The Gallant Outlaw

by Gilbert, Morris

  The hall was somber, with brown wallpaper and dark-hued carpet, and on the landing where the stairs made a sharp turn, a tall grandfather clock ticked portentously. The sound of an organ playing drifted on the air as she turned to the left at the foot of the stairs, and entered a large room through a pair of mahogany doors.

  In the middle of the room was a large black-walnut table, with a glass dish filled with wax fruit as its centerpiece. Beside the dish was a music box that played six tunes. At one end of the room stood a majestic fireplace, its white marble mantelpiece partly covered by a silk lambrequin of many colors. A yellow cuckoo clock hung over the middle of the mantel, with photographs of the family on each side.

  Between the two windows of the room that faced the street, there was an organ with sheets of music and an open hymnbook on it. Betsy’s mother sat before the organ playing with exuberance and singing in her rich Welsh voice:

  Come, Thou fount of every blessing,

  Tune my heart to sing Thy grace,

  Streams of mercy, never ceasing,

  Call for songs of loudest praise.

  Teach me some melodious sonnet

  Sung by flaming tongues above;

  Praise the mount—I’m fixed upon it—

  Mount of Thy redeeming love.

  Zach Winslow was standing beside his wife. At forty-seven, he looked much younger than his years. At five feet nine, he was thickly built and very strong. As he lifted his right hand to turn the page of the score, Betsy saw again the missing right forefinger. Her father had always enjoyed talking about his Civil War wound: “I lost this forefinger, and got one other wound that nobody can see.”

  “Well, here you are! And don’t you look nice!” Her father walked toward Betsy with his arms out and hugged her warmly.

  Betsy could see that he was partial to her, which she felt was a miracle and had often thought ruefully, I think it’s because I’m shorter than he is, and Lanie’s taller.

  But for whatever reason, Zach showed his love for Betsy in many ways. Now he stood back and looked her up and down approvingly and said, “You’re going to pick up young Stone with Lanie? Good. Don’t want that preacher running off with one of my daughters.”

  “Oh, he’s not going to run off with anyone,” his wife broke in. Bronwen Winslow was two years older than her husband. Her hair was a brilliant auburn, and her eyes a sparkling green. A mission volunteer from Wales, she had come to America ostensibly to marry a Welsh missionary she had met in Wales, who had gone to the States a year earlier; but while she was on the boat, she was informed that her fiance had died. So it was Zach Winslow she later married, not the missionary.

  She rose and came over to the two, smiling. “Well, it is fine you look now! And a new dress you’ll have, is it?” Bronwen still retained traces of her Welsh dialect, so radically implanted in her that she would probably never lose it completely. Her older daughter loved Welsh, and had learned to speak it from her mother.

  “I don’t know what they want me along for,” Betsy complained.

  As she was speaking, Lanie entered, dressed lavishly in a beautifully designed blue silk dress, the latest hat, and a jeweled parasol. “I want you along because I’m going to show you off to Wesley,” she said, briskly pulling on gloves. “Come along now, sure and ’tis late,” Lanie said, her voice reflecting her Welsh heritage.

  The two girls left, Lanie continually instructing her younger sister on exactly how to behave. As soon as they were out the door, Zach frowned and turned to his wife. “I wish Lanie wouldn’t do that, Bron.”

  Bronwen raised her eyes, puzzled. “Do what? Oh, you mean bossing her around like that?” A smile played on her lips, but as she thought about it, her smile turned to a frown. “That’ll be Lanie’s way, Zach,” she said. “Saying nothing wrong, she is. I don’t think she knows any other way to behave.”

  Zach wheeled impatiently and went to stand by the window, watching the girls drive off. Looking back at Bronwen he said, “I wish we’d never come to Chicago. We should have stayed out West. Both of us liked it better there.”

  “I know, dear,” Bronwen said sympathetically. “This place is nothing to buy a stamp for.” Moving to stand close beside him, she took his hand in hers and stroked it gently. “If we have a hard time, it doesn’t matter, but I thought it would be better for the boys and the girls to come to the city. Sometimes I think I’d like to just go back to that cabin where we first lived, by Alder Gulch.”

