School Of Divinity

Author's Note: Any and all persons engaging in any sexual activity are at least eighteen years of age.

Disclaimers: This story has been edited by myself, utilizing Microsoft Spell-Check. You have been forewarned; expect to find mistakes.

There is minimal sex in this story; so, if you're looking for a stroke story, this is not it.

A few years back, BlackRandl1958 had organized a 'Writers Go West' event, where some of the best of the Literotica community were asked to submit Westerns. Many of the stories were excellent and it did spark an interest within me to write a few westerns of my own. 'Beyond The River' and 'Crown Of Fire' as well as 'Crescent City In The Rockies' are among a few of my western contributions.

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The stagecoach struggled along the muddy path. The rain continued to pelt the four horses, the hapless driver as they neared the small cluster of buildings that made up the outpost in the Idaho Territory.

Even with the oilskin poncho on, the driver was soaked through to the skin. He kept his head down, peering under the brim of his hat.

"Whoa!" he called out.

The four horses did cease with their tugging and pulling. The rain continued to pelt the horse and driver as they sat in the center of the small square.

"Here," the driver called out and slapped the side of the coach.

The door of the coach opened and a tall figure in black looked out the small opening.

"Very well," the man said, pulling a black hat onto his head.

There had been long planks staggered along the ground, crossing the muddy path from building to building. The man stepped from the coach and managed to balance himself onto a plank. He slung the strap of a cloth bag over his left shoulder, angling the bag against his right hip. Then, gingerly turning, he reached up to the top of the coach and tugged on the handle of a long trunk.

"Here, let me give you a hand with that," the driver finally said.

"Thank you," the figure in black said. "Do you know where the telegraph office could be found?"

"Right there, next to the saloon," the driver nodded with his head to the building behind the man.

"Thank you," the man said, balanced the heavy trunk on his shoulder, then nimbly walked along the blank.

The driver watched the man's progress. Three men that lounged underneath a wooden eave of the saloon also watched the man's progress. They held their breath, waiting for the inevitable yelp, then splash when the man lost his footing.

But no yelp nor splash ever came. The man nimbly traversed from plank to plank until he had reached the wooden walkway where the three men stood.

"Afternoon," the man in black said quietly.

"Afternoon," one of the men said.

"The telegraph office?" the man asked, nodding with his head.

"Mm-hmm," one of the men agreed.

"But she ain't there," another man said when the figure in black turned toward the door.

"Hmm?" the man asked.

"She's in here, having the noon meal," another man said, nodding with his head toward the saloon.

"Thank you," the man said.

He turned and entered the dark interior of the saloon. He paused for a moment, to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness within the windowless structure. With a smirk, he reflected, no matter if it were New Orleans, Atlanta, Boston, or London, England or Bombay, India, saloons all had the same aroma, the same stench.

"Michael!" he heard a female's voice call out.

With a smile, Michael Atwell removed the black hat from his head and searched the dark room for Caroline Atwell, his half-sister. He saw her as she scampered toward him.

Quickly, he placed the trunk on the ground. His black hat was perched onto the trunk as he opened his arms wide.

"Oh, Michael! You came!" Caroline whooped.

"Yes," he replied.

"Come, I've just ordered my meal; we'll order you a meal," Caroline insisted, pulling Michael toward a table.

Michael grabbed his trunk and allowed himself to be dragged.

A smiling woman bent low, affording Michael a glimpse down the bodice of her dress. The woman nodded when Michael said he would have whatever his sister had ordered.

He wasn't sure what type of stew it was, but it was rich and filling. As they ate, Michael's eyes kept in motion, kept scanning their surroundings. Caroline smirked at her half-brother's antics.

Then, when the meal was completed, and Michael had drained his mug of beer, the two haggled over whom would pay for the meal.

"Don't care who going pay," the server smiled, actually running a hand up and down Michael's muscled arm. "But it's four credits."

"Four what?" Michael asked, pulling a few dollar coins from his jacket pocket. "How much is that in American dollars?"

"Mahon has this whole town on credit," Caroline explained.

"Mahon?" Michael asked.

"Owns the silver mine," Caroline explained, pointing in the general direction of the mines, the mine workers' hovels.

"Hmm," Michael said, brow knotted. "And how many credits does it take to equal one dollar?"

"About four, four or five, depends on which establishment you're in," Caroline said.

