by Dale Cramer
“Oh, it can be worse,” Rachel said. “A lot worse. You have no idea.”
Miriam’s hands stopped milking and she looked around at Rachel. The cow shuffled its feet and let out a soft moo. Worse than marrying an outsider? Only one thing sprang to her mind.
“Rachel, you and Jake aren’t . . . in trouble, are you?” Jake was the one, the love of Rachel’s life.
“No,” Rachel said, instantly and firmly. “I’m not, anyway.”
“So . . . Jake has done something?”
Rachel was silent for so long Miriam wasn’t sure she’d heard the question, but at last she spoke, very quietly.
“He killed a man.”
Miriam recoiled, nearly falling backward from her stool.
“He did what?”
Rachel came and knelt beside her, gripping her arm with both hands, her eyes full of tears. Words spilled out of her, mingled with a great long sob.
“Remember I told you about the bandit who came to me in the middle of the night when I was chained in El Pantera’s barn, and Jake pulled him off of me before he could do anything?”
Miriam’s head backed away, her eyes wide. “Jah?”
“Jake strangled him with his handcuff chain. The bandit was dead, Miriam.”
Miriam’s hand covered her mouth, shaking. “Oh, my stars! Poor Jake! What must he be going through?”
But Rachel shook her head and pulled away, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.
“He doesn’t know. We lied to him, Domingo and me. We both knew the guard was dead, but we told Jake he lived. Jake doesn’t know.”
“Rachel, you must tell him. His soul is in danger.”
Rachel’s face contorted as she looked up at Miriam and cried, “I can’t! They’ll send him to Ohio to face the bishop, and then his father will never let him come back. I’ll never see him again!”
Rachel’s future husband, or his soul. An unthinkable choice, perhaps even more difficult than the one Miriam had made. There was nothing she could say. She could understand why Rachel might keep such a burden to herself. It was her choice to make, alone.
Just like her own.
As the sun kissed the western hills Miriam wrapped her arms around Rachel’s shoulders. In the dim twilight of an adobe barn in the mountains of Mexico two sisters huddled together against the world, and wept.
Chapter 2
Sitting among a hundred Amish on the second level of her father’s barn for church services that Sunday, Miriam felt the kinship of her people more acutely than ever, for she felt the nearness of its loss. Despite a cool morning breeze they flung the doors wide to let in the sunlight while they sang songs from the Ausbund, the ancient traditional hymns that welded them together. Caleb gave a short devotional and then read a prayer of thanks from the prayer book. Miriam knew why he chose that particular prayer. Despite grievous losses, her father was indeed grateful for good weather, good neighbors, and for the calm that had reigned over the last six months. There had been no more outbreaks of diphtheria, and the bandits had stayed away. But before he closed the prayer he added his own plea for Gott to send a bishop to Paradise Valley.
This, too, Miriam understood. Everyone knew that without leadership their blossoming community would wither and die. She had already witnessed little differences of opinion over length of hair and width of hat brim, not to mention that the Yutzys, who came from a more liberal district in Geauga County, wore buttons on their clothes. A bishop would work with the men to resolve such differences and restore unity—to a point. Experience had taught her that perfect unity among so many human beings, each with his own needs and wants and fears and opinions, was elusive.
She bowed her head and uttered a prayer of her own for peace and patience. Soon now she would marry Domingo, and the ban would follow as surely as night follows day. She could already envision the hurt in her mother’s eyes, feel the pain of separation from her sisters. From that day forward she would never be allowed to eat at her family’s table, nor would any of them accept a gift from her hand. The ban was no illusion. It was a concrete reality she would have to endure for the rest of her life.
After her father’s long prayer everyone stood while John Hershberger read a chapter from the Heilige Schrift, and then sat through a brief message delivered by Roman Miller. Roman was no preacher, but in the absence of a minister the men often shared the duty and did the best they could. This was followed by the testimonies of men who had brought their families to Mexico to be free.
