* * *
Makes Healing waited until he was invited to sit next to Panther Claw Scars in front of his fire. The two men were born in the same summer, but Panther Claw Scars was the chief, and so worthy of respect even from the medicine man, for had he not been marked on the face by a panther and lived to tell about it?
“Your son’s leg heals well?” the chief inquired, passing his pipe to the medicine man. He nodded toward Runs Like a Deer, who sat among a group of other boys nearby. They played the Comanche game called Button in which one boy held a button made from a knot of rawhide, then strove to confuse the watching boys as to which hand the button was held in by shifting it from hand to hand and making distracting gestures while the watching boys beat time on little drums or leather parfleches.
Makes Healing nodded. The boy’s crutch lay close to his hand, but Runs Like a Deer relied on it less and less. “His bones knit fast.”
“It will not be many summers before he makes his vision quest,” Panther Claw Scars remarked, after taking a puff from his pipe and passing it to the medicine man.
“Yes, and then he will leave the games of boys and join the young braves,” Makes Healing said. He pointed with the pipe where the young warriors sat at their fire, laughing, talking and smoking tobacco in rolled-up corn shucks.
“Will he choose to follow the peaceful path your moccasins have made, or will he lead the young braves? Already he rides his pony with more skill than any of the other boys.”
It was true. On horseback he wasn’t slowed by the healing leg, and he rode with verve and daring. “Who can know these things at this time?” Makes Healing said. “His vision quest will reveal this when it is time.”
The chief nodded agreement, then narrowed his eyes as one of the louder young braves stood up and began boasting in front of his friends. They could not hear what his boast concerned from where they sat, but they could guess—he bragged of his prowess on raids, which would earn him much respect and his choice of wives from among the people.
“Has Black Coyote Heart said anything more of a disrespectful nature to you?” the chief asked, keeping his gaze fixed on the young warrior and not on his medicine man.
Makes Healing’s jaw set as he remembered the scornful remarks Black Coyote Heart had made after Makes Healing had persuaded the chief to release the white holy man without so much as a disfiguring scar, much less torture. Black Coyote Heart felt he’d been robbed of sport by having to escort the holy man back to the white man’s road, but Makes Healing had threatened him with a curse if so much as a hair on the head of the white man was harmed. While the young man feared the curse enough to let the white man go relatively unscathed, he’d made scornful remarks within Makes Healing’s hearing whenever possible—until he was reprimanded by the chief.
The worst of the remarks was the younger man’s assertion that his insistence on releasing the white holy man proved that Makes Healing had lost the life force that made a Comanche warrior a man to be feared on the plains, and was fit only for the old men’s smoking lodge. Makes Healing had always preferred the path of peace, hunting buffalo and practicing the healing skills, over making war on the whites or other Indians such as the Kiowa, but surely this was an undeserved insult. He had pointed out that the young holy man deserved to be released for his bravery in trying to bring Makes Healing’s son back to the camp when he had been injured, but the arrogant young brave didn’t care.
“No, he has made no more scornful remarks,” Makes Healing told his chief. “But he is restless, and he makes the other young men restless, too. It is not enough for him to hunt game and steal cattle. He wants to go on raids among the white men, to steal horses and take scalps and capture white women to keep or sell to the Comancheros. He wants to be made war chief.” There had been no new war chief named since Makes Healing’s older brother had been killed in a battle with the bluecoats.
“What do you think should be done?” Panther Claw Scars asked.
Makes Healing hesitated. He realized that the chief was according him respect by asking him his advice—he could have made a decision on his own. He did not want Black Coyote Heart’s actions to bring the bluecoats down on them, yet a Comanche who did not raid and count coups was a pitiful creature, worthy of derision.
“I will go on and seek a vision from the Great Spirit,” he said at last. “It will make our path clear. I will leave at dawn tomorrow.”
