Kissel seemed mildly put out when he heard. “That wasn’t anything to do,” he said, which I figured was about the same as another man’s threat of a broken back.
Matters came to a head during a social evening at the Bowery, when they had games and contests. They were always doing something like that, nearly every night. If it wasn’t a supper and frolic like before, it was a candy pull or a sleigh ride or a dance or a picnic or a banquet or a round of games. And in the summer, shucking bees and ridge-pole parties, and they customarily put up swings under the cottonwood trees along the river and went fishing and swimming. Or, again, they made horseback excursions to the Great Salt Lake, which was nine miles from the edge of town. But this wasn’t always safe, on account of the Utes, or Pah-Utes, as the Indians called themselves.
Tonight at the Bowery they had a number of foolishy contests like pin-on-the-donkey’s-tail, but the silliest was a competition between a man and a cat to see which could lap up a saucer of milk the quickest. Everybody was laughing so, the man got to laughing, too, with his nose in the milk, which caused him to choke and fall into a coughing fit, and the cat won. But it was close. People kept telling him he had done very well, and that he certainly looked natural eating that way, and with a little practice would be as good as a cat any day, but he had a reputation as a sore-head, so he got huffy and went home.
Then they laid down a mat for wrestling, and who turned out to be the best wrestler there? Our old friend Muller. He came out dressed in a pair of very tight knee-length pants, without shoes, and did some bend-overs and flexed his muscles. He was built exactly like a gorilla, just as I said, not very tall, or even necessarily broad, but with very long arms, no neck to speak of, sloping shoulders with heavy muscles underneath, and bowlegs, nimble and strong. A person behind us said he always won the matches, and during last summer had crippled the son of an immigrant who tried to recover damages but was driven out of the Valley by Muller’s friends.
Elder Ezra T. Benson, the announcer, said Brother Muller, “our popular young brewmaster,” would defend his championship against all comers. It was all good-natured, and noisy, and a lot of people called up sarcastic things like, “Where’d you get the bloomers?” and “Why don’t somebody rig him a trapeze?” He really did look like a monkey, and was partially covered with silky black fur, except for his head, which would be bald as a bullet in a couple of years.
After a good deal of prompting, a group in one corner pushed a candidate up front, a young towheaded farmer who was brick-red with embarrassment. This was exactly what Muller came for. He practically killed that farmer; he made him look as bad as possible, because people said the farmer’s girl was there. While the match went on, all the good nature sort of seeped out of things; it wasn’t at all funny. Taken all around, these Saints were a bullheaded bunch, but they were human, too, and didn’t like to see anybody treated like this. When the farmer put on his shirt and limped back, he had a bloody nose and a sick grin on his face, but he was mad clear through. I could scarcely look at him, with his girl watching and all.
The contest had lasted only two or three minutes, and Muller made the most he could out of winning. He strutted around, grinning and holding up his arms, and then, drat the luck, he spotted Mr. Kissel. The grin dropped off Muller’s face in a hurry, but he strode right down from the stage, into the audience.
“Here’s a big hunk of blubber,” he said, looking at Matt. “Give him a big hand, everybody. Maybe he’ll step up, if his liver ain’t doing flip-flops.”
My father and Mr. Coe leaned over to whisper that we’d probably better go, but Mr. Kissel sat staring up mildly, as if he was thinking it over.
Then Muller made his big mistake.
“He’s got his wife with him,” he said, referring to Jennie. “With a nice piece like that, he don’t want to get bunged up none.”
Nobody laughed or applauded; in fact, I heard a couple of men say that Muller was a poor loser, and ought to be hushed up.
“I’ll wrestle,” said Mr. Kissel, getting to his feet and starting for the stage. When he peeled off his shirt, there was a gasp of surprise, and even Muller’s cronies, who were likely more afraid of him than fond, took to calling up that he’d better watch his step.
Elder Benson cried, “Begin,” and Muller bounded out, feinted to the right and left, then scrambled onto poor Mr. Kissel’s back.
“This is farcical,” I heard my father say. “Matt hasn’t even a rudimentary knowledge of wrestling.”
