BILL'S BLUFF
The Pilot had set his heart upon the building of a church in the Swan
Creek district, partly because he was human and wished to set a mark
of remembrance upon the country, but more because he held the sensible
opinion, that a congregation, as a man, must have a home if it is to
stay.
All through the summer he kept setting this as an object at once
desirable and possible to achieve. But few were found to agree with him.
Little Mrs. Muir was of the few, and she was not to be despised, but her
influence was neutralized by the solid immobility of her husband. He had
never done anything sudden in his life. Every resolve was the result of
a long process of mind, and every act of importance had to be previewed
from all possible points. An honest man, strongly religious, and a great
admirer of The Pilot, but slow-moving as a glacier, although with plenty
of fire in him deep down.
“He's soond at the hairt, ma man Robbie,” his wife said to The Pilot,
who was fuming and fretting at the blocking of his plans, “but he's
terrible deleeberate. Bide ye a bit, laddie. He'll come tae.”
“But meantime the summer's going and nothing will be done,” was The
Pilot's distressed and impatient answer.
So a meeting was called to discuss the question of building a church,
with the result that the five men and three women present decided that
for the present nothing could be done. This was really Robbie's opinion,
though he refused to do or say anything but grunt, as The Pilot said
to me afterwards, in a rage. It is true, Williams, the storekeeper just
come from “across the line,” did all the talking, but no one paid
much attention to his fluent fatuities except as they represented the
unexpressed mind of the dour, exasperating little Scotchman, who sat
silent but for an “ay” now and then, so expressive and conclusive that
everyone knew what he meant, and that discussion was at an end. The
schoolhouse was quite sufficient for the present; the people were too
few and too poor and they were getting on well under the leadership of
their present minister. These were the arguments which Robbie's “ay”
stamped as quite unanswerable.
It was a sore blow to The Pilot, who had set his heart upon a church,
and neither Mrs. Muir's “hoots” at her husband's slowness nor her
promises that she “wad mak him hear it” could bring comfort or relieve
his gloom.
In this state of mind he rode up with me to pay our weekly visit to the
little girl shut up in her lonely house among the hills.
It had become The Pilot's custom during these weeks to turn for cheer to
that little room, and seldom was he disappointed. She was so bright, so
brave, so cheery, and so full of fun, that gloom faded from her presence
as mist before the sun, and impatience was shamed into content.
Gwen's bright face--it was almost always bright now--and her bright
welcome did something for The Pilot, but the feeling of failure was upon
him, and failure to his enthusiastic nature was worse than pain. Not
that he confessed either to failure or gloom; he was far too true a
man for that; but Gwen felt his depression in spite of all his brave
attempts at brightness, and insisted that he was ill, appealing to me.
“Oh, it's only his church,” I said, proceeding to give her an account
of Robbie Muir's silent, solid inertness, and how he had blocked The
Pilot's scheme.
“What a shame!” cried Gwen, indignantly. “What a bad man he must be!”
The Pilot smiled. “No, indeed,” he answered; “why, he's the best man in
the place, but I wish he would say or do something. If he would only get
mad and swear I think I should feel happier.”
Gwen looked quite mystified.
“You see, he sits there in solemn silence looking so tremendously wise
that most men feel foolish if they speak, while as for doing anything
the idea appears preposterous, in the face of his immovableness.”
“I can't bear him!” cried Gwen. “I should like to stick pins in him.”
“I wish some one would,” answered The Pilot. “It would make him seem
more human if he could be made to jump.”
“Try again,” said Gwen, “and get someone to make him jump.”
“It would be easier to build the church,” said The Pilot, gloomily.
“I could make him jump,” said Gwen, viciously, “and I WILL,” she added,
after a pause.
“You!” answered The Pilot, opening his eyes. “How?”
“I'll find some way,” she replied, resolutely.
And so she did, for when the next meeting was called to consult as to
the building of a church, the congregation, chiefly of farmers and their
wives, with Williams, the storekeeper, were greatly surprised to see
Bronco Bill, Hi, and half a dozen ranchers and cowboys walk in at
intervals and solemnly seat themselves. Robbie looked at them with
surprise and a little suspicion. In church matters he had no dealings
with the Samaritans from the hills, and while, in their unregenerate
condition, they might be regarded as suitable objects of missionary
effort, as to their having any part in the direction, much less control,
of the church policy--from such a notion Robbie was delivered by his
loyal adherence to the scriptural injunction that he should not cast
pearls before swine.