* * *
Dovie’s burial service was held at dusk Sunday evening. Faith attended, and was the only other one beside George Detwiler, Sheriff Bishop and his wife, and both Chadwick men.
“‘I am the Resurrection and the Life,’” Gil read aloud from his open Bible. “‘He that believeth in Me, though he were dead, yet shall he live. And whosever liveth and believeth in me, shall never die.’ Dovie had only moments to live for Jesus, but I’m as sure as I’m standing here that she’s in Heaven today because she believed His promise, just as Lazarus did.”
The service didn’t last long. Soon the unvarnished pine coffin was lowered into the ground and Sheriff Bishop and George began shoveling the dirt over it.
“Thank you for coming, Miss Faith,” Gil said. It was all he said aloud to her, but his eyes were eloquent before he turned away. Old Reverend Chadwick patted her shoulder, then said his thanks in the slurred, hesitant voice he’d had since the stroke.
She walked out of the churchyard for home after that, not wanting to torture herself being near Gil. It was up to her not to tempt him to abandon his resolve, she told herself. Yet she could not resist a final look back at him. As if he felt the weight of her gaze, he looked up and their eyes met. She could not be sure, but she thought the corners of his mouth turned upward ever so slightly.
Her parents were sitting in the parlor when she returned. Her father looked up from the Lampasas newspaper. He and the editors of neighboring newspapers exchanged publications, and each was free to borrow from the other, as long as each gave proper attribution to the writer.
“Busy day tomorrow, Faith,” her father said.
“Yes, Papa.” In all the turmoil, she’d forgotten tomorrow was printing day. “I’ll be ready to distribute the newspapers as usual.”
“Good. Then come back and see if you can write out an account of the events at the saloon Saturday night.”
Her mother looked up, startled. “Robert, is that wise? Surely the death of a saloon girl is not a subject a young lady should even know about, much less write about,” she said.
“Horsefeathers, Lydia. Thanks to my apparent misjudgment, a poor woman is dead and I’m without the assistant I thought would be so perfect. Faith’s expressed her eagerness before to try to help. I’ll put my byline on it this time, if you think it best because of the subject matter, but I’m going to give our daughter a chance to prove herself. I know I can trust her not to sensationalize the account. I suppose I should check to see if Sheriff Bishop’s going to need wanted posters for that scoundrel Merriwell, too.”
Faith’s heart lifted. “Thanks, Papa! I’ll be happy to help you. I’m sure I’ll need you to edit and proofread it, but I promise you, I’ll get better with practice.”
“Good. Now, mind you, this is just till you marry your young preacher, Faith. I’m sure he’ll be able to keep you plenty busy after that,” he said with a chuckle.
Faith hoped her parents did not see her wince. In time they would notice that she and Reverend Gil were no longer keeping company, and she hoped she wouldn’t be asked about it. She didn’t want to add lying to her other shortcomings.
She was thrilled and encouraged that her father was willing to try making her a more important part of his newspaper business at least. Maybe in time she would convince him of her capability, so when time went on and she did not marry, he would eventually turn the newspaper over to her with confidence.
Yet when she l
ay in her bed that night, it wasn’t excitement over her enlarging role with the Simpson Creek Chronicle that kept her awake. It was the words Gil had read from the Bible, and his firm assertion that the saloon girl had gone to Heaven.
Gil had told her to pray, and that believing in God was a leap of faith.
“Lord, are You out there?” she whispered into the darkness. “I wish I could see some sign of You to prove You’re there. How can I be sure You hear me?”
No sound reached her ears but the hoot of an owl wafting through her open window, and the gentle rasp of her father’s snores from down the hall.
Gil had also urged her to confide in someone. She wasn’t sure if he’d said it because he thought someone else could help her because he hadn’t been able to, or because he just didn’t want the temptation of being near her when she asked question, but she found herself eager to do as he’d suggested. But whom should she talk to?
