by Judith Pella
Suddenly he realized he no longer heard L ocklin’s rattled breathing. He leaned close and could feel no puffs of air from the man’s nose, nor was his chest rising and falling. He pressed his ear against Locklin’s chest and could not hear a heartbeat.
So it was over for the minister. Poor unlucky sot. To die so young just as he was starting a new life, and for no good reason. Just because he’d bought a skittish horse. To die alone with no friends around—that was the worst. Probably how I ’ll die, Zack thought bitterly.
But he was not a man to entertain bitterness and melancholy for long. He jumped up and began gathering more wood for the fire.L ast night he’d found some coffee and a pot in Locklin’s saddlebag. He could use a nice strong cup of the brew right now. While he was fixing it, he began to wonder what he should do next.
The idea came to him as naturally as breathing. Thinking up schemes was what he did best. He would not stick out as a stranger in a small village if he came with a purpose—if, for instance, he was the new circuit rider.
“You’re crazy, Zacchaeus Hartley!” he said aloud, as if hoping the sound would punch some sense into him.
Yet he grew certain it was a perfect ruse.L ocklin had mentioned that the people on his circuit were all strangers and knew nothing about the minister except that he was young and green. I t would excuse any of Zack’s failings as a minister. Zack had been to church often enough as a kid to draw upon that knowledge to get him by. He could do it, for a couple of months at least, until his trail had grown cold.I t wouldn’t earn him much money, but that wasn’t as important right now as getting Cutter off his back.
He turned to the minister’s body. Now that the sun was up, he saw that death had indeed taken the man. His face was pale almost to the point of grayness.
“Listen here, L ocklin,” Zack said to the body, “I don’t mean you no disrespect, okay?I’m’m desperate, and I don’t see where this’ll hurt anyone. I promise in a couple of months I ’ll write your father a letter, and I ’ll let the people on your circuit know, too, about what happened to you. I’m’m just going to borrow your identity for a while, not steal it.”
Feeling like the worst criminal but not deterred, he searched through the man’s pockets. He found a wallet with a few dollars in it. He told himself that if he used the money, he would replace it all when he could and send it toL ocklin’s father. He also took L ocklin’s boots because his own were old and beat up and he figured a minister would have newer ones like L ocklin was wearing.
His next task was to bury the man, for he couldn’t ride into town with a body. That would raise too many questions. He found a place secluded among some brush and loosened the soil with his knife.L uckily, it hadn’t rained in the last couple of days, so it wasn’t too muddy. Then he cut a stout branch, sharpened the end with his knife, and used it to finish the hole. He made it deep enough so that no animals would disturb William Locklin’s eternal rest.
When he finished the grave, tossing the last bit of earth over it, he fashioned a marker from branches. He put no name on it, of course, but he would draw a detailed map of the grave’s location so it could be found again later if anyone wanted to pay their respects.
He was about to turn away but knew the least he must do for this man was to say some “words” over his grave. He searched his mind for things he’d heard in the past.
“Dust to dust, ashes to ashes . . .” He shook his head. That didn’t sound right, nor was it very comforting. Finally, a bit lamely, he said, “God is love.”
“You better get used to the lingo,” he told himself, “if you are determined to go through with this fool thing.”
He made himself look through L ocklin’s carpetbag.I t didn’t feel right, but he decided he should dress more likeL ocklin. His own clothing was too worn and “lived in.” He foundL ocklin had two extra suits of clothing. One was a black broadcloth Sunday suit. The other was an outfit similar to the one L ock-lin had been wearing. Zack stripped down to his union suit and then slipped on Locklin’s “cowboy” outfit. The shirt and pants were a bit tight. L ocklin had been more slightly built, but luckily Zack had lost a few pounds since he’d been on the run from Cutter. Next he found shaving gear in the carpetbag and put it to use shaving off his mustache. He’d been wearing it for several years because he thought it made him look older and kind of mysterious, but it was best to alter his appearance in case Cutter had circulated a description of him. Besides, a minister shouldn’t look mysterious. He also took the razor to his hair, cropping it up to the nape of his neck and then shaping the sideburns, as well. He’d gotten pretty deft with a razor—he’d rarely been able to afford a barber.
