A/N1: Discoveries made, the predicament assessed. And a letter.

Heaven and Hell

Book Two:

The Hells Are Everywhere

CHAPTER THIRTEEN:

Mud

Saturday, October 3, 1885
Railroad Encampment near Idaho Falls

Chuck swung down off Jenny just as Nehi did off his horse. They tied them both to a hitching post and stood, ankle-deep in mud.

Chuck recalled Napoleon: "The fifth element - mud."

It started raining on Thursday night as Chuck drank coffee and Morgan drank Sarsaparilla. It intensified during the night and drummed down all day on Friday, sometimes falling in such superabundance on the schoolhouse roof that the students and he could barely suss out what was being said.

Slowly, everything had melted - mud, muddy, muddier.

Mud.

It stopped sometime during the night on Friday, slowed, and stopped, but the mud remained, brown, gluey and thick. The mud made the ride to the railroad camp a sullen Saturday morning slog instead of a bracing trot amid Fall colors. The rain had not only wet everything, it had ushered in cooler Fall air. Chuck was glad to have on his jacket - a bargain at Patel's, or so Lester insisted.

Idaho's early autumnal beauty was too damp and cold to be gazingstock. Everything seemed to have huddled into itself against the rain and cold and nothing had, as yet, opened up, despite the Saturday morning sun. Jenny seemed to find the sinking ground beneath her hooves dispiriting. She plodded along, her head half-hanging. Nehi, however, seemed to be unfazed by the water or cool air. He chirped and sang, regaling Chuck with tales of his own derring-do back in his salad days. Chuck had been amused, and even Jenny, perhaps picking up on Chuck's lightening mood, picked up her pace, picked up her feet.

But now: Mud.

The camp's short main road ran between many small tents, a couple of rough log buildings and culminated large tent, sideless, underneath which were many makeshift tables. Men - and a few women - squatted here and there before the small tents, fanning smoky fires, trying to cook breakfast. The smell of breakfast meats blended with the pungent odor of sewage. Chuck could see a small stream down a short bank on the left side of the camp, and the stream's water looked - unclear. The stink of sewage rose from it.

Some people looked up as Chuck and Nehi trudged past with sucking steps, but few seemed interested in the tall, lanky man and his short, bow-legged companion. A couple of people recognized Nehi and waved - that was all the greeting they got.

They stopped in front of one of the wooden buildings. A small sign by the door read: Oregon Short Line Railroad Camp - Main Office. Nehi kicked his boots against the side of the door, knocking clumps of mud off them, then stepped inside. Chuck did the same.

Inside, the scene was different.

The walls had been whitewashed. The long table that dominated the room had been carefully crafted and finished. The three desks matched it. Large maps were hung on the walls. A vase of Idaho fall flowers graced the central table and the smell of coffee rose from a pot on top of a small, pot bellied stove. The room was warm but not hot. It seemed emblematic of efficiency and order, like a railroad-approved pocket watch, tick, tock.

Men sat at each of the desks. A small woman, young and bespectacled, was organizing papers at the central desk. One of the men stood.

"Nehi, good to see you! What brings you out to Muckville?"

Nehi grinned. "It's shure 'nuf muddy, I'll say. Much more 'n you folks'd sunk like ya's in quicksand. Nuttin' left-a ya but yer hats a-sailin' on the muck."

"True, true. Hello," the man said to Chuck, extending his hand and looking up at Chuck, "I don't think we've met. I'm Thad Howell. I run the camp and work for OSL."

Chuck took the man's hand. For a split second, Chuck saw the man's smile transform into something demon-like, flame-lit, and then it passed. Chuck shook his head as he finished shaking the man's hand. "I'm Chuck Bartowski. I teach school in Idaho Falls."

Howell nodded. "Ah, the substitute for poor Miss Reynolds. Is it her supposed visit here that brings you two out into the mud?"

"Shure 'tis," Nehi answered, a hint of complaint in his voice. "Lou's got extry-good bis'cuts 'n gravy on Sat'day but they wer'n't done when we left."

