"Now the fact is, Jack Shives and I have had many a fight on religious questions. He swears and drinks all he wants to, which I'm bound to say isn't much. He jokes about the church and the preacher and every one that goes to church. He pokes fun at the hymn book and laughs at the Bible and every one that tries to follow it word for word. Jack thinks he's all kinds of an infidel; but he isn't. I have a notion of my own that he's a better Christian than he allows, better than a good many church members I could name. In fact, I believe if the Lord Jesus were to get off at Cedar Mountain from to-morrow's noon train, the first thing he would do would be to go to the post office and say: 'Can you tell me where Jack Shives, the blacksmith, lives? He's a particular friend of mine, he's done a lot of little odd jobs for me and I guess I'll put up at his house while I'm in Cedar Mountain.'"
And so he talked for the allotted time, translating the age-old truth into terms of to-day and personal application. A few of the older folk thought he treated some very serious subjects too lightly; they preferred the sing-song tone so long associated with scripture texts. Others had their doubts as to Jim's theology. His eulogy of the blacksmith was a little too impulsive, but none had any question of the thrilling human interest of his words and the completeness of his hold on every one's attention. It was wholesome, if not orthodox; it drove home with conviction; it made them laugh and cry; and it was a masterpiece of the simple eloquence that was so much his gift and of the humour that was the birthright of his race.
From that day forth the doubtful impressions created by Hartigan's first appearance in the pulpit were wiped out and he was reckoned as a new and very potent force in the community.
CHAPTER XIV
The Lure of the Saddle
One of the needs that Hartigan very soon became aware of in his far-flung pastoral work was that of a good saddle horse. An income of three hundred dollars a year will not maintain very much in the way of a stable, but a horse had to be got, and the idea of looking for one was exceedingly pleasant to him. It needed but the sight and smell of the horse leathers to rouse the old passion bred and fostered in Downey's stable. He loved the saddle, he knew horses as few men did, and had he been ninety pounds lighter he would have made a famous jockey.
For many days he was able to put his mind on nothing else. He eagerly took every chance to visit likely stock; he was never so happy as when he was astride of some mettlesome animal, interpreting its moods as only the born horseman can do, and drawing on the reserves of strength which are closed to all but the expert rider. He responded in every fibre of his great physique to the zest of this renewed experience of a loved and lost stable life, and yet the very passion of his enjoyment appalled him at times for it seemed to be in some sense a disloyalty to the new life he had taken up and to draw him away from it.
In those days there were motley bands of immigrants crossing the plains from the East, making for the Black Hills as an island of promise in the great open sea, and one of these wanderers from far-off Illinois arrived one evening with the usual outfit of prairie schooner, oxen, milch cow, saddle horses, dogs, and children. Calamity had overtaken the caravan. The mother had died; the father was disgusted with the country and everything in it; and his one idea was to sell his outfit and get the children back East, back to school and granny. At the auction, the cattle brought good prices, but no one wanted the horses. They were gaunt and weary, saddle-and spur-galled; one young and the other past middle life. It was the young horse that caught Hartigan's eye. It was rising three, a well-built skeleton, but with a readiness to look alert, a full mane and tail, and a glint of gold on the coat that had a meaning and a message for the horse-wise. The auctioneer was struggling to raise a bid.
"Will any one bid on this fine young colt? All he needs is oats, and a few other things."
A laugh went up, which was just what the auctioneer wanted, for merriment is essential to a successful sale.
"Here now, boys, who will start him at five dollars? And him worth a hundred."
It was too much for Hartigan. He raised his finger to the auctioneer.
"There, now, there's a preacher that knows a horse," he prattled away, but no second offer came, and the colt was knocked down to Hartigan for five greasy dollars.
"A good clean-down is worth a bushel of oats to a horse," is old stable wisdom, "and a deal cheaper," as Hartigan added. Within the hour Blazing Star, as the new owner named him from the star blaze in his forehead, was rubbed and curry-combed as probably he never had been in his life before. He was fed with a little grain and an abundance of prairie hay, his wounds were painted with iodine and his mane was plaited. He was handled from forelock to fetlock and rubbed and massaged like a prizefighter who is out for mighty stakes.
"They are just like humans," Hartigan remarked to the "perchers" at Shives's blacksmith shop. "All they need is kindness and common sense."
Before a month had gone, Hartigan was offered fifty dollars for the colt; and this in a land where twenty-five dollars is the usual price for a saddle horse. In truth, no one would have recognized this fine, spirited young horse as the sorry jade that landed in the town a short four weeks before. But Hartigan, who had a trainer's eye, said to Shives and the "perchers":
"Wait for two months and then you will see something."
And they did. They saw the young Achilles riding down the street on the wonderful chosen steed of all the herd. There were perfectly balanced life and power in every move of both, the eagerness to up and do, the grace of consummate animalism. They had seen many a fine man on a noble horse, but never before had they beheld a picture so satisfying to both eye and heart as that of the Preacher on his five-dollar steed.
Five miles from Cedar Mountain is Fort Ryan and to the south of it a plain, where every year in the first week of July the Indians gather in their tepees and the whites in tents and prairie schooners for a sort of fair, in which are many kinds of sin on the largest scale. Herds of horses are there, and racing is a favourite sport. It was here on the Fourth of July that an Indian on a rough-looking buckskin pony had won, over all the field that year, a purse containing five hundred dollars. The whites, who had their racers set at naught, were ready for almost any scheme that promised them revenge, and they made an ill-favoured and sulky lot as they sat on the shady side of the movable saloon that lingered still on the racing plain. Their eyes were pinched at the corners with gazing at the sunlight, and their ragged beards were like autumn grass. A horseman appeared in the distance, and ambled toward them. This was a common enough sight, but the easy pace was pleasing to the eye, and when he drew near these men of the saddle found a horseman's pleasure in the clean-limbed steed so easily ridden.
"Guess it's the new preacher," said one with a laugh. "He's come down from Cedar Mountain to save us from Hell, as if Hell could be any worse than this."
Hartigan drew up to inquire the direction to a certain cabin and when he learned the way he rode on.
"Looks to me like he would have made a cowboy, if they had ketched him young."
"Do you see that horse? Ain't there some blood there?"
"Yes, there is," said Long Bill, "and it strikes me it is worth following up. Let's have another look."
The group sauntered to where the Preacher was making a call and one of them began: