em, and so forth.
But just before I was leaving town, saddling my mare in the corral, I
heard two men talking and it may interest you.
"This outfit uses the HC on horses as well as cattle, don't it?"
"That's right."
"Exactly! One of the men said (they didn't know I was near,
understand). 'So there's eight more HC horses gone west.' And the
other one said, 'Yes, they was camped at the mouth of Twenty Mile this
mornin'. It's easy. They had the horses in a box gulch, with a tree
down across the mouth, most natural.'
"Have you sold any horses lately?"
Hepburn glanced about cautiously and just before he turned to reply his
eyes met Beck's gaze, cold and hard this time, flinging an unmistakable
challenge at him.
"Not a horse," he mumbled. "They're sneaking out of the country with
'em. Tom, come here,"--with a jerk of his head. Beck walked over and
sat down. "Did you hear what the Reverend says?" Dad asked. "About the
horses?"
"Yes, I ain't surprised. Are you?"
His eyes, again amused, bored into Hepburn's face with the query:
"No, but--"
The sharp batter of running hoofs cut him short. The whole assemblage
was listening. The rider stopped short at the gate, they heard it creak
and a moment later he came across toward the bunk house at a high lope.
They heard him speak gruffly to the horse, heard the creak of leather
as he swung down and then jingling spurs marked his further progress
toward the door.
It was Henry Riley, owner of the Bar Z ranch, thirty miles down Coyote
creek. A cattleman of the old order, a man not given to haste or
excitement. His appearance caught the interest of all, for he was
breathing fast and his eyes blazed.
"Where's Dad?" he asked and Hepburn, rising, said: "Here. What's the
matter, Henry?"
"Who's this nester in Devil's Hole?" Riley asked.
"Why ... I didn't know there was a nester there."
Dad answered hesitatingly and Beck scraped one foot on the floor.
"Well, there is. Guess we've all been asleep. He's there, with a girl,
and they filed on that water yesterday. That shuts your outfit and mine
out of the best range in the country if he fences, which he will! If
they're goin' to dry farm our steers off the range we'd better look
alive."
"I'll be damned," muttered Hepburn. "That was one of the next things I
was goin' to have her do, file on that water."
He scratched his head and turned. Beck was waiting for him to face
about.
"Now," he said slowly, "what are you going to do?"
His eyes flashed angrily and any who watched could see the challenge.
Silently Hepburn reached for his belt and gun, strapped it on, dug in
his blankets for another revolver and shoved it into his shirt.
"First," he said, "I'm goin' after those horses. _That_ ain't too
late to be remedied. No, I'll go alone!" as Tom stepped toward his bunk
where his gun hung.
Hepburn gave Beck stare for stare as though defying him now to impute
his motives and strode out into a fine rain, drawing on his slicker.