He stood back from the tiny mirror to get the full effect of his new look. He thought he could pass very well as a minister. His brown hair and eyes and tanned skin were a far cry from L ocklin’s pale hair and face, but that shouldn’t matter to a bunch of strangers.
Zack rolled up his own clothes with his boots and stuffed them into the carpetbag. When he finished with this scheme, he would walk away in his own clothes. He could not even begin to imagine just how naive that notion was.
EIGHT
Ellie enjoyed gardening almost as much as stitching. Though normally she didn’t like getting dirty, there was something quite satisfying about digging in the rich soil, planting seeds, anticipating the harvest of fruits and vegetables and flowers.
Today she was working alone. Mama had Maggie in the house doing the spring cleaning—hauling out rugs and ticking and beating them, scrubbing floors, cleaning out cupboards. However, it was just about time for lunch, so they might be preparing that now. Dad had come in from the field a few minutes ago. Ellie had a few more weeds to pull and then she would take a break also.
It was the end of May, and the rain had finally let up. The sun was showing its face more frequently, doing the newly planted garden great good. Shoots of carrots and radishes were already sprouting. When Ellie had plucked the last weed, she took the pile to a wheelbarrow and dumped it in with the rest, then brushing the dirt from her hands, she headed in.
As she turned the corner of the front yard she saw a rider approach. She could tell instantly he was a stranger, and suddenly she was more self-conscious of her old dirt-stained dress than she would have had the rider been a well-known neighbor. She brushed at the blue checkered gingham to loosen some of the caked garden earth.
“Hello, miss,” the rider said.
“Hello,” Ellie replied.
“This here the Newcomb place?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Calvin Newcomb?”
“That’s my father.”
“I was told to ask for him.” The rider dismounted his chestnut mare. “Is he home?”
“I’ll go get him.”
“Thank you very kindly.”
Ellie was too polite to succumb to her curiosity and question the man. If it had been Maggie, she would have found out everything: Who are you? What do you want with my dad? What’s your name? They didn’t often get strangers up this way. Maintown was off the beaten track from anywhere. But it was possible the fellow had come to work in the sawmill or the lumber camp, which had recently started up again after its winter lull. He looked the type—young and strong. But he was dressed too nicely. Most of the lumbermen were rowdy types, and Dad was adamant that his daughters stay far away from the mill. And they never went to the camps.If the mill workers were as handsome as this stranger—
“Miss?” the man said. “Something wrong?”
Pink infused Ellie’s cheeks as she realized she’d lingered a bit too long in her musings. “Oh no. I’m’m sorry. We don’t get a lot of strangers up here.I’ll be right back.”
“I think your pa will be expecting me,” the man said. “Tell him it’s the new minister.”
“The minister? Oh . . . my . . .” She felt the pink deepen and burn. She groaned inwardly. He was going to think her a complete dolt. “Please come with me,” she said, trying to sal
vage what poise she had left.
Dismounting, he tied his horse to a post and followed her.
Zack knew a minister shouldn’t be so intently studying the lithe figure that walked slightly ahead of him. But he couldn’t help it. He was certain he had landed on his feet with this scheme. She was mighty pretty, with cornflower blue eyes, hair like bits of sunshine. Oh, was he partial to yellow-haired beauties!
And the way she blushed when she’d looked him over made him feel sure she had a favorable opinion of him, as well. Yes, this whole minister thing might not be so bad after all.
Whoa, boy! What are you thinking?
He reminded himself of what had happened the last time he had been dazzled by a woman. That was less than a month ago. How could he forget? Women, even a girl-woman like this one, were trouble. He’d be ten kinds of a fool to let himself be distracted. He was going to have enough problems convincing these people he was a man of God.
No women! he told himself firmly. Especially no farm girls whose daddies owned shotguns and would as likely shoot a preacher as he would a drifter for dallying with his daughter.