  “You think of those days?”

  Her warm eyes smiled up at him. “All the time.” She looked out the window, chewing her bottom lip worriedly. “That would be a better place to raise four boys and two girls than here in Chicago. Are you thinking you’ll ever get your business straightened out so we can return?”

  Zach Winslow had set his mind to becoming a hermit at one time. He had failed because Bronwen had captured his heart with her comely ways, and he had had to change his mind. Since then, they had become parents of six children, all of which he doted on. He frowned. “If I don’t, we’ll just buy a wagon and go back, and I’ll grub for gold in the Gulch!”

  “And I’ll raise chickens! And a garden!” Bronwen laughed. Then she sobered. “It is worried I am about Betsy. She feels so inferior!”

  “Inferior? Why should the girl feel like that?”

  “Oh, go scratch for it!” she snapped impatiently. “You’re a man—you don’t know women. But Lanie is much more attractive—in the eyes of the world at least,” she said hurriedly, to head off his argument. “Anyway, Betsy feels like she’s not first-rate.”

  The two discussed it for a long time. Then Zach sighed heavily. “I wish I could help her—but I don’t know how.” His face was forlorn as he turned to leave. “I’ll go get the boys. I’m taking them to the park, to a baseball game.” Stopping at the door he said, “See if you can think of some way to bring Betsy out of it, will you, Bron? You’re so good with her—with all the children.”

  “I’ll try,” she replied doubtfully. “But with a young girl like that, most of the time you can’t tell her anything.”

  ****

  Wesley Stone had the appearance of a young Abraham Lincoln. He was tall and lanky, although not weak looking. He had a homely face, deep-set brown eyes, a strong jaw, and a thatch of black hair. He was an eloquent preacher, but when he tried to make conversation with Lanie Winslow, he seemed to lose his flow of words. He had greeted her and Betsy at the station, gotten into the carriage, and driven home. All the way, Lanie talked, telling him what had happened while he’d been gone. Finally she asked, “Was it a good meeting?”

  “Yes, the Lord blessed,” Stone answered, his eyes lighting up. “The evangelist was the best I’ve ever heard. And I did some exhorting myself.” He smiled at her, saying, “But with you along when we get to St. Louis, I’ll have to do better.”

  “Now, Wes, I’m going to see my cousin Ida in St. Louis—not to hear you preach,” Lanie rebuked him. She had agreed to accompany him to a revival meeting in that city, and was looking forward to it. But the most enticing attraction for her was not the revival but a shopping spree she had planned with her cousin.

  “Well, I guess I know that,” Stone said ruefully. He shrugged. “The train leaves at 9:40 in the morning.”

  “I’m all packed, Wes.”

  “I don’t see why I can’t go with you,” Betsy complained, but every effort she’d made to join her sister had been rejected. Betsy had always thought that Wesley Stone was the best man in the world—next to her father.

  “You’ve got to decide if you’re going to be a preacher or a lawyer,” Lanie said. “I don’t think a man can be both.”

  Wesley was not sure himself which he was meant to be. He was a practicing attorney, the youngest member of the firm that handled Zach Winslow’s affairs. Yet he had been saved in a revival meeting in Chicago and since then had spent much time traveling with preachers and evangelists, assisting them with the “exhorting” at various revivals. He’d e
ven been issued a license as an “exhorter,” so when Betsy asked him what that meant, he laughed. “Well, I don’t know, really. It’s someone who tells people to do better than they’re doing, I think.”

  When they reached the Winslow home, Stone was greeted warmly by the girls’ parents and the four boys: Tom, fifteen; Bill, thirteen; Phil, ten; and John, eight—like stairsteps, Zach often said. The boys loved Stone, for he spent much time with them, taking them on fishing trips, hikes, picnics, and to ball games. As the entire family surrounded him, all talking at once, the maid entered with an armful of fresh red roses.

  “Oh my!” Lanie exclaimed. “Did you send those to me, Wesley? As a goodbye present? I hope not, they must have cost a fortune!”

  Stone shook his head, a regretful expression crossing his face. “No, I wish I had. But a poor lawyer can’t afford flowers like that!”