"How is Lou? It's been a while since I have been able to come to town. I imagine she's gotten...testy?"

"She's missin' ya, no doubt. She was a-hissin' at yesterday's rain like'n she's a snake. Ya better visit an' charm 'er soon, Thad."

"I will," Howell said. Just as he finished speaking, the door to the office banged open. A man, covered in mud, stood outside, dripping, panic beneath the muddy water on his face.

"Mr. Howell! Mr. Howell! They was working down on the hillside, takin' down the scaffold, and Billy Jones was larkin', runnin' along atop the hill. He fell and tumbled down. He's at the bottom an' his leg's all messed up. Done broke it."

Howell's pleasant, professional smile disappeared. A frown took its place. "He shouldn't have been running up there." Howell's response was oddly brief, unconcerned.

And then Chuck knew. A moment before, a vision: he was looking at Number One, the leader of the Number Gang. His speech was more polished than it had been during the hold-up, but the voice was the same. Cold. Commanding.

The office burst into commotion and motion.

Howell told the muddy man what to do. They left together, the man following Howell. Howell turned around and spoke to Chuck and Nehi through the open door. "We may need you two to take Billy to Dr. Woodcomb. Can you do that?"

Chuck nodded, Nehi said yes. The men left.

"Should we go help?" Chuck asked Nehi.

"Nope, they'll know what to do. It'll take 'em a while ta splint the man an' git him up 'ere. We'd jes be in 'er way. So, was they sumpin' you needed ta see in partic'lar? I says we got some time a-fore we hav-ta go."

"No, I just wanted to look around. Maybe talk to a few folks." Chuck had a hunch. "Who here helps folks that are sick? It's a ride to town. Surely, someone out here does some basic medicine, remedies, that sort of thing?"

Nehi nodded. "That'd be Shotgun Gert. She ain't no reg'lar railroader, but she's sorta a camp follower, an' she does elixirs 'n potions an' whatnot."

"Where can we find...Shotgun Gert?"

"She's gotta shack outta camp, but near."

They went back out into the mud.

Chuck could hear Howell barking orders off in the distance. He got goosebumps. He was sure, sure Howell was Number One. But all he had to offer as proof was...a momentary vision, one of a piece with the vision he had when the hold-up was happening. A familiar vocal tone.

"Say, ya doin' alrigh', Dee-vine. Ya's lookin' a li'l greener 'n usual.."

"I'll be fine." As they walked along, heading past the large tent and away from camp, Chuck glanced at Nehi. "Howell seems like a top executive, a man of decision. What's he doing out here in the muck?"

"I wond'erd that meeself, Chuck. He's a polished knob, that's shure. Doan belong on no cabin door. Lou - he's her beau, but I'ma guessin' yer figer'd that by now - she tol' me once Howell got inna sum kinda argument with the OSL owner, and they'd hadda fallin' out. The endin' was Howell a-here 'n the boonies. But that's all she evver tol' me."

Chuck nodded, thinking. "I see he doesn't wear a gun."

"Nope. Nevver see'd him w' one."

"Is he always in camp?"

"Nope, not allways. Now 'n then he's gotta travel, sumtimes way back to Cody. You seem powerful inner'rested in 'im, Dee-vine. Any partic'lar reeson?"

"No," Chuck sighed, "just curious."

"Ya shure got-a powerful strange look on yer face when ya was lookin' at Howells inna office, Dee-vine. Like you'd done see'd a ghost."

Chuck said nothing to that.

They came into a small clearing. A makeshift hut stood in it, made out of odds and ends. Chuck looked at Nehi. "I think it might be best if I could talk to Gert on my own, Nehi. I have an idea and I don't know if it will work with you standing there, wearing that star on your chest."

Nehi narrowed his eyes. "But Gert, she's a live 'un, Dee-vine. She's as lik'ly to kill ya as talk ta ya."

"I'll take my chances. Give me ten minutes? Check on Billy; I'll be along presently."

