A/N1: More story.

Heaven and Hell

Book One:

Bring My Coffin Along

CHAPTER FIVE:

Sheep and Cattle

Sunday, September 6, 1885
Idaho Falls, Idaho

In general, earth's living creatures correspond to affections, the mild and useful ones to good affections, the fierce and useless ones to evil affections. Specifically, cattle and calves correspond to affections of the natural mind, sheep and lambs to affections of the spiritual mind.

- Emanuel Swedenborg, Heaven and Hell (110)

Jack Walker's sermon had ended - ended with a flailing yet failing crescendo.

The congregation sang one more song, led by the mayor, and then the service ended. Several people crowded around Chuck, introducing themselves (most were parents of children who would start school on Tuesday). They all became a blur after a minute - too many new faces, too many new names.

By the time Chuck freed himself from handshakes and hellos, Sarah was gone.

So too was Daniel Shaw.

As Chuck left the schoolhouse, he had to pass by Jack Walker, who had stationed himself by one of the red doors during the final song and was shaking hands as the congregation filed out.

Jack gave Chuck an unkind smile. "Well, if it isn't Charlie, our new school teacher. It is Charlie, right?" He had a remarkable smile, his daughter had inherited it, but a sweeter version.

"No, it's Chuck. I prefer Chuck."

"That's nice, Charlie. I hope my sermon wasn't too torturous for you. I know you are an expert. I had your application materials at my house for a time. Impressive, Charlie, very impressive. Harvard."

There was a press of others behind Chuck and so he went on, down the steps and out into the street. He noticed Devon Woodcomb standing off to the side, his arms crossed, a good-natured smirk on his face. He saw Chuck and waved, then started over.

"How'd you like the sermon, Chuck?"

Chuck shrugged carefully. "It was fine."

Devon eyed him and his smirk returned. "I assume Jack Walker swashbuckled his way through another one?"

Chuck's brown creased. "Swashbuckled?"

"Swashed through the beginning, then buckled during the invitation to the altar?"

Chuck laughed and then caught himself, covering his mouth with his fisted hand, looking around. Jack was still at the top of the steps, a good distance away.

"That's funny. I can't believe I haven't heard that before. I thought I knew all the preacher jokes"

"Right. Almost-Professor of Homiletics as Harvard, or so I have been told. I have heard little about you since I am unmarried and have no children in the schoolhouse sweepstakes. And since I am not one for saloon gossip." He paused and gave Chuck's face an examining look. "You were told to come and see me yesterday. Where were you?"

"I'm sorry, Devon. Frankly, I forgot. A lot went on yesterday."

Devon was listening, but he was still examining Chuck's face. "Good. Good. Not a problem. There's less bruising than I expected and no black eyes. You're tougher than you look, Chuck."

"Maybe. But I think I am okay. I had some bad dreams the night of the hold-up and yesterday, during a nap, but I've had those dreams before; I don't think there were symptomatic."

Devon raised an eyebrow. "Whatever the cause, come and see me if they come back. Have you got plans for dinner?"

"No, Mrs. Fitzsimmons is visiting her sister. She has left me to shift for myself."

"Let's go to Lou's. If we head there now, we can still find a decent table. Most of the church folks bring lunches and, on nice days, eat on the hill, in the grove."

"Not you?"

"No, I don't attend at all, although I know it costs me with folks, some of them already suspect science and medicine to be evil - but I just, well, let's just say that I am a reluctant unbeliever."

Chuck made a puzzled sound. "Don't run into many of those. Most unbelievers are indifferent unbelievers or triumphant unbelievers."

Devon nodded. "Yes, I suppose so. Long story. I will tell it someday. Shall we?"

They walked to Lou's. A large front window framed in red and white checked curtains bore the name 'Lou's" in golden letters. Inside, they found a harried, short young woman, flour on her cheek. She blew out a frustrated breath when they asked for a table. "Is the window okay? It's a little warm, but shouldn't be uncomfortable." She didn't wait for them to answer. She walked to the table

"That'd be fine," Devon answered. Lou stayed until they sat, then walked away. Devon watched her go, chewing on his lip. He emerged from his reverie. "She's a sweet woman but she hides it well."

