A B Guthrie Jr

by Les Weil

  Brother Van and Gorham stood at the door as Lat and the girl came up. "Sister, come again, and God bless you!" Brother Van said. His warm hand overflowed Lat's. "New faces delight the Lord."

  "I was reared in the church, Brother Van."

  "THE church?"

  "Methodist."

  "Praise be! Praise be!" Brother Van released his grip to shake another hand.

  "I'll wait for Mr. and Mrs. Strain," Gorham said. He asked in lowered tones, "Can't he wrestle the devil, though?"

  The girl looked at the question and let it pass. Behind them others were trying to see Brother Van. "We're blocking the way," she said to Lat. "Why don't we stroll on? They'll catch up."

  The outside air tasted sharp and clean, and the Big Dipper stood frosty, and all over the sky the stars flashed -the heavenly lamps set in windows, Brethren, for the help of the lost.

  "Could any night beat a night like tonight?" he asked as the church voices faded.

  "Such stars!" She had flung out her hands and lifted her face. The still air breathed of wood smoke. "Someone said if the stars came out just once every hundred years all men would bow down."

  It took him a minute to frame his thought. "Wouldn't they bow even more if there was just one star? Or, say, the moon?"

  "Moon star!" she told the sky. Then she looked at him quickly. A smile came. "Swains would grow weary waiting."

  He wasn't sure how to answer. "It's good enough as it is in Montana."

  "But here it's like standing on top of the world," she said, her eyes fixed on the far shadows of land. "There's just distance, so much that there's no place to go. Don't you ever feel crowded by distance?"

  "Crowded? I feel free."

  "Free?" she said and fell silent as if she had to let the word find its place. Suddenly she went on, "In spite of the stars even God seems lost here."

  "To a Methodist?" He didn't know why he had wanted to say that.

  If she noticed his tone, she dismissed it. "The sky is so high, and the mountains so cruel, and all the land is so bare."

  "If you ask me," he answered, "it's the best thing that God ever did."

  "You don't pass judgment on God. But why do you feel that way? Because of freedom?"

  "What's better?" He sounded harsh to himself.

  "Trees," she said quietly. "The sense of protection. The feeling that God is right overhead."

  "God on a quarter section!"

  "A mountain might tumble, or the sky disappear, or the earth fall from under your feet."

  "None of them has so far." Of a sudden it struck him that, underneath, she was really uneasy, made timid by the great shape and scope of this land. He added, "I'm sorry. It's just that you're new here."

  Night had brought an end to the afternoon thaw, and, from the board walk of the main street, they stepped off on a path cobbled with frozen footprints. She walked along sturdily, keeping a few inches between them, and then slipped and was falling. He caught her before she went down.

  "Maybe I'd better hang on," she said and slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow.

  They went on, until he heard the quick intake of her breath and felt her fingers clinch on his arm.

  It was only Little Runner, arrived out of the night without warning. He stood just a few feet away, unmoving, not speaking, while the eyes in his high-boned face took them in. His hair hung braided and ribboned. He had an old blanket over his shoulders. "White squaw heap scare," he said.

  Lat felt the fingers still tight on his elbow. To her he said, "He's a friend," and then, "How?"

  "Heap Medicine, no meat in brother's lodge. Papoose cry."

  It was true on the face of it. Little Runner was thin and peaked with hunger. He could have gone on to say game gone away, white agent to Injun damn thief, no care Injun starve, no care papoose cry, where rations? where Great White Father? what Blackfoot do without meat? What a lot of them did was to make meat of white beef when they could.

  Lat pointed straight overhead, meaning noon. "Sun up, come my lodge. Papoose no cry."

  Little Runner put out his hand. "Brother."

  "Brother."

  Little Runner slipped into the shadows.

  "What was it?" The girl's breath still had the small whisper of fright.

  "He's hungry. His family, too. I'll give him a cow."

  "A whole cow!"

  "He's my friend. He keeps his brothers from making off with my beef."

  "I would call this an expensive evening." She might be taking into account the five dollars put in the plate.

  "The cow's got lump jaw. All right to eat, though."

