by Marian Wells
On Thursday, feeling ugly inside, Amy slipped away from the cabin when the sun was noon-high. As she headed up the gulch she thought, Everyone in Central City knows the Cawson claim—the stories, about haunts and lights and about the old man who froze to death there.
Amy cut across the side of the mountain behind the deserted Gerrett claim. She paused at the raw rock and crushed timbers, brooding over the memory of Daniel’s face the day of the accident. In an effort to shrug away her memories as she swung up the hill, she began singing, mocking the pathos of the words, “On top of Old Smoky, all covered with snow, I lost my true lover—a courtin’ too slow …”
The Cawson shanty was below her. She could see it, shadowed and leaning, without a sign of life. Amy had nearly decided to turn back when a movement in the rocks caught her eye. That bright spot was a man’s light blue shirt. Plaid. Slowly she lowered herself into the rocks behind the sage to watch.
He stood and moved slowly step by step down the slope. It was Mr. Wilson. Amy started to rise, to wave. After all, he was one of Father’s flock. Now he stooped and lifted the long object. The sun caught and flashed light. Metal. It was a rifle. Must be he had a deer sighted.
Slowly the gun barrel rose. She watched it sweep the clearing, pause at the shanty. Before Amy could move, she heard an explosion. The door of the shack shuddered and sagged. Amy began to scream.
With both arms she clung to the sagebrush while the screams continued. The blue-shirted man jumped to his feet.
Amy’s screams faded into a choking gasp as she watched the man leaping the sagebrush, with the gun barrel gleaming and the shirt rising and falling beyond the sage, out of sight.
She was still choking when the door to the shanty was wrenched open. It slanted and fell. Lucas appeared in the doorway. He held a gun. A woman’s face appeared beyond his shoulder.
Lucas came out calling, “Hello out there! You saved our lives. Come down.” Amy stood up as he ran to the slope.
“You,” he said slowly. He stood below, looking up at her.
“I’d had a note telling me that you were meeting her out here. I guess Mr. Wilson had one, too.” She looked at the splintered door. “Lucas, I can just walk home and forget this. What are you and Mrs. Wilson going to do?”
She began to climb the hill. “Amy!” She stopped. The shock was still there on his face. He looked as if he couldn’t think. “You saved our lives.”
She shrugged. “Not on purpose. I was scared. Besides, I didn’t really think you were in there.”
She saw him swallow hard. “I suppose your father will have to hear about this.”
“No. Not unless you come around again. Of course, I don’t know what Mr. Wilson is going to say.” She climbed away from him and began to run.
That week the Wilsons left Central City. Father frowned at the news, his mouth pulled down in a way that indicated he didn’t know what was going on. But his eyebrows slid up when three Sundays passed and Lucas wasn’t in church.
Amy was aware of the questions that had been in his eyes for two weeks. Finally he asked, “You and Lucas having a spat?”
“Something like that.”
“Need to talk about it?”
“No. Father; later, please.”
Abruptly, crashing through the confusion that filled her, the first of June arrived. It was time to pack for the trip to Denver City, and Amy was eager to be gone. Her dreams still haunted her, nearly as much as the questions she dare not share with anyone.
The day before they were to leave, while Amy checked for loose buttons on her best dress, Aunt Maude said, “Amy, I’m of a mind to pick up some canned meat from Joe’s store. I’ll be back shortly.”
“Aunt Maude, have you seen the little packet of sewing supplies? I can’t believe I’ve lost it.”
“Look in the case under your father’s bunk.” She pulled the door closed behind her and Amy went to look. She tugged at the small trunk under her father’s bed.
Settling back on her heels, Amy lifted the lid and began carefully removing the articles inside. When she reached the stack of letters tied with ribbon, she hesitated.
The flamboyant signature on the envelope caught her eye. She winced. “Amelia Randolph. Oh, Father,” she whispered, “these are Mother’s letters.” She blinked through tears. As she stroked the old, stained ribbon binding them, it fell apart in her fingers.
