Authors: Judith Pella
At last she let her voice cut through the chatter like a knife through cake. “He should be here in two months, maybe sooner.”
“What? You knew?” Emma Jean asked, as though realizing just how much she had fallen from the inner circle of things.
“Of course, Emma Jean. Calvin is the chairman of the board of deacons. The letter from the denomination came two days ago.”
“What else do you know about him, Ada?” Jane asked.
“Yes, tell us everything,” Polly said.
Ada refrained from looking at Florence but knew the woman was staring, slack-jawed. Nevertheless, Ada didn’t want to be the sort of person to feel triumph at another’s fall. “Well, his name is Reverend William L ocklin, and he’s from Oak Hollow, Maine.”
“Why, that’s not a hundred miles from my hometown!”
Mary exclaimed.
Many of the settlers of Maintown were from Maine, thus the name of the little settlement, though the post office had erred and dropped the
e
when giving the official name. Still, Ada had never heard of the town in Maine, but Mary was not from the same region of the state that many of the local settlers had come from.
“Does he have a family?” Emma Jean asked.
“No, he’s a single man,” Ada replied. “Fresh out of seminary to boot.” She paused to let this best bit of information sink in. She could almost see a light go on in the eyes of the ladies with marriageable daughters. Who wouldn’t want a minister for a son-in-law?
“I suppose he will be living near one of the other churches?”
Hilda asked. She had a twenty-two-year-old daughter who was getting uncomfortably close to becoming an old maid.
“As a matter of fact,” Ada replied, “Calvin has gone over to the Copelands’ to inquire if the pastor can board there.”Everyone knew that the Copelands, the oldest and one of the most affluent families in the settlement, had the largest house in Maintown. And since their children had all grown and moved on, their house was often used as a boardinghouse.
“He will live in our community, then,” said Hilda.
The honor of this wasn’t lost on them because the last two circuit riders had settled closer to the other churches. There were only four churches in the circuit—at Deer I sland and Columbia City, which were close together, and at Maintown and Bachelor Flat, neighboring hamlets a two-day ride from the other two. But since Deer I sland and Columbia City were closer to the larger town of St. Helens, the ministers always preferred to live in that area.I t also meant that those two churches got an extra Sunday service. This time Calvin had lobbied for Maintown and won.
The women discussed what it would mean having the pastor boarding in their town, and several suggestions were made of ways to make the man feel at home. They would all, of course, open their homes to him for meals. He might tire of Ursula Copeland’s cooking, and besides, the woman was getting up in years and refused to take in help, so no doubt she would welcome the break.
“I have a wonderful idea,” said Florence, speaking for the first time since she had lost control over events. “Let’s make him a welcome quilt!”
“That’s an excellent idea!”
“But do we have time?”
“What pattern shall we use?”
Now Florence seemed to have all the answers. She must have been thinking of this all along, though she made it sound as if the idea had just struck her. “It should be a sampler. Each family should make a block, perhaps something to capture that particular family’s identity.”
“We’ll have to involve other quilters on the circuit to get enough blocks,”Louise said.
“That would make it too complicated and take too long,” Florence replied. “Each of our families can make two blocks. That should be enough.”
“That’s all right for you, Florence. You have a daughter to help and a sewing machine,”L ouise said. “My children are little and can’t help. I don’t think I’d have time to make two blocks.”
Ada thought she’d have time if she did something simple, but of course she’d want to do something special. “I’ve got two daughters who are excellent quilters.” Ada knew that was stretching the truth a bit because Maggie hardly knew one end of a needle from the other, but she could sew a fairly straight seam. “We can do three blocks.”
“This reminds me of something that happened in my hometown when I was a girl,” Emma Jean said. “We got a new, unmarried pastor, and all the young women decided to make him a quilt with the intent—don’t you know?—of impressing him with their handiwork so that one might win his heart.”
“Did you win his heart, Emma Jean?” asked Jane.
“Well, I’m not married to a minister, am I ?” she replied testily. “Back then I was not nearly the accomplished quilter that I have become.”