She wasn’t willing to take the chance with her mother. If she was upset and disillusioned to hear her daughter had been living a lie ever since Eddie’s death, Faith could irreparably damage her relationship with her. It was too much to risk.
Then who? Reverend Chadwick would be willing to listen, but he couldn’t speak well enough to answer any question she might have. And going to see him would entail seeing Gil. He might think it was just a ploy to be around him.
Then it would have to be one of the spinsters. There were several of them whom she could trust to be discreet—probably all of them now that Polly was blissfully reunited with her beau from Austin—but who would be best?
Sarah or Milly. She had known them the longest. Sarah would listen sympathetically, but their conversation was too apt to be interrupted by the cries of her baby, or by her husband, who ran his doctor’s office on the other side of their dwelling. Dr. Walker had always seemed like a nice man, but perhaps he’d be so shocked by learning that his wife’s friend had been a secret heathen all this time that he’d refuse to allow Sarah to associate with Faith.
Whereas Milly’s husband was somewhere on the trail to Kansas with hundreds of longhorns, and would never know. And Milly had shown herself sympathetic to Faith and Gil by diverting Merriwell into having supper with her so Faith could sit with Gil.
Perfect. She would rent the gelding again and ride out to see Milly. It couldn’t be tomorrow because she’d be far too busy working at the newspaper office, but the next day for sure. She could hardly wait. As Faith lay there in the dark, she rehearsed ways to reveal her secret before asking Milly about returning to the Lord.
* * *
“This will do very well, Faith,” her father said, looking up from the sheet of paper he’d been peering at through his spectacles. “It shows compassion without being maudlin—although you still suffer from an injudicious use of commas.” His eyes twinkled as he said that, though, and Faith began to believe her father was finally coming to see her value. “Well, I’m off to the office to work on those wanted posters. If I had a little more money to spare, I’d put up reward money for that Georgian’s apprehension myself.”
Faith watched him go, relieved that he apparently hadn’t noticed she wore a split skirt for riding. If he had, he might have asked her destination and admonished her not to go alone. When her mother had left for the mercantile, Faith had told her she was going out to see Milly. Lydia Bennett had made some remark about Faith riding in the buggy with Gil, and Faith hadn’t corrected her assumption. Was that lying?
* * *
Black Coyote Heart watched a departure, too. The stupid old medicine man blessed his son before mounting his spotted horse. He carried nothing with him but a knife—no food, no bow and arrow, for he was going to seek the will of the Great Spirit.
Black Coyote Heart had no use for such foolishness. The only will he cared about was his own, and it longed for blood to be spilled. He itched to take white men’s scalps and hear the cries of their women as he carried them away. He longed to possess some of their fine horses—he could use them to buy a wife. Perhaps Eyes of an Antelope would suit him, he thought, spotting that girl eyeing him over a hide she was tanning. He’d bring her a captive woman as a slave, and then Black Coyote Heart would effectively have two women to meet his every need.
He gestured to the other young warriors who looked to him as leader. “We ride,” he told them. “But let us say it is only to hunt,” he added, keeping his voice low. “The chief would have us wait on the advice of that stupid medicine man before raiding. We will take paint for our faces and our horses and apply it once we are away from camp. The people will thank us when we return with plunder, and then that old man Panther Claw Scars won’t dare to object.”
He became aware then of a boy standing nearby, leaning on a crutch, watching the braves gather with their horses. It was the medicine man’s son, Black Coyote Heart realized. It had been he who had caused the white man to ride close to their camp.
Seeing the wistful expression on the boy’s face, Black Coyote Heart called to him.
“You want to go with us, Runs Like a Deer?” Wouldn’t that put a frown on his father’s face when the old man heard his son had ridden on a raid, perhaps taken his first scalp?
“Where do you ride?” the boy asked.
“We will take horses and cattle, and spill the white eyes’ blood,” Black Coyote Heart told him. “There will be captives to torment afterward, and scalps. Are you ready to become a man, boy?”