"You know her?"

"Not much. She's involved with a railroad man. She expects him to marry her. When he's not in town, she's...grumpy, and she gets worse the longer he's gone. But when he's in town, she's sweet."

They chatted for a few minutes about the weather in Idaho Falls in September. Lou returned, flourless but fussy. "What'll it be, gents?" Her tone was impatient.

"I'd like a steak," Chuck blurted.

Lou nodded, a hint of a grin on her face. "And you, Doc?"

"The lamb." Lou nodded curtly and left.

"So Jack Walker is the town's preacher?"

"Yes. You don't know about this?"

"New guy. My introduction to the school board yesterday was more about them getting to know me than me getting to know them."

Devon laughed and shook his head. "No big surprise there. It's Beckman and Graham and Justus, right, the board?"

"Yes, that's them."

"Beckman is officious but she's also efficient, and dogged about the things she believes. She's the real mayor, I suspect, not Bernard, her well-meaning, song-leading husband. Graham is a friend of hers; they go back a long time. He's a stand-up guy, even if he works for the wrong team." When Chuck gave Devon a puzzled look, he explained. "Graham's an undertaker; I'm a doctor. Opposite sides. Now, Justus - the less said about her, the better - much time with her would finish me as a reluctant unbeliever. If they gave you a hard time, she's the reason."

"Yes, that was obvious. I didn't see her at church today."

Devon sighed. "That's not good. If she stayed away on a Sunday, she's trying to make a statement, aimed at you, no doubt. Be careful with her. She'll be waiting for you to make a mistake, anything she can take and twist.

"But you asked me about Jack - the preacher. Jack's been preaching for a long time. But it's not his job. I guess he does it for free. He's a rancher."

Lou reappeared with plates, putting one in front of Devon, one in front of Chuck. "I'll be back with bread in a minute."

"Jack Walker is a cattle rancher?"

"No, Jack Walker is a sheep rancher, the biggest around. But there is a cattle rancher here, bigger than Walker, David Shaw."

Chuck stopped cutting his meat. "David Shaw?"

"Right. And the recent history of the area is a history of a minor range war between Jack Walker and David Shaw."

"Range war?"

"Yes, in a way" Devon paused, then his voice deepened and became formal, "in general, it's an old, old story, the clash between the bovinophiles and the ovinophiles," he gestured at Chuck's plate and his, "between steak and lamb, between the mounted cowboys and the foot-bound shepherds…"

Devon smiled at himself and took a bite of his lamb before continuing. "Most of this took place before my time here, mind you. I've just been told about it." Lou stopped at the table with a plate of bread, fresh baked and thickly sliced.

"Jack Walker showed up here years ago, a beautiful wife and striking ten-year-old daughter, both blonde, in tow. He had money, lots and lots of it, and he launched into sheep ranching. He made a go of it. For a time, although there was grumbling among the cattlemen about being 'sheeped out', everything was fine.

But then David Shaw got...aggressive. In a short time, he bought out the smaller cattle ranchers and soon he was more or less the only cattleman in town. Shaw had - still has - the most abundant, accessible water in the area. It gave him leverage over the other cattlemen. It still gives him leverage. It gives him leverage over Walker. Anyway, once he got larger, Shaw started complaining about Walker's fences - cutting up pastureland, destroying the range. And bizarre stuff started getting said: 'sheep hooves kill the grass', 'cows won't eat grass sheep have crossed', and so on. Tensions rose.

"I don't understand it all; I'm not sure anyone but Jack Walker and David Shaw understands - if they do. But for a long time, things got bad and stayed bad. Gunfights in town between Shaw's men and Walker's. Murders in the night, in town and on the range. Mysterious mass deaths of sheep and of cattle. Townsfolk took sides, they traded hard words. You can imagine. No out-and-out, full-on, major battles; I suppose calling it a war might be the wrong term, but that's why I said 'minor'.

