Collection 1997 - End Of The Drive (v5.0) Read Online Free

Strangely, nothing had ever again grown on that slope. Truth to tell, we’d had some mighty dry years after that, and nothing much had grown anywhere.
    The Utes were superstitious about it. They said the lightning had put a curse on the mountain, but we folks in Red Horse put no faith in that. Or not much.
    It was almighty steep to the top of that ridge, and every step the stranger took was in plain sight of the town, but he walked out on that spring morning and strode down the street and up the mountain. Those long legs of his took him up like he was walking a graded road, and when he got to the flat rock atop the butte he turned back toward the town and lifted his arms to the heavens.
    â€œHe’s prayin’,” Ralston said, studying him through Brennen’s glass. “He’s sure enough prayin’!”
    â€œI maintain he’s a gambler,” Brennen insisted. “Why can’t he do his praying in church like other folks. Ask the reverend and see what he says.”
    Right then the reverend came out of the Emporium with a small sack of groceries under his arm, and noting the size of the sack, I felt like ducking into Brennen’s Saloon. When prosperity and good weather come to Red Horse, we’re inclined to forget our preacher and sort of stave off the doctor bills, too. Only in times of drought or low-grade ore do we attend church regular and support the preacher as we ought.
    â€œWhat do you make of him, Preacher?” Brace asked.
    The reverend squinted his eyes at the tiny figure high upon the hill. “There are many roads to grace,” he said, “perhaps he has found his.”
    â€œIf he’s a preacher, why don’t he pray in church?” Brennen protested.
    â€œThe groves were God’s first temples,” the reverend quoted. “There’s no need to pray in church. A prayer offered up anywhere is heard by the Lord.”
    Ralston went into the hotel, and we followed him in to see what name the man had used. It was written plain as print:
Brother Elisha, Damascus
.
    We stood back and looked at each other. We’d never had anybody in Red Horse from Damascus. We’d never had anybody from farther away than Denver except maybe a drummer who claimed he’d been to St. Louis…but we never believed him.
    It was nightfall before Brother Elisha came down off the mountain, and he went at once to the hotel. Next day Brace came up to Brennen and me. “You know, I was talking to Sampson. He says he’s never even seen Brother Elisha yet.”
    â€œWhat of it?” Brennen says. “I still say he’s a gambler.”
    â€œIf he don’t eat at Sampson’s,” Brace paused for emphasis, “where does he eat?”
    We stared at each other. Most of us had our homes and wives to cook for us, some of the others batched it, but stoppers-by or ones who didn’t favor their own cooking, they ate at Sampson’s. There just wasn’t anywhere else to eat.
    â€œThere he goes now,” Brennen said, “looking sanctimonious as a dog caught in his own hen coop.”
    â€œNow see here!” Ralston protested. “Don’t be talking that way, Brennen. After all, we don’t know
who
he might be!”
    Brother Elisha passed us by like a pay-car passes a tramp, and turning at the corner he started up the mountain. It was a good two miles up that mountain and the man climbed two thousand feet or more, with no switchbacks or twist-arounds, but he walked right up it. I wouldn’t say that was a steep climb, but it wasn’t exactly a promenade, either.
    Brace scratched his jaw. “Maybe the man’s broke,” he suggested. “We can’t let a man of God starve right here amongst us. What would the folks in Virginia City say?”
    â€œWho says he’s a man of God?” Brennen was always irreverent. “Just because he wears a black suit and goes up a mountain to pray?”
    â€œIt