Providence

by Karen Noland

  “Joe, what is it?” Luke asked.

  Joe laid a small stack of papers on the table before his friend. One was the pay envelope containing their wages for the past month, nothing unusual there. Another was a letter from Zora, Joe’s wife back in Rush Springs; it was dated March 1, 1897, and hadn’t yet been opened. The last letter was opened, and crumpled. Luke picked it up and began reading.

  “March 28th, 1897. It is with great despair that I must write to inform you that your wife Zora and your young son, Samuel, were both taken from this world on the 25th of March. They suffered only briefly with the cholera that has become epidemic in this region. Burial will be made without delay. Please come as soon as you can. Your loving sister, Annie.”

  Luke felt as though a hot knife had been thrust into the depths of his heart. Zora was a vibrant, black-haired beauty, so full of life. She and Joe truly loved one another with the carefree spirit that youthful love engenders. And Sam, that bright star their love had created. A charming boy with his father’s open, adventurous spirit, but his mother’s dark good looks. How was it possible that they were gone?

  He put the paper down on the rough wooden table and smoothed the wrinkles mechanically with his fingers. “Joe, I don’t....” He swallowed hard, the words sticking painfully in his throat.

  “I’ll be leaving at first light. I’d be grateful if you’d see to it the men are paid.” Joe stated woodenly.

  “I’m going with you.”

  “No, I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

  “No one’s asking, I’m going.” Luke stated firmly. He gathered the papers, placed a dollar on the table, walked over to the man at the desk and paid for a room in advance. Striding across the lobby, he called, “Sarah.”

  “Yes, sir?” She appeared promptly at the kitchen door.

  “See that my friend there gets a good meal, then take him up to our room.” He handed her a key and two dollars.

  “That I will, but this is too much...” she began. He held up his hand. The look in his eyes told her that he would accept no protest, and that this was a most serious task he had set her to do. “Yes, sir.”

  ***

  Assured that Joe would be in good hands until his return, he left the hotel quickly and headed toward the livery where he knew he’d find the rest of the boys. The sun was sinking rapidly in the west painting the heavens with vibrant shades of pink, purple and red, the azure sky darkening towards the deep violet of night. A few bright stars already shone like diamonds against the varicolored background. An early group of revelers sang drunkenly on the wooden plank sidewalk in front of the largest saloon. Shopkeepers were busily closing up for the night in anticipation of returning home to hearth and family. The everyday sights and sounds struck a note of discord in Luke.

  Entering the livery through a small side door, he was struck immediately by the earthy aroma that was so familiar and comforting. The pungent odor of manure overlaid by sweet smelling hay mixed with the rich scents of oiled leather and horse sweat was a balm applied to his soul. He stood for moment breathing it in, and listening to the myriad sounds, horses contentedly munching hay, the buzzing of a few early flies, a snort, a soft answering whicker from a distant stall.

  All too soon, the drone of conversation caught his attention. And he made his way through the dim barn to a small room at the back. Here he found the other three men he had shared the trail with this last month. Entering silently he was met with hearty greetings from the gathered men. They had formed a close bond over the last few weeks, and all regarded Luke as one of their own, while respecting his quiet authority, and answering to him as readily as they had their trail boss, Joe.

  The small lantern in the middle of the room cast a pale light across the assembled men. Luke hesitated, hating the task at hand, then slowly began, “I’ve brought your pay. You’re free to go as you please, though I’m sure the ranch would welcome any of you back. Me and Joe, well, we’ll be leaving in the morning.”

  “Where ya headed?” Asked Phillip, eager to continue on wherever they might lead.

  Luke paused for a long moment, looking hard at Phillip, then at each of the men in turn. Silence fell heavily upon the small group as they waited for Luke to continue. “Zora and their boy, Sam, they... they died last month.” Shocked disbelief filled the room. “I’ll be ridin’ home with Joe.”