Nehi made a show of pulling out his watch and checking it. "Alrigh', ten minutes an' no more."

Chuck watched Nehi head back to camp, then Chuck walked to the shack.

As he got closer, he realized that there were small animals, in various states of preservation, nailed to the shack. Lizards, birds, furry creatures of various sizes and sorts. The shack was pockmarked with death. He forced himself to stand before the ill-fitting door and knock.

No answer. He knocked again.

"Who the hell is it, mucking with me on this mudslide of a morning?" The voice was unpleasant, angry. Chuck heard loud sounds from inside, and more cursing, then the door opened. It was obvious why she was Shotgun Gert. In her forties, with jet black hair, she had a sawed-off shotgun in her hands, pointed at Chuck's chest, its double barrels a dark, cold stare.

Gert herself was otherwise absolutely naked.

And it was chilly.

Chuck spun around and raised his hands as he did, so that he was facing away from Gert, his hands in the air.

He heard a chuckle behind him. "Now, aren't you right respectful. Of course, it may be that you've simply never seen a pair of breasts quite this magnificent, and that you spun simply to preserve your vision, afraid the Lord would demand it of you after allowing you see to my glory, sorta like Moses when he saw God's butt."

"Back parts," Chuck offered. "At least, that the Authorized Version."

"I know that, Mister - but that's effete parlor talk. What it means is butt, right?"

Chuck shrugged. "I suppose that is what it means."

"Do you think God has a butt, Mister? The Old Testament gives him all sorts of parts - arms and hands and eyes and...back parts. I would have thought you couldn't rightly tell if God was coming or going, you know, but if he has eyes and back parts, maybe you could."

Chuck shrugged again. "God moves in mysterious ways."

There was a long silence, then the chuckle Chuck heard returned, more hearty this time. "Say, that's funny, Mister. Not many folks around here up for serious theological discussion."

Chuck laughed. "Is that what this is?"

"Close enough for a skinny stranger and a naked woman."

Chuck continued laughing. "I guess so. I would like to talk to you for a minute, Miss Gert. Do you think you could put something on along with the shotgun?"

"I suppose. I was going to walk to the creek for my weekly ablution just when you showed up. Luckily, I'm upstream from the camp."

Chuck thought about the sewage odor. "Yes, that's lucky."

"Hang on."

There was more noise from the shack then Gert spoke. "Okay, you can turn around. I put on something to match my gun."

Chuck did. Gert was still holding her shotgun, but she had put on an old faded duster, long and stained, and it was wrapped around her, one arm holding its front closed. As far as Chuck could tell, she was otherwise still naked.

"So, what do you want, Mister."

"My name is Chuck. I'm the new school teacher. I wanted to ask you about my predecessor, Miss Reynolds. Did you know her?"

"I talked to Constance about this already. I told him I knew her in the sense that I knew what she looked like, knew her name, but we never traded words."

Chuck gave Gert a dubious look. "I doubt that. Do you have any remedies here for pregnancy?"

Gert colored. "What do you mean? Why would anyone need a remedy for that? I have potions that'll help a woman get pregnant. Help a man to...stand to order."

Chuck thought about his time in Boston, what he had learned working in the poor parts of town. "But you don't have any that might promise to end a pregnancy?"

"No, I don't have any such thing."

"Look, I am not here to cause you trouble. Miss Gert. I'm just trying to understand Miss Reynolds, what she was thinking around the time she was murdered."

"But then why are you asking me about pregnancy?" Gert stepped forward, aiming the shotgun at Chuck deliberately.

Chuck stood his ground. "Because Miss Reynolds was pregnant. I'm guessing she came to you, hoping you could help…"

Gert stared at Chuck for a few seconds, her eyes dark above the dark barrels of the shotgun. "You know?"

"Yes, Graham, the undertaker, figured it out. I'm just...curious. You don't have to tell me what you said or what you gave her, if anything. Just tell me this: Did she come here looking for such a remedy?"