Through it all, Miriam stole glances at the men sitting across from her. Micah Shrock, the strapping son of Ira and Esther, sat on the back row with the other boys, behind the married men, and when she glanced at him he didn’t look back. Micah avoided eye contact with her these days, and never spoke to her at all if he could help it. They’d been engaged to be married, until Miriam put on the clothes of a Mexican peasant and went with Kyra into the mountains to look for Domingo. Micah had put his foot down, given her an ultimatum.
She went anyway. Micah wasn’t the only one who wouldn’t forgive her for that.
Next to Micah sat Jake Weaver, the love of Rachel’s life, always smiling, good-natured and affable, completely unaware that he was a murderer in danger of hell’s fires. Directly in front of Jake was the self-righteous Levi Mullet, Miriam’s brother-in-law. He and Emma had rushed into a marriage just before leaving for Mexico to hide the fact that their first child was already on the way. They’d gotten away with it, or so they thought, but there was always a hint of fear in his eyes, for he had been raised to believe that no sin would ever go unpunished in this world. He lived in constant fear of Gott’s reprisal.
Atlee Hostetler, the wiry little newcomer, sat ramrod straight on the backless bench trying to stay awake, bleary-eyed from staying up too late drinking hard cider. He’d come to Mexico to escape the whispers about his binges, but the rumors had followed him.
Miriam didn’t know them all, though she suspected that every single person present harbored secret desires and secret fears they held closer than kin—secrets that would always keep them at arms’ length from each other.
The service ended as it began, with a song. The richly timbered chorus of voices melding in her father’s barn moved Miriam more than anything that went before it, for in the comfort of that moment she discovered a small but profound truth: her people were never more purely and perfectly united than when they sang together, as one.
Paradise Valley enjoyed mild temperatures year-round, and a fair amount of rain during the growing season. Surrounded by ridges and mountains on three sides, they were sheltered from all but the worst of storms and wind. But Caleb Bender knew, perhaps better than anyone, that the worst storms didn’t come from the western skies.
They came on horseback.
After lunch Caleb strolled down his lane to join a group of men who were already there, waiting. He had spread the word earlier that he wanted to talk to the men in private, away from the women and children, about a matter of great concern. Only the married men were there, the heads of households. The women and unmarried boys had no say.
Atlee Hostetler had a coal black beard that came to a point, and he stroked it as he looked up and down Caleb’s driveway at the row of saplings just starting to bud.
“You planted a lot of trees here, Caleb.”
It was Levi who answered him. “Jah, my Emma did that. She loves trees. Planted them all over. There’s even maples up on that ridge. Don’t know as they’ll thrive in this climate, though.”
Caleb chuckled. “They’ll thrive if they know what’s good for them. That daughter of mine won’t have a shirker. If all her trees live, in twenty years they’ll change the face of this valley, that’s for sure. Won’t be the same place.” Then his smile disappeared as he kicked at the dirt, dreading what he had to say next. “I’m not real sure we’ll be here in twenty years yet. That’s why I wanted to talk to you men—” he glanced over his shoulder toward the house, where a clutch of youn
ger girls were tending the babies while the women cleaned up from lunch—“out here where the women can’t hear. We got a decision to make. You all remember what happened last summer.”
Mahlon Yutzy’s face darkened. “The diphtheria?” Mahlon’s twelve-year-old son, William, had died of the disease. Three of the five new families had lost a child in the epidemic within weeks of their arrival.
“Well, that too,” Caleb said, “but I’m thinking the threat of disease is behind us. Mainly I was talking about the bandits—the ones who took Rachel . . . and killed Aaron.”
Even now it was hard to make himself say the words. The wound was still too fresh. Caleb chewed on his lip for a moment, staring at the horizon, composing himself, and the other men exchanged worried glances.
He felt a hand on his shoulder, and his old friend John Hershberger said softly, “What about the bandits, Caleb? Is there news?”
Before he could answer Caleb heard hoofbeats in the drive behind him. Domingo trotted up to the group and swung down from the saddle with a wince. After six months he still limped a little from the broken leg he suffered at El Ojo. He led his horse up to the group.