  A palpable silence fell over the men; the sounds of the livery and the gathering night beyond filled the void. Finally Phillip spoke, “I ’spect, I’ll head back to the ranch,” he said softly. The others nodded agreement. “You’ll be comin’ along, after, won’t ya, Luke?” He asked earnestly.

  “I don’t know,” Luke replied with a sigh.

  ***

  There was a chill in the early morning air as the two men started out for Rush Springs, the bedrolls and saddle bags tied tightly behind their saddles contained all they would need for the short trip, indeed all they really had. The forty miles to their destination could be done in one day’s hard riding, but the horses walked slowly over the well-worn trail, and neither man chose to push them any faster.

  The miles rolled by uneventfully. The red Oklahoma earth dotted sparsely with trees in this region, and the new spring grass just beginning to emerge, painting the plains with the lush green life that would sustain the cattle herds. A gulf of silence lay between the two men. Joe could find no words to voice his grief, and words of comfort were foreign to Luke.

  Joe muttered an incoherent curse as his bay mare stumbled and nearly fell. They came to a stop and Joe dismounted. Picking up her left front hoof the reason for the misstep was obvious. The iron shoe that covered and supported her hoof was loose and a large chunk of hoof wall was torn from the quarter. Without stopping to reset the shoe, the little mare would end up lame.

  “Why don’t you let me take care of that?” Luke always kept a set of tools in his saddle bags, a hammer, clinches, sole knife, nippers and a rasp, a few spare nails and one or two shoes. A good horse was more than just a means of transportation, and keeping one sound was an ongoing concern to any cowboy. He laid out the tools, and quietly set to work.

  Joe held the mare’s reins while Luke placed her hoof between his knees. He removed the old shoe and tossed it to the side. Evaluating the injury with an experienced eye, he determined that the hoof was not too badly damaged and set about trimming the wall. Rasping it smooth, he nailed a new shoe in place. He set her foot down gently and walked over to the discarded shoe, picking it up, he placed it absently in the pocket of his jacket.

  “Hungry?” Asked Joe, holding out a thick slice of bread and some seasoned jerky.

  “Yeah, as a matter of fact, I am.” Luke replied taking the proffered meal. They sat down with their backs to a large outcrop of rocks and ate their sparse meal in silence. The horses grazed contentedly a short distance away.

  “Hey, Rio, get back on over here.” Luke called as he noticed his big gray gelding drifting further away. Rio’s head popped up and he obediently trotted over to his master, nosing Luke’s arm and waiting patiently for his share of the bread. “You old rascal. Here. Are you satisfied now?” Rio took the chunk of bread that Luke held up, devouring it in a single bite, shook his head and walked a few steps away to graze again.

  The horse had been a gift from his father many years ago. Luke remembered the night his dad had hauled him out of a warm bed into the chill night air to witness the birth of this foal. The mare had been down, laboring hard for too long. One small hoof and a small black nose were all that could be seen of the foal. There should have been two hooves, one a few inches in front of the other with that little nose on top of them. Something was dreadfully wrong. The mare pushed and strained, but made no progress.

  “You sit at her head, Luke, and talk to her. I need you to keep her just as calm as you can.” His father was rolling up a long white sleeve as he gave the instructions to Luke.

  “Pa, what are you going to do? I don’t want her to die, pa, please!” The boy p
leaded. The small oil lamp cast a feeble glow against the dark. He could barely see his father’s expression, but he knew in that moment there was little hope. Luke’s heart sank, even as he watched his father reach inside the tired mare.

  “The foal’s other leg is back. I don’t know if I can pull it forward or not. If I can’t, we’ll lose them both for certain. If I can, there’s a chance the babe can make it. Luke, I don’t know if we can save the mare or not.” His father was always forthright and plain spoken; that was always the image Luke had of him. He could not remember a single time his father had shown any real emotion, except at his mother’s funeral. The image of that large stoic man standing at the open grave with tears streaming down his otherwise stony face was seared forever in Luke’s memory.

  “I can feel it. It’s coming, I think... there. Now, Maggie, push girl.” As if on cue the mare gave a last valiant effort and the small foal made his entrance into the cold night.

