The Hosanna Shout

by R. R. Irvine

  “To Bingham High,” someone shouted.

  Someone started to sing, to the tune of “Dixie”:

  “My heart’s in love with our good old Bingham,

  Copper mountains, and girls in gingham.

  So I pray

  Let me stay,

  Let me stay

  In Bingham town.”

  Others joined in.

  “Then let me stay in Bingham, hooray, hooray.

  With Bingham’s band I’ll take my stand,

  To live and die in Bingham.

  Away, I’ll pray, to stay out West in Bingham.”

  The moment the song ended Hattie took her husband by the hand and led him off in the direction of the picnic area. Traveler was about to follow when Father Bannon, still limping, came over and held out his hand.

  “Sometimes I’m an asshole,” he said.

  Traveler shook the man’s hand.

  “Now I know why I was second-string,” Bannon said.

  “We’re going to pay for it tomorrow with aching muscles,” Traveler said.

  “I used to watch you play for Los Angeles. That’s why I got carried away out there.”

  Christ, Traveler thought, looking around to see if anyone was eavesdropping. Now was not the time to have his real name circulated. “I shouldn’t have gotten mad. Hell, I shouldn’t have played.”

  The priest shook his head and grinned. “I wouldn’t have missed playing against you for anything.”

  “I don’t think Garth Tempest would agree.”

  “The man shouldn’t drink, that’s for sure. Hell, he probably won’t remember a thing when he sobers up.”

  Traveler looked for Tempest in the crowd but couldn’t find him. He did catch Martin’s eye and signaled for help.

  “I could talk to Garth if you’d like,” Bannon said.

  Traveler shrugged. “I’ll be gone tomorrow.”

  “What brought you to Bingham anyway?”

  “Nostalgia as much as anything else.”

  “I figured you for a friend of the mayor’s.”

  “I’m not here to take sides, if that’s what you mean.”

  Martin arrived, carrying Marty on his shoulder. Once introductions had been made, Martin said, “I’m sorry to break things up, but they’re waiting lunch for us.”

  “Again, my apologies.” The priest shook Traveler’s hand a second time. “Playing against you was an eye-opener, that’s for sure.”

  As soon as the priest was out of earshot, Martin said, “He recognized you, didn’t he?”

  Traveler nodded. “Where’s Garth?”

  “He had to go to the bathroom,” Marty said. “That’s when Hannah sent us to find you.”

  “Get us a couple of fresh beers and meet us back at the table,” Martin said. “I’m in no mood for lemonade.”

  “I want some of Aunt Ida’s cake,” the boy said.

  “Let’s go, then,” Martin said.

  “Giddyup,” Marty shouted and dug his heels into Martin.

  Martin trotted away, whinnying like a horse.

  Traveler bypassed the keg on the field in favor of the refreshment stand, where he had only a short wait. He drank one beer immediately, then managed to carry six back to the table.

  “Excuse the fingers,” he said, setting cups on the table. “It was the only way I could handle so many.”

  Hannah, Hattie, Lyman, and Martin had full plates in front of them. Garth was missing.

  “You needn’t have brought so many,” Hannah said. “Garth’s not feeling well and the rest of us are sticking to lemonade.”

  “He’s hung over,” her sister said. To her husband she added, “Left on your own, you would be, too.”

  The children had abandoned their own table to sit with the Odegaards, who were in the process of handing out pieces of chocolate cake.

  “We’re going to play family games later on,” Hattie said.

  “No more for me,” her husband pleaded.

  “And after that there’s singing and fireworks.”

  Traveler and Martin didn’t get away until after dark. By then Martin had consumed too much beer to drive back to Salt Lake.

  “I hope your landlady will let me stay,” he said as they crossed Main Street toward the boardinghouse.

  Traveler ached all over. Each deep breath triggered a stab of pain from his rib cage. “I’d feel better if we were leaving right now.”

  “It would be nice to see Marty again, though, wouldn’t it?”

  “We’d better leave well enough alone. Tempest may be a bastard but he’s the only father he knows.”

