Pillar of Light

by Gerald N. Lund

  Matthew looked puzzled. The “holler” was no problem. In this country, a holler was a hollow or a small valley. “Two ‘sees,’ ma’am,” he asked politely, “what does that mean?”

  She looked a little surprised. “When you get to the road, go to the next ridge. From there, look as far as you can see down the road to the next ridge. That will be one see. Go to the second ridge. Look down the road again as far as you can see.”

  Matthew was nodding. “That’ll be two sees, I take it.”

  “Yep. Then go to the next holler and you’re there.”

  “Much obliged, ma’am,” Derek said, suppressing a grin.

  “You preachers?” she suddenly asked, catching them both by surprise.

  “Yes,” Derek replied.

  “Mormons?”

  For some reason Derek felt a little chill. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Best be careful, then,” she said. “Circuit rider went through here day before yesterday. Said two men might be coming. Warned folks about you.”

  “I see,” Derek responded, keeping his face impassive.

  “Scadlocks and Websters Mormons?” she asked, startling them again.

  “That’s what we heard, ma’am,” Matthew answered after a moment.

  “’Tain’t no more,” she said shortly.

  “What do you mean?” Derek asked.

  “Heard Pulsipher Scadlock was madder than a hound dog stepping in a hornet’s nest when he came home from a trip one day and found his missus had become a Mormon.”

  “Oh.” Again the two men exchanged looks, this time with evident dismay.

  “Best watch your step. Scadlock’s got a mean temper. ’Specially when he’s been nipping at his own moonshine.”

  “Much obliged, ma’am,” Derek said once again, only this time it came out with more genuine gratitude than before. “We’ll be careful.”

  Two sees and a holler proved to be about three miles farther on from where they had stayed the night. The rain was gone now and the sky clear. By nine o’clock, they took off their jackets and walked along in their shirtsleeves. As they reached the bottom of the small, narrow valley after the second “see,” Matthew stopped and pointed. Ahead about thirty yards there was a footpath going off to the right. “That must be it,” he said.

  Derek nodded and they walked on until they reached it. There was nothing more than a slight track where the grass had been trampled down into bare dirt. It couldn’t have taken even the smallest cart, let alone a wagon. The dirt, peppered clean by last night’s rain, showed only one set of tracks from an unshod horse. There was no sign, no markings of any kind. Derek studied it for a moment, looked up and down the road, and when he saw nothing else, he nodded. “Let’s go find out.”

  The first house—or better, the first shanty—was about a quarter of a mile through the trees. It was set near the far edge of a clearing that was maybe fifty yards across in either direction. Matthew and Derek stopped near the edge of the trees to take stock of what lay before them. The house—no more than one or two rooms—was on brick stilts which lifted it about a foot and a half above the ground. The walls were of clapboard and rough-cut lumber, patched here and there with newer-looking pieces of board. One of the two windows had glass. The other was covered with a cloth. From a tin chimney that seemed more like a stick jammed into a hole in the roof rose a wisp of white smoke. A small garden patch, filled with the first of the season’s weeds and a few stalks from last year’s corn patch, was partly visible behind the house. To the right of that was the outhouse, door partly open, and a small rabbit hutch or chicken pen farther on from there. A sow pig with three little ones was rooting in the grass behind the garden, and a half dozen chickens scratched and pecked in the hardened ground directly around the house.

  “Scadlocks’ or Websters’?” Matthew murmured, ignoring a sudden prickling sensation along the back of his neck.

  Derek didn’t answer. He just started forward, striding out with purpose. A little shamed by Derek’s forcefulness, Matthew fell into step beside him. As they approached within the last few yards, Derek stopped and raised one hand to his mouth. “Hello the house!” The chickens looked up for a moment, then went on as before. Derek looked at Matthew and then went the rest of the way and up onto the porch. He knocked on the door. It was open a crack and creaked wider under Derek’s blows. Matthew stopped at the step, listening. There was not a sound. Derek pulled the door shut again and knocked a second time. Again there was nothing.