  Unfortunately the effort had proved too much for the old mare. The mal placed hoof had torn her uterus, and she died the next day from blood loss.

  His father had wanted to put the colt down as well, saying it would be too hard to raise an orphan foal, but Luke pleaded with him, and the old man relented, placing the raising of the foal squarely on the shoulders of the boy. If they survived the ordeal, the colt was his to keep. They had been inseparable from that day forward.

  ***

  The sun was high, warming the air around them. Joe sat hunched over lost in his own thoughts. Luke reached into his pocket absently fiddling with the lost shoe. Pulling it out, he contemplated the u-shaped slab of iron. Funny how forging such metal could make it stronger and more malleable, yet if you heated it further, to a molten state, let it cool and harden again, it became brittle, prone to shatter rather than bend.

  Struck by sudden insight, Luke spoke, “Joe, have you ever watched a blacksmith make one of these things?”

  “Well, yeah, I s’pose I have.” Joe replied a little taken aback.

  “He takes a shapeless bar of metal, heats it red hot, then beats it, and shapes it, over and over until it’s just so. When he’s done it’s no longer a useless piece of iron, but an incredible tool that helps to keep that beast over there sound.” Luke said tossing the shoe to his friend.

  “Yeah.” said Joe eyeing the thing suspiciously.

  “You’d think the fire and the pounding would weaken the piece, but it strengthens it, makes it ready for service.” He paused for a moment as though considering, hesitant to continue. At last he took a deep breath and said, “Those whom God would use, He also strengthens.”

  Joe’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the distant horizon, silent. After a long pause he shifted his gaze back to the man beside him. “Why Zora, why Sam? If this suffering is supposed to make me stronger, then why did they pay the price?” He asked bitterly.

  “Well, Joe, from everything my pa tried to get through my thick skull, I’d have to say, they’re in a better place right now than you or I could even dream about. It’s not them that are suffering, Joe; it’s those of us left behind.”

  “Yeah? I thought you didn’t believe in God.”

  Luke sighed, looked at the ground, studying every detail of the blades of grass at his feet. “I never said I didn’t believe. I’m just not sure what He has to do with me.”

  Chapter three

  Kate’s eyes flew open. It was dark, the faint glow of approaching dawn just visible beyond her window. She lay motionless in the chill morning air, listening intently for the sound that had awakened her. There it was again, a faint calling of night birds. Why did this bother her? Something about it seemed wrong, out of place.

  Stealing quietly from her warm bed, she grabbed the clothes that lay in a heap on the floor. Dressing as she walked to the table, she fumbled for the oil lamp and the matches in the drawer. Striking the match against the rough wood, she lit the lamp and turned the wick to adjust the glow of the light. With the lamp before her, she made her way quietly to the kitchen. The big wood-burning stove glowed warmly from the banked fire. Opening the iron door, she carefully stirred the coals with a long black poker. She placed a few of the larger pieces of kindling into the fire box, and held her hands out to the warmth as the small flames began to flicker.

  In the larder she found some cornbread and a chunk of ham from last night’s supper. Placing these into a small cloth, she tied the corners together to form a bundle. Amidst the normal preparations for her morning ride to check the fence lines for needed repairs, she could not shake the vague uneasiness that had awakened her. Frowning, she peered out the window into the darkness that surrounded the little house.

  About to turn away, a movement near the garden fence caught her eye. Fear gripped her stomach as she stared intently trying in vain to make out what it was that moved so stealthily. Finally convincing herself that it was only a deer walking warily through the garden looking for tender new shoots, she froze instantly at the soft knocking on the kitchen door.

  Kate’s eyes darted about desperately looking for a weapon, anything to protect herself and her family from the unknown visitor at their door. Her eyes lit upon Will’s old Winchester standing behind the pantry. Kate had no idea whether it was loaded or what it might be loaded with, but it was the only thing to be had. Reaching for the gun, her eyes never left the door. With the carbine safely in hand, she cautiously approached the door, still hoping against hope that it was no more than the wind blowing an errant shutter against the house, but knowing in her heart that it wasn’t.