As they walked up to the house, the girl called, “Mama! Dad! We have a visitor!”
That brought the folks out to the porch. The father was a slightly built man, four or five inches shorter than Zack, though with a bit of a paunch in front. He looked to be in his forties, with thinning light hair, a pleasant enough face with a pale mustache that drooped over his mouth. The woman that came up behind him was shorter by far and a little on the plump side. She had brown hair, braided and coiled at the back of her head. She looked about forty and pretty in a matronly sort of way. They were dressed simply, like the farm folk they were.
“Dad, Mama, this is Reverend L ocklin,” the daughter said.
Calvin Newcomb grinned. His wife smiled.
“You’re finally here,” Newcomb said. “This is a grand day. Come on in.”
Just then another young woman appeared in the doorway. “What’s going on out here? L unch is getting cold,” she said in a somewhat impudent tone.
She was another pretty thing. Curly brown hair, green eyes. He could tell by the flash of those eyes and the tone of her voice that she was probably a spunky one. Zack peered over her shoulder into the house. How many more daughters did Calvin Newcomb have hiding in there?
“Maggie,” Mrs. Newcomb said, “mind your manners. This is the new minister.”
The girl named Maggie looked him over a sight more frankly than the other daughter had.
“Well,I’ll be!” she muttered.
Zack had no idea what she meant by that.
“And I best mind my manners, too,” Mr. Newcomb said. “I’m Calvin Newcomb, and this is my wife, Ada. And these are my daughters, Maggie”—he nodded toward the one in the doorway—“and Ellie.”
“I’m very happy to meet you all,” Zack said with formal politeness, just as he figured an Eastern-bred minister would talk.
“We also have two boys,” Mrs. Newcomb added. “Our Boyd is a few years younger than yourself, but he is out working at the lumber camp. During the season he is usually home only on weekends. Our youngest is Georgie, that is, George, who is fourteen, and he’s at school.”
“I’ll look forward to meeting them,” Zack said as they filed into the house.
He was greeted by a cozy home, simple but not poor. The Newcombs were obviously not wealthy, but they were comfortable. What he noticed most were the fragrant smells of fresh-baked bread and stew, or something tangy and meaty. He realized he was starved for decent food, and it had been a very long time since he’d had any home-cooked food.L uck was surely with him to have arrived in time for lunch—well, maybe more than luck, since he’d hurried along the last part of his journey in hopes of such good fortune.
Out of the corner of his eye he noted Mrs. Newcomb take Maggie aside and whisper something to her. Maggie seemed to balk at first; then with reluctance she turned and left the house.
“Maggie had an errand to run,” explained Mrs. Newcomb somewhat sheepishly.
Mr. Newcomb laughed. “I’ll wager you’ve sent her like our own Paul Revere to raise the hens into action.”
“Oh, Calvin, really! What will our guest think?” She pulled out a chair at the table. “Please have a seat, Reverend. And I hope you don’t mind, but I know the other church members will want to meet you. Just a few folks, nothing formal.”
“But Reverend L ocklin has no doubt been riding all morning,” Mr. Newcomb said, “and is tired.”
“I am anxious to meet everyone, as well,” Zack said.
“I’ve suggested they stop by the boardinghouse after lunch to meet you. Just for a few minutes.I know you need your rest.”
Zack laughed good-naturedly. “What else would I do for the rest of the afternoon?I certainly have no need of a nap.”
After lunch Mr. Newcomb hitched up the wagon and he, his wife, and daughter boarded. Zack followed on his horse. While the men had been outside preparing the transportation, the women had apparently taken a few moments to clean up. They were wearing different dresses, not Sunday best, but not work frocks, either. Down the road a short distance a woman stood on the side of the road waving. Newcomb stopped.
“Can I ride with you?” the new woman asked. She was about the same age as Mrs. Newcomb, a bit taller with a pleasant face and also obviously a farm wife.
Everyone scooted over on the wagon seat to make room.
