XLVII.
Julie Weber stepped out of the church into the late-morning air. The sun had proudly positioned itself in the heavens at an angle to cast yellow and gold beams that kissed Julie’s neck and arms with precisely the right temperature to make her smile and say a silent prayer of gratitude.
The congregation members who had walked out in front of her had gathered into small groups, everyone talking at once, each trying to speak above the others, so that the scene reminded Julie of vigorously clucking chickens at feeding time.
Ever so faintly she heard Reverend Wilcox behind her speaking to Parson Blane. “How’s the book going?”
“Oh, it’s coming along, Reverend. I have several pages of the first draft written, and I’m enjoying the work immensely.”
“Since you’re on sabbatical, Parson, I suppose I should refrain from inviting you to deliver a sermon. Nevertheless, would you consider speaking in perhaps a month?”
“I’m always at your disposal, Reverend.”
“Good, my son. I’ll let you know the details next Sunday.”
“All right, Reverend.”
Their voices trailed off and Julie pictured in her mind the tall, ruggedly handsome Parson Blane stepping across the threshold into the open air. She turned around, and, for an ever-so-fleeting moment, privately gazed upon the man who had kept her heart astir from the first time she had seen him. When he glanced up at her, he smiled.
Julie smiled too. “Hello, Parson Blane. I’m Julie Weber. I know you know my name already, but we’ve never been introduced.”
“Yes ma’am, I know your name. Good morning to you.”
“Beautiful day, isn’t it?”
Blane glanced around and then looked up to see wispy white clouds drifting high in the sky to the west. He nodded. “Certainly is, Miss Weber. The Lord is surely smiling on us today.”
“I couldn’t help but overhear that you’re writing a book. May I ask what kind of book it is?”
“Some of the congregation members asked me to write a treatise on the Book of St. Luke.”
“Oh how interesting! I particularly love that book, because Luke seems to give the most details of all the gospel writers. How’s your treatise coming along?”
“It’s coming along.” He glanced into her eyes. “A bit slow, but it’s coming along.”
Julie bowed her head. “If you wouldn’t think me forward, perhaps I could offer to help.”
“Oh, are you a writer, Miss Weber?”
“No, Parson. But I do happen to know a bit about publishing. My Uncle Otto in Philadelphia is quite a successful publisher. I grew up around the business. And then too, my major in college was English.”
“Well, I certainly could use help with grammar and spelling.”
“I could do that, no problem. You don’t have an editor already, do you?”
“An editor? No, Miss Weber, I’m afraid the project is not that sophisticated. It’s just me scribbling on paper.”
Julie pressed her fingertips to her lips and giggled. “You’re so modest. I’m sure it’s more than that.”
A voice called out, “Oh, Sam, there you are.” Julie glanced around to see Faye Spencer hurrying toward the two of them. Faye walked up to Blane and placed her hand on his arm. “Oh, hello Julie,” she said coolly. “Sam, I want to ask if you’re free Tuesday evening. I’d like you to come to dinner.”
Blane glanced at Julie and tipped his hat. “Would you excuse us, Miss Weber?”
“Of course.”
Blane turned and walked a few steps away with Faye. “Faye, I’ve mentioned this to you before. I’m not interested in seeing you socially.”
“Why not? You’re not telling me you’re infatuated with that new school teacher, are you?”
“You can be quite vicious when you want to be, Faye. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“It’s only a late dinner. Just you and me, Sam.”
“That’s another thing. I don’t think it’s wise for you to call me Sam when everyone else calls me Parson. I mean, the familiarity of it. People might get the wrong impression.”
“Oh Sam. We’ve been through so much together. It would seem odd to me to begin calling you Parson Blane again.”
“All the same, I must insist.”
“My, you seem so standoffish today. Is something bothering you? Do you feel well?”
“I feel fine—”
“Parson Blane?” Deputy Mitchell had walked up behind them. “Excuse me, Parson. Are you busy? I’d like to talk to you a minute.”
“Sam,” Faye said, “I’ll leave you two to talk. Can I expect you for dinner on Tuesday?”
“No,” Blane said, exasperated.
“Well, all right. Another time perhaps.” She stood, looking up at Blane, expecting a reply. But he said nothing. Finally she turned. “Well, okay. We’ll just have to make it another time.”
