A Man for Temperance (Wagon Wheel)

by Gilbert, Morris

  “That’s silly.”

  “Silly! Why, he shot that lawyer, and the bullet went plum through him and hit me right in the leg. Laid me right up for a month.” Brennan shifted his weight and shook his head sorrowfully. “I felt so bad I couldn’t go see that sorry dentist hung.”

  “Monday didn’t have a thing to do with that. It could have happened any day!” Temperance insisted.

  “That’s what you say. Every time I’ve had a bad time, it come on a Monday. Once I was out with the dragoons and a whole mess of them sorry Cheyenne surrounded us, and they kilt all our horses. Before we left, I tried to tell the lieutenant that Monday wasn’t no day to be trying to tackle a Cheyenne war party, but he wouldn’t listen. Durned fool didn’t believe me! I guess he believed me when he got an arrow through his gizzard. Why, we had to walk away that night, and we was lucky to get out with our skins. No, Monday I try to be as quiet as I can so that bad luck don’t fall on me.”

  Temperance had learned that Brennan could tell a tall tale, especially when he was trying to get out of work. She put her hands on her hips and stared at him. “You make your own bad luck, Thaddeus Brennan, and Monday has nothing to do with it.” A thought came to her, and she nodded firmly, “I’m not giving you any money for whiskey.”

  “Didn’t ask for none.”

  “Well, you’re not getting any. Go by the store and get what’s on this list.” Reaching into a pocket of her apron, she came out with a slip of paper. He was not going to dismount and come for it, so she walked up to him.

  “Stay away from that horse’s head. He’ll bite you.”

  “No, he won’t. He’s a nice horse,” Temperance said. “You’re mean to him. That’s why he tries to bite.”

  With disgust Brennan snatched the paper and stuck it in the pocket of his filthy shirt. “You don’t know nothing about horses. This is the meanest horse west of the Pecos!”

  Temperance reached up and stroked Judas’s nose. When the horse whinnied slightly and nudged her, she said, “See? He’s a nice horse. I’m going over to the Dutton place and help them, Brennan. When you get those things from the store, bring them by their place.”

  “Not me. I’m not going near that cholera, not on Monday.”

  “You do it or I’ll tell Joe Meek.”

  Brennan stared at the woman, and a hot reply rose to his lips. He had discovered, however, that nothing he did could get her goat, as he put it. It irritated him, for he was accustomed to having his own way with women. “I’ll bring it, but I ain’t going into the house,” he shouted as he whirled Judas around and left the yard at a dead gallop.

  When he was out of sight of the house, he pulled the bay down to a walk and then, as was his habit, began thinking of what had happened. It preoccupied him, and at such moments as this he forgot that Judas was a treacherous animal. He was caught off guard when suddenly the horse humped his back and flung himself sideways. Making a wild grab at the horn, Brennan managed to stay in the saddle. He fought the animal to a standstill and realized he was lucky not to be thrown.

  “Well, you thought you had me that time, didn’t you?” he said loudly. “Well, you didn’t. You’re about the sorriest, meanest, no account hoss that ever lived!” He continued to berate the animal and finally nodded, saying, “But you ain’t as mean as Miss Temperance Peabody. What she needs is a man to take a belt to her. That’s what she needs. Well, Judas, I may be just that hairpin to give it to her! There ain’t no law that says a man can’t take a switch to a single woman—when she needs it, that is.”

  All the way to town Brennan talked on and off to his horse. “And another thing,” he said as they turned down the main street, “I’d run off and leave her, but I gave my word.” A smile crossed his rugged lips and he chuckled. “I’d like to give that Joe Meek a run for it. He’d never catch me, not in a hundred years! I’d run him until he wore his legs off to the knees. Why, he thinks that badge makes him some pumpkins, but he ain’t. I can clean his plow anytime. But you know,” he said confidentially, “I can’t leave until I whip Al Sharpless for parting my hair with a pool cue. As soon as I get enough money to pay off that blasted fine, I’ll tell that preacher woman off, and then I’ll whip Al and maybe Joe Meek too. Then I’ll ride out and laugh at the whole bunch of ’em.”

