by Elmer Kelton
He thought of the people among whom he had moved in other years, and his heart failed him. But when he thought of Astrid, his courage returned. For he felt that there was the right stuff in her. She had the right ring, and only bell metal makes the bell.
As for Red Moffet, he did not give that gentleman a serious second thought. Ingram returned to his little office beside the church and sat there for an hour, casting up accounts, going over papers, and with a mighty effort forcing out of his mind every concern except that of the church which he served.
Boxing teaches one to concentrate in a crisis; so does football; and the minister felt grateful to both sports as he worked in his little private room, with only the ghost of Astrid floating somewhere in the back of his brain.
It was very hot. But he had compunctions about taking off his coat while he was in any part of the sacred edifice. In fact Mr. Ingram was hopelessly medieval in many respects. And he kept himself stiffly incased in the armor of outworn ceremony. However, the robes in which an idea is clothed are often essential to it; remove a man’s manners, and you are apt to remove the man; and very few think of their prayers before they are on their knees. The gesture provokes the word, the word provokes the idea, and the idea may finally lead again to an act. So the young minister in his office kept himself rigidly in hand and would have been the last to guess that he did not use the formalities, but that the formalities used him.
In the midst of his labors, a tap came at his office door. He opened it and found himself facing Mr. Red Moffet. A dark scowl was upon the face of that gentleman, and according to the classic advice, he struck at once into the middle of his tale.
‘Ingram’ said he, ‘Billman don’t need you. Astrid don’t need you. I don’t need you. You better move on before sunset!’
And with that brief remark, he turned and walked away, leaving the minister to stare after him blankly.
He had already heard of such warnings. Men who disregarded them usually fought for their lives before the next morning came—or else they accepted the advice and moved on.
What was he to do?
He had done his share of hunting; he had worked with a revolver at a target in his time. But all of this was years ago and he was hideously out of practice, of course. Besides, he could not possibly use violent measures, even in self-defense. He could not imagine a more un-Christian proceeding.
What, then, was he to do?
He turned the thing backward and forward in his mind. Of course, he could not flee from the town. Of course, he could not ask for help from—from Vasa, say. But then, what remained to him to do?
He had felt that this was the very brightest and most joyous day in his entire life. But the brightness had been snatched away. No, not altogether! A thrill of happiness remained in his heart and never could be snatched away, save by her who had given it.
So, in a dark mood, indeed, he left his office and went back to his shack, where he paced up and down, wondering, probing a mind in which he knew he could find no suggestion of a solution for his difficulties. A great bitterness against Moffet swelled in his heart. For certainly it was unfair to attack one who was consecrated to peace and to peaceful ways. At another time—a few years before—when the clerical collar was not yet around his neck, he would not have been troubled by such a threat as he had received today. But those old days were gone, and his hands were tied!
But there was something of the ancient Roman in the minister. He had been placed at his post, and at his post he would stick, like those sentinels at Pompeii, who stood on guard until the ashes and the lava of Vesuvius buried them.
‘Ah,’ said a voice at his door, ‘we still have our little yellow friend, eh? You’ve made him at home, Mr. Ingram, I see?’
He looked up and saw the black-robed Dominican before him. There was something so comfortable and reassuring in that brown, fat face that Mr. Ingram fairly jumped from his chair to take the hand of the Mexican.
‘Come in, Brother Pedrillo’ said he. ‘Come in and sit down. I’m glad to see you!’
‘Thank you,’ said the other, and settling himself in the largest chair he turned to the lizard and whistled a thin, small note. Then he laughed, as the little creature lifted its head and listened.
‘Look!’ said the friar. ‘You’d never think that he could move as fast as a whiplash, to see him now stiffened with the sun and a whistle, eh?’
Ingram made no comment. Small are the troubles of the man who can lose himself in the contemplation of a yellow lizard on a doorsill!
The friar turned back to him.
‘I thought I could possibly be of help,’ said he.
‘Help?’ asked Ingram, utterly at sea.
‘Yes,’ said the Dominican. ‘I thought that I could help you pack.’
VIII
In the Hands of the Lord
It brought Ingram bolt upright.
‘What do you know?’ he asked.
‘Know?’ said the other, as though surprised by such a question. ‘Oh, I know everything. I have to!’
‘Will you tell me how?’ asked Ingram.
‘We Mexicans,’ said the friar, ‘are not like you Anglo-Saxons. Our tongues are connected directly with our hearts and our eyes. And so everything that we see or hear or feel must overflow in words—even the smallest things, you understand?’
‘I don’t see how that applies,’ murmured Ingram.
‘Think a moment, and you’ll see the point,’ replied the brown friar. ‘You don’t know of the Mexicans in this town. You don’t have to, because your work takes you to the Americans. But the Mexicans know you. For instance, some of them have been treated in your hospital—’
‘It isn’t mine,’ said Ingram. ‘I only suggested—’
‘And planned, and begged and superintended, and collected the staff, and raised the money. Ah, we know, dear brother! All of those brown-skinned fellows who have been in the hospital have thanked the doctors, but they haven’t forgotten you!’
Ingram stared. He had not foreseen such an eventuality when he planned the hospital.
