The Parson of Panamint and Other Stories

Front matter

Other Books by Peter B. Kyne

Tide of Empire

They Also Serve

The Parson of Panamint

I HAD been prospecting with Chuckwalla Bill in the Coso Range, working eastward out of Darwin into the desolate region stretching away toward Death Valley. Along in the late afternoon we passed through a rocky defile and emerged into a sage flat about a mile square hemmed in by naked red buttes; and shortly thereafter I commenced to make frequent discoveries in the stunted sage of ancient, rust-corroded tin cans. These indicating that we were approaching a camp, I mentioned my suspicions to Chuckwalla Bill.

"Yes," he replied dully; "we're gettin' right close to Panamint."

We pressed slowly onward, herding the burros before us, and at sunset we came on the camp. Chuckwalla Bill saw it first.

"There's Panamint," he said, pointing; and added: "Philip's church is gone at last."

I gazed ahead into the violet shadows trooping up the valley and beheld a huge heap of rusty tin cans of assorted sizes, similar to those we had passed earlier in the day. They were scattered over nearly an acre of ground and piled to a depth of several feet; wherefore, in the absence of other sign of human habitation, past or present, I was not long in fixing the exact geographical locus of Panamint. It lay in the heart of old Chuckwalla Bill, as his next remark fully convinced me.

"I was mayor o' that city oncet," he said wistfully, and recited an extemporaneous paraphrase of an old poem:

Her picks is rust; Her bones is dust It's thirty years since she went bust.

Son, let's crack along over to the foot o' Amethyst Avenoo an' bed down for the night at Jake Russell's well."

After supper he told me this tale of the Parson of Panamint.

Yes, sir [began Chuckwalla Bill] I make the first strike in these parts, an' when I pack back to Darwin for more grub an' dynamite, an' show my samples, I start a stampede. In six months we have a city three thousand strong, not countin' Injuns an' Greasers, of which we have our share in them days. Panamint's a silver camp, an' all this I'm goin' to tell you is pulled off before silver gets demonetized an' silver mines so far from everywhere as Panamint can't be worked no more at a profit, which is why Panamint goes bust. An' when a minin' camp goes bust oncet, she's got a black eye forever an' don't revive nohow. Besides, we don't have much water in Panamint; an' that's a drawback. Teamin' water in from Darwin runs up the cost o' livin' too high, with silver down to sixty-seven.

Son, my tomato cans is the first on that dump—an' the last. I stake out the Panamint Lily, an' a dozen good claims besides, before ever I tip off the news o' my strike; an' then I sell the Lily for five hundred thousand cash an' lease my other claims on a good royalty. I cal'late mebbe I'm worth at the time a coupler million dollars; so nachelly I can't see my way clear to labor none, an' I look round for a hobby.

I find her in Panamint.

Son, Panamint's my sweetheart. I'm raisin' thirty years at the time, full o' blue blood an' conceit, like a barber's cat; an' folks takes to callin' me the Father o' Panamint. Nachelly, me bein' responsible for the camp, as the feller says, I'm prouder'n a roadrunner of it.

I get to dreamin' big dreams o' the future o' Panamint, an' I sink a deal o' money in local real estate, start a bank, import a printin' press an' an editor, an' a rig to drill for water; an', in general, I get behind Panamint with my personality an' my bank roll, an' boost the municipality.

I reckon we're about eight months old, an' growin' like a stall-fed calf, when Hank Bartlett—Hank's a scholar an' a gentleman, an' I stake him to a daily paper called the Panamint Nugget, an' subsidize him till he's on a payin' basis—writes an editorial advocatin' the incorporation o' the camp as a regular city.

The idee's a hummer an' I get back of it right off; so we incorporate Panamint an' I run for mayor agin a party by the name o' Jedge Tarbox.

The jedge 'lows as how his record in the Civil War's bound to help him; but I'm the daddy o' Panamint, an' I'm swept into office—me an' my ticket—by such a majority the jedge comes out with a signed article in the Nugget apologizin' for livin', an' moves to make it unanimous. I'm so proud o' that ol' warrior I give the city-attorney-elect a thousand dollars to resign his office so's I can app'int Jedge Tarbox in his place.