"But Walker's wife, Emma, as beautiful as her daughter they say, died. There was a brief break in the hostilities. But then they resumed, intensified. Over time, though, Walker grew desperate for water. David Shaw's son needed a wife. David decided that Walker's now-grown daughter would be that wife. There was an attempt at peace by wedlock. Shaw's son, Daniel, started courting Sarah Walker. She rebuffed him, and, in response, he went away, East for a while. People held their breath but Walker and Shaw managed to hold their peace. When Daniel came back, Sarah's heart changed, I guess. He proposed, and she accepted his proposal. Tensions finally cleared. Life in Idaho Falls got better. I arrived around that time. Now folks are just waiting for Miss Walker to set a date for the royal wedding. She's been...slow...choosing a date."

Chuck had been eating as the tale was told - but mechanically, caught up in the story. He wiped his mouth with his napkin. "I met Miss Walker yesterday."

Devon sat back for a minute, scanning Chuck's face. "She's a beautiful woman, isn't she?"

"Yes, she is." Chuck looked out the window to avoid Devon's gaze.

"Did she speak to you?"

Chuck returned to Devon. "She did. I had fallen asleep up in the grove. She had come to put flowers on her mother's grave. She woke me from a bad dream."

"Quite an awakening, I imagine," Devon said.

Chuck smiled. "It was."

"She's nice but I don't know her well. Folks love her but she has always been quiet, almost taciturn. Self-possessed. I gather she was an irrepressible tomboy as a girl, that she can ride and shoot as well as any man. But I've never seen that side of her; I don't believe anyone has for a long time. She seems to have given all that up. Gave it up before I arrived. I was told her tom-boying caused a serious rift between her and her mother, when her mother was alive."

Devon paused and ate for a few minutes. Chuck had finished and pushed his plate aside, putting his knife and fork on it. He looked out the window as Devon finished. Devon wiped his mouth and leaned toward Chuck. "I can see from your face that Miss Walker left an impression. A word to the wise - be careful. Daniel Shaw is, well, the last man who looked twice at Miss Walker now has a face I had to stitch back together - like something imagined by Mary Shelley, a Modern Prometheus."

Chuck shuddered and nodded. "I'll bear that in mind. What do you make of Daniel Shaw," Chuck asked, keeping his tone casual but hoping to make something of the opportunity to learn more.

Devon looked puzzled. "I don't know how to answer. He has a temper; he is jealous. Smug - I guess that's the main word that comes to mind. He never says it but he walks around town like he owns the place. He's deadly with a gun, I'm told. Viper-quick. The viper part I believe. But I admit, I may be speaking out of jealousy myself."

"Miss Walker?"

Devon put up his hands. "No, no. She's beautiful, but no. Not my type" He put down his hands and leaned toward Chuck again. "I did rather like Miss Reynolds, your predecessor. She was very attractive. Dark brown hair, red lips, intelligent and plain-spoken. We stepped out a few times, and I visited her at Mrs. Fitzsimmons' - under your landlady's watchful eye, of course. Unfortunately, although I think she liked me, she never was as seriously interested in me as I was in her. Perhaps it is for the best. As much as I liked her, she did not have the sort of open nature I would like in a wife. But I do wish she had told me what was wrong, what took her from town so suddenly."

"What happened?"

Devon shook his head. "I don't know. The last few weeks of the school year, as summer was approaching, she seemed distant, distracted, agitated. I tried to get her to talk to me but she insisted that nothing was the matter. And then she was gone. No goodbyes, no explanation, - she was just gone.

"A day before she left, I was in my carriage, coming into town from a call at a farm not far away, and I saw Miss Reynold's leaning out of the window of her - now your - room. She was holding a man's hand, talking. I was tired and darkness was falling and the man wore a hat, but I believe the man was Daniel Shaw. That's why I mentioned jealousy, although, if it was Shaw, he and she were not doing anything incriminating, other than the clandestine meeting."

Lou came to the table and cleared the plates away. She offered dessert; both men refused. They paid and got up. Outside, Devon stood for a moment with Chuck. "You're sure you are feeling okay, Chuck?" Chuck nodded. "I'm here if you need me. I think I will take a stroll. You, Chuck?"

"No, I am going to rest, head back to my room." They shook hands and parted. As Chuck neared Mrs. Fitzsimmons, he saw a short man in a big hat crossing the street. The man was bearded. He looked like an older, bow-legged version of Chuck's friend in Boston, Morgan. He had a rifle resting on his shoulder as if it were a shovel, a gun holstered to his side. The man was walking quickly.