  The sun had passed the meridian and was slowly beginning to sink to the west as he turned down the main street of Walla Walla. He made straight for the Dancing Pony. He dismounted, avoiding a feeble attempt on the part of Judas to bite him. He slapped the stallion on the nose and said, “You just wait. I’m going to teach you a lesson if you don’t stop that!”

  He stepped inside the saloon, and at once Al Sharpless turned to face him. Sharpless was wearing one of the most colorful floral vests on the market, and his black hair was laid flat with grease. He had small dark eyes that he fixed on Brennan. Then he grunted, “Whut you doing in here?”

  “Why, Al, I just come into town. Thought I’d stop by for a friendly visit.”

  “You make any trouble, I’ll shoot you.”

  Brennan shrugged his shoulders, walked over, and stood at the bar, facing Sharpless. “Why, Al, that ain’t no way to talk to a friend.”

  “I don’t consider you my friend. Not after you wrecked my place.”

  “Well, I’m paying for it, Al, and I just stopped in to buy a jug of whiskey.”

  Sharpless stared at Brennan, then suddenly laughed. “How you like working for a woman, Brennan?”

  “Well, Al, I’ll tell you what,” Brennan said, “Honestly, I just love it! It’s the best job I ever had. I don’t think I’ll ever leave.”

  Several loafers engaged in a poker game had been listening to the interchange. One of them, a tall lanky man named Simon Gee, laughed the loudest. “You won’t leave because you know Joe Meek would run you down and whip your tail.”

  Brennan turned to face the speaker. “Why, Simon, that ain’t so. Me and Joe Meek have got to be real good friends. Why, shucks, I may even hire out as his deputy.”

  Sharpless stared at Brennan. “You’d rather lie for credit. Just tell the truth for cash. Now what do you want?”

  “Like I said. I want a gallon of whiskey.”

  “You got the money?”

  “Just put it on my tab, Al. You know I’m good for it.”

  “Not likely,” Sharpless said. “Now get out of here before I throw you out.”

  For a moment it seemed Brennan would take up the challenge. Sharpless saw something in the face of the tall man that made him take a step backward, but Brennan merely laughed and said, “When I’m rich and famous, you’ll wish you had sold me that whiskey on credit, Al. I’ll see you gentlemen later.”

  Leaving the Dancing Pony, Brennan unhitched Judas, swung into the saddle, and rode down the street. He stopped in front of Satterfield’s General Store. “Well, Judas, you better wish me luck. I’ve got to have something to drink on. I’ll have to get it out of Satterfield, I reckon.”

  He dismounted, tied Judas to the hitching rail, and then entered the general store. Silas, he saw, was grinding coffee beans, and the rich aroma of coffee filled the air. “That shore does smell good, don’t it now, Silas?” Brennan greeted the owner breezily. “Nothing smells better than coffee being ground, I don’t reckon.”

  “Hello, Brennan. What can I do for you?”

  “Got a list for things to get for my boss.” Brennan fished in his pocket and came out with a list. Satterfield glanced at it and then cocked his head to one side. “Miss Temperance tells me you’re not a bad hand at plowing.”

  Brennan leaned on the counter and pulled a piece of candy out of a glass jar. “Is this here penny candy?”

  “On the house, Brennan—the first one anyway.”

  Brennan popped the candy into his mouth and talked around it. “About that plowing. You know a man does well with whatever he loves doing, don’t you know, and I always loved plowing. Nothing I’d rather do than stare at the back end of a mule for, oh, ten—twel
ve hours a day.”

  Satterfield laughed. He was disgusted with the big man, but there was something likable about him at the same time. “Yeah, I loved it, too, when I was growing up.” He listened to Brennan talk as he filled the order, then said, “Anything else?”

  “A gallon of whiskey please.”

  “You know I’m not going to give you any whiskey.”

  “Why, Silas, I’m surprised at you.”

  “Miss Temperance would never forgive me. You’re liable to get drunk and bust up the saloon again or ride off until Joe Meek hauls you back.”

  “You hurt me deep in my heart, Silas,” Brennan said. “Why, Miss Temperance has gone over to help that poor sick Dutton woman, and she wants this for medicinal purposes, and you won’t even give her the medicine she needs. Here I thought you was a Christian man, Silas.”