  “Hannah’s a good woman, too,” Martin said.

  “No good-byes, then.”

  Martin sighed. “It would have looked good, MORONI TRAVELER AND SONS on the door.”

  24

  SOUND WOKE Traveler. He opened his eyes to dawn, feeling his father next to him in the narrow pioneer bed, ignoring the need to stretch because there was no room. He yawned, a mistake which started his rib cage throbbing.

  The sound, a knock at the door, repeated itself. “Mr. Martin!” Emma Dugan called out. “Are you all right?”

  Martin groaned.

  “There’s been an outbreak of food poisoning,” the woman shouted.

  Traveler shook Martin.

  “I heard her, for Christ’s sake. I’m not poisoned, only exhausted. What time is it?”

  “Six-thirty.” Traveler swung his legs over the side of the bed, found yesterday’s underwear and jeans, and pulled them on. Martin stayed where he was.

  “Mr. Martin!”

  “Coming.” Barefoot, Traveler hurried to the door and opened it. “As you can see, Mrs. Dugan, we’re fine.”

  “I was afraid you might have eaten something bad at the picnic.”

  “We had your sandwiches,” Traveler said, though they were still uneaten and in their brown bag on the nightstand.

  “I saw you sitting with the Tempests,” she said.

  “Hannah made fried chicken and potato salad,” Martin said from the bed. “Who could resist?”

  Mrs. Dugan shook her head. “You two men get yourselves over to the hospital right now and have yourselves checked. It must have been the mayonnaise. You know how it gets in the heat and sun. The Tempests and the Snarrs are all down with it.”

  Martin said, “What about the children?”

  “As of now only the grown-ups are real sick. The kids are more frightened than anything else. But you know what they say about food poisoning. It can strike you days later. That’s why you’d better get yourselves looked at. Besides, some of the other men who played ball are sick too. That’s why I rushed up here to see if you were all right.”

  Martin got out of bed wearing only his shorts, then turned his back to pull on his trousers.

  Traveler repeated, “How bad, Mrs. Dugan?”

  “I only know what I hear, but there’s a rumor that they’re dead already, and that they’re keeping it quiet to prevent a panic. That’s why I’m going over to the hospital right now and see if there’s anything I can do. We’ve only got one doctor, you know, Jesse Snarr. Him being a Snarr, we can thank the Lord he didn’t get hit with the poisoning too.”

  “We’re coming with you,” Martin said.

  “Coffee’s ready in the kitchen. You can drink a cup on the way.”

  The morning was warm, seventy degrees at least, despite Bingham’s six-thousand-foot altitude and surrounding mountain peaks that were still shielding the town from the rising sun. By the time they reached the hospital, a crowd as large as the one attending the picnic had gathered out front. Mayor Odegaard, flanked by Father Balic and Father Bannon, was standing on the steps of the bleak, unpainted gunite building, signaling for a silence that was already in effect.

  “A helicopter landed down at the high school at first light,” the mayor said. “Maybe you heard it. An emergency medical team was on it. They’re inside now, helping out Doc Snarr.”

  Traveler and Martin stay
ed at the back of the crowd, while Mrs. Dugan began working her way forward.

  “Has anyone heard about the children?” Martin whispered to a woman in front of him.

  She half turned to say, “The poor things are practically orphans.”

  Before he could ask another question, she put a finger to her lips and nodded in the mayor’s direction.

  Odegaard addressed the crowd. “There’s been a lot of wild talk in the last few hours, so Doc Snarr asked me to brief you on the situation. After I do, I expect everyone to go home. We can’t have you blocking Main Street, in case we have to bring in an ambulance. Besides, the noise out here isn’t doing the patients any good either, that’s for sure. Now, the situation is this. Hannah Tempest and her sister, Hattie, are both in critical condition, but holding their own, the doctors say. Garth Tempest and Lyman Snarr are feeling a little better this morning and are listed in stable condition. Young Marty’s sick too, but it may only be the excitement or too much rich food. We’re hoping for the best.”

  “What about company men?” a man asked, not a shout but loud enough to heard clearly. “Are any of them sick?”