The Pilot, though surprised to see Bill and the cattle men, was none the
less delighted, and faced the meeting with more confidence. He stated
the question for discussion: Should a church building be erected this
summer in Swan Creek? and he put his case well. He showed the need of a
church for the sake of the congregation, for the sake of the men in the
district, the families growing up, the incoming settlers, and for the
sake of the country and its future. He called upon all who loved their
church and their country to unite in this effort. It was an enthusiastic
appeal and all the women and some of the men were at once upon his side.
Then followed dead, solemn silence. Robbie was content to wait till
the effect of the speech should be dissipated in smaller talk. Then he
gravely said:
“The kirk wad be a gran' thing, nae doot, an' they wad a'
dootless”--with a suspicious glance toward Bill--“rejoice in its
erection. But we maun be cautious, an' I wad like to enquire hoo much
money a kirk cud be built for, and whaur the money wad come frae?”
The Pilot was ready with his answer. The cost would be $1,200. The
Church Building Fund would contribute $200, the people could give $300
in labor, and the remaining $700 he thought could be raised in the
district in two years' time.
“Ay,” said Robbie, and the tone and manner were sufficient to drench any
enthusiasm with the chilliest of water. So much was this the case that
the chairman, Williams, seemed quite justified in saying:
“It is quite evident that the opinion of the meeting is adverse to any
attempt to load the community with a debt of one thousand dollars,”
and he proceeded with a very complete statement of the many and various
objections to any attempt at building a church this year. The people
were very few, they were dispersed over a large area, they were not
interested sufficiently, they were all spending money and making little
in return; he supposed, therefore, that the meeting might adjourn.
Robbie sat silent and expressionless in spite of his little wife's
anxious whispers and nudges. The Pilot looked the picture of woe, and
was on the point of bursting forth, when the meeting was startled by
Bill.
“Say, boys! they hain't much stuck on their shop, heh?” The low,
drawling voice was perfectly distinct and arresting.
“Hain't got no use for it, seemingly,” was the answer from the dark
corner.
“Old Scotchie takes his religion out in prayin', I guess,” drawled in
Bill, “but wants to sponge for his plant.”
This reference to Robbie's proposal to use the school moved the
youngsters to tittering and made the little Scotchman squirm, for he
prided himself upon his independence.
“There ain't $700 in the hull blanked outfit.” This was a stranger's
voice, and again Robbie squirmed, for he rather prided himself also on
his ability to pay his way.
“No good!” said another emphatic voice. “A blanked lot o' psalm-singing
snipes.”
“Order, order!” cried the chairman.
“Old Windbag there don't see any show for swipin' the collection, with
Scotchie round,” said Hi, with a following ripple of quiet laughter, for
Williams' reputation was none too secure.
Robbie was in a most uncomfortable state of mind. So unusually stirred
was he that for the first time in his history he made a motion.
“I move we adjourn, Mr. Chairman,” he said, in a voice which actually
vibrated with emotion.
“Different here! eh, boys?” drawled Bill.
“You bet,” said Hi, in huge delight. “The meetin' ain't out yit.”
“Ye can bide till mor-r-nin',” said Robbie, angrily. “A'm gaen hame,”
beginning to put on his coat.
“Seems as if he orter give the password,” drawled Bill.
“Right you are, pardner,” said Hi, springing to the door and waiting in
delighted expectation for his friend's lead.
Robbie looked at the door, then at his wife, hesitated a moment, I have
no doubt wishing her home. Then Bill stood up and began to speak.
“Mr. Chairman, I hain't been called on for any remarks--”
“Go on!” yelled his friends from the dark corner. “Hear! hear!”
“An' I didn't feel as if this war hardly my game, though The Pilot ain't
mean about invitin' a feller on Sunday afternoons. But them as runs the
shop don't seem to want us fellers round too much.”
Robbie was gazing keenly at Bill, and here shook his head, muttering
angrily: “Hoots, nonsense! ye're welcome eneuch.”
“But,” went on Bill, slowly, “I guess I've been on the wrong track.