Gert lowered the barrels. "Yes, she did. She asked. I don't know that she wanted such a thing, or believed it would really work, but she came to ask. She did ask. Considering her options, I gather."

"And no one saw?"

"No, because she found me down at the creek, bathing, not up here. No one was around. She asked me about it there. - But I don't think she really wanted it. I think she wanted to have the baby. And there ain't any such...remedy. She was just...afraid."

"Of what, Gert? Who?"

She shrugged and her duster fell open. Chuck shut his eyes and she laughed again.

But when she spoke she was serious again. "I don't know, but my guess is that she was afraid of the father. And before you ask, I have no idea who that was. She didn't say."

"Alright. Am I the only one you've told this too?"

"You were the only one smart enough to ask. And you can open your eyes; I buttoned my coat. No reason to send you back to the Children of Israel with your face all aglow."

"Thanks, Gert. Kind of you."

She smiled. "Always good to be reminded there are men out there who aren't jackasses. Now, turn, and leave. I'll enjoy watching your back parts as you go."

Sarah walked along the street hoping to see Chuck and praying she didn't.

After the train's arrival, seeing him with his sister and with the little girl had rattled Sarah, and it had taken all her concentration to hide that fact from Daniel.

But Sarah was bursting with curiosity about Elie, the woman who wrote the letter about Chuck that had so moved Sarah's imagination. She wondered about the little girl, what her story was. So far as Sarah knew, Chuck had no children and she had the impression Ellie didn't either. It was confusing.

Adding to the confusion was the tender spot in Sarah's heart that had been touched when she saw Chuck holding the little girl. A part of Sarah, hitherto unheard from, spoke softly at that scene. It made Sarah blush to think about it. A son, a daughter - but she was a fool for such idle dreaming. A fool, and cruel to herself. If she ever had a child, it would be Daniel Shaw's. The thought routed her blush and knotted her stomach. Please, God, spare me that.

She stepped into Patel's. She was usually in a hurry there. The owner, Lester, had a habit of following her through the store and staring at her. He did, that is, unless his wife, Ami, was in the store. At those times, Sarah could not get Lester to so much as acknowledge her existence. Ami ended up helping her then.

Ami was seated behind the counter and nodded to Sarah as she entered. Sarah looked down the main aisle and saw Chuck's sister. Ellie was standing with a jar in her hands, a confused look on her face.

Sarah knew Daniel was on his ranch. Her father was at the bank. No one listened to anything that Lester said, so she took her chance.

Sarah walked down the aisle: "Hello, Ellie. It is Ellie, right? You're Chuck's sister?"

Ellie replace the jar, then gave Sarah a look that immediately suggested she knew something of Sarah's situation. "Yes, Ellie, and you are Sarah?"

Sarah nodded. Ami was engrossed in a magazine at the counter. Lester was nowhere to be seen. "How do you like our little town? Are you here for long?"

"I like it, so far," Ellie said, "and I am planning to stay on." A part of Sarah wanted to leap at the news, another wanted to weep. As Daniel's wife, Chuck's sister would not likely be any part of Sarah's life.

Ellie looked around then reached out and grabbed Sarah's arm. She pulled her behind stacked bags of flour. "Sarah, Chuck told me about...your situation. I met your...well, I met Daniel Shaw. Chuck didn't tell me much about Daniel, but I can tell from their interaction, and from Chuck's body language, that they don't like each other. But I could also see that you...like Chuck and he...likes you. He told me so later, that is, that he likes you. He believes you like him…"

Sarah had not expected a full-frontal assault. "Ellie, I...The situation. It's...I'm trapped. Stuck. What I feel just doesn't really matter. There are other people to think of - including Chuck, and now you, Morgan, and...the little girl."

Ellie caught Sarah's final hesitancy and shift in volume. "She's our ward, Sarah. Her mother was a...friend of Chuck's - Jill Roberts was her name - and she died. Chuck never told me the circumstances. A friend of Chuck's in the Boston police force, and a couple of his professors at Harvard, helped work it out so Molly came to us. He left her with me because...well, because things in Boston seemed more settled and I thought could best take care of her, with Morgan's help. But...I sold our house. I got an offer and I took it. I missed Chuck - so did Molly and Morgan. So, here we are. Molly and I have a room right now at Mrs. Fitzsimmons'."

