That eastern mountain range was all etched with rose color now as Hunt
went back to the hotel. But the town had scarcely quieted after its
night's revelry. Inebriates were still dribbling along the streets from
the all-night places.
He thought of Nell Blossom. She certainly was a flower in the mire of
Canyon Pass. Joe Hurley had written none too enthusiastically about the
girl, as far as concerned her beauty. And although Hunt was by no means
given to impulsive judgments, he knew there was a refined atmosphere
about the girl despite her gruff independence of manner and speech.
His return to the hotel was unheralded save by the cheerful grin of
Cholo Sam, the Mexican proprietor of the hostelry, who was sluicing out
the barroom.
"Some morning, thees, Señor Hunt." He flashed a tentative, toothful
smile toward the array of bottles behind his bar. "Weel you have one
leetle drink, Señor? A 'pick-my-up,' you call eet, eh?"
"Coffee, Sam," replied Hunt briskly, acknowledging the offer in the
spirit it was meant. "Coffee only--and perhaps a bit of bread with it.
Service for two, please. My sister will want some. Will you bring it
up?"
"But surely, señor." He hesitated. "Ees eet the truth that the señor ees
a meenister--the padre? Si?"
"Quite true, Sam. That is my business--my trade. And I have come here to
Canyon Pass hoping to exercise it."
Hunt mounted to his room to find that Betty was already astir. She had
been into his room during his absence. One of the bags he had brought
upon the stagecoach had been opened and across the foot of the bed was
carefully laid his ordinary Sunday garments--frock-coat, high-cut
waistcoat, and narrow trousers of dead black sheen.
With the outer garments was the stiff-bosomed white shirt--"boiled" Joe
Hurley would have designated its variety--the silk socks, with a pair of
low, gun-metal kid shoes set primly on the floor under the edge of the
bed.
Ford Hunt looked at all these once--then again. He thought of what he had
been doing already on this Sunday morning. Then he burst into loud
laughter.
Sunday afternoon when the weather was propitious was the time for social
intercourse in Canyon Pass. Those who had worked or played or had been
intoxicated the night before had slept off the effects of their
super-exertions for the most part. They came forth now shaved and in
clean garments and strolled to Main Street.
It was still too early for the cabarets and gambling places to be open,
and even the saloon bars were somnolent save for the flies buzzing about
them or drunkenly crawling in the spilled beer. The pivotal point of the
town's rendezvous and gossip on Sunday afternoon was the Three Star
Grocery. In front of that old Bill Judson held forth between his
exertions of waiting on such customers as might claim his attention.
"Dad burn it!" ejaculated Judson. "I bet Tom Hicks has crawled into his
hole and pulled the hole in after him. I should want to if I was him.
And you take it from me, boys, a parson that can do that to a bad actor
like Tom Hicks will make Canyon Pass sit up and take notice before he's
through."
"It showed sand, I allow," agreed one of his hearers judiciously. "But
it's r'iled Boss Tolley all up and he swears the parson sha'n't stay."
"You don't say!" drawled Judson sarcastically. "And who ever elected
Tolley to be boss of the Pass? If for no other reason, I'm strong for
this yere Reverend Hunt."
"As a man--a reg'lar he-man--I'm for him, too," agreed another. "But I'm
thinkin' we can get along yere at Canyon Pass without much psalm-singing
and preaching."
"Yeppy. You're right," declared a third of Judson's hearers.
"Let alone that you're all wrong," put in Judson again with energy,
"let's look at the thing in a practical way, as the feller said. If a
man come in yere and opened a shoe shop or a candy pop or wanted to sell
shoestrings, we'd give him the glad hand, wouldn't we? 'Live and let
live,' has always been the motto of Canyon Pass, ain't it?"
"What's that got to do with it, Bill?"
"Why, you big gump! Ain't this parson got something to peddle? His stock
in trade is religion, and he's got just as much right to show goods and
try to drum up trade as the next one, ain't he? He's entitled to a fair
deal. And Boss Tolley, Tom Hicks, and them other highbinders can sulk in
their dens and suck their paws. I ain't never gone ironed since I opened
this shack, nigh thirty years ago. But I'll sling a gun on my hip and
act as bodyguard if it's necessary for any feller that ain't getting a
fair deal in this town. That's gospel!"