As I remarks previous, I'm all wrapped up in Panamint. I'm plannin' to make her the biggest silver camp in the West an' advancin' her interests every way I know how, so, right after I'm sworn in as mayor, me an' Hank Bartlett puts our heads together an' holds a potlatch.

As a result Hank writes an editorial callin' for a mass meetin' to advocate the three things the camp's got to have if she's goin' to press for'd to her destiny. Them three things is a town hall, a schoolhouse an' a church; for, though Panamint's a camp with the hair on her—an' I wouldn't give a damn to be mayor o' no other kind—still, there's plenty o' women an' children, an' good, solid citizens with us already, an' more willin' to come if we give 'em the things they're used to in more cultivated sections that lies closer to water an' railroads.

Well, son, we hold that mass meetin', an' Hank Bartlett makes a speech that shore gets the money. Me, I ain't never what the feller calls silver-tongued, but I make a brief talk, nevertheless, to sorter back up Hank's play an' give it official sanction. Then I call for subscriptions to the buildin' fund, an' as mayor I start the ball rollin' with ten thousand dollars an' pledge the camp treasury for five more if the citizens at large'll make up the rest. We're askin' for fifty thousand dollars until Panamint's on a self-supportin' basis; an' in half an hour I have it and the committees are app'inted.

It's sixty days before we get the lumber freighted in from Mojave, an' the church an' the schoolhouse up. Meantime Hank Bartlett, whose handwritin' is somethin' to admire, has wrote to the state superintendent o' schools askin' him to send us a bang-up school-marm, which the super done; an' as I remember she was right satisfactory. Also, the Committee on Ree-ligion—which I'm the committee—has pulled out for San Francisco to round up a preacher, aimin' to come back with him about the time the parsonage is up.

Now this question of a preacher's been worryin' me no little. We got a coupler Jews in commercial lines, an' some Irish Catholics; but, by an' large, the bulk o' the population o' Panamint is Protestant. We got Methodjsts an' Baptists an' Corgregationalists an' Mormons an' Unitarians an' Episcopals, an' what-all; but I figure it out as how all these here sects nachelly comes under the same general head, an' one good, bang-up parson that don't stir up no secular strife is shore bound to please all hands.

Pers'nally I don't have no more ree-ligious convictions than a tarantula, but, all the same, I don't lose sight o' the fact that ree-ligion is a heap o' comfort to a lot o' people; so nachelly I'm careful in makin' my selection. I'm the butt end of a month sortin' over parsons an' conferrin' with bishops, lookin' for a big, broad-gage young feller that don't take his ree-ligion too hard; for I realize that a parson with the ingrowin' brand o' faith ain't goin' to be popular in Panamint. As I say, she's a camp with the hair on her, but her heart's right an' she means well; an' all a feller has to do is overlook a few things that are peculiar to boom camps an' can't be helped nohow.

Son, that time I put in lookin' for my ideal of a preacher is about the hardest three weeks I'm ever through. My previous experience with parsons an' bishops is limited; an', havin' allers been used to a free range an' free speech, I suppose I don't make a hit with a lot of them. They're all a-wonderin' what Panamint looks like if I'm her mayor, I guess; an' none of 'em is inclined to take a chance, even if I let 'em, which I do not, because I don't see none that measures up to my standards. I'm plumb discouraged when Fate, as the feller says, bumps me up agin the Reverend Philip Pharo. We meet this way:

There's a strike on in the mee-tropolis while I'm there preacher-prospectin'. I'm leavin' the Occidental Hotel for a little pasear up Montgomery Street when I'm aware o' some excitement. A feller comes chargin' down the street to beat four of a kind, with mebbe a dozen men a-chasin' him an' yellin': "Scab! Scab! Kill the scab!"

Now, son, I'm not interested a little bit in this round-up. In Panamint it's the custom to let every man roll his own hoop; an', as this fugitive is makin' fast headway, I don't feel called on to interfere, particularly as it looks to me like there's goin' to be a heap o' yellin' an' no killin'. In consequence I'm a mite surprised when a half a brick reaches the runner in the back o' the head an' he falls almost in front o' me.

