Judith of the Godless Valley Part 48

The preacher bit his knuckles and took a turn or two up and down the cabin. Douglas noted with a little sense of pity the extreme thinness of the rounded shoulders under the denim jumper. Douglas dished the bacon and put a loaf of Mary's bread beside the fried potatoes.

"Show us that our souls go marching on like old John Brown's," said the young man, persuasively, "and you'll have all Lost Chief eating out of your hand."

"You talk of faith," cried Fowler impatiently, "as if it were a problem in algebra."

Douglas hesitated. "Maybe I do." His voice suddenly trembled.

Fowler paused as he was about to seat himself at the table. "I hear a horse!" he said.

Douglas went to the door.

"It's just me!" called Grandma Brown's voice. "Come and help me down. I was up to see your mother this afternoon," she went on as Douglas helped her dismount, "and I thought I'd come along up and have a visit with the preacher."

"That's fine!" exclaimed Douglas. "Come in, Grandma. We're just drawing up to the table."

"Good," sighed the old lady; "I'm half starved. Howdy, Mr. Fowler!

Haven't had enough of Lost Chief yet, huh?"

The preacher rose and shook hands. "Not yet, Mrs. Brown! Will you draw up?"

The old lady plumped down at the table and Douglas, loaded her plate and poured her a cup of coffee. "The older folks," she said abruptly, "won't make you any trouble. Charleton Falkner and some of his pals will be smarty, but the young fry will sure try to break up every meeting you have."

"The modern youngster is pretty rough!" sighed the preacher.

"Here in Lost Chief," agreed Grandma promptly, "they are the most rough-and-tumble, catch-as-catch-can batch of young coyotes that ever lived. They don't respect G.o.d, man, nor the devil. And why should they?

That's educated into children, not born into them."

"How do you feel about my coming back, Mrs. Brown?" asked Fowler.

Grandma hesitated; then she said, "I'm too old to be polite, James Fowler. I'm a religious woman, myself, and I've often said we'd ought to have a church in Lost Chief. But it isn't men like you can start a church here. You are too religious and too goody-goody."

The preacher winced. Douglas came to his rescue. "We're going to show Lost Chief that he's not goody-goody."

Grandma shook her head. "I wish you luck, but, with all the nerve in the world, you can't preach to them that won't hear."

"Do you know what deviltry they've planned for to-morrow?" asked Douglas.

Grandma shook her head. "All I know is, Scott Parsons is the leader. He sees a chance to get back at you."

Douglas finished his bacon thoughtfully. "All right," he said finally; "let 'em come. I'm waiting."

"Well," said Grandma briskly, "I didn't come up here to give advice. I wanted a gossip with an old-timer. Mr. Fowler, you was up in Mountain City when that Black Sioux outbreak took place. Did you know Emmy Blake, she that was stolen by old Red Feather?"

"Yes," replied Fowler, with a sudden clearing of his somber face. "I saw her when--" and he plunged into a tale that, matched by one from Grandma, consumed the evening.

At nine o'clock the old lady rose.

"I'll ride down the trail with you," said Douglas.

"You fool!" sniffed the old lady. "Since when have folks begun nursing me over these trails?"

"That's not the point," returned Doug. "I want to see Peter."

"Well, come along, then," conceded Grandma. She pulled on her mackinaw and b.u.t.toned it. The nights were very cold.

The next morning, a placard on the post-office door announced to Lost Chief that a meeting would be held in the log chapel on Sunday at two o'clock; and by that hour every soul in Lost Chief capable of moving was packed into the little cabin.

After his talk with Peter, Douglas had changed his program. The postmaster, not the preacher, sat at the table. He wore a black coat over a blue flannel s.h.i.+rt, a coat that Lost Chief never saw except at funerals or weddings. His denim pants were turned up with a deep cuff over his riding-boots. The preacher sat on a chair, just below the platform. Douglas occupied a rear pew where he could keep an eye on Scott Parsons. There was very little talking among the members of the congregation, but much spitting of tobacco juice into the red-hot stove.

Promptly at two o'clock, Peter rose and cleared his throat. "Well, folks, Douglas says he's trying to put into practice some of the stuff I've been preaching to him. So I suppose I'm to blame for this meeting.

Now, there isn't anybody can accuse me of being religious."

"A fourth-cla.s.s postmaster couldn't be religious," remarked Charleton Falkner.

"They always go crazy about the second year of office," volunteered John Spencer.

Everybody laughed, even Peter. Then he went on:

"So when I say I'm going to back Doug up in this experiment you none of you can say it's because I'm pious. It's because I think Lost Chief ought to have a church to help the young people decide the right and wrong of things."

"How come, Peter?" demanded Jimmy Day. "Ain't the young folks round here pleasing to your bachelor eye?"

"To my eye, yes!" answered the postmaster. "Best-looking crowd I ever saw. But to my mind, no! And there isn't one of you over fifteen who doesn't know what I mean when I say it. Now, Doug's idea seems sensible enough to me. He says he'd be happier if he could believe in a life after death. He says if any preacher can prove to him that the soul is immortal, he is willing to play the game so as to win that future if it is proved that you have to follow rules to win it. Folks, if there is anything sissy about that, I'd like to have one of you rear up and say so."

"There isn't a preacher in the world can prove that," said Mrs. Falkner.

"If there was, he'd be greater than Christ."

"Didn't Christ prove it?" cried Mr. Fowler quickly.

"No!" replied Mrs. Falkner. "He believed it Himself and He lived like He believed it, but He didn't prove it."

Fowler jumped to his feet. "He proved it over and over; by fulfilling the prophecies, by the miracles He performed and by returning after death."

"How do you know He returned after death?" asked Mrs. Falkner.

"The Bible says so."

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Mrs. Falkner. "The Bible is just history, most of it hearsay. And I read in the _Atlantic_ the other day that Napoleon said that history was just a lie agreed upon."

"This is blasphemy!" shouted Mr. Fowler. "This is--"

"Wait!" Peter interrupted with a firm hand. "Every one is to say what they decently please. You'll never get anywhere in this valley, if you show yourself shocked by anything anybody says."

"I don't want to shock the preacher, Peter,"--Mrs. Falkner's beautiful face was wistful--"I'd like to have his faith. I sure-gawd would! But! I just want to make him see that to folks like us in Lost Chief who read and think and look at these hills a lot, the Bible never could prove a hereafter to us."

"But the Bible is the inspired word of G.o.d," insisted Fowler.

"Who says so?" asked Mrs. Falkner.