"I never knowed ye was so all-fired religious, Bill," complained one of
his surprised hearers.
"Religious!" retorted the storekeeper. "It ain't that I'm religious--not
so's you'd notice it. But I got a sense of fair play,--dad burn it! Here
comes the parson now, boys."
Hunt and Joe Hurley came out of the Wild Rose Hotel. The minister had
not donned his clerical garments. He was dressed as he had been the day
before when he arrived on the stagecoach, except for the hat he wore.
That flopping-brimmed headgear which he had taken from Tom Hicks crowned
the parson's brush of crisp, dark hair.
"Boys," said Hurley, when they came near, "meet Willie Hunt. He's one of
the best old scouts I met when I was East, that time I stood that
college on its head, like I told you. I reckon you know Willie is a real
man, if he _is_ a parson. Mr. Hunt, meet Jib Collins, Cale Mack, Jim
Tierney, and--last but not least--Bill Judson, who is the honored mentor
of this camp."
"Whatever that is," and the storekeeper grinned, shaking hands in turn
with Hunt. "This yere Joe Hurley slings language at times that sartainly
stops traffic. He can't seem to get over it. It was wished on him when
he lived East that time he is always telling us about."
Hunt knew how to meet these men--he was by nature a "good mixer." There
is much in the grasp of a hand, a steady look, an unafraid smile, that
recommends the stranger to such bold spirits. The timid, even the
hesitant, make no progress with them.
"Parson," pursued Judson, "we was just discussin' your business as you
and Joe come along. In my opinion we need you yere at Canyon Pass. I'm
speakin' for myself alone," and he glared at the other men in the group
accusingly; "but I can't put it too strong. We need ye. To my mind
religion is a mighty good thing. We're loose livin', we're loose
talkin', and we need to be jacked up right smart.
"You can count on me, parson, to back any play you make, clean across
the board. I'm for you, strong. We need meetin's started. We ought to
have a Sunday school for the young 'uns. We need to be preached at and
prayed with. I come of right strict Presbyterian stock, and when I was a
lad I was used to all the means of grace, I was."
"You are interested, then, Mr. Judson, in any attempt we may make to
inaugurate services here on Sunday?" Hunt asked cheerfully.
"Youbetcha!" was the hearty rejoinder.
"Of course, Mr. Judson," Hunt pursued, "you understand that, to have
successful and helpful services, some of us at least must have the
spirit of service?"
"Sure. That's what I tell 'em."
"I take it from brief observation that this day--the Sabbath--is observed
very little at present in Canyon Pass?"
"True as true," said the storekeeper.
"To get people really interested in divine services on this day, don't
you think we should begin by making some difference--a real
difference--between the First Day and the other six?" Hunt continued,
eyeing Judson reflectively. "If we who are interested in the betterment
of the community are not willing to lead in this matter, those we wish
to help can scarcely follow.
"Sunday should not be like the other six days of the week. Your mines
and gold washings shut down on this day. How about other secular
activities ceasing--as far as it may be possible?"
"I--I reckon you're right, parson," Judson said, though with some
hesitation. "Of course, the boys have been used to having their freedom
on Sundays, and their fun. I don't believe you could go far in shutting
down the saloons and gambling tables--not right at first."
"But would you go as far as you could personally to establish a better
standard of Sunday observance?" pursued Hunt.
"Heh?" ejaculated the puzzled Judson.
Hunt, still smiling, mounted the steps of the store, closed the door,
and turned the great key which had been left in the outside of the lock.
He removed the key and handed it to Bill Judson as he came down the
steps again.
"Mr. Judson," he said in a perfectly unmoved voice, "if you will begin
by keeping that door locked on Sundays you will be leading the way in
this community toward a proper observance of the Lord's Day."
Joe Hurley was on the point of bursting out laughing. But he thought
better of joining Collins, Mack, and Tierney in wild expressions of joy
at the old man's discomfiture.
Judson's face turned from its usual weather-beaten tan to a purple-red.
His rheumy eyes sparked. Then slowly, reflectively, a grin wreathed his
tobacco-stained lips and crinkled the outer corners of his eyelids.
"Parson," he said, thrusting out his hand again, "you're on! I'll show
these fellers I'm a good sport. Nobody was ever able to say honestly
that Bill Judson took water; and I won't give 'em the chance't to say it
now."