Читать книгу Slow Joe - Frederick Schiller Faust - Страница 9

Table of Contents

There was more than one church in the town, but there was only one Reverend Thomas Way. I never knew what he was—Episcopal, Presbyterian, Methodist, or what. It didn’t matter. He was himself, and that was enough.

When I got to the church, I saw a wash cloth grinding in circles on one of the windows. When the drying and polishing cloth had been used, I could see that it was Thomas Way who was doing the work. So I got off, threw the reins, and walked in.

He had his coat off, and a sort of Mother Hubbard apron over his clothes, and his sleeves were rolled up and showed his red flannel undershirt, and he was tackling another window with enthusiasm and muscle that seventy years hadn’t taken out of him. I watched him for a minute. His thin face was always so set that it looked stern, from a little distance. He had to be pretty stern, at that, because he was always fighting so many battles that were not.

Then I went over and spoke to him. He knew me at once. He dried his hand on his apron and gave it to me.

“My dear boy, my dear Joe,” says the good old man. “How happy I am to see you!”

He didn’t look at my clothes. I don’t suppose that he ever saw anything in his life, except eyes and hearts. I was best pleased not to have him look too close at mine.

“What’s the matter with your damned congregation, Mr. Way?” says I. “Can’t it lend you some elbow grease for this sort of work?”

“Mother generally tidies up the place,” says he, “but she’s growing a little rheumatic, now. Besides, I relish an opportunity for exercise. After I’ve finished these windows,”—here he took a look down the remaining half of his job. It’s a funny thing that churches have to be so full of light!—“I’ll have a splendid appetite for supper!” he winds off, very hearty and bright.

“I hope you don’t give it all away,” says I.

“What did you say, Joe?” says he.

“I wanted to talk to you about a bequest for the church,” says I.

“A bequest?” says he. “For the church?”

“And you,” says I.

“My goodness,” says Thomas Way, and takes his glasses off, tries to see me better, claps the glasses back on again, and gives me a hard squint.

I laid six grand in his hand, counting it out. It made a stack, now that it was loose. It fluttered and rattled in his fingers as though a wind were blowing.

“There’s six years,” said I. “Five hundred a year for the church. Five hundred a year for you and your wife. Mind you, you can blow five hundred a year on the poor, out of this money; but if you don’t spend the other five hundred on you and your wife, my friend—”

“Five hundred—a year—on my wife and myself?” cries out Thomas Way. “Joe, Joe, what in the world would we do with so much money?”

“Eat meat once a day and get a doctor when you need one,” I roared at him. I needed to roar. When I saw the trembling of his hand, I didn’t trust myself to talk softly.

“I couldn’t possibly accept—” says he.

“Do you want a dead man to get up out of his grave?” I shouted.

“Dead?” said Thomas Way. “Dead?” says he, with a gentle music in his voice. “God grant him rest and mercy!”

“He’s going to need a lot of granting,” I said. “Lew Ellis is the hombre who sent you this money. Lew Ellis is dead in San Whiskey in a shooting deal. This is his message to you.”

“My poor Lew,” says Thomas Way. “I often saw him with you. He was a bright, beautiful boy, Joe. I think he was once inside my church, too!”

“I’m moving on,” says I. “Good-by, Mr. Way.”

He followed me to the door. He laid a hand on my arm.

“Joe,” says he.

I turned back in the doorway. I wanted to go. I wanted mighty badly to get away. And he stood there before me, hesitating, seeing only my mean eyes, mind you, and the black heart inside of them, till I looked down. He says to me again, in that voice which only good men have:

“Perhaps some day you’ll come to me for a little chat—about old days—my dear boy!”

Well, I got away from him, and fumbled to Brindle, and spurred all the way to the Kicking Mule saloon. There were several reasons why it should wear that name. One of them was the style of red-eye that they pushed across the bar. I elbowed the swinging doors open, put down three shots in a row, spread my elbows on the bar, and looked around.

Fatty Carson was on duty. He had his dimpled fists on his hips and he was chewing a cigar in a corner of his mouth. He never lighted a smoke. He just chewed up cigars, all day long, while a yellow stain crawled around his lips and widened, and widened.

“Nobody changes in Kearneyville, Fatty,” I told him. “You’re only like the rest.”

“Gave up potatoes and bread,” says Fatty. “That’s why I ain’t changed none.”

“Makes you feel better, too, don’t it?” says I.

“No, it makes me feel like hell,” says Fatty. “Have one on the house.”

I said no. I had remembered, in time, that I had a lot of work to do. I had so much that I didn’t know where to begin.

“Glad you’re cutting the stuff out,” said Fatty. “Glad to see a boy that won’t take more than three in three minutes. That’s what I call temperance, practically.”

“Same old Fatty,” says I.

I went over to a corner of the saloon and sat down in a chair. I took off my old spurs and threw them away. I put on the golden spurs of Lew Ellis and stood up. The bells tinkled sweet and small and far away.