“My apprehensions are along rather different lines,” replied Mr. Coe.
No matter what else you might say, Muller was a good wrestler, quick as a cat, powerful, too, but right now he wasn’t bothering to observe the ordinary rules of sport. It looked more as if he wanted to murder Mr. Kissel. His face was contorted and blotched, and his lungs heaved with pure rage.
Riding Mr. Kissel’s back, he got a strangle-hold, and several men near the stage cried, “Foul! Foul!” so Elder Benson stepped in to break it. But when he turned them around, we suddenly saw that Mr. Kissel wasn’t discomposed in the slightest. Then the truth dawned over everybody; Muller wasn’t able to get Mr. Kissel off his feet. It was ludicrous; lots of people commenced to laugh.
None of our bunch laughed, though. For the first time since we’d known him, including Coulter’s scrap with Matlock, Mr. Kissel seemed annoyed. He didn’t look mild any more. As my father said later, he gave every appearance of having a bellyful of threats, bad language, insinuations about Jennie, Mormon immersion, tithing, secret societies, plural marriage, arrows burning in the night, and a considerable number of other things, most of them centering on Muller. It was awesome. Very deliberately he reached up over his shoulder with one arm and seized Muller’s head. Then, knotting up his giant’s strength, he wrenched that unhappy brewer off his back, turned him a somersault in the air, and slammed him down on the mat. It rattled some dishes on the shelves.
Muller wobbled up to his feet, dazed, and Mr. Kissel stepped forward, grasped his waistband, and ripped the knee-length pants clean off, leaving him standing there bare as the day he was born. But he didn’t stand that way long. Mr. Kissel picked him up, crotch and neck, and threw him about thirty feet into an empty row of chairs behind the stage. He went down in a crash of splintered wood, and this time he didn’t get up.
“So much for the Danites,” said Mr. Kissel loudly, and you could have heard a pin drop. Then people got up and began to file out. There was trouble coming, and very few wanted to be on hand when it started.
We got the new champion dressed, then hustled him home, but an hour later there came a knocking at the door and Brigham Young was standing outside with two grim-faced priests that we didn’t know by name.
“This is a bad business, doctor,” said Young, coming in.
“Bad enough, I’m afraid,” replied my father, with a look of defiance. “First it was Muller hounding Mrs. Brice, then arrows shot through our window, and now, insulting treatment at a public meeting.”
“Brother Muller has a broken mandible.”
I could see my father itching to make a sarcastic inquiry about the ague, but he held his tongue.
Mr. Kissel had been out of the room, talking to his wife, but now he came back.
“I got riled,” he said, regarding Young steadily, not really apologizing. “Commonly, I don’t.”
“You will appear before the Council tomorrow morning at ten, Brother Kissel,” said Young. One of the priests then drew him aside, whereupon the three held a whispered conference. “Yes,” Young added, “you must bring your sealed one. This is a command from the Prophet and the High Apostles, and is not to be disobeyed, under pain of drastic punishment.”
They left, as before, with no further words.
The instant the door slammed, my father cried, “All right, the time’s come to get in touch with Marlowe. We can’t waste a minute. Our situation here is intolerable.”
“I’m mortal sorry,” said Matt, and again,
in explanation, “I got riled.”
Then Coe spoke for us all, I think, when he said, “I must tell you, Kissel, that I don’t know when I’ve enjoyed anything half as much. You were absolutely splendid!”
Chapter XXXIV
Things began to move fast now. There was nothing for Kissel and Jennie to do except head for the Council in the morning, but before they left, it being a Sunday, my father jammed on his hat and struck out looking for Brother Marlowe. I went along. I was interested to see how he worked it.
When we got down toward the Bowery, he began nodding to this person and that, wishing them good day in the friendliest tone, and finally spotting one of the rattlebrainedest old biddies in town, he said, “Sister Morganthaler, how nice to see you. I mistook you for your daughter. I wonder if you could give us some information.”
“If I’m able, I’ll give it and willing, Brother McPheeters.”
“We’re on the search for Brother Hugh Marlowe. He ordered an elastic stocking, and they’ve just come in, I promised to let him know.”
