All Sabbaths were not fine at Canyon Pass, as Hunt realized on opening
his eyes on that important morning. From the same open window through
which he had viewed the chaste glories of the Topaz Range a week before,
he now saw heavy, thunderous-looking clouds wrapping the peaks and
surging down into the lower reaches of the landscape, blotting out, as
they moved on, each monument that he had learned in this brief time of
his sojourn to know. It promised no fair day for the parson's first
service.
This, however, was not the basis of the heaviness that oppressed him.
Hunt admitted the cause of his heart-sick feeling without dodging the
issue. It was Nell Blossom and her attitude toward him personally that
so troubled the parson of Canyon Pass. That she opposed the good work he
was trying to inaugurate was only a side issue in Hunt's mind.
Opposition in general merely spurred a spirit like his to greater
effort. That is, a frank opposition.
But the minister's personal interest in Nell Blossom had become
something that controlled him. He could not control it.
It was not right, he told himself, to do any poaching on what he
considered Joe's preserves. Whether or not Nell cared for the mine
owner, Hunt believed he would be disloyal to his friend if he showed
anything but the interest of a minister and religious adviser in the
young woman.
Hunt was honest enough to admit that such feeling was not what inspired
him in the matter. Nell Blossom was not at all the kind of girl he would
have deliberately chosen as the object of a serious affection. But who
of us may choose when love enters the lists?
The winsomeness of Nell shone through the rough and prickly husk of her.
He realized that no man could see in all its clarity the girl's soul. He
believed that the untaught mining-camp child, used as she was to the
rude life about her and only that life, was really out of her natural
element. Whatever Henry Blossom, Nell's dissolute father, may have been,
the girl's mother had perhaps given her child as a legacy a natural
refinement scarcely to be looked for in any person brought up in so
unpolished a community.
In short, Nell Blossom's intrinsic worth was no more hidden from the
parson than her physical beauty. Her hatred of and disdain for all men
had its root in no fault she had committed. Some man, had it been that
gambler Hunt had heard called "Dick the Devil?" had disillusioned the
child-heart of Nell Blossom and, perhaps, the sweets of love had turned
to ashes in her mouth.
What had become of that gambler? What was the truth about that tragedy
at the brink of the canyon wall? Did Tolley know the facts and misstate
them? Or was Dick Beckworth really dead and his body swept away by the
torrent of Runaway River?
It was plain, Hunt decided, that Dick's disappearance weighed heavily
for some cause on Nell Blossom's mind. Something had happened on that
spring morning weeks before which had changed Nell from the
happy-go-lucky girl the parson knew she must have been to this bitter,
disdainful, and apparently wicked woman who scoffed at religion in any
form, and especially had "no use for a pulpit-pounder."
In a week he had become imbued with such an interest in Nell that she
was the subject most in his thoughts at all hours. He could not
eradicate her from his mind, though he tried hard to do so.
In his heart he scarcely supposed that the time would ever come when he
might be a suitor for Nell's hand. Joe Hurley stood between them. But
the Reverend Willett Ford Hunt was old enough and wise enough to know
that whatever came to him in the future, as long as he retained his
faculties, Nell Blossom would occupy a niche in his secret heart that no
other interest could fill.
Twice at night, when Betty was in bed, Hunt had descended into the lane
and, standing at the back of Colorado Brown's place near an open window,
listened to Nell sing her songs, even to the caustic one with which she
closed her act and in response to which the crowd wildly roared its
applause. The verses about the minister's son "went big." But there was
a sweetness and power in her singing voice that seemed to reveal the
better qualities of the girl in the more tender ballads she sang; for
all her numbers were not of a humorous nature. She could bring tears as
well as smiles to the faces of her audience with that voice.
Betty came tapping at his door while Hunt was still in his robe. When
she saw the dark business suit laid out on the bed she frowned.
"Ford! I did hope you would dress properly on this day," she said.
"I am dressing properly--for Canyon Pass," he returned, smiling. "I am
not inclined to attract the hearty laughter and scorn of such members of
the community as Boss Tolley, Tom Hicks, and their ilk. Clerical garb
might be considered by them as a gratuitous insult. And the last thing I
wish to do here is to antagonize the rougher element."
Although Betty failed to see much distinction in the roughness of the
community, she did not open that avenue of discussion. She did say
decisively:
"Why bother about those awful men, Ford? Tolley and his crowd will
never, never be members of your congregation. Maria, Sam's wife, has
been giving me the history of those wicked men. She is afraid of her
life because of the gang that hangs about the Grub Stake. That is a
terrible institution, and everybody in Tolley's employ is bad."
"And yet, Miss Rosabell Pickett, who plays the piano for Tolley, is
going to have her own piano trucked over to the meeting room this
morning and will play the hymns herself for us. So some good must be
found at the Grub Stake," Hunt rejoined, still smiling. "Besides, if
they are bad men, I hope to help them."
