Stoner's Crossing

by Judith Pella

  “He just better not treat you like some common criminal.”

  “But I am a convicted murderer, Sam. They know no differently.”

  “One look oughta tell ’em you’re innocent!”

  Deborah sighed. “I have a feeling it will take more than that.”

  Sam responded only with silence. For all his simplistic answers about faith and trust and not being alone, he knew they were up against tough odds. Faith in God would be the ultimate victor, but they could not be passive partakers of the faith. God was as much a being of action as was Sam.

  “Maybe they ought to bring along a whole company of Rangers for you,” said Sam defiantly.

  “Sam, I know you’re just joking, but I am afraid that Pollard has a very real concern. I’m going to count on you, Sam, to make sure Longjim and the boys don’t try anything. I could see it in Longjim’s eyes; he not only wants to rescue me, but he wants revenge for Griff. My problem must be settled in a court of law. I want to be cleared of this—for me, and for Carolyn.”

  “I agree, and I’ll keep a rein on Longjim. But I don’t care what happens, I ain’t letting no one hang or imprison you! I’ll strap a gun back on if I have to!” There was no levity in Sam’s voice; he was deadly serious.

  “Oh, dear Sam!” Weeping, Deborah embraced him again and held him tight. She hated to let him go; she loved him so much. She needed him, too, not so much for his manly protection, but for the strength of his spirit and the deep love he had for her. Somehow these bolstered her more than any shows of physical heroism.

  Before Sam left, he gave her a Bible, the same plain book she had gotten from old Hardee Smith’s store in Fort Dodge. Now it was quite worn and used.

  Then Sam kissed Deborah and sent in Sky.

  7

  Half an hour later it was Carolyn’s turn. As the girl came up to the cell door and waited while Pollard unlocked it, Deborah gave her a studied appraisal, as if seeing her for the first time. She fully realized that after this day, Carolyn might never be the same again, nor would their relationship be the same.

  Carolyn was still wearing her work clothes. A dusty brimmed hat covered her dark hair, which was pulled back in a single braid. A faded gingham shirt, once red but now faded to a dull pink, topped a long split skirt with a patched hole over the left knee. Carolyn bemoaned the fact that she couldn’t wear the more practical Levi’s that the boys wore. But, of course, they didn’t make them small enough for most women, who even on the range were expected to wear silly skirts. Deborah and Carolyn compromised by splitting their skirts down the middle and sewing in wide, roomy legs.

  There could be no doubt that this young woman was a product of the West, a female who knew her way around a ranch as well as any man. She walked with a slight swagger, and Deborah was ever fearful that one day she’d find her daughter hunched over a poker table, a cheroot clenched between her teeth. Deborah had raised Carolyn to be independent, certainly, able to take care of herself. This was no land for the weak and helpless. If that’s what men wanted—and Deborah seriously doubted it—there were plenty of weak women to be found elsewhere, but seldom on the plains and prairies. Deborah wanted her daughter to be respected by men, not dominated or even pampered by them.

  Carolyn’s characteristic petulance and swagger, however, were noticeably absent now. Deborah went immediately to embrace and comfort her. Was it possible Carolyn sensed that her secure world was about to cave in? There was something in the fearful expression in her eyes that went beyond the shock of seeing her mother in jail.

  They sat on the cot and Deborah took Carolyn’s hands in hers, as much for her own sake as for her daughter’s.

  “Forgive me for making you wait,” Deborah said, feeling an explanation was necessary. “But I wanted to see you alone, and I wanted us to have as much time as we needed.”

  “It’s okay, Ma…but what’s going on? Are you gonna tell me?” Carolyn could speak proper English as well as her mother, but she preferred what she called the “cowhand’s talk.”