Blane turned to Mitchell. As he did, he glanced in Julie’s direction. She had turned and he watched her walking away.
“Parson?”
“Yes, what is it?” Blane said, still watching Julie.
Mitchell followed Blane’s gaze and saw the young school teacher. “Pretty girl, isn’t she.”
Blane glanced back at Mitchell. “What can I do for you, Deputy?”
“That’s the trouble. I’m not the deputy right now. Marshal Hickok suspended me. I’d like you to talk to him so I can get my job back.”
“Tell you what, Deputy…or should I call you…what is your first name anyway?”
“It’s Bob, but just keep calling me Deputy. I’ll have my job back before long.”
“All right, Deputy. Tell you what. I’m heading over to the café for breakfast. Why don’t you come along, and you can tell me what happened.”
“Oh, Parson, you know me well enough. Can’t you just talk to Marshal Hickok and ask him to give me my job back?”
“Well, Deputy, if Marshal Hickok suspended you, I’m believing he had a reason. He’s a seasoned lawman who commands a lot of respect. It would be presumptuous of me to ask him to reverse a decision he made in the line of duty.”
“Aw, come on, Parson. Marshal Hickok thinks a lot of you. If you would just ask him to give me my job back, it would carry a lot of weight.”
“No, my friend. I think it’s better I don’t get involved. Sorry, Deputy. You’re gonna have to talk to the marshal yourself.”
Blane patted the lad on the shoulder and then turned.
“All right, Parson. I’ll tell you what happened.”
Blane stopped and thought for a moment. Then he turned back to the young man. “If you have something troubling you, I’ll listen to what you have to say. But you must understand I’m not obligating myself to talk to the marshal for you.”
Mitchell glanced down. “Okay. I’ll go to the café with you. After you hear what happened, you might decide to talk to Hickok for me.”
XLVIII.
The waitress had already poured fresh coffee for Blane and Mitchell. When she returned to the table, she asked, “Whatcha having, Parson?”
“Two eggs over easy and a steak.” Blane glanced at Mitchell. “Order what you want, Deputy. It’s on me.”
“I’ll take the same.”
The waitress jotted on the pad she held. “Comin’ right up.”
Blane stirred the coffee into which he had placed a small amount of honey. Then he looked up at Mitchell. “Okay, tell me what happened.”
“It all started when that Texas Ranger came to town. You know, Abe Jackson. He got the drop on me. Marshal Hickok said my ‘attitude’ is all wrong and then he suspended me. I’m supposed to see him in the office tomorrow. He said he’d reinstate me if my attitude has changed. But you know Hickok. He can be finicky. He just might keep me suspended for a while. Heck, there’s nothin’ wrong with my attitude!”
“Sounds like Marshal Hickok feels responsible for your safety. When he heard that Jackson got the drop on you, he must have become angry or scared that you could have been killed. I suppose the marshal thinks you’ve got the kind of attitude that can get you into bigger trouble than you can handle.”
“That’s baloney! Outside of Hickok himself, I’m the fastest man with a gun in the territory. I thought you knew that.”
“I’m sure there’s more to being a good lawman than being fast with a gun.”
“Like what?”
“From what you’ve said, your problem doesn’t have to do with how you handle a gun. It has to do with the idea that, because you wear a badge, you feel superior to those who don’t.”
Mitchell looked up at Blane. “I didn’t come here to be insulted, Parson.”
“I’m sorry. Perhaps I was too blunt. I didn’t mean—”
Mitchell stood up abruptly. “I came here because I thought you could help me get my job back. I can see now you don’t understand at all.”
“Wait, Deputy.”
“No thanks, Parson. Eat your breakfast alone!”
Blane watched Mitchell stomp to the counter and call to the cook through the serving window, “Cancel my order. I’m leaving.” Then he walked past Blane without a glance and out of the café.
The waitress came up to the table. “What was that about?”
Blane glanced into her eyes. “Sometimes the truth hurts.”
XLIX.
Julie was glad when the morning rays of the sun penetrated her window. Anticipating her first day of teaching school, she had slept little during the night, even though she had taken a relaxing bath before going to bed.