She picked up the first envelope. Someone had penciled a date on the envelope. “June 1852,” she murmured, noting the smudged ink on the name.
Sewing packet forgotten, Amy sat down in front of the trunk and allowed the dark memories into her mind. “Oh, Mother, if only I could remember your face. Sometimes I think I remember your hands.
“Mother, Mother,” she whispered, “how I wish we could talk! You would help me understand life, wouldn’t you? How do I face the terrible black fears that sweep over me every camp meeting time? About Lucas—do I forgive and forget? Is that what being a Christian means?”
Carefully holding the envelope away from her face, she began wiping tears away. The door crashed. “Amy!” Aunt Maude snatched at the letters. “Halfway to the store I remembered them. Don’t you ever mention seeing them!”
“But the date!” Amy fought the confusion. “Why that date? It couldn’t have anything to do with the letters.”
Aunt Maude’s hand came down hard on Amy’s shoulder. With her blazing eyes inches from Amy, she whispered, “Don’t say anything to your father about this. Do you hear? It would kill him if he were to find out that—”
Jumping to her feet, Amy put the envelopes into the trunk and shoved it under the bunk. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, “I didn’t mean to pry—it was just an accident.”
For a moment Maude’s face looked as if she were about to cry. “Oh, please!” Amy exclaimed, “Aunt Maude, why is it I always do the wrong thing?” She hesitated, but there was no answer. Turning, she dashed from the cabin.
Chapter 11
Daniel Gerrett sat on a crude bench beside the little sheet metal stove, his hands dangling between his knees. He was silent and separated from the group, but he listened intently.
He also studied the men around the table, trying to imagine himself there. With their elbows on the table, they peered into each other’s faces. The play of emotion he was seeing spoke more forcefully than their words. They look and act like they love each other, Daniel thought. He envied them.
Since the meeting at Mountain City, he wanted desperately to be part of their group. At times his desire brought with it a strong sense of guilt; over and over he found himself probing all the reasons behind this need to be a part of them. Listening to their conversation, Daniel was grateful they had forgotten him.
He compared the excitement and joy flitting across the faces of the men while he eyed their shabby clothing. A grin tugged at his lips. Being an itinerant preacher in the Methodist Episcopal Church wasn’t a way to get rich. Nor was it easy.
Daniel’s thoughts drifted. It had been nearly a year since the mine explosion in Eureka Gulch. He thought about Central City and the Randolphs. What would Amy Randolph think of my life now? he wondered. Snugging up with all the preachers, learning to think like they do, to thumb through my Bible as fast as her father does. Measuring out kerosene and sacking beans at the store in Auraria wouldn’t win any favor with her.
He caught himself sighing. It didn’t accomplish anything, dwelling on the touch of her hands on his face, while her blue eyes spread tears all over his shirt.
He gulped and shifted on the bench. Now was the best time to count his blessings. He looked at Brother Goode. Fine people they were to open their home to him, insisting they were as grateful for the board money he paid out of his salary as he was for the home cooked meals.
Nat Fosset shoved back his stool and got to his feet. Daniel studied the man’s care-worn face and shabby coat. He reached for his hat. “Brethren, for the sake of my wife’s husband, I’m going to have to start totin’
a rifle when I ride out. Three times last month I had to outrun a band of Indians. One of these days, might not be so fortunate. Don’t intend to fire unless there’s a need. Anyway, can’t afford the ’munition.”
“Fosset, you were never told to leave your rifle at home. You have a hard circuit. The Arapahoes are restless this spring. You still planning to move your family into Fort Lupton?”
“As soon as the baby’s born. There’s a little cabin I can get cheap. It’ll take some work before we can keep the rain out.”
“Let’s have prayer before you leave.” Goode’s glance included Daniel, and he went to kneel beside the others.
When the last man had saddled his horse and turned down the dusty trail toward home, the elder faced Daniel and clapped him on the shoulder. “So finishes the Sabbath. Evangeline won’t be home until tomorrow, so let’s fry some of that venison. There’s a couple of dried ears of corn; we won’t lack for sustenance.”
