Dull Roots Stirring

By C. Graper Stunkel

Although Sarah Anne certainly was, as any number of her neighbors might have said, "purdy bright," she bore the burden shared by many whose education has not been of the formal sort-a deficient accent.

This circumstance brought her into association with the new schoolmaster, who had ridden into town with his saddlebags flopping half-empty against his horse's flanks.

This town, bearing the name of Altus Argent, lay in the valley between two mountain ridges. Halfway up the western slope sat the few houses of men who had managed to strike it big in the silver mines to the north.

A stream ran through that valley, and on either side of it were scattered the homes of doctor and lawyer, banker and grocer, postmaster and mortician, along with many others hoping that they, too, might, in time, move up the slope.

Will Sarah Anne, now separated from all this at the Lodge, hedged about by the familiar presences of Rafe and Norah and her nearly-brother Tob, by Old Herman and Buster and the other miners, to say nothing of Tob's dog, Dogg-descend into the milieu of this little town, with its Burgoo and Marching Society, the monthly meetings of the Longfellow Fellowship, the Spring Production of the Shakespeare Society presented at the Opera House, the Halloween Spell-Down at Brother Barney's church?

And if she does, what effect will it have on her-and she on it?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newman Springs Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jun 5, 2023
• ISBN: 9781636928944

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Note from the Author

cover.jpg

Dull Roots Stirring

C. Graper Stunkel

Copyright © 2023 C. Graper Stunkel

All rights reserved

First Edition

NEWMAN SPRINGS PUBLISHING

320 Broad Street

Red Bank, NJ 07701

First originally published by Newman Springs Publishing 2023

ISBN 978-1-63692-892-0 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-63692-893-7 (Hardcover)

ISBN 978-1-63692-894-4 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

To the memory of

Robert Y. Spence

1950–2005

an editor elegant and erudite

a lover of language archaic

Acknowledgments

My heartfelt thanks to:

the Writers' Group of which I was a part, who, month by month, gave every appearance of enjoyment while listening to me read from an early draft of this book;

John Reiter, formerly with The Evansville Courier, editor of cleanly habit, who was good enough to read the earliest draft of this manuscript that I was willing for anyone to look at, and gave encouragement;

Susan Worthington, who with great accuracy and patience dealt with my punctuation and especially with my spelling!

Mary Bower, at the Evansville Museum, who could always furnish the proper period terms for various items of clothing;

Linda Schmalz, who knew about the dress of Native Americans;

Kentucky State Trooper Trevor Scott, my nephew, who not only understands about firearms but can explain clearly;

Sam Longmeier, who knows a lot about mushrooms;

Matt Boeglin, who understands about bovine lactation;

and finally, but hardly lastly, to my friend Jane McElroy, who, over lunch near Rockport, generously listened to a recitation of plot outline for all four projected volumes and was still willing to read this manuscript, comment amply, and raise questions that prevented my being blind-sided by less friendly critics.

Chapter 1

A setting sun had already drawn the warmth out of the thin air when the tall and stocky young man set off down the path that led into the valley from the west.

Late that afternoon, he had entered that valley at its northern end, riding in by the street that lay alongside the broad creek, a creek that now, in late August, was running low and sluggish. The hooves of the tired Pegasus had slipped occasionally on the loose stones at the street's edge; the saddlebags had slapped limply against the horse's flanks.

The clerk behind the wicket at the bank had said that he was sorry, but Mr. Lucas wouldn't be back from Denver until the day after tomorrow. However, Frank was treasurer of the School Committee; his store was just cattywampus across the creek; just go down to the bridge, and then back up the street on the other side—he couldn't miss it.

By now the young man's feet had carried him across the wasteland of cottonwood and scrub cedar that stretched below the crest of the hills encircling the valley and into that section of Altus Argent that he would learn to call The Hillside. Here some of the houses were showing lights in the rear quarters; none were lighted in the front; most were entirely dark.

David had noticed this section on his ride up to the ridge that afternoon. Like their neighbors clustering closer to the creek, these houses were built of wood; but unlike those single-story cottages, these houses rose to a second, or even to a third story. They were nobly proportioned, set well back from the narrow street, and most showed the influence of an architect at least moderately competent.

As they had made their way, that afternoon, up to the western ridge, Frank had told him something about the owners of these homes.