It seemed as if all the ladies in the group with young marriageable daughters concentrated especially hard on their fingers, which were still busy with the quilting, refusing to catch anyone’s eyes. Ada wondered why they just couldn’t be honest about it. There were at least two men to one female in the county, especially if you counted the men who came seasonally to the lumber camps. No girl, not even Hilda’s homely daughter, should have too much trouble finding a man. But what Christian girl doesn’t dream of becoming a pastor’s wife? Ada knew she’d be pleased right down to her toes if Ellie won the heart of the new reverend.
Zack Hartley was not a man to reflect often on the state of his life, and as a fist slammed into his ribs, he sure wasn’t about to start now. But he did have to wonder how his sorry self could get into so many messy scrapes.
Slam! A fist made contact with his person again.
He struggled hard against the second man who held him.
“No one welshes on a loan from me, Hartley,” said yet a third man in the dark alley down by Portland’s waterfront.
“I . . . tell . . . you . . . it ain’t my fault!” Zack grunted, though he knew the words were lame and Beau Cutter, boss of one of the town’s crime rings, wasn’t really listening. Zack was going to die in this alley, or at least get a few bones broken, and all because of a woman.
“Ain’t he cute?” Cutter sneered.
“Let’s finish him off, boss, and get outta here before—” Ron Sinclair, Cutter’s right-hand man was suddenly cut off as a shout came from the end of the alley.
“Hey! What’s going on down there?” someone yelled.
“Mind your business,” Sinclair shouted back.
“This is my alley, so it is my business, and I’m’m sick of you hoodlums causing trouble.”
Zack thought the fool was coming into the alley.
Crack!
A gunshot burst through the night air. The shot nearly parted Zack’s hair, though he thought it had been fired into the air, not specifically at him.
Sinclair and Cutter hit the cobbles of the alley. The fellow holding Zack did not let go of his captive but swung him around as a shield. Zack could vaguely see Cutter and Sinclair scramble on hands and knees toward the passerby.
Everything started happening fast. Zack struggled against his captor. The other two hoodlums were tussling with the fool passerby. Zack heard a clank of metal—the gun falling from the stranger’s hand onto the cobbled alley. Zack saw a flash of metal. Maybe he could get to it if he could break away. But his arms were held fast. Only one part of his body was free, and since he was a man who had lived by his wits all his life, though some argued he had but few, he knew what he had to do.
With all his might he slammed the back of his head into his captor’s nose. He heard a crack and hoped he had broken the cretin’s nose, but at least he caused enough pain for the man to loosen his grip so that Zack was able to break free. Jerking quickly to his right and in the same motion dropping to the ground, his hand made contact with the gun.
Maybe his luck was finally changing.
He heard a few grunts from the other struggle. Then there was a hard thud, and the sounds of struggle suddenly faded.
Before anyone had a chance to regroup, Zack fired a shot into the air to get their attention, then leveled his aim at Cutter. “Okay, Cutter,” he warned. “The next shot is for you. Call your boys to heel.”
“You heard him, boys,” Cutter said.
Sinclair moved cautiously to where his boss was now standing. The man who had held Zack also struggled to his feet and hobbled in that direction.I n the moonlit alley Zack could see blood dripping down from the nose of his captor.
“Throw down your weapons,” Zack said. Vaguely he thought about the passerby, but since he’d heard no more from that one, he thought the fellow was unconscious from the scuffle.
When he heard the sound of a couple guns and knives hitting the cobbles, he added, “Look, Cutter, I’m’m going to get you your money back, but you know as well as I that I can’t do it if I’m dead.I need two days. I ain’t no welsher.”
“What can I say? You’re holding the gun.”
Zack wanted a more formal agreement. He didn’t want this scoundrel hunting him down again when maybe no one would be around to save him.
“Just say you’ll agree to give me time.” Even holding a gun aimed at the man’s head, Zack didn’t feel much in control. He began backing up to get closer to the alley entrance in case these blackguards realized he wasn’t as tough as he was trying to sound.
“I thought some harpy cleaned you out,” Cutter said, “so how you ever gonna produce that kind of dough again? That’s one hundred dollars.I bet you never seen that kind of money before.”
“I’ll get it. Don’t worry.” Zack took another step back.
“Two days, Hartley, then you’re gonna pay, one way or another.”