"That mob'll kick him to death," says a voice alongside o' me; an' a young feller jumps past me, grabs the victim by the collar an' drags him into a doorway, where they can't get at him. Then he faces the mob with his fists an' drops the first two men that closes in on him.

Son, I'm a fightin' tarantula in them days. There ain't nothin' I won't tackle, once the play is up to me fair; an' it gravels me to see a dozen men pickin' on one. Also it pleases me to see the businesslike way this interferin' stranger faces the music, a-knowin' they're goin' to tromp him to death an' make a rag baby out o' him in half a minute; so while they're swarmin' over him I'm gettin' out my artillery an' fixin' to help the young feller out a little.

Before they can get him down I'm wadin' into the riot, tampin' sociable left an' right with my weepon; an' in half a minute me an' this young stranger ee-merges from the conflict, bloody but victorious, an' in the hands of a dozen policemen.

They take my gun away from me, which I'm too law-abidin' to object, an' then we're took to a hospital an' patched up, though there ain't nothin' serious wrong with either of us. We got forty fights left in us yet. From the hospital we're taken to the police station, where the young feller's booked for incitin' a riot, with his bail fixed at five hundred dollars; an' me—son, I'm charged with assault with a deadly weepon. The arrestin' officer says as how I'm a gun-fighter an' a dangerous character, an' they make my bail a thousand dollars.

I can see my feller criminal is staggered at this state of affairs, but it's plumb amusin' to me. I have a money belt under my shirt next my skin, which I hauls her out an' counts out fifteen hundred dollars on the counter.

"Gimme a receipt," I says. "This young friend o' mine is John J. Jones, an' I'm Chuckwalla Bill Redfield, mayor o' Panamint, which Panamint's the biggest-feelin' camp on earth." I'm that patriotic nothin' can keep me from advertisn' Panamint.

So the officer takes us to another feller at a desk, an' he rakes in my fifteen hundred, gives me separate receipts, an' tells us to come back for trial in the mornin'.

When we're safe outside the police station the young feller thanks me kindly. He says if I'm not there with his bail money he'd shore have been disgraced.

"Which you're a fightin' bobcat, young feller," I says, "an' I'm proud to have been arrested with you." Then I interduced myself; an' I learn his name is Philip Pharo.

"Mr. Redfield, I had no call to drag you into this mess," he says, "only I can't bear to see murder done."

"Same here," I says, "only call me Chuckwalla or Bill. I been mighty lonesome in this here city an' if you call me by my Christian name I'll feel more to home. Down in Panamint we got a vacancy for a preacher, an' I'm here to round one up if I can ever find one to fit the job."

"Why, Chuckwalla," he says, "I'm a minister o' the Gospel."

"The hell you are!" I says. "You don't fight like one."

"I'm brand-new," he says grinnin'. "I'm only ordained yesterday, an' I'm on my way to a tailor's to be measured for a parson's suit when I feel myself called on to save the life o' that unfortunate scab. Now, if I'm fined or jailed for incitin' a riot I can't get that suit, an' mebbe the bishop'll call a conference an' heave me out o' the church."

"Philip," I says, "if the bishop does that I'll shore make him hard to catch. However, don't you worry, because you ain't goin' to have to stand trial. We'll just nachelly jump our bail."

The young feller give a laugh that would have warmed the heart of a banker.

"Why, I won't hear to it, nohow," he says. "You'll lose fifteen hundred dollars."

"It won't be the first fifteen hundred I've lost," I says. "I ain't worryin' about that. I'm richer'n a fool, an' can afford it. What I ain't bankin' on is havin' a black mark unjustly chalked up agin the only red-blooded parson I've seen in three weeks. To hell with the money!"

"Chuckwalla," he says, "you're immense!"

"Let's talk about you, Philip," I says. To save my soul I can't call him parson. He's too much like a friend. "Be you lookin' for a job preachin' the Gospel?"

"I shore am," he says. "Do you reckon I could fill that vacancy you mention?"

"Well," I says, "I'm the mayor o' Panamint, daddy o' the camp an' the Committee on Ree-ligion; an' what I say goes or I'll know the reason why. I've looked over a lot o' parsons, but they don't grade high enough for Panamint; an' though you look mighty good to me, still there's a chance that Panamint don't grade high enough for you. She's a minin' camp that ain't had the edges knocked off her yet, an' it's only fair I should warn you before talkin' terms."