The folks on The Hillside are mostly still gone, he had said. Lots of them gone to Saratoga. The Edges and the Deevers, now, they went all the way to England. They pulled a nugget out of Old Man Edge's mine last winter bigger than a baby's head. Again there had chugged up from somewhere in the region of Frank's bowels that satisfied chuckle which David had first heard emerging from behind the counter of the cluttered general store.

It had been with evident satisfaction that Frank had wiped his greasy hands on the even-more-greasy apron stretched tight across his distended stomach and then reached below the counter to pull out a bound book.

We've got the Ware children registered for the school, he had said, drawing the tip of his forefinger down the column, and the Dugan's, Pickering's, and Minear's. Old Man Edge is still sending his sons to Denver, and Izzard is sending his oldest two girls all the way out to Kansas City. We've got his least child, though. If you do a good job on him, maybe we'll get the other two back.

Unwilling to have this role of apprentice, into which Izzard had thrust him, dwelt on, David had responded, My horse and I are tired. Perhaps you could have someone show me to the teacher's house.

Frank had replaced the book beneath the counter, and again rubbed his fingertips around on his abdomen.

Well, he had said, there's a problem there. Our sawmill busted its boiler awhile back, and that put us behind, getting the lumber. But the schoolhouse is all done—the blackboards and the window glass came all the way from Denver, packed in straw. As he noticed the young man's face begin to darken, he had hurried on, But that's all right. Mr. Lucas talked to Rafe, up at the Lodge, and they've got a place. It's nice and quiet up there—you can get your studying done. Norah's a plain cook, but there's always plenty of meat on the table—Rafe's a good hunter. She'll do your washing too—it won't cost much—and there's an empty stall in their barn for your horse. The Committee decided they'd pay for your room, and for the horse; you'd have to take care of your own food and washing anyway, even if you were in the Teacherage. Then, briskly, he added, I'd better take you up there. You don't want to miss your supper.

As they had ridden along the creek and begun their ascent of the western slope, David had asked, What sort of lodgers does Rafe take in, chiefly?

Oh, mostly young fellers like yourself, that don't have a woman to do for them. Most of them work in the mines; Jake helps out at the livery stable. I had three different clerks lived there myself, until they got married.

The meal that Norah had set before them had been ample, if plain, and the company just as Frank had described it. Pleading a need to walk out the stiffness engendered by a long day's riding, David had escaped their friendly offers of a card game or a game of checkers, had passed through the smokers and whittlers lounging on the porch, and started down the road.

Enough light lingered in the upper reaches of the sky to define the shapes of the stones lying alongside the road, to pick out the notch to the north through which he had ridden that afternoon. Now, ahead of him, a nearly circular pewter-platter of a moon was floating up from behind the eastern ridge.

By the time he reached the western fringe of the village in the valley, the moon was silvering the roofs of cottages, of small barns, stables, sheds and privies, pooling inky shadows around their foundations. Kitchen windows were alight, and the sounds of families finishing their suppers floated out of them.

The near side of the creek, far south, Frank had said, so David turned his steps past the front of the attorney's office, the furniture store and mortician's establishment, the newspaper and printing office, all darkened and silent now.

The moon had climbed higher; its cool light was falling more strongly now, but still David smelled the schoolhouse before he saw it. The lumber of which it had been constructed was still that new, that raw.

Like the roofs of the houses in the village, that of the schoolhouse was silvered by the falling moonlight; a thin line of shadow ran below the lower edge of each row of shingles. The same pencil stripe of shadow underlined each of the clapboards running around its walls. Above the double doors set into its wide front wall rose a bell tower pierced on each side by a round-topped opening. The moonlight reflected dully from the in-curving side of the iron bell which hung there.

The iron key that Frank had pressed on him that afternoon lay heavy in David's trouser pocket; again, it seemed, he would be his own janitor.

The key slipped easily into the lock; the bolt, under the key's pressure, slid back smoothly; doorknob and hinges turned with equal smoothness and in near silence.

Moonlight falling through the tall windows picked out the circles of reflective tin backing the kerosene lamps in their wall brackets. One broad beam fell on the teacher's desk that centered the elevated platform at the south end of the building. The imported blackboard swam in dusk behind it; on either side of the board reared up bookshelves reaching from floor to ceiling. Three steps led up to the platform from the east side; David assumed a matching set opposite.

Halfway down the room, settled among the sturdy desks and benches, one on either side, squatted the woodstoves, each snaking its smoke pipe into one of the brick chimneys built against each of the side walls.

