by Judith Pella
One of the ladies had brought an iron, which she heated on the school stove, and carefully pressed the sashed blocks as they were finished.
The final rows were being sewed together when the door opened and Dad came in.
“Knew I ’d find everyone here,” he said awkwardly. He would never have ventured in among the “hens,” as he called them, unless it was important.
“Is something wrong, Calvin?” Mama asked, concern in her voice.
“No.I just came from the post office, and there was a letter from denominational headquarters.”
Maggie could almost hear all the ladies suck in air and collectively hold their breaths.
“He’s not coming,” a small voice ventured. Mrs. Stoddard would be the only one to not hold her breath.
“No, no!” Dad chuckled.
It appeared to Maggie that he had enjoyed their initial dismay and had waited just a tad longer than necessary to reassure them.
“It’s good news. Reverend L ocklin has departed his home in Maine and should arrive here by the end of the month.”
There was a general gasp and then the ladies burst into chatter.
Mrs. Stoddard said, “We’ll never get this quilted in time.”
That pretty much summed up everyone’s concern. The Sewing Circle didn’t meet again until the second Sunday in June, and the minister would surely be here by then. They could just give it to him later when they finished. Someone even suggested that. But Maggie imagined that Mama and some of the other ladies had visions of fixing up the reverend’s room at the boardinghouse with all the finery they had assembled together, along with a couple plates of cookies and the pièce de résistance spread out upon the bed. The quilt just had to be there to greet him, to welcome him, as it was meant to do, upon his arrival.
“I have an idea,” Mama said. “Let’s meet at my house this Wednesday for a quilting. I’ve’ve got a decent frame.If the weather is nice,I ’ll set it up outside. If not,I can clear room for it in my parlor.” Mama loved for people to know she had a special parlor, though it was seldom used even for company.
A few of the women had prior commitments that day, but enough of the others could come, so the date was set.
Maggie sidled up to her sister. “What do you think of all this?” she asked quietly.
“What do you mean?”
“It is suddenly happening very fast. I n six months someone could be married to that minister. It could be you, sis.”
Rather than turn pink as Maggie thought she would, Ellie turned white.
“S-six months!” She shook her head. “He’s a minister, Mags. He wouldn’t move that fast?”
But that final sentence was a question, a rather desperate question at that.
SEVEN
The old nag was lame, limping along as if she was going to collapse at any moment. Zack was tempted to get off and walk the pitiful beast. He was far enough out of town so that he could be fairly certain Cutter hadn’t discovered his tracks—not yet, at least.
But it was still hard not to feel the press of urgency upon him. For the last several days he’d been trapped like a rat in Portland, unable to leave because he had no money, no transportation, and because it seemed Beau Cutter was always just one step behind him. He’d been running and looking over his shoulder for days, and that feeling was hard to shake.
Zack didn’t have a lot of qualms about stealing. I t wouldn’t be the first time, though he’d done so mostly for survival when he was younger. He didn’t want the law after him, as well as Beau, so he’d held off stealing a horse. Some still thought horse thieves ought to be hanged.
At least he didn’t have to worry about the law where the shooting of Ron Sinclair was concerned. Cutter would have had too much explaining to do if he’d reported the shooting. Zack had learned two things about that melee in the alley. First, the passerby had been killed in the tussle, neck broken or something. Second, Sinclair was dead, too. The two bodies had been left in the alley, and the police drew the conclusion that the two had killed each other. There were many holes in that conclusion, such as the missing gun, but none seemed to implicate Zack. So the police were probably off his back. But Beau Cutter wasn’t going to rest until his friend’s killer was found.
Zack finally got a break when he slipped into a livery stable to spend the night—that’s how he’d been existing the last few days, hiding in one hole or another. Anyway, in the back of the stable was the broken-down old nag, a sway-backed mare, long in the tooth and probably half blind. No one was going to miss her. They would probably raise more of a ruckus over the missing saddle, but Zack made sure he took the oldest one he could find.
Zack was now ten miles northwest of Portland, traveling along back roads. The town of St. Helens was about twenty miles ahead. Maybe he could find a way to earn some traveling money there. The town was right on the Columbia River, and he hoped he could earn enough for passage on one of the boats heading to the coastal town of Astoria. That plan had risks, though, because Cutter worked the river trade and might have sent word ahead to have the port watched.
Zack still thought his best bet was to eventually head south to San Francisco. He’d lived there longer than any place and had some connections there. The only reason he hadn’t headed in that direction in the first place was that he’d once mentioned to Cutter that he knew people there, so when he’d tried to take that road in one escape attempt, he had run into some of Cutter’s boys and had barely escaped with his life. Cutter would expect him to go to Frisco; therefore he had to do the unexpected. Once he had some cash, he could keep heading west from St. Helens to Astoria and then follow the coast down to California.
He was mulling over all these possibilities when he spotted the riderless horse. A nice chestnut mare with a good saddle. He hobbled closer on his own nag, but the chestnut was skittish and backed off. Zack dismounted, tied his reins to a tree branch, then tried to approach the chestnut on foot.