"But, this territory belongs to America," Michael protested as he and Caroline rose to their feet.

"Not here," Caroline hissed.

Inside the telegraph office, Caroline spoke in hushed words. She told her brother that Harold Mahon had duped a local tribe of Indians out of their lands when one of the Indian braves had foolishly shown the man where they dug for silver. Now, he had nearly forty men working to mine the land, and ten to fifteen men to keep the miners in line. The miners were paid in credits; their hovels were owned by Harold Mahon and the miner and his family rented the hovel from Harold Mahon. The miner's wives shopped at the mercantile, which was owned by Harold Mahon. The stables were owned by Harold Mahon. The tools the miners used were owned by Harold Mahon.

There was a quota established by Harold Mahon. Should a miner happen to reach, possibly exceed that quota? Then he would actually begin to enjoy the fruits of his own labor, and the fruits of his fellow miner's labors. But the quota was far too high for anyone to ever achieve the quota.

"These poor miners? Work themselves to death," Caroline shook her head sadly. "Michael? Even when they do die? They die owing Harold Mahon. And their widows? And their children? They better hope someone else will take them in, another family will be willing to shoulder the added expense."

"Abraham Lincoln freed the slaves," Michael said, handsome face becoming dark with anger. "Dear sister, I do believe you did not send for me because this settlement was in need of a church, a shepherd to lead the flock."

"Why, Michael, whatever do you mean?" Caroline asked, smiling an impish smile.

"You've much more of your mother in you than you've of our father," Michael smiled.

The small office did have a couch; this would be Michael's bed for the time being. Upstairs, Caroline had a small bedchamber, small kitchen, and small parlor. She pulled the cast iron wash tub into the parlor and filled it with hot water. Then she left Michael to wash the several days' journey from his skin and his hair.

"How many credits to have my suit cleaned?" Michael asked when he was finished with his bathing.

"Two," Caroline said. "Three if you want them pressed."

Thursday, the rain continued to pelt the small community. Michael, now dressed in simple shirt and dungarees and boots ambled around, silently appraising everything he saw.

Friday, the sun began to peek out. Saturday, the paths of mud had nearly dried completely and Michael took his black trousers, black jacket and black vest to the saloon. The waitress was only too happy to accept the clothing and the three credits to clean and press the suit.

"Why's everything all black?" she did ask.

"Because, I am a man of God," Michael stated.

"A preacher?" the waitress asked, surprised.

"Yes," Michael said.

"But, but I seen you," the waitress sputtered. "You and that Caroline. I seen you drinking alky-hall."

"Our Lord did drink alcohol," Michael smiled. "Remember? At the wedding feast of Canaan? At his mother's behest, he did change the water to wine so that all could partake, all could enjoy. And, on the night he was betrayed, he took the cup, gave thanks to his Father and bade his followers to drink of the wine, saying it was his blood, the blood of the new and everlasting covenant."

"Huh," was the woman's response.

Sunday morning, just as the sun rose over the mountains, Michael stood outside of the cluster of miner's hovels. He did wonder just how many credits Harold Mahon was charging these wretched souls; most of these shacks were deplorable.

"My brothers! My sisters! Friends!" Michael called out in a strong voice. "I have come! I have come to proclaim the good news; the good news that our Lord and Savior has risen from the dead, has ascended into the Heavens and shall come again in triumphant glory! Brothers, sisters, come! Come and hear the good news, the word of God."

Doors began to open. Dirty faces did peer out of these shacks. One or two men did step outside of their homes.

Michael held his Bible aloft, turning so that all could see his book. He smiled widely as he again called out for all to come out, come and hear the good news.

Soon, there were nearly two hundred people, sitting on the ground facing him. Michael stood and preached. He stood and read excerpts from his Bible. He prayed aloud. Then he thanked the good people, thanked them for allowing him to preach to them.

"My name is Reverend Michael Atwell," he declared. "And if Our Loving God shall allow me to do so? I will be here again on Sunday."

In small groups, miners introduced themselves, introduced their families to the handsome man. They were filthy, they were bedraggled, many of them smelled horrible, unwashed. But Michael smiled, greeted each man with a hearty handshake, bowed genially to the women.

"Reverend Atwell, my Claire? She make a real good jambalaya," Henry Bergeron declared, pointing to a wizened looking woman. "And we got us some bread go with that yeah, need come have you some dinner with us, hear?"