“Guten tag,” the young native said, reaching out to shake hands. One by one they shook his hand and switched from Dutch to High German.
“I still can’t get used to hearing German from a Mexican!” Atlee Hostetler said, the dialect causing him to struggle a bit himself. It was different from Pennsylvania Dutch, but they all understood it because it was the language of their Bible.
Domingo shrugged, smiled. “My German was a gift from a former employer,” he said. “It’s not perfect, but I figured it was better than your Spanish.”
Their hats all tilted down, hiding their faces as they laughed quietly at themselves. “You figured right,” Yutzy chuckled, then pointed at Domingo’s Amish hat. “If not for the poncho I would have took you for Dutch—riding a standard-bred horse and wearing an Amish hat.”
Domingo nodded toward Caleb. “The horse and the hat were both gifts from my current employer.”
“There is news,” Caleb said, answering John’s question and steering the conversation back toward his original purpose. “That’s why I asked Domingo to come. He knows some of the bandits, and sometimes his friends tell him things.”
The whole group ambled slowly down the driveway toward the middle of the valley while Domingo told them what he and Caleb already knew: El Pantera was still alive, and looking for revenge.
“He will come soon,” Domingo said. “And he will bring an army. Thirty, maybe forty men, with guns. This time he will come for blood.”
“It’s just not right,” Levi said. “We have done nothing to this man.”
“We have done plenty,” Domingo answered. “El Pantera is a proud man. Jake Weaver embarrassed him in front of his men, then we escaped from his barn and took Rachel with us. In the bandit’s mind Rachel was his property—he had stolen her fair and square. Worst of all, El Pantera was badly injured in the fight at El Ojo, and that was after I shot his prize Appaloosa and two of his men. Mark my words, he will come for his revenge.”
Mahlon Yutzy shook his head. “There is nothing we can do against an army. They will slaughter us like chickens.”
“That’s why we needed to talk,” Caleb said. “Our lives might be in danger, and the lives of our wives and children. Maybe the Coblentzes did the right thing, going home.” He didn’t want to be the one to suggest it, but he would not withhold the truth.
They all knew the story. Freeman and Hannah Coblentz had packed up and gone back to Ohio, leaving behind a half-built house after their little girl died of diphtheria. Cora, their eldest daughter, was being courted by Aaron and was devastated by his loss. All of it together was more than Hannah could bear.
“There are still things you can do to protect yourselves,” Domingo said. “Don Louis Alejandro Hidalgo, the owner of Hacienda El Prado, keeps a cadre of armed guards at the hacienda, three miles from here. He has said that if you can get your families behind his walls you will be protected. Anyway, there is time to prepare. My friend said it might be a month before El Pantera is well enough to ride this far, let alone fight.”
“But what if we’re in the fields working when they come?” Levi said. “They would be on us before we could get our families out.”
“If you post sentries in the high places they can see the bandits coming ten miles away,” Domingo said. “That would buy you a little time.”
“Jah, and then what? He could still burn our houses and barns, and what will stop him from coming again and again? Will we live our whole lives at the mercy of this animal? The Coblentzes were smart, if you ask me. Maybe we should all go back—to a more civilized country.”
Caleb nodded gravely. “We are faced with a hard choice. We must decide whether to go or stay. If we stay, we must find a way to keep our families safe.”
“But we can’t leave now!” Noah Byler said. “We sold everything we have to come to this place, and my son is buried in this earth. Caleb, all we want to do is live in peace. Is there no law in this country? Does no one protect the innocent?”
Caleb looked him in the eye. “Only Gott,” he said quietly.
They walked a ways in silence, each of them weighing the question in his own mind, but in the end Caleb knew they would all look to him for an answer. He was the oldest and had been here the longest. He was also the only one whose child had died at the hands of the bandits.
It was John Hershberger who finally asked, “What do you think, Caleb? Should we give up and go back to Ohio?”
