Prairie Gold Part 22

G.o.d's Back Yard

_By Jessie Welborn Smith_

AN EPISODE FROM ACT THREE

_Place, Tim Murphy's saloon. Time, evening._

Men are crowding about the bar, drinking and laughing coa.r.s.ely.

The wives are huddled together on a long bench at one side of the room. The children keep close to their mothers, but stretch their little necks to watch the dancing in the back of the room, where a group of painted women are tangoing to the wheezy accompaniment of an old accordion. Over in the corner a man sprawls drunkenly across a broken-down faro table.

_d.i.c.k Long (hammering the bar with his mug and singing)._ Oh, I'm goin' to h.e.l.l, and I don't give a d.a.m.n. I'm goin' to h.e.l.l. I'm goin'

to--h.e.l.l.

_Murphy (knocking a board from the crate that holds the new nickel-in-the-slot gramaphone)._ You're going a d.a.m.n sight faster than that, d.i.c.kie Bird, but you'll have to speed up a bit to get in on the concert. The program begins at eight o'clock sharp, like it says on the card in the window, and everybody gets an invite, but Caruso don't sing this time.

_First Painted Lady (stopping the dance and coming down beside Murphy)._ Let 'er go, Murph. Give us "Too Much Mustard." The piano player down at the Gulch plays that just fine, and a piece about a girl that didn't want to love him, but he made her do it. That machine was long on personal history, Murph. I heard them all through three times. Let 'er go. We're all here.

_First Wife (leaning over and speaking eagerly)._ Mrs. Long won't be able to come, Murphy, and Old Moll is settin' up with her to-night. I met Doc as I came across. The young-un died. I don't see no use in waitin' when we're all here.

_Rosie Phelan (reaching over and pulling Long's sleeve)._ Did you hear that, d.i.c.k? Your kid is dead. Your kid is--d-e-a-d. Do you get me?

_Man at the Bar._ Aw, break it to him gentle. He don't know he is a father yet. Have a heart.

_Rosie Phelan (disgustedly)._ "Have a heart." Well, what do you think of that? For a man who guzzles all day you are mighty strong on the heart-throb slush. "Speak kindly to the erring." Didn't know you had got religion. Was it you got the revivalist to come up from the Gulch?

_Nell (s.h.i.+fting her wad of gum)._ Well, he was sitting over at Benton's rather lonesome-like as I came along. I allus follow the crowd.

_Murphy (hotly)._ And that is what that preacher will have to do if he makes any converts up here at the mine. I reckon that, with that music machine, I'm equipped to compete with any preacher that comes larking around here until kingdom come. He said he'd save me, if he had to chase me to h.e.l.l and back, did he? Well, that guy should worry. That pale chicken-liver chase me to--Pour out the drinks, Bob. It's my treat.

Bob slops a little whiskey into every gla.s.s and mug on the bar and pa.s.ses it round. As it comes to the wives they smile, but shake their heads. Murphy lifts his gla.s.s.

_Murphy._ Won't you women drink the minister's health. How about you females, Bett? Nell? Rosie? Mollie? You girls never turn down free liquor, do you? Ready? To h.e.l.l with the minister.

_Barkeeper._ To h.e.l.l with every denatured female that comes round here praying for our souls' salvation. I reckon a feller can do what he d.a.m.n pleases with his own soul.

_First Lounger (lazily boastful)._ I told my old woman that if I ketched her or the kids hanging round listening to that mollycoddle letting off steam, I'd----

_First Wife (spitefully)._ Us women ain't got no call to get religion.

We're too meek already. My man knows that he'll have a wildcat at his head when he comes in with that O'Grady woman, but it don't do no good. He ain't afeared o' nothin' short o' the devil. You don't ketch me joinin' while my old man is alive. You gotta have some protection.

Safety first, I say.

_Second Wife (meekly)._ They say the "Blue Ridge Mountains" is a mighty tuneful piece. My sister heard it over at Smarty's las'

Thanksgiving. Can you tell whether your pianoler plays that, Murphy?

_Second Painted Lady (patronizingly)._ How would you expect Murphy to know what is stored in that machine? You pays your money and your choice is whatever it happens to grind out. If you place your money on a "Harem" and draws an "Apple Blossom Time in Normandy," you got to take your medicine. What you waiting for, Murph? My gentleman friend is coming over from the Pa.s.s this evening, and I can't hang around here all night.