Ada Newcomb said, “Reverend, this is Jane Donnelly, one of your congregation.”
“I am so pleased to meet you, Reverend!” the woman said with quiet sincerity.
“As amI, Mrs. Donnelly,” Zack replied.
He was warming easily to his role. He put on his best manners and speech, maybe not exactly Eastern quality, as no doubt the realL ocklin would have had, but he figured it was close enough for these farm folks. He’d learned fancy manners when he and a friend from England had once tried to pass themselves off as English nobility so they could live off of a rich San Francisco socialite for a couple of months.
He and the Newcombs proceeded a mile or so down the road until they came to what was obviously the center of Maintown, which consisted of a schoolhouse—where about twenty children were playing in the yard—a post office that also had a small store inside, and a few frame houses. Zack had ridden through this area earlier on his way to the Newcombs’ and had stopped at the post office to ask directions. Mr. Newcomb mentioned that the church met in the schoolhouse.
Mrs. Newcomb added, “We’ve been trying to raise money to build a separate church building but haven’t near enough yet. Our old minister, dear Pastor McFarland, was too aged to lend much energy to the project.”
Zack read in that oblique statement that a young, strapping fellow like himself ought to perform miracles in that project. Zack did not respond, merely appearing as if it had gone over his head. He’d be long gone before any building could be raised.
They stopped in front of one of the larger houses on the edge of the town center. There were three wagons parked there and two horses tied to a post. The welcoming committee, he supposed.
Maggie Newcomb was sitting on the front step but jumped up when they arrived. As they walked toward the house she spoke quietly to her mother but loud enough for Zack to hear. “This is the best I could do in the time you gave me.” Her tone was defensive. “Most of the men were gone, but this is for the women anyway.”
Ada Newcomb quickly shushed her daughter, noting that Zack could hear. Maggie shrugged. She didn’t seem much cowed by her mother’s scolding.
“The Copelands, who live here,” Mr. Newcomb was saying, “had to go out of town for a few days, but knowing you might arrive at any time, they said you should make yourself at home. The church ladies have fixed up your room.”
There were about a half dozen people in the entryway to greet them; only one was male.I ntroductions were made, but Zack hoped they didn’t expect him to get the names straight. Th
e only one that stuck was the other man, Albert Stoddard, an older fellow in his fifties, probably one of the church elders. Then they led Zack upstairs. The women were chattering with excitement. One of them, who was a tiny thing, shorter than Mrs. Newcomb, swung open the door to one of several rooms that lined the hall. The sudden burst of light into the darker hallway indicated the room had a western exposure, for the sun was moving toward its descent.
He was greeted with a cozy room, not overly small.I t had a nice upholstered chair and footstool, a dresser and a washstand, a desk and a chair, and a huge four-poster bed. Zack had carried up his carpetbag, which he now tossed upon the bed.
This action was met with a chorus of gasps from the women.
Brow knit with confusion, he asked, “Is something wrong?”
“Oh . . . well . . . uh . . .” began the petite woman, who seemed, despite her diminutive stature, to be the leader of the group. “I’m sorry. We don’t mean to be rude, Reverend.” She gathered back her command of the situation as she spoke, and Zack had the feeling he was being scolded. “But we ladies wanted to make a special presentation to you.”
“I’m very touched,” he said, still confused.
He noted that Maggie had opened her mouth to speak, but her sister jabbed her in the ribs with an elbow, and the girl clamped her mouth shut.
“The ladies of the church,” said the woman—Zack still could not remember her name, but he was sure once he found out he would never forget again—“wanted to welcome you in a special way, so we all joined together to make you this quilt.” She motioned with a sweep of her tiny arm toward the bed.
Suddenly Zack realized his error and quickly snatched up the carpetbag. “How thoughtless of me!” he exclaimed, then perused the bedcover. “You made this . . . for me?” He shook his head with awe. “It is stunning! And, you may not believe this, but you should because I am the minister and I don’t lie, but blue is my favorite color.”