  Deborah didn’t bother to correct her as she normally might have. It didn’t seem so important now. In spite of the rough clothing and less-than-feminine manners, Carolyn was a lovely girl, and Deborah was proud of her. Yes, the Stoner blood in her could not be denied. It was plain to see in her height—perhaps five feet nine inches, and already towering over Deborah by several inches—and in her wiry frame, though, with maturity, the curves of her figure had filled out somewhat. Her father’s mark could also be discerned in her dark hair, which had changed dramatically from the light hair of her baby years that had in the Cheyenne camp often brought danger of her being mistaken for a captive. Her eyes, though brown like her father’s, were most like Deborah’s in shape and expression. Depending on her mood, they could be warm as a summer day or as icy as a winter Norther—a true mirror into the innermost parts of her enigmatic personality.

  Deborah and her daughter might clash more frequently than she’d like, but the real truth was that Deborah could find little fault with the girl in things that mattered. If she was moody and demanding, and at times self-centered, Carolyn could just as easily be kind and generous and sensitive. Griff had often commented that she might be ornery and spirited, but there wasn’t a bad bone in her. All Deborah’s fears when Carolyn had been conceived and first born had been for nothing. More than blood was needed to pass on the vindictive, violent, and harsh traits of her father. Only the Stoner arrogance sometimes revealed itself in Carolyn, but that was tempered most of the time by the girl’s faith in God.

  Deborah forced her mind back to the question still lingering, unanswered, in the stale air of the cell. She could avoid it no longer.

  “Yes, Carolyn,” she said slowly but with determination, “it is time I told you what this is all about. I should have done that long ago, and now I regret that I didn’t. But I want you to know I didn’t tell you because I wanted to spare you, as much as myself. These things are very painful, and I thought knowing might cause you to think less of yourself—and less of me. My reasoning seems rather illogical now. I suppose it was all just too awful to tell to a child—”

  “I ain’t a child anymore, Ma.”

  Deborah sighed heavily. “No, you’re not. Will you hear me out before saying anything? Will you try to understand that I kept the truth from you because I love you?”

  “I’ll try,” replied Carolyn with the same determination in her voice her mother had shown.

  Deborah unveiled the tragic story of her ill-fated marriage, omitting only graphic details. She told of Leonard’s death and of Caleb’s obsession with seeing Deborah punished for the crime. When she finished fifteen minutes later, a dreadful silence filled the jail cell. Deborah tried to read her daughter’s expressive eyes, but they were shadowed, purposefully veiled. She wanted to say something to Carolyn, something to make it all right, but the motherly words that could soothe a skinned knee or a little girl’s hurt feelings were woefully inadequate for this. All at one time, Carolyn had learned that her father had been an abusive monster, and that her mother had been convicted of his murder. There were no simple words to fix such hurts.

  As much as she wanted to beg and plead for some response, some sign of vindication from her daughter, Deborah just held Carolyn close as they sat together in the long and heavy silence. Deborah felt her daughter’s tears dampen the fabric of her blouse, and Carolyn was not one to cry readily. Deborah realized just how deeply this revelation must have wounded Carolyn. But still neither spoke.

  Five minutes passed before Carolyn pushed away from her mother’s embrace. With some embarrassment, she wiped away her tears with a sleeve.

  “What now, Ma?” Carolyn said in a voice resolved to be strong.

  “I hope we will be able to go on from here,” was all Deborah could think to say. She hadn’t expected such a nebulous, impersonal question.

  “But you’re in jail, and this Pollard plans on seeing that your sentence is carried out.”

 
; “I’m not worried about that right now, Carolyn. I’m in God’s hands.” Deborah paused and looked directly at her daughter. “I am worried about you.”

  “I reckon I’m in God’s hands, too.” Carolyn was being stoic—too stoic.

  “Carolyn!” Suddenly frustrated, Deborah could restrain herself no longer. She wanted to give Carolyn time, but she also feared the girl might bottle it all up within. “Can’t you tell me how you feel about all this?”

  “Feel…?” Carolyn said the word almost as if such a notion had never occurred to her. “That ain’t important. What’s important is getting you outta here.”

  Deborah sadly shook her head and said quietly, “Not to me, it isn’t.”

  “Well…I…” Carolyn hesitated, then tried again. “I’ll talk to you later, Ma. I better…I better go and see…how Sky is. This must be hard on him, too.”