Passing back through the brief darkness between the cloakrooms which flanked the front entrance, David locked the door behind him and walked out behind the school building. There, as Frank had promised, stood the woodshed, with a lean-to for your horse, Mr. Totten! and the two privies, their doors modestly skirted by tall plank fences.

But of the house that had been promised him, the only sign was a shallow, rectangular hole between the schoolhouse and the street, its outer edges set with foundation stones. The young man stared into that hole for some time, then turned his steps back along the stream-bordered street, and crossed the bridge, heading east.

He had expected, when he topped the eastern ridge, to see the same high plateau, the same scrub cedar and cottonwoods through which he had ridden all that day, but the sight which met his eyes had about it a wildness of a different nature.

This valley was more shallow than the one he had just left. It was probably of the same length, but by being so much narrower, it appeared longer.

A single street, narrow and dusty, stretched along the bottom of the valley. On either side rose up unstable-looking frame buildings, fronted by narrow plank sidewalks.

The sense of darkness and quiet which David had brought up with him from the valley was instantly over-flooded by the sounds of raucous laughter and tinny music, by the lights which blazed from every doorway and window.

He walked cautiously between the two nearest buildings, then heard his footsteps echoing hollowly on the planks of the sidewalk as he stepped into the light. Doors swung open and shut, voices called from open windows, snatches of song floated out into the night air. The moon blurred beyond this stretch of artificial illumination. Men pushed him aside as they approached from behind, brushed past him in meeting, but went on without a word, stumbled against him as they emerged into the street. The noise of voices singing or shouting, the sound of fists thumping on wood, flowed or ebbed as he approached or passed beyond the brightly lighted doorways.

As he reached the end of the street and crossed to walk back down the other side, David noticed that some of the upper stories bore signs: Rooms for Rent. The street-level rooms, however, were moulded into a continuous frieze of bar, brothel, saloon, sporting house, gin joint and gentleman's do-me-whatever.

He had traversed the street and was just turning back toward the western ridge when a shadow bulking more solidly than the shadows surrounding it drew his attention. Turning back, he was able to discern at the end of the street, separated by several rods from the places of business, a house set in a yard surrounded by a low fence.

Slowly David advanced on the gate set into the center of the fence facing on the street. He was still considering whether to stretch out a hand to that gate when the sound of a voice advanced from the darkness of the house's doorway.

Can I help?

Taken aback, David failed to answer immediately, and a spare figure emerged into the dusk that was all that was left, at this distance, of the flaring illumination from down the street.

I'm Father Doheny. Were you coming for me?

No. I was just…I'm new here…

The figure advanced further down the walk. Would you be the new schoolmaster, then?

Yes, I am. David Totten.

Then you'd best come in.

Once they were inside the square front room, as spare in its furnishing as was its owner in body, the priest struck match to a kerosene lamp, adjusted the wick, and replaced its glass chimney.

Have you eaten?

Oh yes. I'm settled at the Lodge. Arrived this afternoon.

A bit earlier than expected, then. The priest still stood by the table on which the lamp sat, his elbow bent as if he might again adjust the wick.

You seem to know a lot about me.

The priest moved to the one other chair in the room, and motioned David to the one near which he stood. Oh, you're a very important man in the town. You're the one to make them respectable.

Respectable?

Yes, indeed. You'll be the only true ‘Mr.' in the region. Even the mine owners aren't called ‘Mr.' Of course, they've been known around here since they were Zeke and Izzard, with a pick over their shoulder and a donkey at their side. Even the banker's ‘Mr.' has inverted commas around it—he makes such a point of it, but we've all known him since he rode over the ridge with enough dollars in his saddlebags—don't ask how he acquired them—to get started. The priest's smile twinkled across the dimly lit interior. So, you're the only true ‘Mr.' in these parts, and, as such, the subject of considerable comment and speculation. It's been ‘Mr. Totten this' and ‘Mr. Totten that' ever since you wrote you'd come.

David shook his head sidewise, sharply, twice, as if to clear it. Does everyone around here know everything about everyone else's business? he inquired.

Oh, quite. It's what they call ‘bein' neighborly-like.'

Being blasted presumptuous and interfering is what I'd call it.