Cholo Sam was closing the door of his bar and locking it when, later,
Hunt and his sister came down from their rooms. Maria, with a jetted
jacket, yellow petticoat and reboza, was waiting for her husband.
"Señor Hunt," said the innkeeper, flashing his white teeth as usual, "we
honor ourselfs to attend your service, if we may? Si?"
"I'll be glad to see you and Maria there, Sam."
Hunt then followed Betty out of the hotel. It had rained since sunrise,
but had stopped now. They were early for the service. The street was
almost deserted. It had been arranged by Hurley that the whistle of the
hoisting engine at the Great Hope should be blown at a quarter to eleven
and again at five minutes of the hour. There was no other means of
summoning the Passonians to worship.
There was a roar of voices from the barroom of the Grub Stake as the
parson and his sister passed. They crossed the street to avoid a
quagmire, but the sound of revelry followed them. It seemed that all the
other saloons and stores in sight, including the Three Star Grocery,
were somnolent.
Bill Judson joined them as they passed the grocery store. The old man
was as solemn as a bishop and as uncomfortable as new shoes, tight light
trousers of an ancient fashion, and a stiff-brimmed straw hat could make
him.
"Hello! What's the matter with Tolley now?" the storekeeper exclaimed in
surprise.
The owner of the Grub Stake had come tearing out of the place, seemingly
blinded by rage, and dashed along the street. The group that boiled out
of the Grub Stake after him did not follow, but urged him on with
jeering laughter.
"What is it?" asked Betty, startled.
"Dunno," said Judson, quickening his stride. "But the feller's up to
something."
They were in sight of the meeting room now. The door stood open. When
Tolley reached it he plunged in.
Hunt would not leave Betty, but he hurried her on, while Judson almost
ran and was over the threshold before them. There was a sudden explosion
of voices inside, Tolley's tones high over all.
"Here's that derned cheater now!" the owner of the place was heard to
shout as the storekeeper entered. "Bill Judson! you think you're mighty
smart, but you can't put nothing like this over on me."
"What's eatin' on you, Tolley?" was Judson's cool response.
"The boys just told me what you folks was aimin' to use this dump for. I
didn't hire it to you for no church. I won't have it, I tell you! This
is my shack."
"And I've paid rent for it for six months. What you goin' to do about
it?" drawled Judson.
"I'll show you! I won't let no ham-faced old-timer like you make a fool
of me."
Hunt reached the door. Betty was almost afraid to enter. There were
several men inside and two or three women. Tolley was striding toward
the pulpit, swinging his arms and shouting himself hoarse.
"I'll show you!" he shouted. "I own this dump. I'll throw this litter
into the street. A church in my shack? Well, I reckon not!"
The distant whistle at the Great Hope pealed its first signal for the
service. Several groups of Passonians were visible now, converging
toward the place of worship.
"Better cool down, Tolley," advised Judson again. "We don't aim to have
any riot yere. This used to be your honkytonk, and a dirty place it was.
But we reckon on running another sort of business in it, and you can't
stop us. You're trying to throw sand in the gears o' progress, as the
feller said."
"I'll show you what I can do!" shouted Tolley, mounting upon the pulpit
platform. He whirled about, and saw Hunt entering the room. "Here's that
danged preacher now."
"Mr. Tolley," said the parson clearly, "the wicked have been known to
come to the house of God to scoff and have remained to pray. We are
going to hold a service here in a quarter of an hour. You are invited to
join us. But if you remain, I must ask you to be quiet."
"Why, you derned, white-livered tenderfoot! I'll show you----"
He seized upon Mother Tubbs' big Bible and raised it as though he would
fling it upon the ground. Betty gasped. Judson started forward. But
Hunt's voice rang loudest through the room.
"Tolley! Put that Book down!"
The compelling tone made the divekeeper pause. He still glared, his face
distorted by wrath; but, as Joe Hurley had once said, the fellow after
all had not the courage of a rabbit. He really expected Hunt to follow
the command with the only show of authority that went in Canyon Pass--the
display of a gun!
But the parson had made no threatening gesture. He did not even advance
down the room.
"Dang you!" yelled Tolley, and brought the Bible down upon the pulpit
with such emphasis that the desk rocked.
The following instant his head was surrounded by a halo of fine
particles, the pungency of which was apparent to the surprised
spectators almost at once. Tolley received the blast of powdered cayenne
full in the face and eyes!
He gasped--choked--sneezed. He sneezed again, a most vociferous roar of
sound, quite involuntary and spasmodic. The pepper that had been
sprinkled between the leaves of the big book had in one burst pelted
Tolley with its fine grains, filling eyes, nose, and his mouth, for that
had been open to emit another angry shout.
But now he only shouted for help between sneezes. Tears poured down his
face. He staggered blindly down from the pulpit and begged for the open
air.
Hunt was first to reach the tortured man and led him forth.