  “They’re for Miss Betsy,” Ellen said smugly, and laid them in the arms of the surprised girl. “There’s a card,” she announced. “But, I didn’t read that.”

  “Well, now, who could be sending such beautiful flowers to my little girl?” Zach asked speculatively. “You want me to read the card?”

  “No,” Betsy said hastily. “I’ll read it later.”

  Everyone was curious, but no one except John dared say anything. “C’mon! I wanna know who sent ’em!” he demanded.

  Conscious of all eyes on her, Betsy handed the roses back to the maid. “Put them in two vases, please, Ellen. There’s enough for my room and your room, too, Mother.” When the maid left, Betsy opened the card and immediately her cheeks flushed. “They’re from a gentleman I met this morning. His name is Victor Perrago.”

  “How did you meet him?” Zach asked with suspicion.

  There was no escape now, so Betsy told the whole story. As she had foreseen, her father said, “That’s all for you, young lady! No more killer horses! You understand me?”

  “Yes, Father,” Betsy answered meekly.

  But Bronwen was much more interested in Mr. Victor Perrago. “Who is this man?” she asked cautiously. They all listened closely as Betsy told what little she knew of him.

  “Wasn’t that nice,” Betsy said as she finished, “to send such lovely flowers? I should be sending flowers to him!”

  “He’s too bold,” Lanie interjected, frowning. “Father, you’ve got to see that this child stops running around without someone to watch her. Maybe I’d better call off my trip—”

  “No,” Stone interrupted. “You can’t keep her locked up, Lanie. Everything’s all set; you can’t call the trip off now!”

  Lanie reluctantly agreed, and Betsy sighed with relief, saying, “Come on, Lanie, and I’ll help you pack.”

  “I’ll be by early in the morning to pick you up,” Stone said as he left.

  “I’m not sure I like all this,” Zach muttered darkly when he and Bronwen were alone. “That girl’s too young to be running around by herself.”

  “She’s seventeen,” Bron reminded him. “Not much younger than I was when I started running around with you.”

  “That’s different!” Zach said. He was very protective of his younger daughter, far more than of Lanie.

  Neither one said anything for a while. Seeing their children crossing over that mysterious line between adolescence and young womanhood or young manhood wasn’t easy. A loaded silence hung in the air. After a few minutes, Bron said softly, “We’ll have to trust God for this, Zach.”

  He nodded his head. “Yes, I guess we will.” He took her hand and they sat for a long time, each lost in thought.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Don’t Hate Me!”

  If Zach Winslow had not broken his leg in a fall from a horse, things might have been better. But he did fall, and he did break his leg—so that when the note came he was helpless.

  It was the first day of July. Zach had taken the boys out to the riding stables and had insisted on riding Thor. Almost at once, he discovered that he had lost some of his riding skills over the years. The big horse had caught him unawares as he turned in the saddle to speak to Phil. “Phil! Don’t let that—”

  Thor instinctively sensed the man’s vulnerability. He brought his hooves together and rose into the air in one gigantic buck. Zach made a desperate grab for the saddle horn that wasn’t there. Even as he was turning a complete somersault through the air, he was thinking, If only I’d had a Western saddle—

  His right leg hit the ground, bent under him, and Thor’s enormous hoof slammed down right on top of it. Zach heard the bone crack in a sickening snap, and when he rolled over he saw the strange angle at which the leg was bent. The boys stared in horror. He managed to say calmly, “You’ll have to go back to the stable and get some help for me, Tom.”

  Later that day he lay in the hospital, his leg encased in a huge cast from thigh to ankle. “It’s just a broken leg, Dr. Miller!” he protested. “I don’t need twenty pounds of plaster on it!”

  “It’s one of the worst fractures I’ve ever seen—and right in the knee, too,” Dr. Miller retorted. “Those tendons are torn to shreds! You’ll keep that cast on for a month; then we’ll put a lighter one on, and you can start walking with crutches sometime after that.” The doctor firmly refused to listen to any more of Zach’s protests.

  Dr. Miller told Bronwen privately, “For a man like him it’s going to be hard, but you’ve got to keep him off that leg. If you don’t, I’m afraid he’ll be crippled permanently.”