Caleb shook his head slowly. “I won’t tell another man what he should do, but as for me, I don’t want to leave. From the beginning I felt Gott led us here, and that has not changed. Whatever befalls me—and I have already paid a great price—I still think it is Gott’s will that I should stay. And if Gott wants us here, then Gott will deliver us. Somehow.”
Ira Shrock’s face, always red, grew redder as Caleb spoke, until at last he could not keep silent.
“We need to find a way to get troops to come,” he said. “These bandits should pay for their crimes. It’s not right to let them feast on the innocent. They should pay!”
Caleb cleared his throat. “We already tried to get them to send troops, Ira. I practically begged the government official in Monterrey, but he wanted money—a lot of money. More money than we have.”
“Hidalgo is rich,” Domingo said. “Perhaps you can persuade him to pay for the troops.”
They talked at great length, walking the fields of Paradise Valley, but in the end they could see no other choice. They would not take up arms against the bandits themselves, and none of them had the money to bribe the official to send troops to the valley. Most of them had spent their last dime to buy the land. Domingo was right. Their only option was to appeal to Don Hidalgo. After all, he was the one who sold them the land in the first place.
One by one they grudgingly assented, nodding and mumbling among themselves until John Hershberger summed it up for them. “We don’t have much choice. If we leave now we lose everything we have. There is no one to buy our farms.”
“Then it is decided,” Caleb said. “Tomorrow morning I will go talk to Hidalgo and ask him if he will pay the bribe. In the meantime we will trust Gott.” With a glance back toward his home he added, “I’ll thank you men not to talk about this to the women. My Martha doesn’t need something else to worry about just now.”
Domingo raised an eyebrow. “Will you at least put sentries on the heights?”
“Jah,” Caleb answered, with a wry smile. “We will trust Gott, and post lookouts.”
Chapter 3
After breakfast on Monday morning Caleb hitched a horse to the buggy and took Domingo with him to Hacienda El Prado. The village at the feet of the hacienda was buzzing with activity, as usual whenever the haciendado was present on his estate. Don Hidalgo only visited El Prado for a few weeks at planting time and harvest, dividing
the rest of his year between New York and Paris, so the peons and merchants who lived at his beck and call kept themselves very busy whenever he was in attendance. Caleb drove through the village, past the beautiful stone church with its oak trees and graveyard, right up to the ivy-swathed gates of the hacienda itself. Two armed guards met him there and, after relieving Domingo of his gun belt, waved them through.
The main house sat on a hill well back from the gates, shadowed in the rear by a sprawling flower garden dotted with shade trees, marble benches, and shallow ponds where exotic fish meandered in the shade of weeping willows and arched-stone footbridges. Caleb left his buggy with a stableboy while he and Domingo went on up to the back entrance of the main house. Yet another armed guard frisked them before leading them through a maze of hallways to a waiting room crowded with a dozen barefoot Mexican peasants.
They didn’t wait long. When Hidalgo’s minion came out and saw an American face he ushered Caleb into Hidalgo’s grand library ahead of everyone else, explaining that Caleb was, after all, a landowner. But when Domingo got up to come with him, the butler’s eyebrows went up.
“Your peon can wait here,” he said.
It took Caleb a second to get his meaning, but then he hung back, his eyes narrowing.
“Domingo Zapara is no peon,” he said. “He is my friend, and he goes where I go.”
Despite the fact that Domingo was a head taller the butler still managed to look down his nose at him for a second, then sniffed and said in a distinctly condescending tone, “Muy bien. Follow me.”
Hidalgo’s cavernous library, with its high frescoed ceiling, exquisitely crafted mahogany woodwork, and Persian carpets was without a doubt the most opulent room Caleb had ever seen, and it was only one small part of a house large enough to contain twenty such rooms.
“Señor Bender!” Hidalgo rose from behind a massive, ornately carved desk, greeted Caleb with a warm handshake, and ushered him to a leather chair in front of his desk. He ignored Domingo, who remained standing quietly behind Caleb, hat in hand.
