Colorado Gold

by Marian Wells

She could see the shadows in his eyes. He started to speak and then slowly nodded and smiled. Silently he pulled on his hat and hunched into his old coat. Just before he walked out the door, he touched her cheek lightly.

  Amy walked up the stairs, trying to keep her footsteps slow and even. She was also trying to swallow the lump in her throat.

  When she closed the door of her room, she leaned against it and looked at the reflection the mirror threw back. Her hair was slipping. With trembling fingers she fumbled with the pins.

  “Getting married is sure one way to ruin a good friendship,” she murmured. She turned away from the mirrored sight of the tears on her face. “Why does it hurt so much? I was going to be angry—I didn’t expect to feel so sorry,” she mourned, holding her hand against the cheek he touched.

  At noon the next day, Amy was still thinking about Daniel as she walked to the post office. The sun beat down on her back, and she moved her shoulders, realizing that the impersonal warmth heightened her loneliness.

  Down by the river’s edge the stamp mill was thumping out its monotonous message. She turned to look at the hulking object. Beyond, barely visible from where she stood, stretched the jagged, raw furrows that were the Phillips Lode.

  Some were expressing fears about the Lode. The surface gold was gone, they were saying. Now, as if the earth were reluctant with her bounty, the content of the ore had changed.

  Just yesterday a discouraged-looking miner had come in with a letter to send. He leaned on the counter and explained the rumbles of discontent. The sulfides in the ore, couldn’t be broken down by the stamp mill, so they would have the expense of shipping ore to the smelter.

  A miner coming down the street seemed to have lost his jaunty walk. She noticed the man’s dirty, tired face, the tattered clothing, the discouraged stride.

  A trio of girls marched down the street. Arms linked, they were singing softly under their breaths. But their rouged cheeks didn’t disguise the dark shadows under their eyes. Their shrill laughter startled the jack in front of Tabors’ store and drew a half-smile from the miner.

  Surprisingly, Amy found herself feeling sorry for the girls. She watched them continue down the street.

  As she fumbled with the heavy post office key, Amy saw the man coming down the street. It was easy to guess the stocky figure dressed in brown was Father Dyer. She watched the girls stop on the edge of the road and cluster around him.

  Amy leaned against the doorjamb, feeling the sunshine on her face. Glancing down the street, she watched the group move closer together. Father Dyer was talking earnestly. Then the laughter came, and like butterflies in the wind, the girls spun away from him.

  Amy had the door open now. She scooted inside, flipping her shawl to the hook as she dashed behind the counter. Father Dyer walked into the post office. His first words revealed he had seen her. “Like pasteboard pretties,” he said, jerking his head in the direction the girls had taken. “Paint and froth. Gets your attention like a poster, but that’s all.”

  “Some don’t think so.” Amy couldn’t resist the urge to push the words at him. “I was in the store the other day and H.A.W. Tabor was holding court around the stove. He was saying that while the girls had been criticized, they’ve also done some good. He mentioned the miners being more prone to shave and clean up when the girls are in town.”

  He shoved her words aside impatiently. “You going to play the organ for us?”

  She pointed to the posters on the wall. “One night I’ll have to practice with the band and the next night is the ball. Other than that, I’ll come play.”

  He watched her with eyes that didn’t tell her a thing. But when he finally began talking, he didn’t leave room for questions. “Mrs. Gerrett, I know your father. He’s a God-fearing man of the cloth and I know for a certainty that he’s raised you to know right from wrong. If you can’t see anything wrong with playing for ballroom dancing, well, I’ll be praying for you.

  “You know the Bible teaching; you know we must all stand before the judgment throne of God. With that choice on your conscience, will you be able to look Him in the eyes and say your life is measuring up to the fullness of His will for you?”

  After he left the post office, Amy thought of a question. Did he know about that marriage ceremony at last quarterly meeting?