"Mr. Bergeron, it would be my pleasure to have the noon meal with you and your beautiful family," Michael said.

"Henry, huh? Man, was fixing ask him myself," another man declared.

"Next time, my brother, next time," Michael smiled.

Inside of the Bergeron hovel, Michael was again introduced to Claire Bergeron and Henry's eighteen year old daughter Marie, and Henry's two sons, twelve year old T-Henry and nine year old John-John.

Marie was a blonde beauty, with crystal blue eyes, very pale complexion and lush figure which was readily apparent in her far too snug clothing. Both T-Henry and John-John were short, stocky like their father.

He was also introduced to Lucinda Martinelli and Lucinda's two daughters, eighteen year old Catherine and seventeen year old Isabella.

"Yeah, her husband? Giuseppi Martinelli? Man! Were right next to me, I mean, close like you and me right now and aw! Whole thing just cave in and he kilt, right there," Henry recounted the sad tale. "Come out, tell my Claire, ain't no way we can let Giuseppi's family there go hungry."

"He has been taking care of us ever since," Lucinda agreed quietly.

Michael nodded somberly. He observed that both women shared in the cooking duties. He also observed that Catherine, a true beauty with ripe figure also assumed the duties of a mother, keeping the other children occupied while Henry and Michael sat and spoke together.

He watched as Catherine grabbed a hairbrush, then brought Marie to a chair. He watched as Marie sat docilely while the olive skinned beauty brushed her long blonde hair.

"Me too," Isabella demanded, shooting an admiring look at Reverend Michael Atwell.

Michael frowned; when Marie rose from the chair, she hovered near Catherine, even reaching out and lightly touching Catherine on her shoulder, her back, her arm.

When the meal was served, Catherine dragged the chair with one hand, while holding Marie's hand with the other. She guided both chair and Marie to the table. Then she put the chair at the table, and put Marie's hand on the back of the chair.

At Henry's request, Michael offered up a blessing. Then the family ate.

Michael did enjoy the savory, slightly spicy meal. Having lived in New Orleans for much of his life, he was used to jambalaya. This was as good as any of the jambalaya served in any of the restaurants in and around the city of New Orleans.

"But, I don't believe I've ever had it with venison," Michael stated out loud.

Observing Marie as the family ate, Michael believed he now understood some of the girl's odd behavior, Catherine's gentle administrations. Clearly, the beautiful girl was addled. She ate like an animal. She chewed with her mouth open. She did not use utensils, just scooped food with her hands.

Catherine looked up from her plate and locked eyes with Michael. Her deep brown eyes were pools of pain as she glanced at the handsome preacher. She then glanced to her left, at Marie. And, again, Catherine put her head down.

After the meal, Henry pulled out a jug of homemade hard cider. In Cajun French, Claire rebuked her husband; Michael Atwell was a man of God. Henry should know better than to consume alcohol in front of a man of God.

"I'm agreeable to a little of his cider, if he will share it," Michael replied, in Creole French.

"What?" Marie laughed while Lucinda, Henry, and Claire gasped.

"What?" Catherine asked, confused.

"He speaks Cajun!" Marie giggled, delighted.

Now, Michael was thoroughly confused as the blonde girl began chattering in Cajun French. Her speech was not thick, slurred, slow and plodding, the typical speech of an addled person. Her questions were lively as she asked him where he had learned to speak their language.

"I grew up in New Orleans, the bastard child of my father and his maid," Michael answered.

"Oh! New Orleans! Oh! I have heard of New Orleans," Marie gasped. "Oh! Is it beautiful?"

"It is filled with sounds and smells and sights that could only be created by our Heavenly Father, and by Satan himself," Michael answered truthfully. "A man can find much to love, and much to hate, and often in the same place when he is in New Orleans."

Some words are different, some accentuations differ between Creole and Cajun French. But Claire, Marie and Henry were able to converse with Michael. Michael spoke of growing up in Dr. Jonathon Atwell's home, hated by Mrs. Louise Atwell, wife of the doctor, reviled by Richard, Robert, and Mary Atwell, the older children of Dr. and Mrs. Atwell. But Caroline Atwell, one year his senior did love him, did dote upon her younger brother.

"When my mother became with child with our younger sister, Janice, Mrs. Atwell did banish myself and my mother and sister from the Atwell home. My mother did have no choice but to begin prostituting herself to provide for herself and my sister and I. Knowing that I was a bastard child, an unwanted child, I soon fell prey to resentment, I succumbed to the lure of alcohol and to morphine," Michael admitted.