  Without another word, Carolyn called for Pollard, who quickly came and let her out. Her eyes were glistening, and she was chewing on a trembling lip.

  Deborah watched her go, sadly, regretfully, wondering what she could have done to make it easier on Carolyn. More than the iron bars of her prison cell separated them now.

  Part 3

  Leonard’s Daughter

  8

  An hour before dawn Carolyn awoke, and, unable to lie still, she crept from her bed in the boardinghouse in Danville where she and Sam and Sky were staying. She dressed quickly and quietly and stole from her room like a thief, her destination the town livery stable. No one was around at that hour, but Carolyn needed no help to saddle her speckled gray stallion, Patch, a son of Broken Wing’s fine gray. She then rode northwest from town until she was far away from all signs of civilization.

  Carolyn loved the lonely, barren stretches of grass and mesquite, and the rugged buttes and deep canyons that scarred the dry earth of the High Plains. These plains could be treacherous to the inexperienced, but Carolyn by no means considered herself inexperienced. She could ride and shoot as well as any man on the ranch—well, almost any. She supposed no one would ever come close to the expertise of Griff and Longjim, and she’d heard stories about Sam, too, though he had never demonstrated his talents. Regardless, Carolyn did not lack confidence in her own abilities; she was always the first to respond to a dare, to try a new adventure, to enter a contest. Perhaps within herself she felt she had more to prove than most others, not only because of the so-called handicap of being a female, but also from some much deeper drive. Could it be that her cocky confidence arose from a basic insecurity, rooted in a nagging fear that she was somehow inferior because of the shroud that had always hung about her beginnings, the partial explanations, the veiled comments about the past?

  Now that veil had been lifted. The reasons for all the secrets had been revealed. And her worst fears had been realized.

  She thought back to her childhood, how she had put so much effort into building a fantasy world around her dead father, of whom so little was ever said. She had wanted him to match up to Sky’s father. There had been no end to the wonderful stories about Broken Wing, the great Cheyenne warrior. Once, all alone, he had raided a Pawnee camp and brought back fifteen war ponies. Once he and Sam had driven a dangerous whiskey peddler from the Cheyenne camp. Once he had killed two huge bull buffaloes in one day and then given one to a family who needed it.

  Carolyn loved her brother, but she envied him, even if she had a clearer memory of his father than he had. Broken Wing was his father no matter how much they said he considered her his true child also. And no one ever shied away from telling stories about him.

  But the life of her own father had been summed up in a few brief sentences: We were married for a short time, Carolyn. I hardly knew him. He was a rancher, a good man. He was killed in the war. Even as a child she had been able to see past the mere words. The hesitation when her mother said “a…good man” might have been slight, but its lack of conviction was obvious. But Carolyn had, if only subconsciously, avoided probing and questioning the vague disquiet she always felt when her father was spoken of. On some level, she had always feared the truth might be a terrible thing. Now there could be no more denying it.

  Her father was a monster.

  Her mother was a convicted murderer.

  Yes, both her mother and Sam said she was innocent, but when her mother had spoken of the day of the murder, her voice had lacked complete assurance. She said everything had been such a nightmare she sometimes couldn’t tell the dream from the terrible reality.

  “But I couldn’t have killed him. I didn’t kill him!” Deborah had said. “I saw someone…at least, a shadow or something…at the window. I thought about killing him; for weeks toward the end, not a day went by that I didn’t think of it. I feared it would drive me insane. Maybe…it did for a time.”

  No wonder they had convicted her if she had appealed to the court with testimony like that, thought Carolyn. Even she, Deborah’s own daughter, wasn’t sure what to believe.

  But what if she had killed him? Hadn’t he deserved it? No one had a right to treat another person the way he had her mother. And Carolyn was in no way fooled; her mother had told only a watered-down version of the story. He had treated her worse than an animal.

  But he was Carolyn’s father!

