The Mother Lode (5 page)

“I was afraid that would be your next question,” she said, appearing to want to choose her next words very carefully. “The truth is that I have been ordered to marry an elder in this community. Mr. Eli Purvis is a good and upstanding man of property who is very much respected.”

“But you don't want to marry Mr. Purvis.” It was not a question, really. Joe wasn't the brightest man in the world, but it was clear by her expression that Ellen did not care for Purvis despite his social status and wealth.

“That's correct,” she slowly answered. “I don't love him and never could love him despite his fine personal qualities, his godliness, and high standing in this little farming community.”

“That's a pretty good reason not to marry someone,” Joe said, trying to be encouraging.

“Not if your Church orders you to do it,” she replied, a trace of bitterness in her voice. “Mr. Purvis, you see, owns the section of land next to my own. The Church believes that our two farms, if joined, would be three times more productive. Also, Mr. Purvis . . . well, he rather fancies me . . . though I cannot imagine why.”

Joe finally saw a chance to brighten her day a little and he grinned. “Why, Mrs. Johnson, it's because Purvis has good eyesight! With all due respect, you are a
very
handsome woman. You'd be a prize even if you were penniless.”

She blushed, and actually swiped a hand across her pretty face as if batting at a gnat. “I swear, you are a
flattering
man, Mr. Moss.”

“Joe.”

“Oh, yes, Joe. Well,” she said, clapping her hands together. “Let's not talk about that anymore.”

“Just one last question.” Joe had to know. “Mrs. Johnson, if you continue to refuse to marry Mr. Purvis, what will happen?”

“I don't know yet,” she said honestly. “These are good people. Blessed people who care about one another. But now that I have gone against the wishes of the elders, I am not one of them in spirit anymore.”

“But you would be if you married Mr. Purvis?”

“Oh yes! I would be . . . hmmm . . . how can I say this? I would be redeemed and held in high regard again.”

“Do they taunt or mistreat you?” he asked.

“No! Of course not. It's just that my life is now rather . . . lonesome and quiet. I have much to do here. Too much, really. But I am grateful for that because when you are very busy and tired, you don't think so much about the past or the future.” She stood and laced her fingers together. “Now, can we talk about giving you a bath?”

The question caught Joe completely off guard. He didn't know what to say because he was so flabbergasted.

“Mr. Moss. Joe,” she said when his discomfort only heightened. “You haven't had time to look, but you are completely undressed under that cover. I had no choice but to bandage and clean your wounds, which are many and serious. I'm afraid that your hip appears to be broken. Also a foot that is only now starting to heal and which I think was crushed. I thought that your left arm was broken as well, but now that the swelling has gone down, I don't think so.”

“I am in some pain,” he confessed. “And I haven't yet tried to move.”

“I wouldn't move if I were you for a few more weeks.”

“
More weeks!”
Joe gulped. “How long have I been here?”

“Five weeks.”

He groaned. “And I'm still . . . .”

“You are still very much in need of time and rest. If you try to move now, you may damage yourself and undo what healing has begun.”

“But I can't stay here.”

“I don't see why not. The tongues have been wagging since I found you, and they won't stop until long, long after you leave.”

“Ma'am, I sure am sorry.”

She lifted her chin. “I have prayed every night and every day about this and I believe you are my salvation.”

“Huh?”

“Salvation,” she repeated. “Did you ever hear of Rachel in the Holy Bible?”

“No, ma'am.”

“Well, if you had you would understand. Don't you read the Bible, Joe?”

“I don't read. Period.”

“How sad. Maybe I can teach you before you leave.”

Joe didn't know what to say.

“Now, about that bath. You are, Joe, smelling rather ripe.”

He blushed. “And that ain't good.”

“No,” she answered with a smile. “That ain't good.”

“Could I do it on my own?”

“You can try.”

“Then try I will if you will give me a basin of water and soap.”

She placed her hands on her hips and nodded. “Good. You are not a lazy or fearful man, Joe.”

“Mrs. Johnson, the truth is that I've never been much afraid of anything.”

“Except the Lord.”

Joe didn't want to tell her that he didn't spend a minute a month fearing the Lord, but he decided that would not be to good purpose, so he said nothing and, after a few moments, she turned with a shake of her head and went to heat his bathwater.

I
F IT HADN'T been for him wanting so bad to find his sweet Fiona, Joe Moss would have greatly enjoyed his slow convalescence in the little shed out in back of Mrs. Ellen Johnson's farmhouse. The truth of the matter was that Mrs. Johnson was a wonderful cook and she would read him stories . . . but only on the condition that he at least learn the alphabet, then read and write a few simple words. After all, she explained, and like it or not, he was going to be convalescing for at least two more months.

“I've never been one for much schoolin', Mrs. Johnson,” he told her, on his way to making an excuse not to learn reading. “My pappy and mammy couldn't read nor write and they figured it was just a waste of time.”

“Nothing against your parents, Joe, but they were wrong. A person who is literate has the key to a world of knowledge and wisdom passed down from others who came before him.”

“Mostly, what I learned was passed down in stories told down through the generations,” he replied. “Simple word of mouth, like the Indians have used for longer than the white man has been here bossin' him around.”

“Yes, I understand the importance of oral history and learning,” she said with great patience. “
However,
there are many things that you can learn from people that you will never know because they either lived in another time or in a distant and interesting place.”

Joe puzzled over this for a few moments, then said, “No disrespect, ma'am, but I can't see what some fella livin' in another time or place could teach me that would make my life easier.”

“Oh, but that is not the least bit true!”

She left the room, and returned a few minutes later with an old and yellowed newspaper. Opening it, Ellen Johnson studied the articles for several moments before saying, “Here's something you might find interesting. It is an article in the
San Francisco Times
about a man who invented a new rapid-firing and revolutionary weapon.”

