CHAPTER VIII
AND NOW, THE CLERGY
Two-bits was the last into the bunkhouse the following evening. He had ridden his Nigger horse in from the westward hills and had not come through the big gate so not until he stepped across the threshold were the others aware of his presence.
"Here he is!" said a rider from down the creek who was stopping for the night and the group in the center of the low room broke apart.
"Two-Bits, here's your brother," said Curtis.
A small man stood beside him. He wore a green, battered derby hat, band and binding of which were sadly frayed. He wore spectacles, steel rimmed, over searching gray eyes. He was unshaven. A celluloid collar, buttoned behind, made an overly large cylinder for his wrinkled neck. He wore a frock coat, also green with age, the pockets of which bulged and sagged and their torn corners spoke of long overloading. His overalls, patched and newly washed, were tucked into boots with run-down heels. In his hand he held a fountain pen.
At the entrance of Two-Bits all talk had ceased; at Curtis' introduction, Two-Bits stopped. He swallowed, setting his Adam's apple in sharp vibration. He took off his hat. He flushed and his mild eyes wavered. Then he advanced across the room, extending a limp hand and said in a thin, embarrassed voice:
"Please to meet you, Mister Beal."
Tom Beck bit his lips but one or two of the others laughed outright; they ceased, however, when the Reverend Beal, in a voice that was tremendously deep and impressive for such a small man, said:
"My brother, I extend to you the right hand of fellowship! It is a deed of God that enables me to look once more into your beloved face after these years of separation. Give me your hand, brother. May the blessings of Heaven descend upon and abide with thee!"