  Silas Satterfield stared at the face of Thaddeus Brennan. “I don’t ever know whether to believe you or not.”

  “Why, it’s gospel truth. That’s where she’s gone—over to the Dutton place. She sent me to get this stuff.”

  “Why didn’t she put it on the list?”

  “She forgot it, but she called out to me to get it as I left.”

  Silas Satterfield struggled for a moment, then threw his hands apart with an impatient gesture. “Well, I’ll give it to you, but it’s on your head. She’ll see it on the bill.”

  “Why, of course she will.” Silas moved down and leaning under the counter came out with a brown jug. He put it on the counter and said, “I’m not sure I’m doing the right thing here, Brennan.”

  “Oh, it’s fine. You know she drinks herself.”

  Silas was startled. “Who drinks?”

  “Why, Miss Temperance. She gets drunker than Cooter Brown after it gets dark, but I don’t want you to tell nobody. She’s downright ashamed of it. Put that stuff in a sack for me so I can tie it over my saddle horn, will you? I’ll carry the jug.”

  Five minutes later Brennan was on the road again. The first thing he did when he cleared town was uncork the jug and take several long, deep swallows. “I forgot to make a toast, Judas. Here’s to that psalm-singing woman who thinks she’s my boss. She’s paying for this here drinking whiskey and mighty nice of her, I might say.” He began to sing a ribald song, and by the time he was halfway to the Dutton place, it was all he could do to stay in the saddle.

  * * *

  PULLING THE LAST OF the worn diapers off the line, Temperance dropped them in the basket, then moved back toward the house. She had been thinking of Brennan as she loaded the basket. She had become absolutely sick of the man. He was filthy, refused to bathe, shaved only on occasion. He did his work but was sullen and critical of her, especially of her religion.

  “I’ll be glad when he’s gone,” she muttered. “He’s the most trifling man I ever saw in my life.”

  She moved inside the house, quickly folded the diapers, and went to the cradle where the baby lay sleeping. She reached out and gently touched the blond hair and then straightened up and moved across to the stove. She filled a deep bowl with broth and, plucking a spoon from a box, moved into the bedroom.

  Martha Dutton lay on the bed, her thin form outlined by the cover. Her eyes were sunk back in her head, and her lips seemed to have shriveled up.

  Her husband had died a week earlier, and she had been too sick to attend the funeral, a fact that grieved her greatly.

  “Well now, Martha, you’ve got to eat something.”

  “I’m not hungry, Temperance.”

  “You’ve got to keep your strength up.” Temperance put the bowl on a table beside the bed, sat down in a cane-bottom chair, and filled the spoon. Martha, however, turned her head away. “I can’t eat,” she whispered. Her voice was thin and reedy and seemed like an ethereal sound from somewhere outside herself.

  “Martha, you’ve got to eat.”

  “I’m going to die, Temperance.” Martha Dutton turned, and her face was like a death’s head. Pity ran through Temperance, for she remembered how pretty this woman had been before the cholera had struck her down. She and her husband had been one of the finest-looking couples in the area, and now Clyde was under the sod and Martha, in all probability, would be there soon.

  Tears ran down Martha’s face, and she whispered, “I couldn’t even go to Clyde’s funeral.”

  “You were too sick, Martha. Clyde would have understood. I think he does understand.”

  “You think people in heaven know what’s going on on Earth?”

  “I’m sure they do.” Actually Temperance was not certain of her theology, but she would say anything to give this dying woman some assurance.

  “Why does God let bad things like this happen? We weren’t bad people.”

  “Of course you weren’t.” Temperance had gone through this before with others who had had loss. She quoted several Scriptures and laid her hand on the woman’s brow. Martha’s face was like a tiny furnace, and as she leaned down and pulled a blanket over her, Temperance said, “You’ve got to sweat this fever out.”

  Martha Dutton lay still for what seemed like a long time. Her eyes were closed and her lips were moving. Temperance could not understand her, and she leaned forward. “I can’t hear you, Martha.”

  “My sister—Kate.”

  “What about Kate?”

  “She and her husband, Tom Blanchard, they—”

  The words trailed off, and Martha passed into a semiconscious state. Quickly Temperance got cool water and a cloth and began to bathe the sick woman’s face. “Can you tell me about Kate?”

