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Updated: June 19, 2025
For he did not believe that Ruth's pony had broken a leg. She had gone to see Chavis' shack, and Chavis One mile, two, three, four; Patches covered them in a mad riot of recklessness.
Chavis had severed his connection with the Flying W. He had ridden in to the ranchhouse some weeks ago, found Ruth sitting on the porch, announced that he was "quittin'" and wanted his "time." She did not ask him why he wanted to quit so pleased was she with his decision, but he advanced an explanation while she counted the money due him. "Things don't suit me here," he said venomously.
He knew as well as Chavis that it was the only way. A word, spoken with a hint of belligerence, a single hostile movement, would have precipitated the clash they knew Randerson had come to force a clash which they knew would end badly for them. For Randerson had chosen his position when halting Patches it was strategic, and they knew his fingers were itching for the feel of his guns.
He rode away, grinning coldly back at them, still watchful, for he knew Chavis, guiding his pony toward the declivity on the other side of the basin. The three men watched him until the pony had climbed to the mesa. Then Chavis turned to the others. "I reckon he's goin' to see Masten about that Kelso deal," he said. "Somebody ought to put Masten wise." Kester grinned.
The polity of this church from the first differed somewhat from that of the A.M.E. denomination in that representation of the laity was a prominent feature and there was no bar to the ordination of women. Of denominations other than the Baptist and the Methodist, the most prominent in the earlier years was the Presbyterian, whose first Negro ministers were John Gloucester and John Chavis.
She heard him dismount, heard the rustle and crackling of twigs under his feet as he approached, and then, feeling that it would be futile to dissemble further, she turned, a smile on her lips. Standing within five feet of her, grinning with amusement, was Tom Chavis.
But they're mostly harmless jokes, ma'am; he's never hurt nobody, bad. But he got a level head a heap leveler than a lot of folks that " "I think Tom Chavis would make a good range boss, Ruth," said Masten. He did not look at her, and his words were expressionless. "Mister man," said Vickers evenly, "what do you know about Tom Chavis?"
And then he grinned felinely at Randerson and went out. They could hear him going down the stairs. They followed presently, Hagar shrinking and shuddering under Randerson's arm on her shoulders, and from the porch they saw Catherson, on his pony, riding the trail that Ruth had taken on the day she had gone to see Chavis' shack.
As the days passed, it became plain to Ruth, as it did to everyone else on the ranch Chavis, Pickett, and Masten included that Vickers had not talked extravagantly in recommending Randerson. Uncle Jepson declared that "he took right a-hold," and Aunt Martha beamed proudly upon him whenever he came within range of her vision. There was no hitch; he did his work smoothly.
Chavis and Pickett still retained their old positions, but Ruth noticed that they did not spend so much of their time around the bunkhouse as formerly, they seemed to have work enough to keep their time fully employed. Nor did Masten accompany them very often. She had scarcely expected such amazing results. She was conscious of a vague disappointment, though.
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