  He turned. “They had bacon for breakfast,” he said, smiling thinly.

  If it was meant to calm Matthew’s nervousness it didn’t work. He had smelled it too. The sweet aroma of frying bacon was heavy in the air. Someone had been in the house not many minutes before. They walked around back and watched the pigs for a moment. Everything here was perfectly normal except that there were no people. Derek pointed past the garden. Another path led into the trees. “Maybe they went to call on their neighbors,” he said and started off.

  The second house, no more than another five or six hundred yards through the hardwood forest, was nearly identical to the first. The only visible difference was a corral with a brown and white milk cow in it; the rest looked the same, even down to the smoke curling lazily from the chimney. This time Matthew took the lead and went to the door. He knocked once, twice, and then a third time. There was no response.

  As Matthew stepped off the porch, Derek sighed. “Do you get the feeling they knew we were coming?”

  “Yeah,” Matthew muttered, “and I don’t like it.”

  “Maybe they’ve gone into town or something,” Derek volunteered. It came out lamely and they both knew it. Matthew looked around. Someone had cut some long grass and dumped it into the corral where the cow munched on it contentedly. Once again, the grass was fresh enough to show that it hadn’t been cut very long ago.

  “So what now?” Matthew’s head was swinging back and forth, searching the trees, looking for any sign of the families who inhabited this desolate part of the Ouachitas.

  “It’s a long ways to walk for nothing,” Derek finally answered. “I wish we could at least talk to them, let them know that someone from the Church was interested in them.”

  “I suppose we could go back to town and ask around.” There was a brief grimace. “Assuming we can find the town.”

  “Good idea. Then at least we can leave word that we were here.” Derek swung around and started back the way they had come. Gladly, Matthew fell in behind him. They had gone only about ten or fifteen yards back into the forest when a low voice called to them out of the brush. “Hey, mister!”

  They both stopped dead, peering into the undergrowth whence the sound had come. There was a rustling of leaves, and then a young boy, maybe eight or nine, was standing there, half-hidden in the foliage.

  “Hello,” Derek said, taking a step forward. Instantly the boy disappeared again. “Wait!” he cried after the boy. “I won’t hurt you.”

  A moment later the boy was there again, poised like a deer, ready to bolt at the slightest sign of danger. “Good morning,” Matthew said, smiling warmly. “Are you one of the Websters?”

  “Listen!” the boy said, ignoring the question. “Ma sent me to give you a message.”

  Derek lowered himself into a crouch, moving slowly so as not to spook the boy again. “A message?”

  “Yes!” He leaned forward slightly, so they could see the young face more clearly. He was towheaded with ruddy cheeks. His chest was rising and falling and suddenly Matthew knew that it was not from having run hard. The boy was badly frightened. That sent the chills racing up and down Matthew’s back now.

  “My ma knows who you are. She thanks you for coming. But you are in danger. Big danger. My . . . Mr. Scadlock is out looking for you. He’s told everybody round about that you’ve come looking to find you more wives. He’s whipping up the folks to git you and git you good.”

  “That’s not true—,” Matthew started, but the boy cut hi
m off with an urgent wave of his hand.

  “You’d better go. Ma says to stay off the road. Don’t go back through town. Just git. Hole up. Move at night. Hurry!”

  Even as his clipped words registered in their minds, he turned and was gone.

  “Wait!” Matthew cried.

  From the same direction as the brief sound of bushes rustling they heard a faint, “Ya best hurry,” and then nothing but the silence of the forest.

  For a moment, they stared at each other. “So what do we do now?” Matthew finally asked in a hushed whisper.

  Derek hesitated only for a moment. “Did you see his eyes? The boy is terrified. Sister Webster—or maybe it’s Sister Scadlock—just took a tremendous risk to try and warn us. So I think his advice is good. I think we’d best hurry.”

  “I don’t know if it’s a good idea to stay so close to the road,” Derek said in a low voice. They were stopped amid the trees, and Matthew moved carefully off to the left just far enough to see if they were still parallel to the road.