Her goal of becoming a school teacher had developed early in her youth. Sitting in a small classroom when she was ten years old, she had realized how very much she loved to improve her mind and to acquire new ideas. The books she read, for example, fired her imagination with people she had never met and places she had never visited. Through grand narratives, however, which
illuminated her mind with stories and descriptions that titillated her senses, she gained enjoyment and knowledge second only to direct experience.
If books were the key to unlocking the imagination, then reading was the key to unlocking books. With respect to a life goal, the next logical step, Julie figured, would be to dedicate herself to teaching children to read. Before she had turned eleven years old, she had decided, therefore, to become a teacher.
Through the rest of her school years, she carefully studied each of her instructors, noticing their methods and means of imparting knowledge. As she matured, her life goal evolved from the idea of merely teaching children to read to advocating the importance of one’s entire formal education.
After she was graduated from high school, she attended a teacher’s college in Philadelphia and received her teaching certificate. And now, finally, after all the years of preparation and anticipation, she had acquired her first teaching assignment—in a dusty rough-and-tumble town on the American frontier. Today was the first day of her teaching career, and, as she hurried down the stairs, she felt like she would burst from sheer enthusiasm.
Before she entered the dining room she stopped and drew in a breath. “Slow down, Julie. Compose yourself. Remember to breathe!”
When she walked into the dining room, all the boarders were already seated. Tim Barlow, a clerk at Hazlett’s General store, sat erect in the chair across from hers. He glanced up and smiled.
Gus Schmidt, the potbellied carpenter, was sipping coffee from an oversized cup.
Zeke Borland, the oldest of the boarders, was speaking to Mrs. Pemberton, who despite her efforts to appear interested, seemed to Julie to be listening only out of courtesy. Finally, Leo Moretti, who tended bar at the Alamo Saloon, was stoic as usual, staring ahead, fixated on a distant point in space.
Mrs. Pemberton, grateful that Julie’s entrance had broken the maddening spell that had caused her to endure the pointless story in which Borland had persisted, said, “Good morning, Julie.” Then to prompt speech by someone other than Borland, she asked, “Well dear, today’s the big day for you, isn’t it?”
Julie smiled as she walked to her chair, “Yes it is, Mrs. Pemberton.”
Borland, realizing he had lost his audience of one, looked over. “Oh, what’s going on today that’s so big about it?”
Mrs. Pemberton turned to Borland, “It’s Julie’s first day of teaching school.”
Borland paused for what seemed like an eternity, which he was wont to do, “Oh, that’s nice.”
“Now, you be firm with those children,” Mrs. Pemberton said. “There must be discipline and order in a classroom
before it’s a fit place to learn. Don’t hesitate to lay down the law right away.”
“That’s right, Julie,” Borland added. “Show ‘em who’s boss.”
“Well,” Julie said, “if they challenge me, I’ll pick one student and make an example of him. That’s what they taught us in the education classes I took in college.”
“Oh, have no doubt,” Mrs. Pemberton said, “the students will challenge you soon enough. It’s the nature of children to find out where the line is drawn. Even then, you may find one who tries to step across it from time to time. Strict but fair, that’s how a teacher should be.”
“I’ll try my hardest, Mrs. Pemberton.”
L.
At half past eight, Julie sat down in the chair behind the small teacher’s desk. She had already walked around the room, aligning the student desks in perfectly straight rows. The smell of mildew was gone, having been washed away two days prior when she and Charli had thoroughly scrubbed the room with soap and water. The floor had remained damp only in a few scattered spots, but every speck of dust was gone.
With a half hour to spare before school was to begin, Julie reviewed her lesson plans. From the numerous books on her desk, she withdrew the history book and turned to the section on the Declaration of Independence. She would begin the class with an introduction to the founding of the United States.
Her gaze fell upon the preamble of the Declaration:
We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness....
“What noble and inspiring words!” she thought. “Yes, the children must be taught about their own wonderful nation that was created upon those sacred ideas.”
The schoolroom was quiet except for the slight creak of her chair whenever she shifted her position. Only ten more minutes, and the children would be filing into the classroom.
She bowed her head and prayed. She thanked God Almighty, through Jesus Christ, for the awesome responsibility to help shape the minds of children, whom she hoped would one day grow up to be leaders in their fields. Then she solemnly asked for guidance, patience, and strength on this, her first day of teaching.
When she raised her head and opened her eyes, the time was precisely nine o’clock.
LI.
