During the afternoon the bowling-alley and billiard tables were well patronized, the stores were well filled with buyers of all kinds, the blacksmith busily plied his trade, and a more lively day was not to be found during the week. The day wore on, bereft of its sacredness and peace, no songs of Zion stealing upon the ears, and no worshippers in their best attire wending their way to the house of God.
Four weeks had passed away and there had been no signs of the mail. Many wistful eyes scanned the prairie to catch, if they might, a glimpse of the long-expected wagon with its precious contents of joy and sorrow from friends in the far distant cities of the East. The old-timers became excited and climbed on the roofs of the houses with glasses in their hands to scan the horizon, hoping they might see the rig coming.
"The mail! The mail!" shouted Kanrin and his friends as they stood upon the mud roof of the solitary hotel, and the shout was echoed from one end of the village to the other, each man as he heard the cry joining in the announcement till it had passed from mouth to mouth. The gamblers left their cards and the billiard tables were vacated as from every house and store the people rushed to gaze upon the wagon which held the mail. Every heart was agitated, and it was impossible to eat, drink, work, play or rest at such an important time.
It was the hour of holding service and Parson Morris and Nancy repaired to the little church, but not a soul was there. They waited patiently until a single straggler entered to join in the worship of God. The preacher gave his best sermon to Nancy and her companion, who pronounced it very good and appropriate to the occasion. The congregation had deserted the church, the most frequent worshippers being found upon their knees at the principal store, where, the mail having been emptied on the floor, they were aiding in the assortment of the letters, papers and books. It was a feast day to many in the village as they read again and again the news from home; but there were some sad hearts among them—those who came expecting a letter and whose expectations were not fulfilled.
Here stood a rough gambler with tears in his eyes as he held in his hand a sheet of paper written in a very trembling hand, and there upon a bale of buffalo robes sat young Hanna, deep in thought, as Indians chattered in their native tongue beside him. The letter he was reading, one from his aged mother in the old English rectory in his native Yorkshire, was evidently touching his heart, for the gay young man, cultured, kind and courtly, was nevertheless the most inveterate gambler in the town. His father was a clergyman of means who had allowed his son to emigrate with the hope of becoming wealthy and gaining a position there, which he could not hope for in England; and the young man, with the spirit of adventure, had eagerly grasped at the proposal and sought a home in the far West.
Money was abundant, and as it was much easier to gamble than to farm or raise stock, he drifted with the tide and became an expert, winning thousands of dollars in a few days and as quickly losing all he had. He was a fair sample of many young men who in the early days sought wealth upon the plains of the West.
Parson Morris became more intrepid in his work the longer he dwelt among the rough settlers. These men had warm, generous hearts, despite the usual roughness of their garb, manners and speech, and no one knew this better than the parson. He had proved it oftentimes when their comrades were sick, and had ever found them generous and kind. Seldom, therefore, did he call upon them for help, not being desirous of riding a willing horse to death, seeing that they gave so liberally to all his schemes and it seemed to be a pleasure to them to assist him. There were times, however, when in religious matters he felt it necessary to resort to the method which they called "raising the wind." Sometimes Nancy would visit the billiard rooms and settlers' shacks to ask their aid. At such times she always met with politeness and generous responses.
One Sunday morning the parson went to the little log church to find his congregation again absent as before; the mail had arrived and every worshipper had gone to find news from home. Nothing daunted, he resolved in his mind that he was not going to be defeated. While thinking seriously what had best be done, he suddenly recollected the startling fact that there was a church account of fifty dollars which must be paid. What better service could he render to those men, than to entertain them by allowing them to preach a sermon on giving. No sooner thought of than the parson started for the billiard-hall and hotel of Kamusi.
A veteran of the prairie whose civilized appellation was shrouded by his western cognomen, Kamusi was one of the parson's right-hand men. He would get drunk and swear, and he lived with an Indian woman, but nothing was thought of these things in those early days, when parsons were few and life was held to be of little value. Brave and kind, no hungry man was ever turned from his table because he had not the wherewithal to pay for his meal, and many times there could be found in one of his back rooms a sick stranger cared for and fed at the old veteran's expense.
"I'm dead broke! I'll have to shut up shop. I've been losing money every day. The people are robbing me!" he grumbled repeatedly as he hobbled along about his work, coughing severely from an old asthmatic trouble, while sitting by his doorstep were two cripples who were being supplied with food and medicine by him, and for three months they had lived there.