Chuck called out, acting on a whim. "Sir, sir, excuse me…" The man had crossed the street by then. He stopped and faced Chuck. Chuck hurried to him. "Hello, sorry to trouble you, but you looked like a man who could answer my question."

The man narrowed his eyes, taking in Chuck's Boston suit. "Well, maybes I can, and maybes, I cain't. What's it ya need, Mistur?"

"I need to find someone in town, proficient with a gun, who will teach me."

"Pro-fishy-ant? What's that word mean?"

"Um, good, skilled."

The man's eyes opened, lit up. "Hey, I unnerstan that. I s'pose I'm as pro-, as skilled as anneryone else in this town, more'n most." The man straightened up and fished in his vest pocket. Out came a star. "See, I's the deputy sheriff, on-a cause-a my profish-, skills." He put the star away. "Course, I's the part-time deputy sheriff, the resta the time I werk in the stables yonder." He pointed at a large, fresh-painted barn off in the distance, stationed at the very edge of town. "I'm headin' there now. My name's Nehi."

Chuck blinked. The man laughed. "I know, funny sorta moniker. My name's Nehemia, Nehemia Jenks, but evveron jes calls me Nehi."

"Well, Mr. Nehi, do you think you could instru-, teach me how to shoot?"

Nehi sized Chuck up. "Cain't say I can teech you or not. But I'm willing-ta give 'er a go."

"How much?"

Nehi's eyes narrowed again. "How 'bout you pay me in drinks? Two shots-a red eye per lessin?"

"Um, sure. How do I supply the pay?"

Nehi grinned and winked. "You'll have-ta come w' me to the Bar None, I s'pose. I doan like-ta drink all by my lonesome."

"Tomorrow afternoon? I just live here at Mrs. Fitzsimmons."

Nehi's eyes lit with comprehension. "Oh, oh, y're the new teecher yerself, the teecher what went-ta that fancy Divin-in-inity school. The God school." Chuck nodded, repressing a smile, and yet again Nehi's eyes narrowed. "Now, iffin I's-a teeching ya, ya ain't a-gonna be trying to salvage my soul is ya?"

Chuck blew a single chuckle out of his nose. "'Salvage? No, Nehi, I've got all the trouble I need trying to salvage my own."

Nehi gazed at him, surprised. "That's fair. Okey, I'll do't. Tomorrow, meet me at them stables. 2pm. Ya gotta gun?"

Chuck nodded. "I do. But could we perhaps leave town to practice? I'd be...embarrassed by my lack of skill if I were seen practicing…"

"Cain't piss iffin someones a-watchin'?" Nehi gave him an odd look.

"Something like that, Nehi."

Nehi shrugged. "Sure, but we'll need horses. That'll cost ya too. Say, a bag of tobbaca and some rollin' papers?"

"Yes, done."

"See ya tomorrow, then, Dee-vine."

Nehi walked away before Chuck could protest the title. Chuck stood there in the street for a minute, then walked to Mrs. Fitzsimmons. He stopped to look at her flowers.

For the first time since the hold-up, he felt homesick. He had just put his plan into motion. It would take time. But, as far as he knew, he had time, time that felt like eternity.

Monday, September 7, 1885

Chuck woke up before the roosters, even before Mrs. Fitzsimmons. He washed in the basin and headed out of the house while it was still dark. He walked out toward the stables, then took a wide ambit around the town. After he had been walking for a time, trying to clear his head, he spied someone. At first, Chuck thought it was a man, but then he realized it was a woman. She wore black from head to toe. She was carrying an old carpetbag. Her hat was low, her head down. Chuck heard a horse neigh but none was in sight. He stepped closer to the back of the house he was passing behind. The woman crossed the street and, no hesitation, she went up the backstairs of the Bar None.

Gone. Chuck had not seen her face, but as she climbed the stairs, he saw a blonde ponytail. Blonde. Golden.

The rider on the hill after the hold-up! The flash of gold. It was not a vision, it was a blonde rider, a woman.