  “That’s the kind of thing we’re trying to avoid. It’s a case of food poisoning, pure and simple, nothing to do with the election.”

  “We’re down four votes,” the same man said.

  “We heard it was a mass poisoning,” someone else put in.

  The mayor held up his arms. “I’m standing here, aren’t I? Now go home and stop spreading rumors. We’ll post bulletins on the door of city hall every few hours.”

  While the crowd dispersed, Traveler and Martin retreated to the doorway of an abandoned hardware store. A moment later Shaky Johnson passed them, hesitating in midstride as if about to panhandle, then seemed to recognize them and continued on his way.

  “Hold it,” Martin shouted after him.

  As soon as Johnson retraced his steps, Martin gave him a five-dollar bill.

  “Someone asked me to pass it on to you,” Martin explained to the bewildered-looking man. “Said he owed it to you for a long time but was embarrassed for taking so long to pay it back.”

  Johnson leaned close. “You’re lawmen, aren’t you? I can tell by your eyes. By God, I haven’t lost my touch yet. If you need anything, you come to Shaky. Most times you can find me down at the Pastime Bar.”

  “We’ll do that.”

  After a quick nod, Johnson trotted away.

  “I could use a drink myself,” Martin said, “to steady my own hands.” He mimicked Shaky.

  “Stop playing Good Samaritan and concentrate on food. We were sitting at the picnic table, eating the same things as everyone else. We should be sick too.”

  “So should the other two kids.”

  Traveler closed his eyes and saw the picnic table again, the platter of fried chicken, the Jell-O ring, the potato salad, all of which he’d sampled liberally.

  “I ate everything,” he said.

  “So did I.”

  “Maybe the food went bad later, after we’d gone. It had been sitting in the sun long enough.”

  “I want to see Marty for myself.”

  “Let’s talk to the mayor first.”

  The crowd was down to half a dozen, though Almon Odegaard was still guarding the hospital door. He didn’t look happy to see Traveler or Martin.

  “We heard some of the other football players had been taken sick,” Traveler said to explain their presence.

  “We thought so at first,” the mayor said. “But it was nothing worse than hangovers and hysteria.”

  “We were sitting at the Tempests’ table,” Martin said.

  “I remember,” the mayor said. “But you look healthy enough. I’ll have one of the emergency crew examine you if you’d like.”

  “What are the symptoms?”

  “You’d know if you had them,” Odegaard said. “Vomiting and severe diarrhea. The women are comatose.”

  “Maybe the food went bad later,” Martin said. “Maybe they took it home from the picnic and had a snack.”

  “Before Hannah lost consciousness, she told Doc Snarr she knew better than to keep the potato salad after it had been sitting in the sun. Even so, we’re keeping a close eye on the other two children in case we’ve missed something.”

  “Who’s looking after them?” Martin said.

  “It’s kind of you to ask,” the mayor said. “Once the docs are through with them, they’ll be staying with us. Our own are grown up and moved away now.”

  “If you need help, or money, all you have to do is ask.”

  The mayor stared at Martin, then raised his head to study Traveler’s face. “You never did explain your connection with the Tempest family.”

  “We thought we might be related.”

  “And are you?”

  “Not by blood.”

  25

  THE PASTIME Bar reminded Traveler of the Depression-era photos he’d seen in old Life magazines. Everything looked worn out; the woodwork, the plate-glass window, even the unlit neon sign had faded to shades of gray. If it hadn’t been for the open door and the smell of rancid beer, he would have thought the place was abandoned.

  Inside, the only customer, Shaky Johnson, was standing in front of a long brass-railed bar showing his quick-draw move to a bored-looking bartender, who perked up at the sight of Traveler and Martin.

  “Welcome,” he called as they crossed the wood-planked floor, avoiding scattered piles of mildewed sawdust along the way. The room, as long and narrow as a railroad car, was empty except for a jukebox in one corner and a small table in the other.

  “What are you drinking, Shaky?” Martin asked.

  “Beer’s all that’s legal in this state.” Johnson winked.