The door to the marshal’s office squeaked as it opened. Marshal James Butler Hickok looked up to see Mitchell stick his head in. “Jim?”
“Yes, Mitchell, come in.”
Mitchell stepped in and walked to the desk. “I’m sorry for what happened, Marshal.”
“I’d like to believe that, Mitchell. But my guess is that you’re sorry you lost your badge, not so much sorry for what caused you to lose it.”
“What’s the difference?”
“That’s just it. You don’t know.”
“You mean, because that Texas Ranger outdrew me? Look, Jim, he caught me by surprise, that’s all.”
Hickok looked into the lad’s eyes and slowly shook his head.
“What?”
“How many times have I told you that being a lawman has nothing to do with how fast you are with a gun?”
“What then?”
“You’ve been with me for over a year, and you still have no idea. Look, Bob, I know life has been tough on you. Your father died when you were young, and you’ve had to look after your mother and sister for all these years. When your mother came to me and asked if I could give you a job, she made me promise I’d watch out for you. I knew the job would mean a regular income for you and your family―something to put food on the table. I also thought I could teach you the business of being a lawman. But I guess some men aren’t cut out to wear a badge.”
“What are you talking about, Jim? I’ve done fine, except for that one time with the Ranger.”
“It only takes one time, Bob.” Hickok leaned forward and put his elbows on the desk. “If something ever happened to you, son, while you were wearing a badge, I’d regret it for the rest of my life. And I don’t know how I could ever face your mother again. I think it’s best we end this now, before you wind up in an early grave.”
“Aw, Jim, come on.”
“No, Bob, I’ve made up my mind.”
“You mean you’re firing me for good?”
“That’s right, Bob. I’m sorry.”
“Well, you no-good coyote! You never did plan on giving me my badge back, did ya?”
“I told you it depended on our talk today. You’ve convinced me you’re not cut out for the job.”
“Why? What did I do wrong?”
“When you find that out, come back and we’ll talk again. Good luck to you, Bob. Oh, and one more thing. Be careful about who you’re calling names. I’ll let it go this time, but don’t let it happen again.”
LII.
The time for school to start came and went. At quarter after nine, Julie stood up and walked to the door. When she stepped out, she peered down the dusty road leading into the heart of town. No one was on the road.
She felt a sinking feeling in her stomach.
She walked a few steps and sat down on a stump, all the while watching the road. She heard the call of an eagle overhead and saw the wind kick up a small dust devil on the road. Before long she cupped her face with her hands and sobbed.
After a time she stood up and blotted her eyes with her handkerchief. Slumped like a whipped dog, she walked back into the schoolhouse. She sat down at the desk. For several long minutes, she noticed her train of thought. It was all negative. Had she been wrong to come to this God-forsaken land of endless plains and to a town with crooked wooden buildings and dust so thick she could taste it?
Well, no one could say she had not been warned. Her mother had pleaded with her to stay in the East, close to the security of home. Her father had placed his arm around her and asked her to stay. It was the only time she had ever seen tears in his eyes.
“God-forsaken”? She recalled that those were the words of the man on the stage she had ridden to Abilene. Curtly, she had informed him that God could indeed be found in this brutal land, if one only looked at it in the right way. But now, God seemed far, far away. Had anyone else, ever, felt so very alone?
She reached down and closed the history book. She also closed her book of lesson plans. Then she picked up all of the books on her desk, one by one, and placed them in a stack, which she pushed to one side.
Again she felt tears well up. What good is a teacher who has no students? Slowly the minutes passed, each feeling like an hour. Every tick of the clock seemed to pile more weight onto her shoulders. Finally, she placed her arms on the desk and rested her head upon her arms.
Then she wept.
She wept for all the years she had struggled to achieve her goal of becoming a teacher. She wept for every class she had taken, every grade she had been given, and every hour of sleep she had lost to do better. She especially wept for her stubbornness in leaving home, for the long tiring trip to Abilene, and for her belief in the importance of education that not a single person here shared.
She felt defeated, abandoned, and broken.
Sometime during the flood of dark emotions, she slowly, but inevitably, fell asleep, as if only sleep could assuage the overwhelming assault of negativity.