Chuck stood and waited but no one emerged from the saloon. The sun was up and Chuck heard noises inside the house. He hurried away. He was looking forward to Mrs. Fitzsimmons' biscuits. The blonde rider had pushed other thoughts, his struggle-filled broodings, from his mind, and he walked along, pondering her, trying to imagine her errand.

Midday found Chuck loitering on a bench in front of Lou's. He had eaten there. Lou had been no more friendly than the day before, but the food was just as good. He was going to get up and go to Mrs. Fitzsimmons' soon. He needed to collect his gun. His white hat had been dusted; he was wearing his Western clothes. Mrs. Fitzsimmons' washing of them had made them seem less new; he felt less like an obtrusive, ridiculous greenhorn. He still felt more like a spectator of the landscape than a part of it, but less than he had earlier.

He was beginning to settle in. A part of him hungered for that; a part of him fought it. Given his plan, he had to accept that he was not in Idaho Falls to stay.

"And where are you, Mr. Bartowski?"

Chuck whipped his head around, jolted by the words and their relevance to his mind's wandering, his thoughts of home and homelessness. Standing beside the end of his bench was Sarah Walker. She looked like the sun itself in her yellow dress, her hair down. She gave him a smile, more expressive than her reaction at church the day before.

She was alone.

"Nowhere, really, Miss Walker. Just meandering, I suppose."

She smirked. "I would enjoy knowing more about your mental meanderings, Mr. Bartowski. I suspect they must be fascinating, Iliadic."

"Excuse me, are you a fan of Homer, Miss Walker?"

She nodded, more than a hint of mystery on her face. "Yes, I read him in Chapman's translation. I love Homer, particularly The Iliad."

Chuck was surprised - not so much her reading Chapman's Homer as by her sharing it. His impression of her the day before had been strengthened by his conversation with Devon, and he had not expected Sarah to volunteer information.

"If you still have copies of the Homer, would you lend them to me sometime? I would be grateful."

She shook her head. "No." Chuck leaned back involuntarily - she stepped forward. "No, I mean I don't have the books anymore. I hardly have any books...now."

"I have books that Miss Reynolds left. You may borrow any you like. I could make you a list."

"That would be nice. You are nice, Mr. Bartowski."

It dawned on Chuck that she had not used his first name. She had used it at the graveside. He wondered about it but she spoke again. "I...I was wondering if you could do me a favor, Mr. Bartowski. Friday night is the town's Fall Festival. There is to be a dance. I need an escort and wondered if you would be willing to do it. It would be a good way for you to get to know more people and for them to know you - and it is in part a celebration of the beginning of the school year, so it makes sense that you should be there."

Chuck flushed with pleasure. He noticed then, as she shifted her weight from foot to foot, that there was a man standing on the sidewalk behind her, just arrived. The man leaned against a pole. He was listening to the conversation intently, despite his casual posture.

"That it a kind invitation Miss Walker. But I...have been told that you are engaged. I…"

"Yes, that is true, Mr. Bartowski. I am engaged to Daniel Shaw." She spoke each word distinctly. "But he is out of town on business and my father is not planning to attend. I mentioned the possibility of us...that is, you and I, going together to both of them. They both thought it neighborly. They also did not want me to attend alone."

Chuck smiled at her. "It is most neighborly." He deliberately repeated her word. "I would be pleased to go with you. Will there be dancing? It is only fair to warn you that my native awkwardness increases when I ply it with music."

She gave him a huge smile, careful to keep her face turned away from the man. "I dance well, Mr. Bartowski. Perhaps I can help you?"

"It seems the teacher's fate is always to be the learner."

Her smile became thoughtful. "What did you think of my father's sermon?"

Chuck struggled to find something to say. She stepped into the silence. "He is self-taught. I fear seeing you in the audience made him nervous."

"I was unaware that the man preaching about the sheep was himself a sheep rancher."

"Yes, a conceit of his, I'm afraid. Could we meet on Friday evening at the stables? I will leave my carriage there."

"Yes. It's a date."

The man behind her cleared his throat and her eyes became guarded, her face unreadable.

"Not a date, Mr. Bartowski, but it should be a pleasant evening." Her tone was even but her smile now uneven. She turned and walked away. The man stood up straight as she passed. He gave Chuck a hostile look, then followed her.

