“I’m afraid they are,” said he. “It’s used for dancing, they tell me.”
“But it’s a church–it’s consecrated!” she gasped.
“I reckon it’s worn off by this time,” he comforted. “It was a church a long, long time ago–for Comanche. The saloon man across from it told me its history. He considered locating in it, he said, but they wanted too much rent.
“When Comanche was only a railroad camp–a good while before the rails were laid this far–a traveling preacher struck the town and warmed them up with an old-style revival. They chipped in the money to build the church in the fervor of the passing glow, and the preacher had it put up–just as you see it, belfry and all.
“They even bought a bell for it, and it used to ding for the sheepmen and railroaders, as long as their religion lasted. When it ran out, the preacher moved on to fresh fields, and a rancher bought the bell to call his hands to dinner. The respectable element of Comanche–that is, the storekeepers, their wives, daughters and sons, and the clerks, and others–hold a dance there now twice a week. That is their only relaxation.”
“It’s a shame!” declared Mrs. Reed. 29
“Oh, I don’t know,” said the doctor easily.
“I’m so disappointed in it!” said she.
“Because it represents itself as a church when it’s something else?” inquired the doctor softly. “Well, I shouldn’t be, if I were you. It has really nothing to be ashamed of, for the respectable are mightily in the minority in Comanche, I can tell you, madam–that is, among the regular inhabitants.”
“Let’s go over and look on,” suggested William Bentley. “It may make some of you gloomy people forget your future troubles for a while.”