  Matthew came back to join him. “We get off into the forest very far and we may never find our way out again. The road is our map back to Bonnerdale.”

  Derek grunted, accepting that. Though there was only three years’ difference in their ages, from the beginning, by mutual agreement, Derek had assumed the leadership role of this missionary companionship. But Derek had spent all of his early years in a city where the landmarks around you were clear and precise. Put him out in the open or in thick trees such as this and his sense of direction was notoriously bad. Without comment from either, as they had left the two deserted homesteads Matthew moved ahead and took the lead. Twice they had smelled smoke and made a wide circle to avoid whoever or whatever was making it. Once they heard a wagon rattle past on the road and they dropped to the ground, hearts pounding, until it was gone again.

  “What do you think?” Derek asked as they started off again now. “Are we going to have rain again tonight?”

  Matthew peered up at the sky, sniffing at the air. The sunny skies of morning were long since gone now, and in the last hour the overcast was definitely thickening and growing darker. “Is there mud in the Mississippi?” was his answer.

  “No way we’re going to make Bonnerdale tonight, is there?”

  There was a slow shake of his head. “Staying off the road has cut our progress in half at least. Besides, Bonnerdale may not be a wise move. No, my friend, I think we’re due for a wet night in the forest.”

  “I was afraid you’d say something like that. I was—”

  He stopped as Matthew whirled around, holding up his hand for silence. His head was cocked to one side and he was listening intently.

  “What?” Derek hissed. “What is it?”

  “Listen!” came the urgent command.

  And then Derek heard it too. It was a long way off, but there was no mistaking the sound. He felt his knees go weak and suddenly he was licking his lips. “Dogs?” he asked, not wanting to believe what he was hearing.

  Matthew nodded grimly. “Hunting dogs.” He grabbed his knapsack and threw it over his shoulder. “Let’s go.” He swung left, pushing through the brush, heading straight for the road.

  “Where are you going?” Derek asked in surprise.

  “They’re letting the dogs run, so likely they’re on horseback. That means we’ve got to make better time. The road is our only chance now.”

  “The road?” Derek cried. “But we can’t outrun dogs and horses.”

  Matthew was grim. “You better pray we can find a creek and mighty fast.”

  Derek said nothing more, at least not out loud. They settled into a steady trot, trying to listen for their pursuers, trying to convince themselves the sound was not growing louder. Fortunately they were coming out of the hills and the road was mostly downhill. And equally fortunate, they were in excellent physical shape. They had been away from home now since October. For almost four months they had spent most of their days walking—sometimes as much as twenty or twenty-five miles a day. Their feet were tough and their bodies lean and hard.

  It was nearly ten minutes later when Matthew leaned forward, peering down the road. “There!” he said, pointing to where a plank bridge was visible about a hundred yards ahead of them.

  “It’s about time,” Derek grunted.

  The stream was not a large one, maybe three or four feet across and a foot or two deep. The planks were rough-hewn and nailed with spikes to two logs.

  “All right,” Matthew said, plunging into the water on the upstream side of the bridge without hesitation. He kicked some water up onto the bank. “Let’s let them see where we went in.” He kicked again. “All right, come on.”

  Derek needed no urging. He stepped into the creek and felt the shock of the cold water instantly filling his boots.

  “Brush against some of the bushes,” Matthew said, reaching out to drag his hands through some willows. “Not too much. Just enough for the dogs to pick it up.”

  Derek looked at him as though he were mad, but knew that Matthew had the better sense of what to do now than he did. Splashing wildly, they jogged upstream about two hundred yards. Finally Matthew stopped, breathing heavily. He held his breath, listening. Derek did the same. The sound of the baying was distinctly clearer now.