While Goode poked wood into the little sheet metal stove, Daniel summoned his courage. “While we’re alone, I need to have a talk with you.”
“Sure, fella, what’s on your mind?”
“I’ve been listening to the preachers today. Nearly all of them are under thirty. I don’t think they have too much book learning, do they?”
“No, Dan. I saw you taking it all in while we were talking.”
Daniel nodded. “Since quarterly meeting in Mountain City last fall, I’ve been getting the feeling the Lord is wanting me to go to preaching.”
“I’d guessed.” The gray-haired man nodded, saying, “I believe you’re showing a good spirit, and a genuine conversion. But I want to hear you say it. Tell me, lad, just give it to me in your words.”
Daniel braced his feet and linked his hands behind his back. “Even before Pa died I was having this need. Just restless then, not knowing where life was taking me. It wasn’t until the meeting at Mountain City that I began to understand what I was supposed to do about it all.” He was silent a moment. Recalling Amy’s stumbling explanation as she tried to explain salvation, he frowned. But this wasn’t the time to worry that bone again. He looked at Brother Goode. “Sir, my mother had put a lot into me, reading the Bible and telling me how Jesus Christ is God, and how He came to this earth to die for our sins.”
He paused and thought. “I think I could make that sound better if I wrote it out on paper.”
“Fine, son, but most of the time you’ll have to be doing your writing in your head.”
Daniel considered the statement and nodded. “Anyway, at Mountain City, the Lord laid it on me. I wanted what all those men were preaching. At the time they were talking, I didn’t understand what they meant—about commitment to God and being filled with the Holy Spirit.” He paused and gulped. “Until it happened. Sir, I don’t know how to say this all, but I don’t have any doubts.
“I’ve been thinking about it and praying over it since last fall and I haven’t changed my mind. Do I need to go somewhere and have some schooling before I can become a preacher?”
The bishop forked the venison out of the skillet and added corn to the plate. “It’s usual. But I get the idea you don’t have any money.”
Daniel shook his head. “A worthless mine claim was all I ever had; I sold that for fifty dollars before I left Central City.”
“We’re needing men badly right now. If I come up with a man willing to tolerate your company, would you ride along with him until you get the hang of it? Like being an apprentice blacksmith? Only this is serious. It’s holy work, with a divine obligation to God. On top of that, I’m asking you to hollow out your own nest.”
“Sir, I’d be grateful!”
The elder was grinning at Daniel, saying, “In the meantime, preachers work like a mule at whatever comes up. Nine-tenths of the preaching work is just plain hoeing your patch. So you can start out by helping the fellows clear sagebrush and cottonwoods out of the spot we’ve chosen for the camp meeting site. There are fire pillars to be made for lighting and circles to be marked off for the wagons and tents. We need timber for benches and fuel—Whoa, boy, don’t eat so fast. You won’t need to start before daybreak!”
The following day, as soon as Daniel sold the last bag of beans and closed up shop, he crossed the Platte and headed for the mouth of the canyon. Goode said the site for the camp meeting was close to Clear Creek. As his horse loped toward the mountains, he began to see the men at work.
By the time he reached the site, burning sagebrush filled the air with smoke. He slowed his horse, listening to the snapping and popping as the brush caught fire.
Daniel had just hobbled his horse in the grassy bottom when a man walked up to him. “Name’s Antes,” he said with a grin as he held out his hand. “I expect you’re Daniel Gerrett. Goode said to expect you. Sounds like he’s going to make a preacher outta you the hard way. Well, come give us a hand.”
The sun had set when the men tossed potatoes into the hot ashes. Later Antes built up a fire for the bacon and coffee. After the bacon was forked onto the plates, the men settled by the fire.
Antes came to sit beside Daniel. “You’ve come forward at a good time. We’re hard pressed for men to fill the posts. Come winter, it’s nigh impossible to make the rounds to all the camps. It sure would help to have a few more men in the field.”