‘Those men are curious about you, of course,’ said the friar. ‘So they ask questions, they talk about you, and they find a few who can answer—a few of their own kind. The servants at the house of Señor Vasa—they are Mexicans, you understand? And though you have no Mexicans in your congregation, you have an old man to take care of the garden beside the church, and another to clean the place—well, they see! They have eyes and they know how to use them as quickly—as that lizard, say’
‘Well, what do they tell you?’ asked Ingram impatiently.
‘They tell me,’ said the Dominican, ‘that you, also, have eyes, brother, and that you know well how to use them.’
‘That I don’t understand’ replied Ingram.
‘Ah’ said Pedrillo. ‘Shall I be more open? The señorita is charming enough, surely. Can we not compliment you on—’
He paused, smiling.
‘Oh, well’ said Ingram. ‘There are no secrets in this town, I presume.’
‘Also’ said the friar, ‘a voice carries far in the silence of the desert. So I heard that perhaps you would be in a certain hurry today!’
‘Will the whole town know what Moffet said to me?’
‘The town? Perhaps. The brown part of the town will, to be sure! You need not doubt that!’
‘Tell me. What would you do if you were in my place, Brother Pedrillo?’
‘I would not hesitate. I would pack at once and leave town before the sun set. I would be a comfortable distance away before the sun set, as a matter of fact.’
Ingram shook his head.
‘You don’t mean that’ he said. ‘Having been assigned to a post, you wouldn’t desert it!’
‘That’s a very harsh way of stating it’ said the friar. ‘Suppose that I had no care about myself, still I would go.’
‘Ah?’
‘Because it would seem to me very wrong to allow another man to commit a mor
tal sin in raising his hand against me. If you remain, Red Moffet must attack you. He has promised to do so. Nothing under heaven could keep him from fulfilling the obligation. That is the code by which he lives, of course. I understand it and, therefore, I should never place temptation in his way!’
‘Run away from him?’ asked Ingram. ‘I couldn’t do it!’
‘Why?’ asked the Dominican. ‘Is it because you think it’s wrong, or because you’re a bit concerned about public opinion?’
Ingram raised his head.
‘Public opinion? No!’
‘I am afraid that you mean yes’ said Pedrillo.
‘Well, perhaps I do. I don’t want people to call me a coward!’
‘Ah said the other,’ ‘it’s a hard time with you, I can see. To my more supple nature, the way would seem perfectly clear. But to you—no, that is different! I understand, however. Pride is a stubborn passion. And will it keep you erect in the face of this storm?’
‘I trust that it will’ said Ingram.
‘Well—then tell me what I can do for you, brother?’
‘Nothing’ said Ingram. ‘What could you do?’
‘A great many things. Suppose that I let a word fall to a few of my compatriots in this town?’
‘What of that?’
‘A great deal might come of it. For instance, a number of them might call on Mr. Moffet in the middle of the night and urge him out of the town—’
The minister’s nostrils flared with a burst of wicked passion, which he controlled with a strong and instant effort.
He recalled the powerful form of Moffet, his long, mighty arms. A gun sagged at either hip in a well-worn holster, polished not by hand, but by use.
‘If they went to Moffet like that,’ he said at last, ‘some of them might be killed.’
The Dominican was silent.
‘Some of them surely would be killed. Moffet would never go with them alive!’
‘Perhaps not,’ said Pedrillo. ‘There is such a thing as duty which has nothing to do with pride, you see. Their duty would be to take him away so that he might be a danger to you no longer. His pride would force him to fight. What would come of it, who can tell? But much, for instance, may be done by a soft approach, and by the use of the rope. A rawhide lariat in the hands of one of my countrymen can be a knife, a club, or a tangling spider’s web, strong enough to hold a struggling lion. Perhaps you had better let me send word to my friends!’
Ingram shook his head, more fiercely decided.
‘This is my own fight,’ said he, ‘and I must see it through by myself. No other shall lift a hand on account of me!’
‘You are familiar with guns, then?’ asked the Dominican.
‘I have been. But now I carry no weapons.’
‘Here,’ said the friar, ‘is a chance for me to serve you. I shall bring you a revolver—’
‘No,’ said Ingram. ‘The Gospel tells me what I must do in a case such as this. Resist not evil!’
‘Our Lord,’ said the Dominican, ‘taught us by parables and seldom spoke directly. But He knew that He was not speaking to angels, neither was He speaking to devils. He wished us to interpret Him as a human being speaking to other human beings.’
Suddenly Ingram smiled.
‘If you had twenty tongues’ said he, ‘you couldn’t persuade me! Thank you for coming.’
‘I have failed then?’
‘No, not failed. You have done what you could for me!’
‘Then what will you do?’
‘Pray’ said Ingram.
‘Pray for Moffet, also,’ said the friar. ‘Because he is in danger of a frightful crime! Ah, brother, you have come very close to happiness in this place, and now I fear you are coming even closer to sorrow!’
‘I am in the hands of the Lord,’ said the minister, with a stern composure.