"I'm glad you are here, glad for Chuck. This month - especially its end - is going to be hard for him. I hope you can help him. I won't be able…"

"Can Daniel do this, Sarah, can he really force you to marry him? Won't people - someone - stop him?"

"Most think I want to marry him. There would be...consequences if I did anything to change their minds. Most admire or envy him. And, at the end of the day, I think most fear him - his father too. The Shaws may not own the town, not all of it, but they run it."

"That can't be the end of it. I have never seen my brother look at any woman as he looked at you as you walked away with Daniel the other day."

Sarah's voice hitched; a tremble ran the length of her. "Not even...Jill Roberts?"

"Sarah, I won't pretend to know the story of Chuck and Jill and Molly. I don't know what the relationship was. The little girl worships Chuck. He was wonderful with her after her mother died. But I know my brother, Sarah. He is an honorable man - down to his very core. And I know he didn't have those sorts of feelings for her. You are the only woman my brother has ever...looked at that way."

Sarah eyes filled with tears. "Oh, Ellie. This will end badly. We are both going to be miserable. And nothing can be done about it. Nothing."

The two women stood without speaking. Ellie put her hand on Sarah's shoulder. "Don't give up yet, Sarah. We won't. We Bartowski's don't quit, we don't give up; we're serious about the people we...love."

The word seemed to fill the air for a second, charging it like electricity.

"Ellie," Sarah said quietly, changing topics, "I read your letter about Chuck. That was a wonderful letter."

"Really? That must be how Chuck knew I wrote it. You told him."

Sarah nodded. "I did. I needed him to understand how I could...feel the way I do...about him."

"I meant every word." Ellie said. "Chuck is special, Sarah. Our dad used to tell him that. But he's had a hard time since dad died, mom died...since they died." Ellie paused. "Chuck told me you lost your mom." Ellie gave Sarah's shoulder a gentle squeeze. "I'm sorry - I know how hard that is."

"I'd like to meet Molly sometime. But I don't know when I will get the chance. Will she be going to school?"

"Yes, that's the plan. I think Chuck has another little girl about her age. We'll find a moment, Sarah. Chuck would like it if the two of you met, I'm sure."

Ellie looked down the aisle. Sarah glanced over her shoulder. Lester Patel was standing on the other end, a tally booklet out. He was taking inventory.

"Excuse me, Lester." Devon spoke, appeared in the aisle.

Lester stepped aside, looking up at the larger man as he passed.

"Hello, ladies. I thought I saw you back here. Miss Walker. Miss Bartowski."

"Doctor Woodcomb," Ellie said. Sarah nodded silently.

"Your brother and Nehi just got to town. They were out at the railroad camp. There was an accident."

Both women jerked. Devon put his hands up. "No, no, Chuck was not involved. Neither was Nehi. It was a railroad man, gamboling around to amuse his friends, slid down the hill and broke his leg. I've reset it. I was just coming to see if Lester still has any crutches. Do you Lester?" Devon asked the question while still facing Sarah and Ellie.

But Lester answered. "I do, they're in the storeroom."

"Howells says to put it on OSL's tab, Lester."

"Okay," Lester said.

"Miss Bartowski, I was wondering if you would allow me to take you to dinner tomorrow, after church."

Ellie glanced at Sarah. Sarah smiled at her and nodded slightly.

"That would be nice, Doctor Woodcomb."

Devon's face broke into a huge smile. "That's awesome, stupendous!" He caught himself. "I mean, yes, that would be nice. Very nice. Very. Indeed. Nice. Very." Devon finally made himself stop commenting. He gave the women a small bow and left the store. He came back in and took the crutches from Lester, his face bright red, not looking at Sarah or Ellie.