  They reached the Strain home and stopped at the door. "I'm sorry to be a fraidy-cat," she said, letting go of his elbow, "but thanks for a nice evening."

  "What's the show to see you again?" He would have to speak like a common cowpuncher.

  In the glow of the light through the curtained pane her face was a mist in which, unexpectedly, a small glint of mischief appeared. "My family would want to know whether you play cards."

  "All the time, tell them."

  "Do you use the Lord's name in vain?"

  "What's talk without seasoning?"

  "Do you break the Sabbath?"

  "Cows don't know Sunday."

  She laughed lightly. "Fibber. Yes, it would be nice to see you again." The door closed behind her.

  He stood there for a second. He would meet the Strains on the way back. He could tell them he'd had a good time, an unusual time sure enough. Only he wished he'd been able, he wished he was able now, to put Callie out of his mind.

  Inside, Joyce took off her wraps. It was unreasoning, she told herself, to feel safer here where walls shut off the far land and far heavens. Boards and plaster weren't protection. It was unreasoning anyhow to be awed, to feel empty, to know the small beat of fear just because this strange land lay so vast. Still, she felt relieved.

  The dog limped up to her, wearily wagging his tail. "You scoundrel!" she said and stooped to pet him.

  Maybe she shouldn't have teased the man, she thought.

  Calling him Iv-ans? Watching him in his overdone modesty as he gave away that five-dollar bill and, more than that, commenting on his extravagance? Asking him lightly about the rules of behavior she believed in? Western men were said to be impulsive, even violent. But he had been a complete gentleman, counting even the times she couldn't explain when he seemed almost curt. He was nice.

  The dog brushed against her. The smell he had made, and the holy, the unsmelling, the never-say-die look on Lat Evans's face! It was indecent, but she had to giggle, remembering.

  25

  LAT MET the Strains and thanked them and spoke to Gorham and went on. He ought to get his horse, he told himself, and travel home. But Happy would have told her, and she would be waiting, sure that he would call. The thing must end; but now he pictured her, small, patient, hopeful, and then wounded when he didn't come. He'd kept her waiting as it was, had tried to lose the thought of her while he enjoyed himself. Right or wrong, weak or strong, he thought, he didn't have the heart to hurt her. As if that was all! As if he was just being kind and lofty and empty of real fondness! Or knew no urge of body at this mind's-eye view of her! Once more, then? Once more, and on to righteousness and public office! He cleared his mouth and spat.

  He halted across the street from the house. From there he could see the light in her window. He could watch it and think, or let the stray thoughts run. The low herd's common lot. The school board and the legislature and maybe higher places. The land that was fairer than day. The dark eyes in the pale, the virtuous face. Do you play cards? Use profanity? Break the Sabbath? The hint of mischief in the face. Tom Ping and Tansytown. The noisome pestilence, which a man could catch. The light waiting yonder and the bright head. The flesh. The present flesh. But in the sweet by and by?

  He pulled in a lungful of air and let it out in a sigh. Where was the decent way out, if he could make himself take it? The decent way out of inde
cency? And why did he feel he must find it at once? Because of a sermon and songs? Because of grace and a meal? Because of a girl? Because of politics? There were those reasons, worthy or cheap, he had to admit, and one in addition -and that was his own nature, excited tonight. He wanted to be good. He wanted his life open and solid and respectable. He had always wanted to be good, to be a good boy, a good man, eventually a good husband and father, and to be known as such. He was a Methodist.

  But to cut off, hard and unheeding, from Callie? Good or bad? Right or wrong? The thought struck him that it wasn't right and wrong that wrung men; it was the choice of rights.

  A shadow moved on the drawn blind upstairs, moved and stood still as if, standing, she willed the minutes to pass.

  He went to the back door and knocked softly. Happy let him in. "She expectin' you, Mist' Lat. She always tickled when yo' in town." He gestured toward the rear stairs. "People in the settin' room."

  She ran to answer his knock and pressed herself into his arms and held tight, breathing, "Lat! Lat!"

  "What's the matter?"

  She flung back her head and smiled through a glistening of tears. "Can't I be happy to see you?"