  The water seemed to have revived Martha. She opened her eyes, and there was a haunted look in her expression. “Kate and her husband tried to talk me and Clyde out of coming to Oregon, but Clyde wouldn’t listen. They don’t have any children of their own. They had two, but they lost them.”

  “Where do they live?”

  “In St. Joseph, Missouri.”

  Suddenly Martha reached up and grasped Temperance’s hand. “Please, Temperance, they’d take my Timmy for their own. Promise me you’ll take him!”

  Temperance Peabody did not make promises lightly. She took each one of them as a sacred vow, and for that instant she pictured the immense distance and the terrible difficulties that lay between Walla Walla in Oregon Territory and St. Joe, Missouri. She looked down and tried to think of some way to deny the woman, but Martha Dutton’s eyes begged her; and almost despite herself, Temperance took the woman’s hand in both of hers. It felt frail; the bones were like fragile bird bones. “I promise I’ll take Timmy to Kate.”

  For a time they sat there as Martha thanked her and then finally she heard a horse. “That’s Brennan coming with things from the store,” she said.

  She left the sick woman’s room and opened the door, but instead of Brennan it was the Reverend Cyrus Blevins. He took his hat off and stepped inside, saying, “How’s Mrs. Dutton?”

  “Not well at all. I think you’d better pray with her, Reverend.”

  The two went back to the room, and Blevins laid his hand on the sick woman’s head and prayed a fervent prayer. When he ended, Temperance said, “She’s asleep. Come along. I’ll fix you something to eat.”

  The two left, but Blevins said, “I don’t have time. This cholera is getting worse. I don’t think Martha’s going to live.”

  “She may.”

  “Of course, God could work a miracle. That’s what it would take, I think.” He ran his hand through his thinning hair and said, “Did you hear about the Abbotts?”

  “No, what about them?”

  “Same old story,” Blevins said wearily. “But it happened so quick. Cholera got both of them.”

  “Oh, Pastor, how terrible!”

  “It is terrible. Vance was a deacon in the church. Virginia was one of the finest women I ever knew. Always cared for everybody.”

  “When did it happen?”

  “Yesterday. They got sick three days ago, and it took them like a whirlwind. Th
ey died within six hours of each other.”

  “And the children. Where are they?”

  “The Johnsons have taken them in for now.”

  “How old are they?”

  “Billy’s two and Rose is six. Billy doesn’t really understand but Rose does, I think. It’s hard to tell children about things like this.”

  “What will happen to them?”

  “Virginia’s parents live in Fort Smith, Arkansas. They left a note begging for someone to take the children there. I don’t know how in the world we’d get them there, Temperance.”

  For a moment Temperance hesitated, then she said, “I promised Martha that I’d take Timothy to her sister. They live in St. Joe, Missouri.”

  Blevins was startled. “Why, Temperance, how are you going to do that?”

  “I don’t know, but I’ll have to. We’ll have to find a way. I gave my word.”

  “Well, that’s three, all babies really. If they were older, it might be possible to get them with a freighter, but no freighter’s going to take three babies like that.”

  The two talked earnestly about a way when suddenly Blevins lifted his head. “Somebody’s coming.”

  “Probably Brennan.”

  The two stepped out on the porch, and Brennan pulled his horse up. He dropped the sack on the ground and said, “There’s your groceries. The stuff from the store.”

  “Brennan, I need to talk to you.”

  “I ain’t coming in that house.”

  “Well, go home then, but I want you to feed the stock, gather the eggs, milk the cows. Do all the chores. I’m going to stay here.”

  “If you want to be a crazy woman, that’s fine with me,” Brennan shouted. He turned Judas around and galloped off.

  “He’s drunk, isn’t he?”

  “I expect he is, Pastor.”

  “How do you put up with him?”

  “I try to talk with him about God and he curses me. But he’s all I’ve got. ” Temperance shrugged her shoulders helplessly. “I’ll have to stay here with Martha and take care of Timothy.”

  “We’ll have to pray about a way to get these children where they can be taken care of. I’ll have my wife come out and help you with Martha.”