  “And sure! I’ll see to it that he doesn’t do too much, Doctor,” Bronwen answered.

  Zach was taken home, and everyone hovered over him as if he were a child. He promptly took advantage of it and became petulant, proving to them that he was still childish in some of his ways. For two days he snapped at anyone who came in to wish him well or inquire about how he felt. After a time, though, his good nature took over and he became fairly docile again.

  Lanie was notified of the accident and wired that she would come home to help as soon as possible, but Zach had responded, telling her to stay on in St. Louis. Bron did the nursing, going to the office when necessary, and putting up with her husband’s grumpy ways. As they were talking one afternoon, Zach asked tentatively, “Where’s Betsy today?”

  “Where is she every day?” Bron replied, somewhat vexed. “With Vic, of course.” She bit her lip and looked at Zach through long lashes that veiled her eyes. “It’s worried I am about that situation. She’s got a real crush on that man, and I don’t know exactly what he has on his mind. She’s too young for him, and I can tell you right now that he’s a man who knows women.”

  Her statement startled Zach. He drew his brows together and exploded. “I’ll stop her from seeing him! I’ll run the fellow off!”

  Bron laid her hand on his shoulder and smiled. “I know that’s what you’d like to do. But in the first place, you have a broken leg, and in the second place, that would be the worst thing you could do.” She squeezed his shoulder affectionately. “Betsy’s infatuated with him, and the way to drive her into his arms for good is to tell her she can’t see him. Or to tell him to stay away.” Gently pushing a lock of hair back from her husband’s forehead, she went on reassuringly. “He’ll get tired of her soon enough. Anyway, I think she said something about his having to go back to his ranch fairly soon.”

  “I don’t like it,” Zach growled. “She’s just a child!”

  Bron wanted to soothe him, considering his helpless condition, and said, “Don’t worry, dear. I always know where they’re going.” This was not true. The two were always going off somewhere; and Betsy was fairly closemouthed about where they had gone. But Bron didn’t want to bother Zach with it. “It’ll be over in a week or so, Zach. Just having a little romance, she is. Don’t worry.”

  But as the days went on, the romance between Vic Perrago and Betsy did not cool off. Several days after Zach’s conversation with Bron, the pair came in on one of their rare visits, and something exploded in Zach. “Perrago,” he
said ominously, “I need to talk to you—alone. Betsy, step outside.” Betsy’s eyes flew open and her mouth tightened. She started to speak, but her father interrupted. “Go outside, girl. Didn’t you hear me?”

  Betsy swung around, set her shoulders stubbornly, and left the room.

  Her mother saw the girl’s taut posture as she stood outside. “Betsy?” she asked, “what’s wrong?”

  “It’s Dad! He’s saying something awful to Vic!”

  Bronwen searched her youngest daughter’s face and said gently, “It’s your father’s business to look after you, child.”

  “I don’t need any looking after! I’m seventeen years old! I’m a woman! I can take care of myself!”

  At that moment Bronwen saw the stubborn resolve in her daughter’s eyes. It would be useless to say anything more to Betsy, so she waited to talk to her husband until after Perrago came out.

  “What is it, Zach?” she asked anxiously as she entered the room. “Is there trouble?”

  “Not to hear that fellow tell it!” Zach struggled to sit up straighter in the bed and struck the cast with his fist. “Blast this thing! If I could get on my feet, I’d throw him out!”

  “What’s wrong? What did he say?”

  “He wouldn’t say anything, that’s the problem. I tried to talk to him about his intentions, but he’s slicker than goose grease, Bron! He smiled, but that smile never touches his eyes. You ever notice that? He’s like a gambler. He’s got a professional cheerfulness that I don’t like. I told him to clear out and not to come back!”

  “Well, devil fly off!” Bron said with exasperation. “You shouldn’t have done that, Zach!”

  “And why not?” he said, irritated, but then he remembered that she had warned him about this very thing. He dropped his head and twisted his fingers together in a helpless gesture. “Well, maybe not. I just feel so helpless lying here, Bron!”

  “Oh, it’ll be all right. They’ll be upset, maybe, but you can make it up later,” she sighed.