  How could she believe such things about her own father? She recalled the little fantasies she used to spin about him, the glorious war hero. He rivaled even Broken Wing in the wonders of his exploits. She had cast him as the beloved commander leading his loyal troops into battle, killed while rescuing his comrades, mourned in his death by private and general alike. As Carolyn had grown older and her needs more complicated, she sometimes imagined that her father was not really dead at all, but rather had been accused of some crime for which he was innocent—not unlike Robin Hood—and, for the safety of his family, had been forced to flee. But one day he would return to claim his daughter whom he had, of course, never stopped loving. No wonder she had never questioned her mother, in her usually tenacious manner, about him. The truth could never rival the tales of her imagination. However, that particular fantasy about a Robin Hood father had ended by her mother’s marriage to Sam Killion; even a naive thirteen-year-old girl knew her mother wouldn’t marry another if her husband still lived. Naturally, Carolyn had never been practical enough to fit Broken Wing into this equation. But at the age of fourteen her private fantasies had stopped and she just tried to forget about her father.

  Now she wished she could retreat to the safety those imaginings had provided.

  Still, it had never been Carolyn’s way to shy away from a challenge, except in the case of her father, and it was about time she faced this one squarely. Even if she wanted to pretend it didn’t exist, she couldn’t. She could not hide from the fact that her mother was sitting in jail with a sentence of death looming over her head.

  There was only one thing she had to come to terms with now. What should she do about it all?

  Most urgently, they had to clear her mother’s name and get her out of jail….

  Suddenly Carolyn realized there was something even more important than her mother’s release that had to be dealt with first. Her mother had hinted at it in jail, but Carolyn had adroitly avoided the issue and probably hurt her mother in the process. Carolyn had to decide how she felt about all this, and then she had to apologize to her mother.

  How did she feel?

  Was she angry at her mother for keeping those secrets? She wanted to be, and at first, when she ran out of the jail, she was…a little. But she was almost a woman herself now, an adult, and she could begin to understand a woman’s urge to protect her children. More than that, Carolyn knew her mother well enough to know she was not selfish or cruel. She would never hurt Carolyn on purpose. And Carolyn knew she must assure her mother of this before anything else.

  What about her father? Did she hate him? She didn’t even know him, yet he had hurt her mother whom she did know and love. Shouldn’t she hate him for that? But
maybe he would have loved Carolyn and treated her with kindness. Maybe…

  Maybe I am just building fairy tales again, she thought dismally. But how can I hate a man I never knew, whom for the last eighteen years I have tried so desperately to protect and love?

  It was so much easier to think of actions instead of feelings. But what of her actions, anyway? What should she do about it all? Get her mother out of jail, of course, but then what?

  Did it matter? Why should she do anything? Why shouldn’t life just go on as it always had? She had to admit she had a good life, one that she was not eager to change. Most of the time she was happy, even content. At times, especially when her fears were worst, she could be moody and irascible. Yet she loved her life on the ranch. She loved her brother, who was her best and perhaps only real friend near her own age. They had great times riding and racing and working together. And she loved Griff, who had taught her so much about surviving in the hard and sometimes unrelenting country that was their home. The other ranch hands accepted her and treated her with the respect of an equal. She dearly loved Sam, her stepfather. He had taught her about the spiritual aspect of life and led her to a personal faith in God, and had, thus, given her a purpose in her life beyond that nebulous, fearful abyss of her past.

  She loved her mother, too, though Carolyn realized she sometimes didn’t show it as a daughter should. The lies about the past had affected their relationship, but they hadn’t dominated it. Mother and daughter had their share of good times together, though their strong wills were apt to clash frequently. Still, it was not so bad that Carolyn was ready to destroy it all—

  But did she have a choice? Wasn’t it already destroyed? How could anything be the same again? How could she be the same person now? Whatever Leonard Stoner was, whatever he had done, one thing was certain— he’d had an unalterable effect on his daughter’s life. And, according to her mother, Carolyn had a grandfather out there somewhere. From her mother’s viewpoint, he didn’t appear to be the most noble of men, but should Carolyn then forget all about him? Could she? What was he to her, anyway? Didn’t he hate her mother and wish her dead? Carolyn had no doubt where her loyalty should lie. Yet, he was…her own grandfather.