  “I’d say they’re fifteen, maybe twenty minutes behind us now,” Matthew guessed. “All right. Back downstream again. When we reach the bridge, we’ll go under it. Don’t touch anything after that. Stay right in the middle of the stream. No splashing. We’ve got to make them think we went up this way.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

  Derek’s bewilderment was now admiration. He followed Matthew back to the bridge, moving much more carefully now. When they were a few yards from the plank covering, Matthew dropped to his belly and let the stream carry him beneath the bridge. Derek did the same. Even if their pursuers were up the road only a short distance, they couldn’t have seen them cross beneath it. Matthew let the water carry them well into the forest again before he stood up. “All right,” he said, shivering, “be careful not to splash. Be careful not to touch the underbrush.” He looked up at the sky. “It’ll be dark in another hour. Even with the dogs, finding us at night will be a challenge.”

  Derek just nodded and fell in behind him as he started off again.

  Matthew’s plan was really quite ingenious, given the circumstances of going up against dogs and against men on horseback. There was only one drawback. They did not know the countryside. Matthew was so intent on staying to the center of the creek, not brushing against the bushes and tree limbs, and listening for any sounds of pursuit, all at the same time, that he didn’t pay much attention to which direction they were going. Had he been able to look on a map, he could have seen that the creek they had chosen made a long, lazy half circle and eventually doubled back on itself to cross under the road again.

  They trudged along more slowly now, growing more and more tired with every step. In spite of their exertions, their bodies shook violently. Utterly soaked, their clothes did little to keep out the deepening chill of the air. And each time they had to go low to get under a bush or low-hanging branch, they immersed themselves in the icy water again. Their feet felt like stumps of ice. Internally, it was a different matter indeed. It was as if every part of their bodies was on fire. Their hips ached from the effort of dragging their feet through the water, fighting to keep their balance on the mossy rocks or patches of clutching mud. Their lungs burned, and Matthew could already feel the first touches of pleurisy, that deep aching hurt in the bottom of the lungs that often follows extreme exertion.

  Then suddenly Matthew stopped, holding up his hand. There was an audible gasp of dismay. Derek peered around him. About twenty yards ahead of them the trees opened up. And there was the road and another bridge. For a moment, they gaped at it, not comprehending.

  “Matthew?”

  Matthew shook his hand at him. He half turned, finger to his lips. “I think we�
��ve circled back to the road,” he finally said in a low voice.

  “No!” Derek cried softly. “That can’t be.”

  “Listen! The dogs have stopped barking.”

  Suddenly a dark shape stepped out from behind a tree. A long-barreled rifle was pointing directly at Matthew’s chest. “Ain’t no need for dogs now,” said a man’s voice with a staccato burst of laughter.

  Pulsipher Scadlock was the undisputed leader of the group. By the time he and the other two men had them securely tied, three more men appeared. These had the dogs, and Matthew instantly understood Scadlock’s strategy and begrudgingly had to admit it was brilliant. He had not been fooled for one moment by the upstream gambit, so he and two more rode straight down the road to the next bridge to wait. Meanwhile, the other three followed the creek with the now silenced dogs just to make sure their game hadn’t forsaken the creek and taken to the forest again. The bitter taste of defeat was so strong in Matthew’s mouth that he wanted to gag. They had done their best and their best hadn’t been good enough.

  Scadlock tied the hands of his prisoners behind their backs, then tied their legs to separate trees. He warned them not to speak to each other, and then set about making a fire—no mean feat, since a light rain had started again. By the time the three men with the dogs arrived, the others had a frying pan on the fire cooking large slabs of ham. Round loaves of bread were brought out and broken into chunks, and a large earthenware jug was uncorked and started around the circle. The men were rough men of the backcountry—worn clothes, ragged beards, matted hair, foul mouths, crooked or rotted teeth, faces hard and angular, eyes like those of a circling band of coyotes. As the liquor began to warm them up, the fireside became a scene of joviality and raucous laughter. It was as though the prisoners had been completely forgotten.

  Derek was shivering violently beneath his bonds. His clothes were still soaked. If he moved his legs, the water squished inside his boots. It wasn’t going to be as cold as the night before, but it would be cold enough. He looked to where Matthew was, and saw that his body was shaking as violently as his own. “They leave us here very much longer,” Derek whispered, “and they won’t have to worry about what to do with us.”