  But after she quit shaking with anger, she addressed the vacant spot where he had stood. “John Dyer, thundering prophet, self-styled oracle, you know not one whit better than I do about what the Lord’s thinking. I don’t like old men who chase away pretty girls and frighten Christian women into smelling burning sulphur from the pit, just to get them to think like you. I’m as good a Christian as you, and I’m a lot less judgmental.”

  “Atta girl.” There was applause behind Amy and she turned to the door. Lizzie was standing there, laughing and clapping.

  “Oh, Lizzie!” Amy rushed across the room and hugged the girl. “I didn’t know I had an audience. I do think I will go on the stage. Don’t you think I have a good speech?”

  “Yes, and I dare you to go down to the saloon and hop up on a table. If you can make those men clap, then you’ll be a star for certain.”

  “Lizzie, that’s silly. You know those men will clap for anything in skirts, and I was teasing. I’m just so angry.”

  “I gathered that,” Lizzie replied. Amy looked at her friend. She was pale and the sparkle was gone.

  “You don’t look well.”

  Lizzie winced and a shadow came into her eyes. “You do know how to make a person feel good.”

  “Sorry. Did you know I was up there to see you three weeks ago?”

  “Silverheels told me so.” Her eyes were measuring Amy.

  “Yes,” she nodded, “they told me that you are—”

  The door opened and Amy scooted behind the counter. After the miner collected his letter and counted out the money for the charges, Amy turned back to Lizzie.

  The girl’s bright smile was forced, but it was there. “Don’t you fret. Everything will be fine. You know it takes more’n something like this to put us down.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Just that you look like you feel sorry for me. Amy, don’t you realize we’re getting out of life just exactly what we want? And I’ve a sneaking hunch that if most of the women were brave enough, they’d admit they want the same. We’re buying pretty clothes and fun, a place to stay and plenty to eat.” Her lips twisted in scorn as she added, “Most either don’t have the courage to go after their desires, or they don’t have the looks to carry it off. I happen to have both.”

  Amy was still pondering the remark and wondering at the the feelings she was having. One moment there was a strange thrill over Lizzie’s brave, independent words and the next minute the churning she felt inside made her want to run.

  Lizzie was talking again and Amy lifted her head, “What was that?”

  “I said, that other preacher man has the same last name as you. Is that a coincidence?” Her curious eyes held Amy’s.

  Amy turned and paced the floor.

  “He’s my husband.” Amy told Lizzie the whole story, and when she finished, Lizzie was looking at her with a strange expression.

  Slowly she said, “That’s the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard. You marry a man and he hardly passes you a kiss before you’re both taking off in different directions. So you didn’t get what you wanted the first time you tried to talk him into leaving the territory; is that any reason to give up? If a gal can’t vamp her own husband, how’s she supposed to get anywhere in life? Amy, I got news for you. I think you flunked the first test of being a woman.”

  “It was just a dumb thing to do. I was thinking more of escaping that Lucas Tristram than I was of marrying Daniel Gerrett.”

  “You wanted to get away from that fellow? He’s got money.” She shook her head. “I got more news for you. I think you’re in love with your husband.”

  “I’m not.”

  Lizzie sig
hed patiently. “Amy, once I thought I was in love. He was just a farm boy and I was scared to death of being a farmer’s wife. I didn’t stick around long enough to find out if I loved him. Funny, but I still think of him.”

  Chapter 23

  John Dyer carried his portable organ into Augusta Tabor’s parlor. He turned to Amy, his expression very sober. “Now I want you to remember, you play only hymns on this. It’s sacred. Besides, if you play anything very fast, it’ll fall apart.”

  Amy’s carefully built wall fell apart and she threw her head back and laughed. Touching her eyes, she said, “You know, you’re almost human. I may even enjoy this.”

  He set up the organ, saying, “Daniel will be preaching tonight. I’ll be praying. Tomorrow we’ll switch roles.”

  She shrugged as she leaned over and brushed her fingers across the keys of the organ. Sitting down on the stool, she said, “Show me how to run this thing. I’ve never seen such a contraption.”