“Elastic stocking! At his age? I wouldn’t thought he had a busted vein in his body, him so skinny.”
“It’s for his father-in-law. It’s a secret, and if you ask me, a very decent gesture. I don’t know any more useful gift, when you need one.”
“Father-in-law, Brother McPheeters! Why, Brother Marlowe ain’t married. Leastways he wasn’t last night.”
“Of course not,” cried my father with a chuckle. “What I meant was, the father of the girl he’s courting. There isn’t much that escapes you, is there, Sister?”
“I’ve got good eyes, if I do say so, but I’m bound to admit I didn’t know he was courting. Who’s the girl?”
“I swore I wouldn’t tell,” said my father. “but I know I can trust you, Sister Morgenthaler. Will you keep this under your hat?”
“I won’t breathe it to a soul, especially Sister Larkin. Last secret I told her, she spread it over town in less than an hour.”
“Well, then, what’s the name of that farmer out near the University, the fellow with the very pale blonde daughter?”
“You must mean Amos Tillinghast.”
“That’s the man.”
“Well, I’m beat. That daughter of his couldn’t be over eleven or twelve at the most. It’s a scandal.”
“That’s exactly what I said, but the next question is, where do I find Marlowe?”
“Right where you’d expect, Brother McPheeters—in the room Brother Thomas rents him, above your store.”
“By George, I’d forgotten. He told me so himself. I’m obliged, Sister Morgenthaler. We hope to see you in the Emporium soon.”
“And I hope to see you, and your boy, in meeting today, Brother McPheeters.”
“Absolutely, absolutely,” said my father, and when she was out of sight, “Ridiculous old gobbler. A woman on that level of intellect should be boiled down for glue. They’re a drag on civilization. Come along, laddie, look sharp, now. It’s just down the street.”
Reaching Thomas’, we waited till nobody was around, then stepped to the rear, where there was an outside stairway, and climbed up in a hurry.
My father knocked, and after a pesky long time, the door opened slowly. I don’t know what we expected to see, but I’m blessed if it wasn’t the same pale, mischievous young man who had “interpreted” for the woman in church. The one that got up and said, “Melai, meli, melo, melooey.”
“Mr. Mar—” my father began, but he interrupted with, “Come in, doctor—been expecting you.”
We went inside to a plain, neat room full of books and pictures, and the young man added without preliminaries, “In trouble with the Danites, right?”
“Why, how did you know?”
“My business to know,” replied Marlowe, who seemed opposed to wasting time, and speech, on non-essentials. The fact is, everything he said was in a kind of chopped-off, businesslike style, half comic, but soothing on the nerves, too.
“Anyhow, neither here nor there. Question is, how much time?”
My father handed him over our threatening note, then sketched in details of our case, bringing it up to the present, with Kissel and Jennie headed for the Council. While he talked, seated in an uncomfortable-looking chair, the young man paced back and forth, frowning.
“Enough. Got it,” he said, cutting my father off in the middle of a gabby sentence. “Too much talk everywhere; not enough action.”
“Quite so,” said my father, rattled. “I’ve said so many’s the time.”
“Probably too many,” replied this unusual young man. “Where’s your gear? Horses, mules, wagons, furnishings?”
My father began to tell him, but he was so addled by the strange new speech that he began to do it himself.
“Farmer’s, mules out of town. Animals boarded, other stuff stored.”
“Organize your group. Wait at home for Council’s word. If not good, move out tonight. Only way. Seen it before.”
“Right,” said my father. “Say so myself.”
I could see he was itching to ask this Marlowe some questions—what was his part in this Mormon system, why he knew Bridger so well, what was his purpose in helping us, and so on. But he squashed it somehow, and we got up to leave.
Then, all of a sudden, the young man turned human for a second. “Don’t worry,” he said, clapping my father on the shoulder. “It’s a bad business, but don’t worry. Leave it all to me. Hate Danites and such. Enjoy outwitting, follow me?”
My father thawed out. “I do, and thank you for your help. We’re agitated. The ladies are upset.”