  “We’ll have whatever’s legal, then, for everybody.”

  “Four Shaky specials coming up.” The bartender set up boilermakers, using brim-full double-shot glasses for the whiskey. “Here’s to our last deputy.”

  Traveler sipped, as did Martin, while Johnson and the bartender downed their shots in quick, greedy gulps. After a deep shuddering sigh, Johnson put down his glass and held out a rock-steady hand.

  Smacking his lips, the bartender wrapped a hand around the bottle and looked to Martin for instructions. Martin’s nod set him in motion, topping off all four shot glasses.

  “Well now,” Johnson said, “I can see I was right about you two. You came here to pick a deputy’s brains. Am I right?”

  “Retired deputy,” the bartender added.

  Johnson tapped the side of his nose. “Once a lawman, always a lawman. You never lose your instinct.” He pointed a finger at Traveler. “I never forget a face, and yours I remember from somewhere.”

  “Maybe we ought to sit down and talk about it,” Martin said.

  Johnson nodded. “I take your meaning. You need a little privacy.” He gestured toward the bartender. “If you give the okay, Vince here can set himself up another bottle so he won’t feel left out.”

  As soon as Martin dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the bar-top, Johnson carried the open bottle to the table in the far corner. Traveler and Martin brought the beer mugs and shot glasses.

  Once Johnson seated himself, he checked his hand for steadiness, apparently spotted a tremor in the offing, and downed another whiskey. “My guess is you wouldn’t be here unless you wanted to know about the poisoning.”

  Traveler looked at his father, who raised an eyebrow in return. Their intent, considering Shaky’s state, had been to get an assessment of Garth Tempest’s character and qualifications as a father.

  “Don’t listen to the talk, that’s my advice,” Johnson said. “Kennecott’s richer than the Arabs, so they wouldn’t be killing people to get the land, most of which they own already. Hell, you must know the law as well as I do. In this state, mining companies can use eminent domain to condemn anything that gets in their way. Bingham’s in their way at the moment. So no matter how the vote goes, it’s only a matter of time.�
��

  He stamped the floor with his foot. “We’re sitting on ten million tons of copper ore. With that kind of money at stake, us chickens don’t have a chance. Of course, it could have been some hothead, thinking he was doing Kennecott a favor by taking out some of the voters for tomorrow’s election.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” Martin said. “It’s the mayor who’s leading the fight against Kennecott. He’s the logical target.”

  “The Snarrs and Tempests add up to more votes. With the town shrinking the way it is, four could turn the tide.”

  “Why not the mayor, too, then, and a few others to make certain of the count?”

  “You’re right. I must be slipping.” Johnson examined his hands, which were steadier than Traveler’s at the moment. “It was Garth Tempest who started the rumors about company murder, you know. Not that I blame him, sick and half out of his head the way he was. Hell, if I’d been in his place, I’d’ve thought Kennecott was after me for sure.”

  “Are there any other rumors we ought to know about?” Traveler said, refilling Johnson’s glass.

  “Up at the hospital, they say Miz Tempest and Miz Snarr might not make it.”

  “And their husbands and the little boy?” Martin said.

  “They say men are tougher than women, but I’ve never believed it until now.”

  “What do you know about the Tempests and the Snarrs?” Traveler said.

  Johnson took a mouthful of beer and swished it around like mouthwash before swallowing. “They’re relative newcomers to the canyon, so I didn’t know them when I was a deputy. That’s when you get to see people at their worst, when you’re working for the law. As far as I know, they’re decent people. Garth’s a bit of a hothead and not too smart, sinking his money into that souvenir shop when things were already going to hell in a handbasket around here. Lyman Snarr, now, he works the mine, so his paychecks ought to be regular enough.”

  Johnson snapped his fingers at Traveler. “I knew I recognized you. You’re a football player. Moroni something, named for an angel and kicking ass in the pros. Am I right?”

  Traveler nodded.

  “I must be losing it, taking you for a lawman.”

  Traveler glanced at Martin, who rolled his eyes and said, “I can’t see it makes any difference now.” He handed Johnson a business card.