  Augusta whisked into the room, saying, “Parson, you two men might just as well have your dinners here. A couple more won’t make a difference around the table.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Father Dyer said carefully, “but I doubt Daniel will eat before preaching.”

  Augusta’s face lengthened, and she said softly, “Well then, you just tell him to stay for a bite afterwards.”

  After several false starts, Amy finally hit the rhythm of pumping and playing. Father Dyer placed the hymnbook in front of her. She shook her head, saying, “Just tell me what and then start singing.”

  “You know them that well?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know what you call it, but I can play it if you can sing it.”

  After dinner Amy came back to the organ. She began playing through everything she could remember. Later she opened the hymnal Father Dyer left. When the shadows nearly hid the book, Augusta came with a lamp.

  As she played, Amy discovered the music was releasing a flood of memories. Lost in the mood of the music, Amy began singing as she played. “God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform…. Behind a frowning providence, He hides a smiling face.”

  She was still singing her way through the book when Augusta came with more lamps. Now she saw the people quietly filing into the parlor.

  When John Dyer stopped beside her, Amy looked up. Her heart sank. This was revival. The room was packed. Daniel was there. For one brief moment their eyes met. In the next minute she knew he had forgotten her.

  When the last prayer had been heard and the final hymn sung, she fled upstairs. Burying her face in her pillow, she wondered miserably how she could endure the two weeks.

  Rolling over, she addressed the ceiling. “It will be a happy day when people will not have to be wrung to pieces, pounded to mash—all in the name of God.”

  One thought remained about Daniel. It’s the first time I’ve heard him, standing up in front of people, giving out just like Father.

  This was a new Daniel. She reviewed the feeling of wonder she felt as he spoke. Strange it seemed, to hear those old thoughts come out in a new way—not stern, not scorching, but strong, with complete conviction.

  Daniel believed what he said. For a moment she wanted to ask him to say it again.

  Amy settled against her pillow, recalling the expression on Daniel’s face, the sight of his strong hands holding that black Bible. Yesterday his hand had brushed against her cheek. She touched her face, but she was thinking about all she had heard him say.

  Daniel had snatched at her unwilling attention when he said, “God is the author of love. His greatest expression of love has been given through Jesus Christ. Both God and man, both human and divine, Jesus Christ died because of love. But you will never know His love until you stretch out your accepting hand.”

  Did it seem to strike a gong within her simply because it was Daniel speaking? This Daniel, the youth from Central City, was no awkward miner. Amy marveled at the differences. Something about those firm lips and steady eyes set her heart to trembling.

  Amy moved restlessly on her bed and thought about the music she had played: “Just as I am, without one plea, but that Thy blood was shed for me…waiting not …”

  Amy sat up on her bed and frowned. For the first time in all the years she had heard the music, she was filled with wonder. Daniel, what has happened? You’re not the same, not timid. I sense a sureness I didn’t see before.

  “Amy.” The tap and the voice came at the same time. Augusta pushed the door open. “Everyone has gone. Won’t you come down and have something to eat with Father and Daniel—” She paused, and Amy saw her eyebrows arch toward her hairline. She had guessed. Amy’s refusal died instantly.

  Getting off the bed, she said, “Yes, I’ll come. I’m very tired, but I do need to tell Father Dyer I won’t be here tomorrow night.”

  She followed Augusta downstairs. The house was quiet except for the murmur of voices from the dining room. The two men were facing each other across the table. The kerosene lamp cast a puddle of light that neatly enclosed them. Amy hesitated; deeply conscious of being an outsider, she slowly walked into the room.

  Augusta bustled into the kitchen while Amy waited beside the table. She saw the two had shoved the pie and the plate of meat and bread off to one side. With arms folded on the table and noses within inches of each other, they were deep in conversation.

  Augusta came back carrying the coffeepot and more plates. She said, “Now you men, just start in on that food. I know you’re both hungry. Besides, if we get a word in edgewise, it’ll be when your mouths are full.”

  Both men looked at Amy and got to their feet. Glancing at each other both began to speak at once, and Father Dyer said, “Oh, pardon!”