  "Not so happy you cry." He took the head back to his shoulder. "Sorry I'm late. I've been to church."

  "Oh?" There was a large question in the word.

  "It was like being home again."

  She drew in a slow breath. "You liked that, didn't you, Lat?"

  "I guess so. Yes, I did."

  "You had a home."

  "It wasn't all sunshine, though." Thinking, he added without thinking enough, "I hate a lot of things, Callie."

  She drew her head back and lifted her face, the "What?" standing big and blue in her eyes.

  "Not you!" He gave her a little shake. "I mean the way of things."

  "Like?"

  "Like the way of me, for one thing."

  She bent her forehead against him. "For coming here?"

  They were too far and too soon and too crudely into the question. "I wanted to see you, or I wouldn't have come."

  "But to come from church?"

  "What do you know about the Methodist church?"

  "I know a lot about you."

  "Too much and still not enough!"

  "Everything," she whispered against him. "Oh, Lat, be happy! Let's both be happy tonight!" Her voice sounded at once hopeful and sad. She pressed her thighs against his as if hope answered sadness there. He felt the wet of her tears on his shirt.

  He said, "Yes," and lifted her and said, "Yes," and put her gently in bed.

  So they went through with it, and it was hasty and spoiled by the naggings of thought.

  She kissed him lightly in the hollow of his shoulder afterwards. "You've got the fidgets."

  "Yes."

  "Want something to eat to settle you down? A piece of pie maybe? I'll run down and get it."

  "I'm not hungry. Thanks."

  Her fingers were light on his temple, on his cheek, over his mouth. Downstairs someone was playing the piano and two men were singing, cowpunchers probably, for the song was "Hell Among the Yearlings." Diamonds in the rough, he thought while a piece of Brother Van's solo echoed in his ears, diamonds in the rough, finally to be called to Jesus, no longer in the rough.

  "You're nearly always keyed up, Lat. You're not even here now." Her words barely reached him.

  "We're different. With you I can forget everything."

  "Callie?"

  "Yes."

  "They want me to stand for the new school board and maybe higher office later."

  Her hand stroked his shoulder. She was slow to speak. "You'll be a good one."

  "I don't know about that, but I just thought I'd tell you."

  "You're one that's on the way up, Lat."

  "I owe my start to you."

  Her hand withdrew, as if her thought lay in it, and her body moved away, and she might have been lying alone, remote from him. Her voice held the note of change. "But you have to finish by yourself." It was not a question. "That's what you want to tell me."

  He wrenched up in bed. "I cared, Callie. I care now. Call me names, but I care. If I could only do something for you-"

  "Lie down!" She'd never used that tone before. It raised as she went on. "Your name is Mr. Albert Gallatin Evans, and you want a starched wife and a starched home and importance and a starched reputation, and there's not a damn thing you can ever do for me."

  She flung his reaching hand away.

  "Don't mind me, Mr. Evans! Just keep climbing! You'll get there. Remember I'm only a madam. For three dollars I'm any man's woman. I'm a common whore. The only place I can get is to bed, and proud of it."

  "Don't, Callie!"

  "Oh, I know how it bothers you, you care so much! But just leave me poor and honest, without any put-on!"

  "For God's sake, Callie!"

  "And don't feel sorry for me!" she answered shrilly. "I wouldn't marry you if you asked me. Think I'd give up the parties and the drinking and the fun and the different men just to live dull with one? Not on your life, Mr. Evans!"

  He felt weighed down and wordless. "I'll go," he said. "You want me to go."

  "I'd miss all that fun." She took a breath and let most of it out and just with the end of it breathed, "A girl gets that way." She turned her head to him and cried out, her voice breaking, "Oh, Lat!"

  "Callie. Callie," he said, in his breast such a fullness that the name came out choking. "Please don't cry!"

  "But I'm sorry! I'm sorry! You're you. I'm me. That's all."

  He brought her close in his arms. "I wish-" He didn't know what all he wished.

  "It's no use to wish. Lat, I'm so unstarched."

