Trouble with the Harvest

“How many did you bring to the Lord tonight, Brother Isaac?”

“Not so many as I’d hoped, Sister Rebekah.  They were a hard lot, and a sparse lot at that.  The rains came and went too early, so many of the half-hearted and curious never showed up in the usual numbers. Those that did show didn’t get held indoors by the weather.  We had a handful of believers, a few dedicated thumpers, and then a few driven by the devil just to be contrary.  In the end, I had to rush the altar call and the plate, otherwise we’d have ended with too little from either."

“And what was the outcome, brother dear?”

“Only three came forward.”

“Three souls saved. Still … and of the collection?”

“Scarcely seven dollars and fifty.”

“Cash money’s very dear these days.  It doesn’t sound too meager given the size of the crowd.  But still …”

“We’ll have to break tent and move on soon.  This isn’t fertile ground for the Lord, it would seem.”

It had always been good in the cattle towns before, well the last few years anyway.  The growing country needed beeves on the hoof, and needed all the meat those beeves would provide, so the trails were thick with drovers.  Wild men, in from weeks on the trail, would spend nearly all of their money on whiskey and whores, then come up short in the God department and fell thoroughly penitent.

Some who weren’t at all penitent still came in, hoping to bargain with God – “If you could see your way clear to letting me regain some of my squandered pay, Lord, I promise to ~” do something or other sooner or later.  But still, they’d be inclined to put in an ante on their little game, something to sweeten the pot, a little earnest money to try to get God to meet them part way.  

The last were the ones who’d come to rub Jesus’ feet for luck, like those pagan Chinese rubbing the Buddha’s belly.  Such familiarity with the Son of God made Isaac tremble in a visceral rage at times.  

At any rate, with money so tight, what dollars and bits the drovers brought in either went into whiskey and whores or into provisions, with very little for the Lord.

Sister Rebekah fidgeted with her lace coverlet. “I could come to the tent with you, brother.”

“No, Sister Rebekah – you have your own work to be about, your own struggles.”

She tucked her needle, then deftly folded the quilt she was stitching and dropped it into her work basket.  He turned back to the window, where the rain was once again splashing.

“I did less well than you, Brother Isaac, but … it served.”

He turned and laid his hands on her shoulders.  Her skin was cool, cool even through her dress and coverlet.  Somehow, she managed to radiate cold most months of the year, in all seasons but summer.  He was so warm, though, hot all the time it seemed. He sometimes joked that he must be the son of a different father, though he knew their father well enough that he had no doubt that the fires of the senior preacher were the same as his own, the son of the preacher.  Rebekah let herself relax and tilt her head left to feel the warmth of the back of his hand on her cheek.  Some days, his warmth was the only strength she had, the only fortified wine she allowed herself.

“What did you speak upon tonight, Dear Brother?  What was your theme?”

“I’d planned two hours on the suffering of Job and his eventual healing and restoration, but the crowd was too fickle for that.  They wanted it hard and fast, straight to the core, so I shifted my plan. After my brief but faltered start on Job, I launched into the topic of the seven deadly sins.

“Which …?”

“I took aim at gluttony and lust.”

“I’m certain that it was quite engaging, brother dear.”

“As engaging as anything but can-can dancers on a night like this, sister dear.”

“Must you be so vulgar, brother?”

“ ... hmm?”

“Your choice of words … about ... those sinful dancers.”

“I failed to notice. My apologies, sister. I was revisiting parts of my sermon in my head.”

She picked up the fan and beat it against her chest.  She was still cold, but there was a hint of blush and flush regardless.

“You know how it … bothers me.”

“Only too well, sister. Only too well.”  

She fanned herself and her mouth seemed to try for words for a reply, but her lips caught on nothing and she stayed silent.

He wanted to sit, to step from the window and rest his legs, or even recline on the bed, but he stayed looking out.

There was just enough light to make out the revival tent down the block and on the opposite side of their hotel.  A cattle town never fully went dark, unlike the little hamlet he and Rebekah had grown up in. There was always a candle or a gas light somewhere.  It was unusual to be able to pitch their tent so close to the saloons and gambling dens, but is was a small tent, and there wasn’t a whole lot of town to go around to start with.  So, they became neighbors.  “A man ‘said unto Jesus, And who is my neighbor?’ “

“What, brother dear?”

“Nothing, sister.  I was just rolling the words of Luke 10:29 in my head and they rolled down and out of my mouth.”

She nodded and left it at that, picking snips of thread from her lap and tossing them 

Boots fell down the hall outside the door, then paused and backtracked to their door, followed by silence.  They hadn’t heard anyone come up the stairs, but they’d each been lost in their little spaces.

As the quiet grew, they glanced at each other.  

Isaac had just made the decision to investigate when the knock came. Into the crack between the frame and door, he asked, “What do you want?”

“I’d be grateful to have a chance to speak with you, preacher.”

“Your name, son?”

“Benjamin Barlow, reverend … sir.” The voice from the other side wasn’t a child’s, but it was certainly someone younger than Brother Isaac.  Still, it was respectful and young enough to be unsteady in the presence of a man of God.

“And your business, boy?”

He took his time in responding, clearing his throat and shuffling his boots on the worn wooden floor.

“My business is … not something I’d like to speak of out here in the hallway, sir.  It’s a matter of personal shame and delicacy.  Maybe I can come at a better time, reverend.”

Isaac shot the bolt on the door and swung it open.  He sized up the young man standing politely on the other side of the threshold hat in hand, then bid him enter.  He waved him toward a chair by the window and continued standing, himself.

“Ma’am.”

“Mr. Barlow. How may we be of service to you?”

“Your brother is a very fortunate man to have such a traveling companion, Miss Perkins.”

“My brother’s name is Perkins, as was mine growing up.  I’m a widow now, however, having lost my husband to Indian raids. You may call me Mrs. Levi Tudor formally or simply Miss Rebekah in conversation.”

“I’m obliged.” He clearly was overwhelmed by the information, and now, rather than calling her Mrs. Tudor or Miss Rebekah, he simply nodded in recognition.

“But now, you still haven’t said. What brings you to our door this evening?”

“I’m supposing, Sister Rebekah, that he’s experiencing some ailment of the soul, which would explain his reluctance to speak through the transom.”

"It pains me to bring this to your door, but I’m in dire straits, and my options are limited."

“You’re dancing slowly around your cause, young man.  Please expedite."

“Yes sir. I’ll come straight to it, then.  I must relieve you and your dear sister of your purses.”

“I think not, lad.  At present, we’re scarcely ~”

“I think so, sir.” With that, he drew out a short-barreled Colt Peacemaker which he had been concealing behind his hat.

(to be continued)