The man's chill look did not undo the warmth Chuck felt, or make him less conscious of the blue ribbon in his shirt pocket.

Chuck had his gun hidden in his pillowcase when he arrived at the stables. Nehi sat on the top pole of the fence, waiting for him, his hat down over his face. He heard Chuck arrive and pushed his hat up. "Howdy, Dee-vine. Ya reddy fer yer lessin?"

Chuck motioned for him to lower his voice and Nehi gave him an apologetic nod.

"I am - that I am."

Nehi hopped down and led Chuck into the relative cool and shadow of the stables. Two horses, saddled and ready. The saddle on one had an old cloth bag hanging from the pommel. Nehi climbed up on it and jostled the bag. Chuck heard a glassy clink.

Chuck got up on the other. He had ridden and was not afraid of horses, but he was not an experienced rider, and he had not ridden in years. Nehi watched him almost throw himself over the horse as he got up. Nehi laughed. "I pick'd Jenny there fer ya. She's a tall 'un. I was afeard yer long leg's'd drag the ground on anny other. Like a prayin' mantis atop-a June beetle."

Taking the reins, Chuck gave Jenny an uncommanding nudge. She did not move. Nehi's eyes shone with merriment. "Now, teecher, ya gotta 'member. She's like a stoodent. Ya gots to tell 'er things. Ya cain't bargin with 'er."

Chuck put his heels into her sides and Jenny moved. Chuck could hear Nehi laughing to himself as he fell in behind.

Nehi proved to be a proficient with a gun - and a natural teacher. They had dismounted far from town and Nehi had taken the empty bottles from the bag and set them along the massive trunk of a fallen Ponderosa pine.

He showed Chuck how to stand, how to hold his arms, and how to aim and how to pull the trigger. At first, Chuck's marksmanship was little better than if he had been shooting with his eyes closed. He improved, though. Nehi had a gift for seeing Chuck's errors and pointing them out, and, even more, a gift for helping Chuck correct them. When the bottles were bits of broken glass, Nehi put his hand on Chuck's shoulder, reaching high to do it.

"That'll do, Dee-vine. Ya got sum talent fer this. Course, shootin' sum glass shore ain't shootin' no man, and a-shootin' a man takes more'n...pro-fish-en-see. It takes stones o' a certin kind. Ya has to still yer heart, not just so's it's not a-poundin' away, but so's it's not a-feeling annythin' neither. That ain't nat'ral. Not nat'ral at-all. And I cain't teech ya that. An' I wouldn't, iffin I could. It's a-twixt you, and Heaven and Hell, Dee-vine."

Chuck shook his head. "I just want to learn to shoot, not to learn to kill."

Nehi gave him an unconvinced look. "Glad ya sees the diff'ernce. It's a diff'ernce worth ponderin'' over. I's killed men since takin' up deputyin', an tain't sweetened my nights, or my days, I tell ya. Nary a bit. Nary one goddamn bit."

Nehi's face registered instant mortification. "Sorry, sorry, Dee-vine, fer cursin' afore a-manna God."

"It's fine, Nehi. I'm a teacher, not a preacher. And a word's only a curse when it's used to curse someone; otherwise, it's just a word, like any other, a sound in the air, a pile of ink on a page."

Nehi took a minute, then nodded and whistled. "Ya grad-ee-ated smart, Dee-vine. - Say, I'll collect on that whisky and them smokes soon."

They got back on the horses, turning them toward town.

Nehi smiled at the scenery, finite greens and browns hung below infinite blue. The men and horses weaved in and out of trees, juniper, pinyon, mountain hemlock.

Chuck didn't speak. Jenny knew the way; he let her ramble along.

Chuck rotated Nehi's words in his mind, wondering how Nehi seemed to know so much.

A/N2: Tune in next chapter to attend the first days of school - and to attend Idaho Falls' Fall Festival - Chapter Six, "Tuitions and Intuitions".

Thoughts? I'm at the decision point for the story - continue or not? We are now mostly done with preliminaries. Things are obviously already happening but the speed begins to increase next chapter. If you are reading but haven't commented, and if you want this to continue, then it's time to speak up. Many thanks to those who have commented.