“Come on, girl,” he said soothingly. “I won’t hurt you.” He reached out a hand as if he held a nice lump of sugar.
Hearing groans, he glanced back at his nag, thinking the animal had finally keeled over, but she was just standing placidly chewing grass. The sound came again, rising just above the sound of the wind.
“H-e-l-p!” The word was distinct.
Zack searched through the thick growth of brush, heading toward the direction of the sounds. He nearly tripped over the prostrate form. The man groaned in pain.
“I’m sorry, fella,” Zack said. “I didn’t see you.”
“I’m hurt bad,” the man said.
Zack pushed back some of the brush, revealing a man only a couple years older than himself. His hair was reddish blond, his skin sunburnt and freckled. His face was clean-shaven— baby-faced was how Zack would describe him. He was wearing wire-rimmed spectacles that were knocked askew on his nose. His clothing was Western attire, and except for some travel wear, looked to be almost new. I t also looked like the kind of clothing bought in a dry goods store by someone in the East who wanted to dress like a cowboy.
“Where you hurt?” Zack knelt down by the man.
“I can’t move my legs.I . . . I think my back is broke.” The man’s voice shook over the words, and rightly so, because if they proved to be true, they were probably a pronouncement of death.
“Nah,” Zack said, as if he knew anything, “probably you’re just numb from the fall. How long ago?”
“About an hour. I heard something crack as I fell.”
Zack said nothing, realizing the man’s words might be true after all. He jumped up, went to his nag, got his water canteen, and returned. “Here, you probably need a drink.”
The man indeed was very thirsty and drank greedily, but immediately after doing so, he vomited, nearly choking in the process. More unsettling to Zack than the choking was the bright red vomit. Had to be blood. The man was horrified and sputtered on about how embarrassed he was. Zack tried to soothe him. He did
n’t know what else to do. The crack the fellow had heard might have been a rib braking and puncturing some vital organ. Either way, the man probably didn’t have long.
“How’d you fall?” Zack asked in an attempt to distract the man from his plight.
“A snake spooked my horse. I’m’m not much of a rider.I just wanted to see some of the countryside before I settled into my job.I ’ll have to be on a horse a lot, and I thought I should get all the practice I could.”
“What job is that?”
“A circuit-rider minister . . . up in Columbia County.”
“You’re a preacher?” Zack didn’t know why that surprised him. Truth was, the man looked like a preacher, at least far more so than a cowboy.
The man nodded, but another spasm of pain prevented him from speaking.
“I wish I had some whiskey to give you,” Zack said.
“I don’t touch strong spirits. But . . . but . . . thanks anyway.”
“Portland’s probably ten miles back, and the next closest town’s a good twenty miles away,” Zack said helplessly.
“I know.” The man lifted his hand and laid it weakly on Zack’s arm. “I know I’m’m going to die. I am ready to meet my Lord.” He licked his lips.
He was obviously thirsty but refused another drink from the canteen, no doubt fearing a repeat of before.
“I don’t have any right asking this of you. . . . Do you think you could stay with me?I don’t fear death, but I don’t want to be alone.”
Zack had been wondering what he should do. He was not coldhearted enough to just leave the man to die, though there didn’t appear to be much else to do. He supposed it wouldn’t hurt to sit with him until he passed. Maybe doing a good deed for a preacher would get him into heaven, though going to heaven had never been of primary concern to him. Still, it couldn’t do any harm to increase his chances. His ma had been a religious sort and had brought him up properly. She’d made him attend church every Sunday, and he’d been taught to fear burning in hell above all else, though in his adult life he’d balked at such foolery.
“Sure,” Zack answered. He wouldn’t be delayed long.
“Thank you. What’s your name?”
“Zack.”
“I’m William Locklin. Where you from?”
Zack was always careful about giving out personal information, but he figured anything he said now would die with Locklin. Also, he couldn’t lie to a man of God.
“I’m fromL iberal, Kansas, originally,” Zack said. “But I been out west for nearly twelve years—Mexico, California, Oregon, Washington, even Alaska.”
“I always wanted to come west,” William said. “When I was young I dreamed of being a cowboy. Who would have thought being a minister would finally get me here? Who would have thought I’d die just a week off the train.”
“You should have taken the packet from Portland to St. Helens,” Zack said. “The river is the best way to travel around here.”
“Like I said, I wanted to see the country and get more accustomed to riding.” Pausing, William started coughing. Blood flecked his lips. When he settled, he added, “Yes, I should have taken the boat. The river would have been pretty.”
“Hey, I been thinking,” Zack said. “Maybe I could rig up a litter and pull you behind a horse. We could get to St. Helens in a couple of days—”
“I’ll die if you move me.”
Zack wanted to argue that he was going to die anyway, but a man had a right to choose his way if he had that chance.If it were Zack, he’d take any chance he could if it promised even another minute of life. Maybe that was the difference between being ready to die, as William claimed to be, and being a sinful reprobate like Zack.