Zack felt his boot brush something, and before he realized what it was, he stumbled over the obstacle—the body of the fallen passerby! He wobbled like one of those spinning tops he’d played with as a kid. He swung his arms to control himself, and forgetting about the gun in his right hand, his fingers twitched, and the weapon fired.
He heard a yell. He’d hit someone!
“Ronny! Ronny!” Cutter’s voice.
Oh, man! He’d shot Cutter’s second-in-command!
Somehow Zack regained his balance, managed to clear the body, and was racing toward the alley entrance when he heard Cutter shout again, “You’re a dead man, Hartley! After him!”
Late at night the waterfront district wasn’t exactly teeming with people, but a running man was still apt to draw attention— even more, a man running and waving a pistol. Zack wanted to throw the thing away but knew he had to hang on to it so long as Cutter and his boys were after him. He’d never much liked guns and seldom used them. He’d never shot a man before. Had he really killed Sinclair? The idea sickened him, despite the fact that the man was a dirty lowlife. But he couldn’t think about that now, not when he could hear pursuit loudly behind him.
He turned a corner, hoping to lose them, but could still hear the pounding of boots on the street. What would he do if the police turned up now? Maybe they’d let him go in the interest of getting a bigger fish like Cutter. Maybe the cops would pinch all of them and throw them all in the calaboose. Cutter would get off because he could afford a lawyer, while Zack would rot.
Zack ran down so many streets that he soon became confused, but when he paused a moment for breath, he could no longer hear the sound of pursuing feet. Had they given up? More likely they were so sure they’d find him that they didn’t have to chase him. They knew he had no place to hide. He knew few people in this town and fewer still who would lift a finger to help him. He’d met Darla at the Three Aces Saloon on Front Street just after arriving by stage from Seattle a couple of weeks ago. He was a drifter, and as he had in Seattle, he stayed in a place only until he became bored or got into trouble, which was usually long before it ever became like home. He’d known no real home since he ran away from his ma’s place in Kansas when he was twelve years old. His mother, a widow, had remarried a fellow who brought three of his children—spoiled brats, the lot of them!—into the house. Zack’s new stepfather thought Zack’s only use was to wait on the other kids hand and foot. Ma didn’t stand up to the man because she needed to be taken care of, even if it meant sacrificing her son. At first Zack was too young to do anything about it, but by age twelve he’d taken all he could, so he lit out on his own.
One thing and another brought him west. He’d been up and down the Pacific Coast from Ensenada, Mexico, to Alaska, chasing one get-rich scheme or another or just wandering. He had acquired a pair of very itchy feet.
What was he going to do now? He sure as shootin’ didn’t have any money, maybe two bits at the most. Back at his room in the cheap hotel where he was staying he had a couple bucks, but Cutter knew the place, so he couldn’t go back there.
He sure couldn’t expect any help from Darla now that she had found someone else. How could he have been fool enough to trust her? He wasn’t a greenhorn kid anymore. He’d been around. He was twenty-four, not twelve. But all she’d had to do was blink those pretty blue eyes of hers, toss those silky brown locks, and shimmy in that fancy silk dress, and he was lost. He should have known better than to get involved with a saloon girl.
When he had arrived in Portland, he’d had some money from working for a Seattle boss named Duncan Falk, who was mostly a hoodlum. But the man also had several lucrative legitimate enterprises, and Zack collected “protection” money from local businesses, making a healthy percentage in return. It was one of the best-paying jobs he’d ever had. Then one of the businessmen failed to make his payments a couple of times and Falk ordered Zack to “teach the man a lesson,” not unlike the lesson Cutter had just tried to teach Zack in the alley. Zack had no stomach for breaking a fellow’s legs, so he hightailed it out of town. You didn’t just quit working for men like Falk; you either disappeared or you ended up dead. But he’d been able to leave Seattle with his belongings and several hundred dollars in his pocket.
He got as far as Portland, met Darla, and decided to stick around awhile. But Darla had expensive tastes. I t wasn’t long before Zack had spent most of his cash on her. That’s when he decided to try his hand at poker in order to beef up his stash. And that’s what forced him to borrow the money from Cutter. The irony was that the minute he started losing at poker, Darla promptly found another fellow.