Friar Tuck: Being the Chronicles of the Reverend John Carmichael, of Wyoming, U. S. A. — John Shaqi
Friar Tuck: Being the Chronicles of the Reverend John Carmichael, of Wyoming, U. S. A.Wason, Robert Alexander
General
Friar Tuck: Being the Chronicles of the Reverend John Carmichael, of Wyoming, U. S. A.
Wason, Robert Alexander
Clergy -- Fiction; Western stories; Wyoming -- Fiction
Livin’ out doors the way I had, I naturally had a big respect for
brands. It’s mighty comfortin’ to feel that ya can turn your stuff
loose an’ know that it’s not likely to be bothered; so I was up
something of a stump about this new doctrine. “Where’d you get your
commission from to pick up a hoss whenever you feel like it?” sez I to
the stranger.
He had a little leather sack hangin’ from his saddle horn, an’ he
reached into it an’ fished out a small book with a soft leather cover.
The feller ’at was holdin’ his hoss eyed him mighty close for fear it
was some sort of a gun; but the stranger ran over the leaves with his
fingers as ready as a man would step into the home corral an’ rope his
favorite ridin’ pony.
“Here’s my commission,” sez he, as self-satisfied as though he was
holdin’ a government document; an’ then he read aloud with that deep,
mellow voice o’ his, the story of the time the Lord was minded to let
himself out a little an’ came into Jerusalem in state. He read it all,
an’ then he paused, looked about, holdin’ each man’s eyes with his own
for a second, an’ then he read once more the part where the Lord had
sent in a couple of his hands after the colt that no man had ever
backed before—an’ then he closed the book, patted it gentle an’
shoved it back into the leather bag. I looked around on the posse, an’
most of ’em was rubbin’ their chins, an’ studyin’. I’ve noticed that
while the earth is purty well cluttered up with pale-blooded an’
partially ossified Christians, the’s mighty few out an’ out atheists
among ’em.
“That don’t go,” sez Badger-face, after he’d taken time to pump up his
nerve a little.
No one said anything for a space, an’ then the stranger put a little
edge on his voice, but spoke in a lower tone than before: “That does
go,” he said. “No matter what else in life may be questioned, no
matter how hard and fast a title may stick, it must crumble to dust
when one comes and says, ‘The Lord hath need of this.’ It may be your
life or it may be your property or it may be the one being you love
most in all the world; but when the Lord hath need, your own needs
must fall away.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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