Twenty minutes later, she opened her eyes. The classroom was utterly silent and deathly still. She raised her head from the desk and stood up. Slowly, she walked outside to the pump behind the schoolhouse. She jacked the handle until the water flowed. Then she cupped her hands and reached into the stream. She brought the water up and rinsed her face several times.
When she walked back into the schoolhouse, she sat down at the desk and pulled the Bible out of the stack of books. She spoke aloud. “Holy Father, forgive me for my profane thoughts that somehow you had forsaken me. In your Word, you said you would never leave, or forsake, me, but that you would stick closer than a brother. You are here now, as you’ve always been. In Jesus name, thank you, Father, for that.”
She opened the Bible and thumbed through several pages. Then she turned to the first chapter of the Book of St. Luke. So, this was what Parson Blane was writing about. She leaned back in the chair and began to read.
LIII.
Mitchell was livid when he walked out of the marshal’s office. He walked directly to the Alamo Saloon and swung the bat-wing doors open so forcefully that they slapped the wooden frame on either side.
Leo Moretti was wiping the bar with a clean damp cloth. He looked up with a scowl on his face. “Careful there, son, you’ll knock the hinges off the doors.”
“Give me a drink, Leo.”
“It’s way too early to start serving liquor, Deputy.”
“And don’t call me ‘Deputy’ anymore.”
“Why, what happened?”
“I got fired. That’s what happened! Now, are you gonna give me a drink, or do you want me to jump over there and get it myself?”
Moretti reached under the bar and pulled up a bottle of whiskey. He poured the whiskey into a shot glass and slid the glass to Mitchell.
Mitchell stepped forward and took the bottle from Moretti’s hand.
“Cash on the counter, son.”
Mitchell withdrew the coins from his vest pocket and threw them onto the bar. Then he walked to a table near the back of the room. He had downed several shots before he looked up and noticed a man seated at a table in the rear corner. The man was sipping coffee from a cup.
Mitchell narrowed his eyelids. “You’re the coyote who cost me my job!”
Abe Jackson did not look up. “You talking to me, son?”
“Yes, I’m talking to you, you two-bit Texas Ranger!”
Abe Jackson still did not look up. “I’d appreciate it if you’d keep your voice down.”
“Why? Don’t you want anyone else knowing who you are?” Mitchell said contemptuously.
“That’s right, son.”
“Quit calling me ‘son’!”
Jackson took a sip of coffee.
“Well, you just gonna sit there?”
Jackson did not respond.
“I oughta show you just how fast I am. You caught me by surprise once, but it won’t happen again!”
Jackson turned his head and looked directly into Mitchell’s eyes. “You’re angry. Anger always clouds a man’s judgment. Don’t make a mistake.”
Mitchell poured another shot and downed it in one gulp. Then he slammed the glass onto the table.
Jackson calmly turned back and took another sip of coffee.
LIV.
Marshal Hickok had a rule. Basically, when something troubled him, the rule was to get rid of it. Mitchell had always troubled him. The young deputy was a good worker, no question. But Mitchell had always had the wrong idea about being a lawman.
Hickok had counseled the lad on many occasions and had tried to convince him that the job of a lawman was to uphold the law, which governed the actions of all men equally. Mitchell had always had it backwards. Simply by his attitude, Mitchell showed he believed that, since he wore a deputy’s badge, he, himself, was not bound by the law. Like other lawmen Hickok had known, Mitchell believed he was the law.
Mitchell’s sense of superiority was downright dangerous. Hickok figured that, sooner or later, Mitchell’s failure to grasp the difference between the law and the job to uphold the law would get him into serious trouble. When a man walks around feeling superior, there is always someone who yearns to cut him down to size. And in this untamed land, many men were qualified to do just that.
Mitchell was fast with a gun, no doubt. Hickok had doubts on who was faster, Mitchell or himself. But Hickok was smart enough to avoid a gun battle with someone unknown—unless absolutely necessary. Mitchell, impaired by his pride, had never been that smart. Had Abe Jackson been anyone other than a lawman, Mitchell would already be dead. That thought had scared Hickok back to his senses and had caused him to remember and to enforce his rule. Thus, as hard as it was, Hickok had gotten rid of the troubling Mitchell.
Hickok was mulling over those ideas, as he picked up a broom and began sweeping out the office. Suddenly the door burst open. Moretti, the bartender, yelled, “Mitchell’s been shot!”
TO BE CONTINUED