‘And in the end,’ said the Dominican, ‘perhaps He will reveal to you the right way’
He departed, wandering slowly from the door, pausing two or three times to turn back to his young friend as though there were still new arguments swelling up in his throat; but he seemed to decide that none of them would be of any avail, so stony had been the expression of Ingram.
After the friar had disappeared, Ingram looked across the roofs of the houses, with the heat waves shimmering up from them like steam, to the broad and burning plain of the desert.
He was seeing another picture in his mind’s eye—of the bug eaten by the beetle, the beetle eaten by the wren, and the wren destroyed by the hawk. He began to wonder vaguely what order was maintained in this corner of the universe, and what topsyturvy expression of the Divine Will was represented in it.
Then he turned from the doorway, flung himself on his blankets on the hard floor, and was presently asleep.
He wakened with a singing in his ears, for it had been very hot.
He staggered to the door. It was still breathless, no wind was stirring, and the ground and the houses poured out as from the mouths of ovens the heat which they had been drinking in all day. Twilight had thickened and the night was coming on rapidly, but a dim band of fire still circled the horizon as if with an ominous promise that, as the day had been, so would the morrow be also.
Ingram washed his face and hands. Supper was not thought of. He had been warned to leave the town that day before sunset, and the sun already had set!
Now what would happen?
He forced himself to go methodically about his business. He was conscious of a vast, craven desire to flee from the house and hide in some dark corner, but he fought back the impulse sternly. He lighted a lamp, trimmed the wick, saw that it was burning brightly and evenly, and then sat down with a book.
The print blurred and ran togther. He could not make sense of the thing that lay before his eyes.
Then he mastered himself again, with such a vast effort that sweat not brought on by heat poured down his forehead. The words cleared. He began to take in the author’s meaning.
‘And then a voice called strongly from the street: Tngram!’
He recognized it at once as the voice of Red Moffet. Yonder he stood in the dark of the public way. Perhaps others were gathered covertly to watch the tragedy.
The minister stepped into the doorway.
A lamp was burning at a window just across the street, and against that lamp he saw the silhouette of the horseman.
‘I am here’ said Ingram.
Then something whistled over his head. He was gripped by the powerful clutch of a slip noose, and jerked from his feet as Red Moffet began to ride down the street, dragging his victim through the thick dust behind him.
IX
Keeping the Secret
He was half stifled when the dragging ceased, and suddenly he was trundled by skillful hands in a net of stout rope. He could not move hand or foot, and was brought by main force and tied to a sapling.
No one was near. Billman was lost in darkness. The town was at its evening meal, and Moffet had chosen the most convenient hour to work without interruption.
Deftly Moffet removed the minister’s shirt.
He stepped back.
‘I’m gunna give you a lesson that ought to last you a while, you skunk!’ said Red Moffet. ‘If you was a man, I’d shoot daylight out of you. But bein’ only a minister, I got to do this!’
And a riding quirt sang in his hand and branded the back of the minister with fire.
A dozen strokes, but not a sound from the victim.
‘Fainted, eh?’ grunted Moffet.
He lighted a match.
Blood was trickling down Ingram’s white back. He walked around and by the light of the match Moffet stared into such eyes as he never before had seen in any human being.
He dropped the match with an oath.
Then he said in the darkness: ‘That’ll teach you. But if I catch you in Billman tomorrow, I’ll handle you worse’n this!’
And he rode away, the thick dust muffling the sound of his ho
rse’s hoofs.
Against that tree the minister leaned all night. Exhaustion overcame him; but the cutting ropes which bound him held up the weight of his body; and burning rages of shame and hate sustained him until, in the crisp chill of the desert morning, men found him there and cut him down.
He fell like a log, unconscious. They carried him back to his house and gave him a drink of whisky. One grim-faced cow-puncher said to him, half sneering and half in pity: ‘You better get out of town, Ingram, before Moffet does worse’n this to you!’
Ingram made no reply His nerves were so completely shattered that he dared not open his lips for fear anything from a sob to a scream might come from them.
He lay trembling until the mid-morning.
Then he got up, stripped away his tattered clothes, and washed his swollen, wounded back. He remembered suddenly that it was Sunday morning, and that a sermon should be preached in half an hour.
So he walked to the church with a steady step—and found not a soul there!
Not even the Mexican to ring the bell! He rang it himself, long and loudly, and then went back into the church and waited.
No one came. The little church through its open doors drank in some of the sultry heat of that bitter day, but no human being crossed its threshold until long after the sermon should have begun.
Ingram wondered if it was a sense of delicacy which held back the crowd of women who should have been there.
And then into the church walked no woman, but the tall, lumbering giant, Vasa. He came up to the minister and sat down beside him.
Pity and wonder were in Vasa’s glance, but withering scorn predominated over them.
‘I got a note from sis for you,’ said he, and tendered an envelope.
It was amazingly brief and to the point.
It merely said: ‘How could you lie down and let any man do that to you? I’m ashamed and I’m sick. Go away from Billman. No one will ever want to see your face here again!’
No signature even. The words were enough. And the splotches and smudges which covered the paper—well, they were a sign of tears of bitterest shame and disgust, no doubt. He folded the paper carefully and put it into his pocket.