Despite their serious earlier conversation, the two women fell into a fit of giggles.

Sarah was sitting in the back of the wagon as her father drove it toward their ranch. He was lost in thought, the reins slack in his hands, the horses pulling steadily of their own volition.

Sarah slipped her hand into the bodice of her dress and pulled out a folded piece of paper. She had made a copy of Ellie's letter for her brother and she kept it with her. She knew she was making her ache worse, but she couldn't help it. She missed him. Talking with Ellie had made it all better - and much, much worse.

To Whom It May Concern In Idaho Falls,

This is irregular, I know - a letter from a sibling who has no official voice in your town's hiring decision and no authority as an educator herself from which to speak.

Still, I feel compelled to speak. My brother, Charles Irving Bartowski, was born to be a teacher.

His educational credentials are remarkable, even factoring in his decision not to finish his studies at the Divinity School. I am sure he will not explain that, but I know that he did it for honorable reasons, out of his desire to help others. Ever since he was little, he was a serious-minded boy. The world - and other people - are always very much with him. He cares. It is as simple, and as hard, as that. Few care as he does; few have the courage of what they call their convictions. Chuck feels what he believes on his pulse. He tests it all there.

I know (he thinks I don't) that he has spent much of his time in the last few months in the poorest sections of Boston, helping people there, working for them, with them. He schooled them, taught them to read and write, and taught them mathematics. He has done all that for free, asking nothing in return. He has shared his world-class mind with anyone who wanted it.

And now you have a chance to have him as your teacher in Idaho Falls. I know his Harvard professors will make it clear that I am not writing out of mere sisterly pride. Having him teach your children would be a blessing for your town, an opportunity that will not present itself a second time. He wants to come. I believe he is born to teach. Perhaps he is born to teach in Idaho Falls.

I have been the beneficiary of his gifts. He has taught me as he learned at Harvard, since I had no opportunity of the sort he did. I am not talking about his abilities as a teacher in the abstract or in anticipation; I have learned from Charles Bartowski and I know his gifts first-hand.

My brother is a genuinely good man. He is kind. He is thoughtful. He lives deliberately. He once remarked to me that Jesus Christ is 'Philanthropos' (I transliterate the word) - humanely kind and a lover of humankind. My brother is, too. He loves people, not just in the aggregate, but individually, as they come his way, without judgment and without condemnation. He will love your students and want the best from them and for them.

He will not only teach your children, he will be an example to them.

Sincerely,

Eleanor Bartowski

Sarah looked up. Her father was still staring absently at the muddy road ahead of them. She folded the paper, kissed it, and replaced it, tucked her jacket more closely around her.

Ruminating on the letter's contents, she recalled her first face-to-face meeting with Chuck, the day she had gone to the cemetery. (That was why she had been able to come to town with her father today: she had put flowers on her mother's grave. Her father would likely not have let her come except for that.)

But that Saturday - was it really almost a month ago? It seemed yesterday; it seemed a lifetime ago - she had found Chuck asleep beneath the great tree. With a book.

After their graveside talk, she had gone down the hill ahead of him. Sarah saw Diane Beckman going into the schoolhouse. And, playing a hunch, Sarah had walked around the schoolhouse and stood outside one of its windows. A few minutes later, Chuck had sprinted inside.

Sarah listened to the entire conversation. She knew she shouldn't have done so, but she couldn't help herself once it started. She heard Chuck's responses to Mrs. Justus, his conversation as he left with Langston Graham.

Standing next to the window, Sarah had hugged herself in flushed delight. She was sure then, sure, even before the Fall festival, that Chuck was indeed the man she had been waiting for.

She hugged herself again, there in the back of the wagon, looking backward at the ruts the wagon wheels cut in the chill mud - but, despite the sunlight and her jacket, she still felt cold.

Muddy.

A/N: Thoughts? Please be kind and drop a line.

Tune in next time for a visit to the Shaw's cattle ranch.

Posting will likely slow now. My teaching begins in earnest again tomorrow.

- ZG