  Of a sudden she was on him, her mouth open and broken on his, her body tight and trembling against him. A sad, strong eagerness came to him, and no unmanning thoughts. Sorrow must be close to love; this time was the tenderest and best.

  Later, much later, she asked, "Want a piece of pie now?"

  "I'd love it."

  "You don't have to dress. I'll slip something on and go down and get it, and we'll have our little party right here."

  The all-forgiveness, he thought when she had gone, the full forgiveness of mind and heart, of mouth and breast and groin, of all of her.

  He couldn't forgive himself, though. It would take God Almighty in His wisdom to do that.

  Part Five

  26

  LAT EVANS headed for town early, driving a light wagon to which he had hitched his best buggy team. It lay in his mind that the day ahead of him was cut out -provisions to buy and a night meeting to go to, but with full hours left over to spend with Joyce and the baby. It had been a week since he'd seen them.

  An inch of snow lay on the flats. What breeze there was still breathed of winter. Spring was slow to come, he reflected; it was as if it stood timid before the violent months just passed. At the best this was the barren time in Montana, the time of not a leaf or blade, of dead colors, raw gales and squally storms and dismals in the mind. But still, as the team spanked along, he felt good.

  In a draw a bunch of magpies were flapping around a bunch of dead cows, cheering at the generosity of nature. In every draw and gully, nearly, other bunches would be doing the same. The magpies and the coyotes and the quick carrion bugs and the maggots yet to hatch were the only ones that the winter's ill wind had blown good. Evans sniffed. Already the air carried a taint. Come summer, it would stink to high heaven with half the territory's cattle dead. Where was the rancher now to say that feeding hay was foolishness?

  He'd just squeaked by himself. Storms in November, December, January, February. Twenty-two below zero, twenty-seven, thirty, forty-six, sixty. He'd almost had to count each straw of hay.

  "It's a crime against nature, Lat" Carmichael came to mind, fresh and half frozen from a range inspection that Evans had loaned him out for. His face for once was bleak. "Dead cows from hell to breakfast! Others dyin', their bellies drawed tight to
their bent backbones! Cows with tails froze off and legs froze and horns exploded open with the cold! Cows forever bawlin', driftin', pilin' up, goin' down air holes in the river ice! Don't say you feel sorry for the ranchers! Feel sorry for them cows! No man has any right to brutes he can't take care of."

  Owned and leased land, irrigation, hay, closer herding ­though these meant smaller herds, they had at last paid off, Evans thought as he jolted along. It had taken a long time to cinch the point with Conrad, but the proof was over­whelming. It had taken a long time to show the territory, but from now on things would never be the same.

  To the east where the west wind cooled, it had been even worse than here, according to the talk. "Why, hell," one drifting puncher had reported, "there ain't enough beef left in them parts to stoke a shirttail crew. Can't tell till after roundup, but more'n one man will tally up a by-God cypher."

  The winter of 'eighty-six-'eighty-seven, which people would talk about as long as minds remembered! It was no wonder men were bitter.

  He let the horses spend their ginger. The sky was clear today and the snow thin, and his cows could forage. He'd have this afternoon with Joyce and Little Lat and tonight with Joyce.

  Right after roundup a smart man would go out and buy cows from men bent and broken, Evans thought with a distaste felt before. Capital out of catastrophe! Profit from need! But they'd be glad to sell; they'd be begging him to buy. The hard fact was they'd have to sell. He could do them this bleak favor; he couldn't undo their misfortunes. For most of them he wished he could.

  Once, given the means, he would have thought less about taking advantage of the chance now offered. A man's ambitions changed, he reflected as he topped a rise and sighted the town. They widened, to include not only money-making but work and worth apart from that, in the service of his place and people. Inflated talk, some might say, the mouthing of a politician, but it was true, allowing still, though, for the wish of self-importance.

  A man saw the country growing up around him, saw settlers moving in, wild acres fenced, families coming into being; and he saw unsolved and multiplying problems, like the wretched, immediate problem of the thefts of livestock, which had no right or lawful answer. There were others in plenty, more important ones. Education. Law. Law enforcement. Courts of justice. Progress toward statehood. There would be still others. The territory would continue to increase, if differently, after last winter.