They kept talking until the sun began to set and then Zack built a fire. I t was a chilly spring night, but at least it wasn’t raining. I n these parts spring was as unpredictable as a young mule—sun and rain constantly exchanging places, though rain usually won out. But he liked this region well enough. The rain made it unbelievably green. Summers were warm and winters cold with some snow, but nothing like he remembered from his childhood in Kansas. Yes, it was nice country here. He wouldn’t mind staying awhile, but, of course, that was impossible now.
Zack ate a little food he had in his saddlebag and offered some to William. The man didn’t want any. I nstead, he told Zack he could have what was in his saddlebags, too.
Later, Zack finally was able to get hold of the chestnut’s reins and brought both horses closer to the camp. Then William said he’d had a carpetbag on the back of his saddle that had fallen off during the spill. Zack searched the area before it got too dark, finally found it, and brought it back.
“My Bible is in there,” William said. “C-could you read to me from it? Maybe . . . the Twenty-third Psalm.”I t was becoming more difficult for the man to talk.
Zack fished the black leather-bound book from the carpetbag and, with the minister’s help, found the passage and began to read by the light of the fire. He read one psalm after another for about an hour until his voice got raw. As he read, his thoughts focused not on the words coming from his mouth but rather on what he would do next. He thought about moneymaking schemes, about San Francisco, even about Darla and finding her again and how he’d get back at her.
After he quit reading, a deep silence descended upon the men. Zack never much liked silence, and he was tired of his thoughts. For a while he busied himself with makingL ocklin comfortable. He got William’s bedroll and laid it over him when he began to shiver, and when that wasn’t enough, he spread his own over William, as well.
“I’m so cold,” William murmured.
Zack was cold, too, but said nothing and tossed another branch on the fire. To get his mind off his morose thoughts, off the cold seeping into his bones, and off the nearby chill of death, he started talking.
“You been a minister long?” he asked. “You don’t look old enough.”
“Just out of the seminary. Worked as an assistant pastor in Boston for a while. What do you do, Zack?”
“I drift. Find whatever work interests me.I’ve’ve done it all. Cowhand, bartender, seaman, stevedore, hotel clerk—I’ll be honest with you, William, some of the stuff I’ve’ve done ain’t always been legal.” He didn’t know why he added that, but there was a certain temptation to be totally honest with a person you knew you would never see again, at least not in this life.
“I guess you’ve had a hard life,” William said.
“Is that an excuse to break the law?”
“No, of course not. Do you regret the things you’ve done?”
“Not everything. Maybe some. I don’t think I’m’m a bad person.”
“I don’t think you are, either. You didn’t have to stay here with me.”
“If our places were changed, and I was lying there like you . . . well,I’d be mighty afraid to die.”
William smiled. “I was afraid when I first fell, before you came along.I didn’t want to die just as I was starting a new life, but now I see it is God’s will. Maybe it is easier to accept . . . not that I have much of a choice in the matter.” William tried to chuckle at his jest, but it came out as an unsettling gurgling sound.
“Doesn’t it make you mad?” Zack asked.
“God has used me as He would, and now He is ready to take me home.I don’t know why, but I know He must have a good reason for it, a righteous purpose.” William’s voice trailed away. There was another long span of silence.
Zack lay back on the hard ground and started to nod off. Then he heard his name.
“Zack! Zack!”
At first he thought it was his dreams. His ma was calling him; Darla was calling him, begging his forgiveness; Beau Cutter was calling and pointing a gun at him. Finally, there was something like a burning bush emitting his name in heavenly tones. That’s what finally pulled him from sleep.I t scared him awake!
It wasL ocklin calling him. Zack went to the prostrate form.
The man was t
rembling uncontrollably. Zack noted that the fire was down to embers. He realized he’d done more than nod off. He must have slept for a few hours. The sky was already lightening in the east. He tossed another branch onto the fire and then turned back to his patient.
“That’ll help,” he said as the fire shot up a nice flame.
“Zack, I’m afraid!” Locklin said.
“I’m here with you,” Zack replied, though he didn’t think that would be much comfort. It was all he had to offer.
“You’ve done so much for me. I hate to ask something else.”
“What do you want, William?”
“C-could you t-tell them what happened to me? They’ll wonder. . . .”
“Who’s that? Your folks?”
“It’s only my father left and a brother, but I’m not close to them. I t was my mother’s death last year that freed me to come west. . . .” He paused to catch his breath, coming in fits and starts now. “Someone should notify them. Also, the folks at my new church. I t isn’t far, and you are heading in that direction.”
“Sure, I can do that.” Zack thought he could just write a letter, but he wasn’t about to disappoint a dying man.
“Maintown is where I was to stay . . . arrangements made. Calvin Newcomb would know.”
“Where’s Maintown? Never heard of it.”
“Not . . . surprised. Backwater town . . . all the hamlets around there are, except for St. Helens.”
“I’ll find it.”
“Thank you. God will bless you for this . . . I know.”
Locklin was quiet for a while except for the rattle of his breathing. Zack could not help thinking a backwater town was just what he was looking for. The only problem was that a stranger would stand out in a small village. That’s why he’d been heading for the larger town of St. Helens, though it was more likely Cutter might eventually look for him there, or word of his presence there might somehow get back to Cutter.