"Chuckwalla," he says, layin' his hand on my arm like he'd knowed me all his life, "I'm out to preach the Gospel, an' I don't care a hoot in a hollow where I preach it. That's me!"

Son, I'm overcome.

"Philip," I says, "suppose me an' you go somewhere while we talk this thing over."

"All right," he says; an' we went over to the Palace Hotel restauraw an' sat down to discuss the matter.

The Reverend Pharo he has a glass o' buttermilk an' I have some red liquor, to which he don't offer no objections an' tell me a lot o' things about red liquor that I know already a durned sight better'n him. I chalk a white mark up to him for that, an' then I put him through his examination.

"Philip," I says, "do you believe in hell?"

"Well, Chuckwalla, my friend," he says, "the constitution an' by-laws o' my church recognizes it, but there ain't no orthodox hell; an' the first time I get up in a pulpit I'm going to say so."

"On what grounds do you base them views?"

"On common sense. Our Lord can't take enjoyment in fryin' people. It's agin all the compassion He showed to human bein's while He was here on earth."

"How many roads is there to heaven?" I says.

"So blamed many, Chuckwalla, it's no wonder a lot of us get lost in transit. The Bible says: 'In my Father's house there is many mansions.' An' I guess there's enough spare rooms for all of us, Jew an' Gentile, if we play the game o' life square with ourselves."

"Philip," I says, "the job's your'n if you'll take it; an' if you don't take it I'm goin' to set right here an' get drunk an' drown my sorrer."

"I'll take it," he says, "providin' the bishop is willin'. I suppose my congregation'll approve your choice o' parson?"

"I dunno," I says; "an' what's more, I don't give a goddam. I know what's good for Panamint, an' if they reject you I'll build another church at my own expense an' run 'em out o' business. All I know is you're my parson, providin' you ain't a Baptist."

"No, Chuckwalla," he says, "I ain't. You got a grudge agin the Baptists?"

"I shore ain't no bigot," I says; "but we got to haul our water in bar'ls twelve mile to camp." He laughed himself into a fit at that.

"Chuckwalla," he says, "I repeat it—you're immense! I love you like a brother."

Then we talked salary, an' I offered him five hundred, which he says, as shy as a sheep-killin' dog, five hundred ain't quite enough, an' the very least he can get along on is seven hundred. I'm embarrassed a heap to think mebbe I've showed Panamint in the light o' bein' cheap an' small in money matters, an' I tell him, in order to be safe, I'll guarantee him a thousand; the congregation can fix the regular rate, an' I'll make up the dee-ficit personally.

Thinkin' to ease his mind on the financial question I draw a check on the Panamint Bank & Trust Company for a thousand and give to to him. "There, Philip," I says, "is your first month's salary in advance."

"Month!" he yells. "You frontier comedian, I'm talkin' about years!" An' he laughs so long an' hearty the head waiter comes over an' tells us we'll have to be quiet or git out. "Why, bless your heart, Chuckwalla," Philip continues, "a hundred a month is princely as preacher's salaries goes in the country!"

"Then," I says "the good Lord help them in the city, for nine-tenths o' the preachers I see are that grave an' solemn I got a notion they're worried over money matters; but you're different. I got a notion mebbe sometime I'll come to church an' listen to you preach."

"Well, Chuckwalla," he says, "don't do nothin' that hurts you, unless it happens to be the right thing to do. An' now," he says, "I'll go an' explain my damaged appearance to the bishop an' talk it all over with him." Which he done; an' in two hours he's back an' I have his final acceptance.

We start right out shoppin'. First I buy me a new gun, because I don't feel dressed up since the police take my other gun away from me; an' then we buy a big, bang-up organ for the church. That's my gift an' it costs me close to two thousand. Also, I buys the hymn books, etcetry; an' I make Philip pick out the fixin's an' furnishin's for his parsonage himself. I aim to make him comfortable, an' I have a heap o' difficulty convincin' him he's headed for Panamint, where the best ain't none too good; an' most likely, at that, it's regarded with suspicion!

