“I ante a certain amount in this here church game every year and I
reckon I’ve got to play out the hand.
“The preacher says that yuh can’t go to heaven unless you’re a
Christian, don’t he? He sure hammers it into us and I kinda feel
uplifted when I leave the church, but it don’t stay with me longer
than supper-time. I’ve either got to die between noon and six o’clock
on a Sunday, or I ain’t got a chance in the hereafter.”
They had often urged Peace to attend church with them, but he shook his
head.
“I’m like a Injun,” he explained. “I know that there’s a Big Spirit
somewhere--somethin’ that keeps us tickin’ along. Somehow I can’t look
up at the sky and figure that the Big Spirit is up there any more than
it’s down here, and as far as there bein’ a punishment for sin after
death, I can’t see what’s the use of it.
“It’s like tryin’ to scare a kid by tellin’ him goblin stories. I reckon
that the Big Spirit made us intelligent critters, and He never meant us
to be scared to die. No sir! I never did believe in threatenin’ folks,
and I don’t reckon that the Big Spirit ever intended for us to scare
anybody into bein’ good. I don’t need no preacher to tell me right from
wrong, and if I do wrong I’ll get all my hell right here, y’betcha.”
“Saleratus” Smith, the cook of the Cross L, disliked church for the
simple reason that he had to get an early breakfast for Jess and her
father. Saleratus was an old chuckwagon cook before he took over the
culinary duties of the Cross L. But Saleratus could cook. Rheumatism
had unfitted him for anything except kitchen work and had caused his
soul to sour against everything and everybody. He rolled voluminous
cigarets out of wrapping-paper and plugcut tobacco of great
strength; cigarets that were forever coming unwrapped and spilling
their contents in a smoking mass. And, in case they did burn to a
successful end, they scorched his scraggly mustache and caused him
to emit a flow of profanity that only a lifetime on the ranges could
have acquired.
Jim and Bert did not come back to the ranch until early Monday morning,
and they had little taste for breakfast. They were sadder, but no wiser
than when they left on Saturday. Tarp City had their month’s salary, but
that was as usual and no more than they expected.
Peace was saddling his horse at the corral, and Jim and Bert were
arguing in the kitchen with Saleratus, when Blackie Erne rode in and
tied his horse to a corner of the porch.
Cross L Marshall was sitting on the porch and merely grunted as Erne
climbed the steps and came up to him. Jim Horn looked out of the kitchen
door and watched Erne leave his horse. He motioned to Bert to come out.
The horse, a Roman-nosed buckskin, had swung around until its body was
hidden from those on the porch, and Jim Horn grinned gleefully as he
picked up a few feet of baling-wire and motioned frantically to Bert.
Old Cross L looked quizzically at Erne, waiting for him to make known
his mission.
“Is Miss Marshall to home?” asked Erne.
“I hope she is,” grunted Marshall. “Ain’t seen her this mornin’, so I’d
say she was still in bed.”
Erne reached in his pocket and drew out an envelop, which he tendered to
Marshall.
“Will yuh see that she gets this here note?”
Marshall squinted at the unsealed envelop, turning it over and over in
his hands.
“I reckon I will,” he nodded slowly. “Ain’t nobody been took sick nor
nothin’ like that, has there?”
Erne squinted back at him and shook his head, as he said:
“Not yet. Much obliged.”
“Uh-huh.”
Erne went back to his horse and swung into the saddle. He whistled
unmusically between his teeth, as if glad that his mission was over.
The buckskin jerked around nervously and from its hind legs came a
metallic sound.
Erne turned to look back as the horse buck-jumped quickly, and caught
a flash of a large tin-can hanging to the buckskin’s tail. Came the
_tunk!_ as it struck the horse’s heels, and Mr. Erne began riding high
and handsome in order not to part from his saddle.
Down past the corral and out of the gate went the buckskin, bucking and
bawling in a cloud of dust, while Jim Horn hugged Saleratus hysterically
and Bert Hart sat down on the ground, howling with unholy mirth.
Marshall watched the unceremonious leaving of Blackie Erne and walked
to the side of the porch, where he could look back at the three at
the kitchen door. Marshall did not know just what was the matter with
the horse, but he did know that Jim and Bert were responsible. Peace
stopped saddling long enough to watch Erne disappear in a cloud of
dust, shook his head sadly over the misdeeds of his men and went back
to his task.
Cross L Marshall smothered a grin and turned back, looking at the
unsealed envelop. He cocked one ear toward the open door as if
listening. Satisfied that Jess was nowhere in sight, he proceeded to
show that he was entirely without shame.
Cautiously he perused the note several times. Then he put it carefully
in his pocket, bit an enormous chew of tobacco off his plug and exploded
an oath that would have galvanized a dead mule into life.
He squinted down toward the corral at Peace Parker who was looping up
his lariat rope, and hesitated for a moment over just what to do, made
his decision and clumped down the steps.
Peace turned to him as he approached.
“What did Erne want?” he asked.
Marshall spat explosively and handed Peace the envelop.
“Brought yuh a note,” he mumbled.
“Me? Why didn’t he bring it to me, Cross L?”
Marshall cleared his throat with difficulty, as Peace drew out the
missive and scanned it.
My Dear Jessie:
In a fit of anger, caused by jealousy, I think, Peace Parker took
occasion to damage me to a certain extent, which accounts for my
absence. But physical wounds heal quickly and I shall count the hours
until I am presentable again.
Yours,
Frank.
P. S.--Please say nothing to Parker. I can appreciate his feelings
in this matter. F.
Peace lifted his eyes and looked at Cross L who was still having throat
trouble.
“Cross L, this note wasn’t intended for me?”
“Huh! Wasn’t intended for yuh? Then--lemme see it, Peace.”
Peace folded it slowly and put it back into the envelope.
“That note is for Jess--not me.”
“The ---- it was! Well, I’ll be darned! Huh!”
Cross L squinted at the note and up at Peace.
“Well, sir, I must be gittin’ hard of hearin’, Peace. I thought I
distinctly heard that jasper say that it was for you. Yuh know, I
wondered why he didn’t give it to you. Huh! Well, I’ll have to give
it to Jess.”
He walked swiftly back toward the house; anxious to get out of range of
Peace Parker’s accusing eyes. Marshall was not a gifted liar. Peace
looked after him, a queer expression in his eyes. A smile flitted across
his wide lips and he shook his head slowly.
“Cross L, yo’re an awful poor liar,” he reflected, “but yuh mean mighty
well.”
Jess had come out on the porch and met her father, who handed her the
envelope.
“Mister Erne brought it for yuh, Jess.”
He bit off a fresh chew and scratched his shoulders against a
porch-post, while Jess read the missive, a slight frown between her
eyes.
“Ain’t nobody sick, are they, Jess?” he asked seriously, but avoiding
her eyes.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“I was just wonderin’.”
Cross L sat down on the porch and rubbed his hands on his thighs
nervously.
“I was just wonderin’ why that Erne feller come here. I don’t like him,
Jess. He ain’t bringin’ yuh poetry, is he?”
“Poetry?”
Jess laughed shortly and shook her head.
“Tha’sall right then, Jess. I ain’t got a bit of use for them poets.
Fellers--” He reflected a moment--“Fellers that vas-leen their
hair--might write poetry.”