_Rosie (excitedly, turning from the window that looks upon the street)._ The light is out at Benton's. The minister is coming over here. Remember and give him h.e.l.l. Let him turn the other cheek.

_Murphy._ No prayer meeting virgin is going to interfere with my business.

The door opens and the minister steps inside. Murphy goes over and greets him with mock politeness.

_Murphy._ Rosie, you are chief usher to-night. Will you find the minister a seat? Sit over, Nell. There's room enough between you and Bett for any sky pilot that ever hit the trail. Bob, give the preacher a drink. He looks sort of f.a.gged. It's hard work saving sinners in G.o.d's Back Yard. I hope this little concert ain't going to interfere with your meeting, parson.

_Minister (standing at the bar, whiskey gla.s.s in hand)._ Not at all, friend. What is the bill of fare?

_Rosie (coming forward in her low-cut red gown and swinging her full skirts from side to side)._ For Gawd's sake, why didn't you tell me it was going to be religious? I'd forgot it was prayer-meetin' night, Murph. (_She carefully tucks her handkerchief over her bosom in pretense of modesty._) I'd dressed up more, if I'd remembered.

_Nell (holding out a string of glittering beads)._ Here, take these, Rosie. These'll cover up some. I ain't takin' an active part, so I don't mind.

_Rosie (lifting her arms to fasten the beads)._ Not takin' an active part? You don't know what you're sayin'. I heard of a minister once who could make h.e.l.l look so darned nice you wanted to fall for it right away. Couldn't such a fellah give the heavenly gates a jar?

(_She turns to the minister._) Where d'you want to sit? Up there by Mollie? Take your choice.

_Old Moll's Daughter (jumping down from her perch at one end of the bar and walking over brazenly to drop the first nickel in the slot)._ Clear the way, can't you? I'm praying for the "Bunny Hug" and the minister is backing me. For Gawd's sake, can't you clear the floor? Do you want the music to be half done before you find your partners? I'll be obliged to you, parson, if you'll save this dance for me. (_She pauses a moment, nickel in hand._)

_First Card Player._ I'll stake you ten to one it'll be "The Pullman Porters on Parade."

_Second Player (doggedly)._ They always play "A Great Big Blue-Eyed Baby."

_Rosie (shaking her head and singing, hands on hips)._ "My harem, my harem, my roly, poly harem."

_Nell (with mock sentiment)._ "For it's Apple Blossom Time in Normandy, in Normandy, in Normandy."

The nickel jangles in the slot. The disk begins to revolve. It grates and begins its introductory mechanical clinkety-clinkety clink. A small child wails dismally as the music s.h.i.+vers through the room.

"Jesus, lover of my soul, Let me to Thy bosom fly.

While the nearer waters roll, While the tempest still is high.

Hide me, O, my Saviour, hide Till the storm of life is past.

Safe into the haven guide, O, receive my soul at last."

Rosie's hands drop from her hips as the song begins. The dancing impulse pa.s.ses from her limbs. Even the muscles of her face harden convulsively.

_Rosie (hysterically)._ Oh, I can't stand that, Murphy. For Gawd's sake, can't you stop it?

She starts over toward the machine impulsively. Then something catches her, she pauses and is held a moment while a superst.i.tious awe makes her eyes again the big roundness of childhood's wonder.

She draws the back of her hand across her forehead in an endeavor to bring herself out of the daze.

_Rosie (falling sobbing beside the bench)_. "O, receive my soul at last." Why did you leave your little Rosie? Mother, Oh, mother. I ain't fit to come to you no more, mother--I ain't fit, I ain't fit.

One of the mothers reaches over and strokes her hair.

_Old Moll's Daughter (opening the door and stepping out into the lonely street as she laughs madly)._ Old Murphy in cahoots with the minister. Oh, h.e.l.l!

The door slams shut. The gla.s.ses on the bar jangle harshly. A s.n.a.t.c.h of song boldly defiant rings in from the street: "Don't tell me that you've lost your dog." Murphy walks over and stands looking at the music box. It is still grinding out the music.

"Other refuge have I none.

Hangs my helpless soul on Thee.