"And now you a preacher?" Henry asked, incredulous.

"I was in an opium den, in the province of Giunsoo when I had a vision," Michael smiled. "In front of my very eyes, I watched the pain and suffering of our Lord and Savior. I watched as he was beaten, I watched as he was mocked. I watched as he was spat upon. I watched the crown of thorns being pressed upon his head, then watched as he struggled to carry the cross through the streets of Jerusalem. And finally, I heard him scream out as he hung, naked upon the cross on the hill of Golgotha."

"Mother of God," Claire gasped, quickly doing the sign of the cross.

"Yes, I have borne the same of my birth, my heritage," Michael said. "But it is nothing when I reflect upon what Jesus Christ suffered for us. An innocent man, slaughtered, so that you and I, we may be forgiven our sins. Crawling out of that opium den, I made my way to Schechuan province and spent one year in the temple of Buddha, purifying myself. Again, in Giunsoo, I continued to study the ancient arts and practices. After three years, I returned to America. I studied the Bible, the word of God with the Very Reverend Samuel Brighton. I was in Atlanta, Georgia, proselyting to the people when my dear sister Caroline sent a telegram to me, saying that there was a need for me here."

Over a cup of very strong cider, Henry spoke quietly with Michael about the unfair practices of Harold Mahon. He confessed that he, and a few other miners were actually talking about unionizing.

"Henry, this could be dangerous," Michael cautioned.

In the saloon the next evening, Caroline stiffened. She hissed to Michael that Harold Mahon was approaching their table and had three of his henchmen with him.

"Miss Atwell," Harold smiled, displaying yellowed teeth.

"Mr. Mahon," Caroline said guardedly.

"I don't believe we've met," Harold then spoke to Michael. "I'm Harold Mahon."

"Mr. Mahon, I am the Reverend Michael Atwell," Michael said evenly.

"Hear you did a little preaching yesterday," Harold said.

"Yes I did. The people were very gracious, very welcoming," Michael said.

"Well, now, that right?" Harold said, false cheer dripping from his lips. "You be preaching to them again?"

"For as long as the Lord does move me to do so," Michael agreed.

"Might move you to move on, too," one of the surly looking men with Harold said.

"Joshua! Now, that ain't no way talk to a man of God," Harold chastised his man, smiling.

Sunday morning, the sun was again cresting the range of mountains. Michael offered a prayer of thanksgiving, then raised his Bible aloft.

"My brothers! My sisters! Friends!" Michael called out in a strong voice. "I have come! I have come to proclaim the good news; the good news that our Lord and Savior has risen from the dead, has ascended into the Heavens and shall come again in triumphant glory! Brothers, sisters, come! Come and hear the good news, the word of God."

Henry and his clan were among the first to come out, as if they'd been waiting for the call. Michael smiled, greeting them by name. He did puzzle over Marie clinging onto Catherine, stumbling as they walked toward him.

Soon, the miners and their families were seated. Michael preached. He read from his Bible. He prayed. And he thanked them for allowing him to preach to them.

He astounded the families by greeting each by name as they stood around, shaking his hand, chattering with him, with one another.

"Of course I remember your name," Michael laughed. "I was here only one week ago. Just how doddering do you believe me to be?"

"Well, you remember, you was coming my place eat yeah," the neighbor of Henry's declared.

"That I do, Mr. Thibodeaux, that I do," Michael assured the man.

"Come on, Sophia, got us some cooking do," John Paul Thibodeaux ordered his wife.

Again, Michael watched as Marie clung onto Catherine as the Bergeron and Martinelli family went to their own hovel. Then, just as a droplet of rain began, the other families scurried to their own hovels.

Over a simple meal of rabbit and potatoes, John Paul spoke vehemently against 'that damned fool Henry and that stupid union idea.' Michael offered no opinion about unionization, but did ask John Paul about his work. He did ask John Paul to describe a typical week of labor, and how much did he earn for his labors.

While they talked, the rain drummed steadily overhead. A few small drips pattered from ceiling to floor; Michael had to shift over slightly lest he be victim to one slow, steady drip overhead.

"It a shame yeah, 'bout his girl though," Sophia offered when Michael made mention of Henry taking in the Martinelli family after the death of the Martinelli father.