  Praying fervently that Jolene would remain asleep in her bed, she reached toward the latch. Steeling herself and steadying the gun over one arm, she carefully opened the door. The apparition that met her eyes nearly took her breath away. Two young men with long dark hair, clad in tall leather boots, leggings and woolen trade coats held another man limply between them. One of the men carried a rifle slung back over his shoulder. They appeared tired, their eyes held a haunted look, and one of them was obviously badly injured. Kate’s heart raced. She had seen Indians at the fort and in Fallis, but never had one appeared at her door.

  “Please, will you help?”

  Without stopping to think, Kate opened the door wide and beckoned them into the warm kitchen. “Put him on the bench there.” She commanded briskly, though quaking inside. “What happened?”

  The two men laid their companion where she indicated, looking at one another warily. They glanced around as though searching for something. Finally, the older one spoke, “We are hunting. Our ponies were stolen or run off. You’ve seen them?”

  “No, I haven’t seen any stray horses near here,” replied Kate. “Your friend, he needs help?” Though she was fearful, something told her that these men meant no harm, her tension eased slightly as she spoke.

  “Yes. Gunshot. Can you help?”

  “I don’t know. I can try.” She knelt beside the bench and for the first time realized that this was a mere boy, perhaps ten or twelve at the most. Her heart went out to the injured lad. Dried blood stained the woolen coat a deep crimson and brown. “I’ll need help getting his jacket off and the wound cleaned.” She glanced around making a mental inventory of what she would need, thanking God that her mother had taught her basic medical skills. Though she had never treated a gunshot, surely she could cleanse the wound to help stop any infection. “Can one of you build a fire in the fireplace? He’ll need to be kept warm. I want to make a pallet for him on the floor; he’ll be more comfortable there. I have some blankets in the trunk by the wall, and I’ll need some towels from the cupboard next to it.”

  Neither of them moved. They regarded her silently, as though determining whether she was to be obeyed or not.

  “Well, what are you waiting for?” She demanded angrily. “Do you want me to help him or not? I can’t do it all by myself!”

  The diminutive woman stood before them with her hands on hips. After a moment, the one acting as spokesman said something in a guttu
ral language to his companion, and they each set about the tasks she had outlined. Sighing with relief, Kate started a pot of water heating on the stove, and found the leather bag that contained their meager store of healing herbs and medical supplies.

  The boy was laid on a pallet of blankets before a crackling fire glowing warmly in the hearth. His jacket had been removed and placed on the back porch to be cleaned later. Kate rolled up her sleeves and heard a muffled gasp from behind her. Feeling the heat suffuse her face, she glanced briefly at her bare arms. Shaking her head to clear her thoughts, she dipped a towel in the warmed water and began gingerly to clean the area around the gaping hole in his arm. The wound was not fresh, perhaps a day or more old, but the bullet had thankfully gone clean through. As best she could tell, no bones had been broken, and for that she said another small prayer of thanks. He had lost far too much blood, that was obvious, but the flow had diminished to a small trickle, and was now easy to staunch. She dressed the cleansed wound with an herbal poultice of goldenseal and echinacea, bandaging it with strips of clean cotton rags.

  ***

  Tochoway watched as the woman worked on Nocona. How could this small white woman heal an Indian boy? A white man had fired the gun; perhaps the Father wanted a white healer to mend him. When the woman had begun to give orders, the men had been confused. Women were meant to serve, not command.

  The firelight flickered across the pallid face of the young boy, danced over the rich brown hair of the woman as she knelt before him. Why did she pause? Was she praying to her God for guidance?

  Mahseet sucked in his breath as the woman rolled up her sleeves. “Puha.” He whispered under his breath.

  Tochoway followed Mahseet’s gaze and nodded his agreement. This woman was marked with a sign of puha, great power, enabling her to perform supernatural healing. So the Great Father had led them here. Nocona would surely recover with her spirit guiding him.