“Powder or cartridge?” Joe asked suspiciously.

“I'm sure it's cartridge, and this says that it was designed by Richard Jordon Gatling, who was given the patent.”

“Never heard of him,” Joe said dismissively. “Is this Gatling feller from east or west of the Mississippi River?”

“I imagine east of the Mississippi,” she replied. “Anyway this gun has six barrels and . . . .”

“Six barrels!” Joe scoffed. “Hellfire . . . oh, excuse me, ma'am, but I don't see how any man could aim down more'n one barrel.”

“Well, that may be true,” she said, “but this one has six and they revolve around a central axis permitting an extremely high rate of fire.”

“How fast?”

“Over a hundred rounds a minute.”

Joe scoffed. “Ha! How's any man gonna even pull the trigger so fast, much less hit anything? Why, that weapon is a fool's dream. Ain't worth nothin' to nobody.”

“Perhaps yes and perhaps no,” she said. “But here's an interesting article on the War Between the States concerning aerial photography.”

“What?”

“Aerial photography,” she repeated. “It says that the Union Army has now used aerial reconnaissance carried out by a balloonist named Thaddeus Lowe, who photographed Confederate ground emplacements around Richmond, Virginia, at an altitude of one thousand feet.”

Joe's jaw dropped. “A man went up in a balloon a thousand feet so he could photograph Johnny Rebs?”

“That's what it says.”

“Well, why didn't they shoot him out of the damned sky?”

“I don't know.”

“See there?” Joe said, with a triumphant look. “First you tell me about some fella that invented a six-barreled gun that couldn't hit the broad side of a barn. The next minute you read about another fella that was dumb enough to go up in a balloon and get himself shot out of the sky unless he was mighty lucky or the Johnny Rebs were poor shots, which I heard is not often the case.”

Ellen Johnson gently folded the newspaper up and set it aside. “I can see that you are a difficult man to reason with and not likely to change.”

“I'm no child, Mrs. Johnson. I've made more than my share of mistakes, but I like to think that I've learned a bit from each of them.”

“And now you're going up to the Comstock Lode to find Fiona.”

“If she's still there and will have me, then I'll take her for my wife.”

Ellen nodded. “Well, I do hope she is there and that you and she get married and live happily ever after.”

“The boy, too,” Joe blurted. “Well, maybe the little jasper is a girl. Still, I'll take either one and do my best to raise 'em straight and provide for them well.”

She studied him closely, and then asked, “Are you willing to be a deep-rock miner, Joe Moss?”

“Don't know nothin' about minin',” he admitted. “Especially deep-rock. I have panned a little for gold, yet never found a trace. That said, I'll still do what it takes to feed and provide for Fiona and my child.”

“That's very admirable,” she answered, smiling, “but I wonder if you have any idea of how awful and dangerous it is to go down in those deep mine shafts and try to dig for gold and silver.”

“Can't be any more dangerous than when I was trappin' beaver up in the land of the Blackfoot and they was always after my scalp.”

“I'm sure that is true. But in the mines the dangers are of a very different kind, and I can't quite imagine a man like you working far down under the earth with a pick and shovel.”

Joe thought about that for a moment and agreed. “I'll do it if I must. But first I'd sure try hard to find something better. Besides, I might even start my own business.”

“Doing what?”

“I dunno. But I've got a wagonload of lumber scattered down your mountainside that I mean to collect. I can either sell that lumber or use it to build some kind of business.”

“Joe, do you remember anything about that mountainside where you went over?”

“Nope. Only that it had to be real steep.”

“That may be an understatement. The mountainside is not only steep, but strewn with boulders, bushes, and even pines. It will take a huge effort to retrieve that lumber . . . perhaps more than you can offer.”

“I'll get that lumber if I have to carry up every board on foot,” Joe vowed. “Once I'm back on my feet and get my strength, I'll do it before the first snows of winter.”

“I hope you can,” she told him. “Because everyone agrees that it will be warped and ruined by next spring after lying under deep snow for months. They say that what isn't broken or splintered is green and needs seasoning.”

“I reckon that is so.”

“Where did you buy it?” Ellen asked. “From a mill up on Lake Tahoe?”

“Yes, ma'am.” Joe felt awful for lying to this good Christian woman, but he thought it was the better thing to do than to admit that he had been forced to kill two freighters and that the lumber was not really his own.

“It must have cost a great deal to buy that much lumber and I certainly hope that you can recover your investment.”

“Oh, I'm sure that I can,” Joe said, wanting to change the subject. “So what else did that newspaper tell you?”

“I didn't think you'd want to hear any more, given your reaction to the two articles I read.”

“Maybe I was a mite too quick to judge,” he admitted.

“Well, I'm afraid much of that newspaper was given over to accounts of the great War Between the States,” she said, “which is entirely sad and depressing. But I do have books in the house and I will read a little of them if you are interested.”

“Sure am.”

“But first, let's go over the alphabet and then the spelling of your name.”

“Oh, ma'am!”

“Joe, please.”

Hell, how could he deny this woman who was his savior anything? “All right, ma'am.”

And so for the next two hours they worked on the alphabet and his name, until Joe started to get the hang of it. Letters were like sticks in a beaver's dam. Each one, by itself, wasn't worth nothing. But put together just right, they formed a word. And one word added to another word formed what this widow woman called a sentence. And when you added a bunch of sentences, you had a paragraph, and that all told you something important.

“I appreciate the way you explain things. Once, when I was a boy, a schoolmarm came to our cabin and caught me out in the fields working. She asked if I'd like to go to school and I said I reckoned that I would. But then she talked to my folks, and they both said they reckoned I didn't need to learn anything from her that they couldn't teach me themselves.”