“Of course, naturally. Danites a terrible, bloody, murdering bunch. Good Mormons stamp them out someday. Too soon yet. Meanwhile, fight ’em.”
“We’ll fight,” said my father. “We’ve had enough religious fanaticism for a while.” Then, pausing for a second, looking like his old self, he added, “Fed up.”
They laughed together, and we moved toward the door, the young man sliding forward nimbly to have a look out first.
“Quick, back!” he cried, and as he did, we heard a stomping of feet on the lower steps.
“In God’s name, where?” said my father.
“Under the bed. Nip under, both. Jump!”
We rolled under just as a heavy banging commenced on the door. We heard the snick of a lock, then our host saying, “Well, well, Brother Muller. And friends. How pleasant. A Sunday visit?”
“That’s enough of your rubbish, Marlowe,” said Muller. “The Council’s on to you. And so are some others. Do you know what I mean?”
“No idea at all. Must ask my Uncle Brigham.”
“Being related to Brigham Young ain’t going to save your hide forever. You’ve been skating on thin ice. Where’s that doctor and the boy? They was seen heading here.”
From under the bed, I could make out four pairs of rough cowhide boots, shuffling from one position to another, and Marlowe’s slippered feet. Of them all, only his stood still for a moment.
“Here? Must have come in when I wasn’t looking. Let’s see, now—sitting here reading, facing east.”
“There’s another door. Have a look, Ben,” said Muller to one of his friends. “You’re pretty funny, aren’t you, Marlowe? Too good for us Saints, hey?”
“Not good enough for some, too good for others,” said the young man in a quiet, different voice.
“What do you mean by that?” I could see a pair of boots come forward two paces until they nearly touched the slippers.
“Nobody’s out here. It’s a hallway,” cried Ben. “Give his nose a pull, and let’s get along.”
“The Council’s just ruled that the girl and old blubber-bag are unsealed. She’s going to me. Tell your doctor that, you interfering priss.”
“One moment,” said Marlowe. “Who are you talking about?”
“Innocent, hey? You know well enough. You’d help them, too, if you was able. Ox-belly, and that big-titty cod-tease he stole.”
“You mean the fellow who put that splint on your jaw?”
There was the sound of a very hard slap, then a silence broken only by a coarse chuckle from one of Muller’s friends.
“That may turn out to be the very worst mistake you ever made in your coward’s life, friend brewer,” said Marlowe, sounding perfectly happy and cheerful.
Muller evidently thought he’d gone too far, for he said, “Come on, let’s get out—we’ve got things to do.”
When the door slammed, Marlowe snapped the lock and came hopping back. “Up you go, out in the hall, down through the store. Watch close, we can’t have a ruckus now. Everything depends on it. Hold on, that door’s locked with a key downstairs.”
“Aha!” cried my father, digging in his pocket. “I’ve got the key.”
“Splendid. Take it slow down inside stair. No one home-Thomas in church. Hole up till nobody’s in sight on the street.”
“Tonight?” said my father.
“Bundle up and wait with lights out.”
“Most grateful—” began my father, only to be cut off again.
“Enough. No time for talk. Action, remember?”
We tiptoed down into the dark, gloomy store, which could have had an enemy in the shadows behind every box and barrel, and took up a position peering out from under the drawn shades.
“Come to think of it, I’ve got three dollars due in wages,” said my father. “I’ll just square the account,” and he crossed the room to lift down a handsome new revolving pistol that came in only the week before. It was in a leather holster, on a cartridge belt, and this last he filled all around, then dumped two additional boxes in his pocket. Strapped on, the gun made no noticeable bulge under his coat. This was handy, for our other pistols were ruined in the firing of Kissel’s wagon. Just the same, I spoke up; I couldn’t help it.
“Father, doesn’t that add up to more than three dollars?”
“It works out exactly right,” he said. “Three dollars plus the Christmas bonus the old skinflint promised but failed to deliver when the time came. No, it’s right on the amount, lacking a few cents, which we can easily settle. Have a piece of candy, son.” And he held out a big glass jar.
The Travels of Jaimie McPheeters (Arbor House Library of Contemporary Americana) Page 37