The fellow beside him said, “There are new camps springing up all over the area.” Daniel watched him take a mouthful before continuing. “When the snows start a man can’t depend on keeping his schedule. Take me, I have six different places to preach. There’s no way I can get around to them all when I can’t fight a horse through the snowdrifts.”
Within a week the site was ready for the meetings. The evening the final log benches were placed before the crude altar, Goode came bringing a visitor.
Swinging his hand he said, “This is John L. Dyer. Seems the Lord’s sent us another preacher. All the way from Wisconsin, he’s come.”
Daniel went forward to greet the man. As he stuck out his hand, he realized the man slipping from his horse wasn’t young. The fellow had a plain face and raspy voice, but as soon as Dyer began to speak, Daniel knew this was the kind of man he could follow around for the rest of his life.
Later Daniel had a chance to talk with him. When he confessed to being the rawest kind of a beginner, Dyer clapped him on the shoulder and led him aside. “Look here, young fella. I was on the sliding side of my prime when I answered the call.
“Oh, I’d been fighting with the Lord for a long time. Just knew I wasn’t equipped to preach. That was back before I knew the Lord would pour out His own particular fire on a man when He wanted him to take to preaching.”
He paused to chuckle. “Sounds like I’m saying once you get the fullness of God’s blessing upon you, then everything’s rosy. It’s not, and I’m not giving you to believe that. Fact is, the first time I got up to give a sermon, I couldn’t get one single word out. Had to sit down in disgrace.
“Never did get to give my beautiful sermon that day. But I kept at it. Next time it was a whole different story! Fella, you gotta have gumption along with a call. The Bible says to be as wise as serpents and as harmless as doves.”
They looked up. The presiding elder was standing in front of them, poking at the newspaper in his hand. “See here. The whole country is stewing about this war business. There’s talk of South Carolina pulling out of the Union and taking as many states with her as she can.”
He began pacing off a circle in the clearing. Over his shoulder he added, “Denver City is starting to rumble. There’s troublemakers who’ll not rest until they have their say. God help us to be firm to a man. War is ugly enough, but this stinks to heaven.”
“There’s the faction who thinks only of money, not human lives,” murmured Antes.
“But listen,” Goode shook his newspaper. “Stephen A. Douglas says here, ‘Henceforth, until national authority is restored, let there be but two parties—patriots and traitors.’”
In the silence the man behind Daniel said, “I’m not sure who’s the traitor.”
Goode replied, “That’s the whole point. Both North and South are labeling the other as traitor. Douglas’ statement came out when he was in an uproar over having his secessionist friends labeled traitors.”
Antes stated, “I take it you’re not telling us how to think, but just to think. Is the scripture you’re wanting us to remember the one Dyer quoted, Matthew 10:16—’wise as serpents, harmless as doves’?”
Goode was nodding. “It behooves a man to learn to search out every situation. The days are coming when lies are going to be cast as truth, and the truth will be given a dirty smear by everyone who opposes it.”
“Meanwhile,” another voice added soberly, “there’s talk of rushing through this business of getting us made into a separate territory. I guess it’s common knowledge around the country. There’s fellows in Denver City pushing their own ideas.”
The young fellow they called Tony grinned up from his prone position on the ground. “Seems, after being in a secure spot under the protection of the United States government, a man can’t rest easy until he starts trying to draw those nice warm Washington arms around himself, no matter how unlikely the spot he calls home.”
“You’re calling this place unlikely?”
He shrugged. “If the gold peters out, the whole bunch will either take off for home or move into California.”
“Tony’s right,” Goode said. “First autumn, back in ’58, men started talking about sending a delegation to Washington for the purpose of gaining territorial status. At that time everything was looking rosy, with the prospect of everyone being a millionaire within a month. They weren’t wanting to be a part of Kansas any longer.” He paused. “Didn’t have much success.”
Tony added, “A bunch of horn tootin’, that’s all it was. Remember in ’59 the Pikes Peak bunch decided to take things into their own hands? Territory wasn’t good enough. State it had to be, they set up a constitution and called the new state Jefferson.”