“Mebbe so. We’ll see. How ’bout that ‘wisdom of sarpints’ the Good Book speaks of, parson?” said the storekeeper. “You lemme try to fix it with Tolley. That’s all.”
“Oh, we’ll leave it to you, old-timer,” Hurley said laughingly. “Nobody will begrudge you that job.”
“If we get that place—or some other—we must have seats,” Hunt went on. “There are many things to think of—and many things to get together before next Sunday. A week is none too long to prepare for such a work.”
“And a pulpit,” Collins proposed. “Me and Cale could knock up a pulpit—of a kind. We are some carpenters—me and Cale. If I can get him to help.”
Hunt was perfectly willing to put such burdens as he might upon the friendly citizens of Canyon Pass. In fact, that is just what he wanted them to do—take hold of the new idea as though they really supported it. The discussion, although of generalities, brought forth some concrete results.
Judson knew that Tolley was anxious to do something with the old shack. Judson intimated that he expected to need more room for goods. He did not say exactly when he would need it; but he got Tolley down to an agreement, and they made a bargain. The storekeeper paid a nominal rent for the shack six months in advance, agreeing to make such repairs as the place might need himself.
The business was kept secret, although Collins and Cale Mack went to work on their part of the job the very next day. Others collected seats and a few other furnishings. Everything was of the plainest; even the pulpit was built of unpainted boards. But Hunt saw that the place was clean.
Judson furnished lamps from his stock. “We’ll want evening meetings, too,” he said. “After we get to going, I mean. It won’t be a bad idea to commence running a show that will compete with the Grub Stake and Colorado Brown’s and those other joints. The boys drop into the saloons because there ain’t another derned place in the town to go to after dark.”
On Wednesday Hunt, walking toward the mines, confronted unexpectedly the withered, baldheaded man he had carried home over his shoulder on Sunday morning. Sam Tubbs stopped him.
“I reckon you’re the parson, ain’t you?” he asked, cocking his head in a birdlike way to look up at Hunt. “My old woman is right smart anxious to see you again. That woman’s all for this here religion they say you are going to deal out to the boys. Says she’s got something for you.”