Runs Like a Deer looked uneasy. “I have not gone on my vision quest yet.”
One of the other braves snorted, and mimicked what the boy had said, but in a high voice like a woman’s.
Runs Like a Deer’s face darkened and his black eyes flashed sparks.
“So? Maybe you’ll have a vision while you kill your first white eyes,” Black Coyote Heart said. “A vision of taking back our land for the people. Are you up for it, boy? Or do you want to stay with the women?”
The others hooted with laughter.
Runs Like a Deer turned, leaning on his crutch, and walked away.
Chapter Nineteen
Whoever had said “The road to a friend’s house is never long” had never ridden under a hot Texas sun on a cranky, swaybacked mare that seemed reluctant to go any faster than a jarring trot. The amiable smooth-paced gelding she’d ridden out to find Gil two days ago had been taken out by an earlier customer at the livery. It was just as well she met no one on the road who would have witnessed her battle of wills with the obdurate beast.
She soon forgot her discomfort once she arrived at the Brookfield ranch, however, for Milly was delighted to have an unexpected guest. Her thirst soon quenched by some of Milly’s delicious lemonade, Faith spent the first half hour of her visit admiring baby Nicholas’s progress in walking and improvements inside the ranch house and out of it. Then she helped her friend take a pot of soup and sandwiches out to the bunkhouse for the ranch hands before they sat down for their own meal—a peach pie which Milly had just taken from the oven.
They ate with relish, feeling like schoolgirls who’d stolen a treat because they were making a meal out of dessert.
“Mmm, this is wonderful,” Faith murmured. “I can’t believe Sarah used to do all the cooking here. It’s the flakiest crust I’ve ever eaten.”
Milly grinned. “Thanks. Be glad you never tasted my earlier attempts. It took a lot of patient teaching from my sister and even more practice before I deserved any praise. I’m afraid, though, that I’ve gotten into some lazy cooking habits I’ll have to break myself of before my husband gets back from the trail drive,” she said, with a rueful nod toward the toddler, who was smearing mashed peach all over his face. “It’s just gotten too hot to eat a heavy meal at noon, though of course the cowhands still need one, because they work up an appetite.”
Faith pretended to concentrate on cutting a second piec
e of pie, wondering how to broach the main purpose of her visit. She’d just finished telling told Milly about the dreadful murder of the saloon girl and Merriwell’s subsequent disappearance, and her father’s plan to use her assistance more.
“So what’s on your mind, Faith?” Milly asked suddenly. “I can tell something is, and I’ve been waiting for you to spill it. Is it about Reverend Gil?”
Faith nodded, grateful for her friend’s perceptiveness. “I don’t know how to begin,” she said at last. “I have something to tell you about myself, and afterward you may never see me the same way again. You may not want me as a friend anymore.”
Milly’s eyes widened. “I can’t imagine anything you could tell me that would make me feel that way—”
“Milly, I’ve been keeping a secret. An awful secret.”
“I hope you know you can rely on my discretion, Faith,” Milly said. “Don’t worry about how you’re going to say it. Just blurt it out.”
So that’s what Faith did, although she had to wait a moment while Milly wiped her protesting son’s face with a damp cloth and set him down to play. She told Milly everything, how she had stopped believing in God when her little brother had died and had faked her conformity with the faithful of Simpson Creek to the point that Gil had believed she would make a perfect preacher’s wife. She told her about confessing her disbelief to Gil, and how Gil had told her he loved her and wanted to court her, but he could not marry a nonbeliever.
Milly nodded as Faith spoke, occasionally encouraging her to go on.
“Then Dovie, the girl at the saloon, was killed and...” Faith stopped, remembering she could not break Gil’s confidence about his late wife. “Well, somehow that tragedy reminded him that he must not court me, not as long as I’m not a Christian. And I know the most awful thing I could do would be to pretend to believe just so I could marry Gil.”
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