  And Daniel muttered, “Of course you know Amy.” He pulled out a chair for her, still avoiding her eyes.

  When Augusta over-filled the coffee mug, her sharp exclamation caught their attention. Father Dyer reached for the mug. “That’s all right, I don’t like cream.”

  Augusta cut the pie, and the awkward silence stretched. Impatiently Amy said, “Go on with your conversation, I’ve only come for the pie and to remind you both that I won’t be here to play tomorrow.”

  “Possibly, could you play before your practice?” Father Dyer asked wistfully. “I can’t do much more than thump on that thing.” Daniel watched her. The lamplight made his dark eyes darker still, increasing her discomfort.

  Finally, with a sigh, she said, “I suppose I could stay long enough to get things started.” She finished her pie.

  Daniel was still pushing the meat around on his plate. “No wonder you are thin!” she said impatiently. “But then did any man alone ever eat properly?”

  The words were coming out all wrong. In the silence she searched for something to say. Finally Father Dyer rescued them. “Daniel was telling me about some of the people he’s met at California Gulch.” She looked at Daniel. So he was living at California Gulch now. He really did take Chivington’s circuit.

  Dyer added, “He’s thinking the area is going to boom within the next few years. I hear the gold’s peaked.”

  “No matter what,” Daniel said slowly, “there’re people living heedlessly. I can’t get away from the urgency I feel to warn—”

  Augusta leaned forward, asking breathlessly, “Then you think the Second Coming will be soon?”

  Daniel threw her a sharp glance. “I haven’t spent too much time thinking that way. I’m more concerned with life rising up and giving these people a swift smack.”

  She settled back with a frown. “But this is the age of reason. We can perfect ourselves, and that’s important. But, in addition, don’t you believe a God of love will make certain everyone goes to heaven?”

  Daniel was frowning. “There’s nothing to support that idea in the Holy Scriptures. If that is so, there’re a lot of people who’ve misunderstood the Lord. Some of us are mighty convinced you live life God’s way or live with the consequences.”

&nb
sp; “Hellfire and brimstone,” Amy murmured.

  “Can’t get away from that part either,” Father Dyer said soberly. He pointed his fork at her, “Don’t forget, young lady, some things can’t be ignored out of existence. Justice doesn’t make sense if the Author of justice looks the other way to keep from offending His creation.” He paused and then slowly added, “There’s not a one of us who wouldn’t choose a different occupation if hellfire and brimstone weren’t in God’s Word. But we can’t avoid it. We’ve got to live God’s way.”

  “What’s God’s way?” All eyes shifted toward Augusta’s small voice.

  The silence lasted long enough for all to hear the measured gonging of the grandfather clock. Father Dyer’s voice was tired, heavy. “It’s all there in the Bible. First you accept the atonement for sin, Jesus’ death. Then you read the Word, day by day. You’ll stack up a lifetime of knowing what God wants. In the days when the Word wasn’t available, you’d have listened to a preacher say, ‘Get down on your knees and beg God’s forgiveness for ignoring what He’s said through the mouth of some poor donkey or written on the wall of a palace.’ It’s a better idea to settle down before the Lord with Book in hand and start taking instruction.” There was a slight grin on his face. “Seems that’s better by far.”

  Amy looked at Daniel. When he met her eyes, she asked. “Is that what you did?”

  He nodded with a smile. “It was your advice.” He continued to look at her and Amy knew they were sharing the memory of that time.

  The next morning Amy was still pondering Father Dyer’s fragmented statements. Could it be his way of warning her?

  A storm had blown through Buckskin Joe last night. Amy had felt the cold and heard the wind. This morning, as she left the boardinghouse and turned down the street toward the post office, she discovered a dusting of snow on the ground. The wind was biting through her shawl.

  “Please, ma’am.” Amy looked up into the woman’s face and blinked. The stranger was the color of Augusta’s good coffee with cream. She was shivering in a thin shawl.

  Her lips trembled with cold as she tried to speak. “Could you point me the way of the Tabors’ boardinghouse?”