While we're shoppin' I learn a heap about Philip. He's got no kin; an', as near as I can make out, his pa leaves him just about enough to educate him an' clothe him till he's twenty-one. He's been through a big Eastern college an' has a string o' letters after his name like the tail of a comet. He's probably the most wholesome, handsomest young feller I ever meet, an' when it comes to sand he's got more o' that commodity in his craw than a grizzly bear. He's as good-natured as a baby an' laughin' all the time he's with me. Durned if I see what he finds to laugh at, unless it's mebbe because I treat him like he's a pin-feather boy. I'm five year older'n him in p'int o' years; but in p'int of experience with life I'm dyin' of old age compared with Philip.

Well, when everything is bought an' the shippin' instructions given, me an' Philip lights out for San José, so the police won't ketch us on a bench warrant for jumpin' our bail next day. In San José we patronize an expensive tailor, an' when our clothes are ready we head for Panamint.

We don't make no noise comin' into town, for I'm dead set agin this Wild West hip!-hip!-hurrah! business every time some sucker wins a big pot. We put up at the hotel while waitin' for the furnishin's for the parsonage an' the organ to be freighted in, an' I take Philip around an' interduce him to everybody in Panamint. He's received with favor an' I'm complimented a heap on my jedgment.

It's mebbe two weeks before the freight gets in, but during that time Philip organizes his congregation with a membership roll, an' the congregation gets together an' elects a governin' board, called the elders. As near as I recollect there's a dozen o' these elders. I don't favor the notion nohow, bein' dead set agin anybody bossin' Philip; but as I ain't a member o' the church an' don't intend to be, an' as it's Philip's game, I figger he knows what he's up to, an' that there ain't no call for me to horn in on the play. If I'd knowed as much about elders as I do now I'd have named a slate an' put Philip up to an opposition ticket.

The elders is all composed o' the solid citizens o' the town. The presidin' elder is an old silvertip by the name o' Absalom Randall. Absalom's been clerkin' in a country bank in Kansas about twenty year, an' when I organized the Panamint Bank & Trust Company one o' the directors recommends him for the job o' vice-president an' manager, particular since Absalom's got five thousand dollars he's willin' to invest in the stock.

I'm for him on account of his bankin' experience, which is why he gets the job. I'm president myself, but I don't take no interest in the bank's affairs. I leave that to hirelin's, as I'm never inside the bank except to draw checks agin my own account; which, lookin' back at it all now, 'pears to me I all but lived in front o' the payin' teller's winder.

The super o' the Panamint Lily, an' the druggist, an' some leadin' merchants an' family men makes up the rest o' the list; but Absalom Randall, he sticks out in my memory most. He shore was a ornery old side-winder.

Well, son, I don't make no mistake in pickin' the Reverend Philip Pharo. The first Sunday the house is packed, an' Philip's sermon is a snorter. Also, he takes occasion to pass out a few complimentary remarks about me, which if I'm in church when he makes 'em I'd have been embarrassed.

The Almighty's just cut Philip out for a minin'-camp parson, an' filled him up with love for his feller man. It ain't no time before that boy is workin' himself sick doin' things for the unfortunates that romps into every minin' camp, where they promptly find themselves unfit and bog down, sick an' busted.

We've built him a nice little five-room parsonage up on Amethyst Avenoo—son, we're settin' in his back yard right now—but he never gets to enjoy it none. Right off he digs up a busted Cousin Jack miner that's been leaded, an' a tin-horn gambler dyin' o' consump- tion, an' houses 'em at the parsonage, after which he installs a drunken old bandit answerin' to the name o' Crabapple Thompson, an' nominates Crabapple chief cook an' head nurse.

"Philip," I says, when I spot Crabapple Thompson on the premises, an' me knowin' his capacity for red liquor, "fire this here attendant o' your'n an' I'll round you up a responsible party."

"No, Chuckwalla," he says; "Crabapple needs me worse'n I need him. If he's round where I can keep my eye on him he'll stay in line. Besides, I like the old sinner. There's a heap o' character in Crabapple when you catch him sober."

Well, I seen there wasn't no use arguin' with him, particular after he says:

"Chuckwalla, did you ever notice how prone a lot o' preachers is to surround themselves with respectable people an' visit round among the congregation, an' make themselves agreeable to agreeable people?"

