Free The High Divide by Lin Enger

the day his father left with the rooster in its cage and couldn’t help feeling remorse now at refusing even to speak to him, angry as he had been. He thought of Mr. Goldman, from whom he’d stolen tobacco on occasion and, once, a pocketknife he wasn’t able to carry with him or even use for fear Goldman might see it, and how he ended up just tossing the thing away into the river. Head bowed and eyes closed, the record of his transgressions unfurling inside his mind, Eli became aware that all was quiet, that Reverend Pearl had stopped speaking. Looking up, he saw a line of people forming out of the crowd to approach Reverend Pearl where he stood at the bottom of the slow rise of ground, watched as the man prayed for each briefly, whispering into their ears, long-fingered hands wrapped around their heads, before releasing them to return to their grassy seats on the hillside. Some smiled as they left him, some cried, some moved haltingly as if through a world they had never seen before. Eli got up from the tree and came closer to see if he could hear the man’s prayers, make out what he was saying, but all that came to him were soft murmurs and the occasional sucking in of breath, whispers of assent. Sweat ran down the preacher’s arms, dripped from his hair, and by the time he was finished and standing by himself in the near dark, slumped and diminished, the sap gone out of him, Eli was disturbed to notice his eyes alternately widening and narrowing as if he wasn’t able to bring them into focus.
    The reverend cleared his throat, licked his lips. “We’ll pass the satchel now,” he said. “I don’t ask for what you can ill afford. If you have enough for your needs and nothing more, hold on to it. I require little.”
    Eli and Danny carried the leather satchel between them, holding it open as they moved among the gathering, coins spilling out from purses and wallets, and from the pockets of trousers that were patched and frayed. Finished, they closed up the satchel and retreated to the double-trunked oak tree to wait for Reverend Pearl’s benediction and the gradual dispersal of the small crowd uphill toward town. The amount collected was fourteen dollars and eleven cents, which Danny counted out slowly under the eye of Reverend Pearl, who then led the boys back to the river camp, where he handed a silver dollar to each of the men there—four now, including the two from earlier—all of whom jumped right up and headed for town.
    â€œThirsty, I fear,” Reverend Pearl said. He sighed and let his body sag down to rest on an old chair with twisted legs.
    â€œAre we leaving in the morning?” Eli asked.
    Reverend Pearl was quiet for a few moments, absolutely still, as if he didn’t hear the question. Then he shook himself all over, like a large animal waking, and wagged a long finger. “For everything there is a season, boys. This morning you rode into town on a boxcar, today we cooked fresh-caught fish on a fire, and tomorrow I hold one more meeting for the edification of the good people of Fargo. But the next morning,” he added, a smile widening his face—“the next morning, we three sojourners after truth will be eating from silver spoons on a Pullman car, heading west.”

7
    St. Paul
    T he stall in momentum tugged her body forward, waking her. Then she fell back against the seat as the car rocked to a stop, brakes hissing. It was dark, the dead middle of the night, and through the window a small depot stood beneath a single streetlamp. Beyond, through a fringe of trees, lay a glimmering lake. She pressed her hand against the glass before leaning back and taking a long breath. Not only had the train been stopping at every small town on its eastward course, but an engine breakdown earlier had caused a three-hour delay. Now they were far behind schedule.
    Gretta closed her eyes, wishing herself back inside the dream she’d been having,