I've been a-cherishin' the opinion” [“Hear! hear!” yelled his admirers],
“cherishin' the opinion,” repeated Bill, “that these fellers,” pointing
to Robbie, “was stuck on religion, which I ain't much myself, and reely
consarned about the blocking ov the devil, which The Pilot says can't be
did without a regular Gospel factory. O' course, it tain't any biznis
ov mine, but if us fellers was reely only sot on anything condoocin',”
[“Hear! hear!” yelled Hi, in ecstasy], “condoocin',” repeated Bill
slowly and with relish, “to the good ov the Order” (Bill was a
brotherhood man), “I b'lieve I know whar five hundred dollars mebbe cud
per'aps be got.”
“You bet your sox,” yelled the strange voice, in chorus with other
shouts of approval.
“O' course, I ain't no bettin' man,” went on Bill, insinuatingly, “as a
regular thing, but I'd gamble a few jist here on this pint; if the boys
was stuck on anythin' costin' about seven hundred dollars, it seems to
me likely they'd git it in about two days, per'aps.”
Here Robbie grunted out an “ay” of such fulness of contemptuous unbelief
that Bill paused, and, looking over Robbie's head, he drawled out, even
more slowly and mildly:
“I ain't much given to bettin', as I remarked before, but, if a man
shakes money at me on that proposition, I'd accommodate him to a limited
extent.” [“Hear! hear! Bully boy!” yelled Hi again, from the door.] “Not
bein' too bold, I cherish the opinion” [again yells of approval from
the corner], “that even for this here Gospel plant, seein' The Pilot's
rather sot onto it, I b'lieve the boys could find five hundred dollars
inside ov a month, if perhaps these fellers cud wiggle the rest out ov
their pants.”
Then Robbie was in great wrath and, stung by the taunting, drawling
voice beyond all self-command, he broke out suddenly:
“Ye'll no can mak that guid, I doot.”
“D'ye mean I ain't prepared to back it up?”
“Ay,” said Robbie, grimly.
“'Tain't likely I'll be called on; I guess $500 is safe enough,” drawled
Bill, cunningly drawing him on. Then Robbie bit.
“Oo ay!” said he, in a voice of quiet contempt, “the twa hunner wull be
here and 'twull wait ye long eneuch, I'se warrant ye.”
Then Bill nailed him.
“I hain't got my card case on my person,” he said, with a slight grin.
“Left it on the pianner,” suggested Hi, who was in a state of great
hilarity at Bill's success in drawing the Scottie.
“But,” Bill proceeded, recovering himself, and with increasing suavity,
“if some gentleman would mark down the date of the almanac I cherish the
opinion” [cheers from the corner] “that in one month from to-day there
will be five hundred dollars lookin' round for two hundred on that there
desk mebbe, or p'raps you would incline to two fifty,” he drawled, in
his most winning tone to Robbie, who was growing more impatient every
moment.
“Nae matter tae me. Ye're haverin' like a daft loon, ony way.”
“You will make a memento of this slight transaction, boys, and per'aps
the schoolmaster will write it down,” said Bill.
It was all carefully taken down, and amid much enthusiastic confusion
the ranchers and their gang carried Bill off to Old Latour's to “licker
up,” while Robbie, in deep wrath but in dour silence, went off through
the dark with his little wife following some paces behind him. His
chief grievance, however, was against the chairman for “allooin' sic a
disorderly pack o' loons tae disturb respectable fowk,” for he could
not hide the fact that he had been made to break through his accustomed
defence line of immovable silence. I suggested, conversing with him next
day upon the matter, that Bill was probably only chaffing.
“Ay,” said Robbie, in great disgust, “the daft eejut, he wad mak a fule
o' onything or onybuddie.”
That was the sorest point with poor Robbie. Bill had not only cast
doubts upon his religious sincerity, which the little man could not
endure, but he had also held him up to the ridicule of the community,
which was painful to his pride. But when he understood, some days later,
that Bill was taking steps to back up his offer and had been heard to
declare that “he'd make them pious ducks take water if he had to put up
a year's pay,” Robbie went quietly to work to make good his part of the
bargain. For his Scotch pride would not suffer him to refuse a challenge
from such a quarter.