But this is the frontier, Mr. Totten—just what they've brought you here to save them from—or so they imagine. The priest rose and strolled to the bookcase on the opposite wall to fetch his pipe. You see, now that they have money—or, for some, it's still a matter of having aspirations to wealth—they have begun to feel the need of their children's acquiring knowledge, and polish. They all remember where they came from and how things were done back there—what they observed, at least, whether or not they were actually a part of it. The ones who haven't yet achieved wealth still hope that one day, they'll make that lucky strike in their little mines, or they have great hopes of their businesses growing. So you'll have a number of students whose tuition is costing their families some sacrifice, but they'll still be there. At the same time, now Father Doheny had packed his pipe and was attempting to draw down the flame while there has grown, in recent years, an appreciation of the utility of learning, there continues to run alongside that understanding a strain of wildness, and a determination to protect the freedom they've found out here, a stubborn memory of having shaken off the shackles of a former existence, and a resistance to surrendering any of their independence to an established authority. You have your work cut out for you here in Altus Argent.

Why Altus Argent? How did this town come by such a name?

Early on, the town fathers had intentions and pretensions. As soon as I was sent out here on mission, they came to me—as the best-educated man in the region at that time—for advice. The place was called Izzard's Diggin's, at the first.

The tobacco had caught fire now, and Father Doheny leaned back in the hard chair, puffing contentedly while David pondered on what he had just heard. Then the priest chuckled and continued, The first Wednesday of the month, the Longfellow Fellowship meets. They read and talk about a few pieces by the master, then they read to each other poetry of their own composing. These are women, mind you, who on Monday were up to their elbows in soapsuds, and on Tuesday were hefting sad irons. I'm always invited to judge their annual competition; unconnected as I am, it doesn't matter if every woman in town, save one, is angry with me. But, again the priest's smile twinkled across the room, I am invited to participate in the spring musicale, since true tenors are so hard to come by, and to help whomever is directing the play that the Shakespeare Society puts on every spring, since I'm the only one in town who can pronounce all the hard words. Doubtless, now that you've come, I shall not be receiving that invitation. Do you sing?

But it was something in the earlier part of Father Doheny's statement that had caught David's attention. You aren't considered part of the town?

Not really. The priest gestured toward the street. Nor is The Slit, here.

Why ‘Slit'?

From the shape of the valley, I'd say—although there are still ferocious knife fights, especially on Saturday nights. The first strikes were made near The Slit, that first season, and the single men didn't mind setting up their tents in any convenient grove. The first saloon was in a tent, too, and the first whorehouse. But the next season, when families began to come in by the wagon-load, the men took their wives and children over the next ridge, and fanned out into the surrounding gulches to stake their claims.

But if the town doesn't accept you, to whom do you minister?

Again, the priest gestured toward the narrow, dusty street. I find my work among the publicans and their customers, the unrepentant Magdalenes and their children.

Their children!

Now and again.

But what can you do for them?

I run a school. Father Doheny lifted a thin hand. Fear not, it in no way rivals what yours will be. Sarian helps me.

Sarian? You say that as if I ought to know her.

She set your supper on the table, I daresay. In David's mind's eye, there rose a reflection of a tall, strapping girl, just past her mid-teens, he had judged, dressed in a none-too-clean buckskin tunic and trousers, with sunburnt hands and face, whose dark hair had been plaited into one thick braid hanging down her back. She had moved, he had been surprised to note, with exceeding grace for one so large.

Yes. She looked rather a savage. How could she be of any help?

The priest's gaze rested on the newcomer for some several seconds. Sarian's all right, really—her mother was half a white woman. She can read and write, which, in these parts, passes for educated. Norah taught her at home, and Norah was educated at the Mission.

You have a mission near here?

"It's somewhat further south, but it isn't ours. There's a Protestant missionary society back East that supports it. From time to time, some young Turk, freshly graduated from divinity school, comes out to convert all the Indians. Then in a year or so, he becomes discouraged and heads back to greener pastures. But the lady teachers just keep coming.

One dies, and another comes out to replace her, usually with a wagonload of books and other necessaries. Occasionally, they'll get a nurse who stays awhile, until she falls afoul of the medicine man. Sarian's all right; she's a big help with the littlest ones. She comes after the morning work is done at the Lodge, and stays until it's time to go help fix the men's supper.

Father Doheny knocked the ashes from his pipe into a brass tray. Can I offer you a glass of berry wine? I made it myself.

Thank you.

After the priest had disappeared into the kitchen,