"No," I says; "I ain't had no experience that way. You're the first parson I ever see on the job—that is, at close range."

"Well," he says, "it's a fact. A lot o' my worthy brethren seem to have an idee that fellers like Crabapple Thompson an' that there consumptive gambler is the legitimate prey o' so-called settlement workers an' public institootions. I don't subscribe to them theories. I'm a-tryin' to foller in His steps. He went round healin' the sick an' bein' kind to sinners, an' mixin' up with the lowly o' the earth, regardless. Chuckwalla, good people don't need my services; an' so long as I'm the parson o' Panamint I don't aim to spend my time drinkin' tea with the ladies of the congregation, or walkin' round hand-shakin' myself into popularity. I ain't been here long, but I can see already I got a real he-job in this camp an' I'm not goin' to be no kid-glove preacher. Sinners is too thick here for me to waste my time in social frivolity."

I've hardly left him before a faro dealer in the Pick an' Drill, feelin' jealous o' his light-o'-love, shoots the lady up somethin' scandalous. It's four days before I learn Philip has the unfortunate up at the parsonage. Me, I've got that many things to think of, I've forgot to rig up a hospital; an' as nobody seems anxious to care for this here gal, Buckskin Liz, why, the parson has her toted up to the parsonage. He gives up his own bed to the critter, while he takes a blanket an' goes over to the church nights, aimin' to roost in the organ loft. As soon as I find this out I have Buckskin Liz moved out to Darwin, to the Miners' Hospital.

Now, of course, like all lovable, good-natured boys, Philip ain't in camp a week till there's forty corn-fed girls out to rope him. They're pesterin' the boy to such an extent that it takes him two hours to get to the post office an' back. While he's got Buckskin Liz on his hands he asks one after the other o' these young women to come up an' nurse Liz. He says as how a little charity an' gentleness at this time mebbe reclaims Liz from a life o' shame. Finally he gets one out o' the lot who 'lows mebbe she'll take a chance; but she ain't on the job more'n an hour when Liz calls the parson in.

"Reverend," she says, "if you don't fire this here volunteer nurse I'm a-goin' to leave. I'm what I am, an' I know it; but it shore does gravel me to be told about it."

So Philip, he thanks the lady kindly an' says he's much obliged, but perhaps he's asked her to do somethin' he oughtn't to; an' he guesses he'll manage somehow. He don't have to give her more'n half an' openin' before she's gone.

Women don't take to Buckskin Liz worth a whoop, an' Philip he has to fall back on Crabapple Thompson, which the sot ain't half bad, accordin' to Liz. She says he understands her; an' first thing her an' Crabapple gets to arguin' religion, an' Liz, she warns the Crabapple if he ever gets drunk round the parson, an' she gets well an' finds it out, she'll shore make him hard to catch.

No, Philip's too busy to go feedin' round to a new house every night, an' he ain't the kind of a man to go peddlin' out small talk an' compliments to a lot o' women just because they stand ready to fall in love with him. Philip, he's a regular man, an' there ain't no female in Panamint that grades high enough for him; an' there ain't no bunch o' females that's goin' to make a mollycoddle outer him, either.

"Chuckwalla," he says—he comes to me for comfort when he can't stand it no longer—"it's an awful strain on a parson to be rubbin' up agin folks that wears their best side outside when they meet up with the minister. Me, I like my souls turned inside out—an' mostly I like 'em when they're naked an' I can see all the sin."

Well, son, this Buckskin Liz ee-pisode creates some little talk an' a diversity of opinion. It sorter jolts all hands in the congregation, an' some of the good people makes so bold as to remonstrate with Philip. In particular the chief elder, Absalom Randall, he talks to Philip like a son, an' says he must be careful an' not cause no talk.

"Absalom Randall," says Philip, "let me an' you have a show-down right here an' now. I'm a plain minister o' the Gospel an' not a divinity. I object seriously to this idea of a congregation electin' to think their pastor's so blamed pure he mustn't let himself go near sin an' sordidness in male or female. I'm a-tryin' to do this job accordin' to my Master's example. Elder, did you ever hear of a woman named Mary Magdalene?"