He had slept through the entire night.
Ben actually couldn’t remember how long it had been since he’d enjoyed such luxury. The deep, dreamless sleep that had so engulfed him took him far away from the fears and troubles of his conscious world.
Ben dressed hurriedly, wondering why Jim Baldwin hadn’t awakened him for work as he had done all that week. Then Ben remembered it was Sunday. Jim had told him the night before that it was a day of rest, according to the Scriptures, and would be so observed.
He walked out of the room and found Ol’ Bob the dog waiting for him with wagging tail. Ben petted him fondly, then walked across the barnyard to the house. Mrs. Baldwin stepped out on the porch to empty a basin of dishwater. “Good morning to you, Ben.”
“Good morning, ma’am,” Ben said. “I think I overslept.”
“You deserve to after all that hard work you’ve done,” Mrs. Baldwin said.
“Good morning, Ben.” Arlena leaned out of the kitchen door.
“Morning, Arlena,” Ben replied.
“We already ate, but I saved you some,” Arlena said. Mrs. Baldwin laughed. “Jim was going out there to wake you up, but Arlena wouldn’t let him.”
“I don’t mind warming you something,” Arlena said. “Come on in the kitchen.”
“Obliged,” Ben said. He did as he’d been invited and sat down to a hot cup of coffee at the table. As he watched Arlena hustle up some food, Ben felt different. Not so much from hours of refreshing sleep, but mostly from a feeling of peacefulness that had been gradually growing on him while living with the family.
There had been no turmoil since the time he’d arrived. Everything was in apple-pie order, with a sedate routine of hard work and good meals. Ben had experienced no conflicts, no spasms of fear or flashes of his bad temper. He’d been treated with more than respect; there had been a great deal of kindness extended his way. His idea of stealing Jim Baldwin’s horse and guns was now completely abandoned. Ben Cullen could not rob the Baldwins under any circumstances—not even to save his own neck from a hanging. Somehow, those people had touched him—down, down deep in his soul—and tickled a part of him that had lain dormant for more than twenty years. Ben decided he would do the greatest thing in the world that he could possibly do for the good family.
He would get the hell out of their lives.
Arlena put the plate in front of him. The eggs and fried potatoes smelled delicious. “We’re having services this morning,” she said.
“Services?” Ben asked between bites.
“Jim is a lay preacher,” Arlena explained. She got a cup of coffee for herself and joined him. “The folks in the area always come of a Sunday to hear him preach.” The feeling of tranquility vanished in an instant. “What folks?”
“Other farmers,” Arlena said. “Actually, it ain’t ever’ Sunday. Only once ever’ three or four weeks. It’s kinda hard for most folks to get here, since there ain’t any roads or anything, and they’re spread out so far.”
Ben now wished he hadn’t stayed. But there was little he could do at that point except hope for the best. He relaxed as he realized that possibilities of them hearing of a fugitive in the area were rather remote. But, still, there was always a chance.
Ben finished his meal and went outside after promising to attend the worship with Arlena.
It was a bare half hour later that the first people showed up. It was a large family with eight kids in a heavy wagon. The woman shouted a happy greeting to Mrs. Baldwin and produced a large basket of food. Within a half hour other conveyances appeared bearing farm families. The other women arriving also had brought eats that were put in the general larder.
Ben gritted his teeth and kept in the background as much as possible. Jim Baldwin introduced him to a couple of the men, but the fugitive avoided spending prolonged time with any particular individual. He moved around as much as possible, and even disappeared into his room at times when it was feasible.
When the services began, Ben stood in the rear of the throng who had situated themselves on the various buggies and wagons that had brought them there. Arlena quickly joined him. “You like the backs of crowds, huh?”
“Yeah,” Ben said weakly. “I don’t feel so put upon that way.”
“Me too,” Arlena said. She looked up into his face. “Jim likes folks to hold hands during services. Would you hold mine?”
Ben displayed a crooked smile. “Pleasure, Arlena.” Arlena gripped his hand and pulled it in close to her. Jim Baldwin’s pulpit was as simple and rustic as the people who stood before it. There was only a farm wagon, but he took his place on the seat as if he were preaching in a grand cathedral. He looked down on his flock.
“It’s so good to see you folks again this Sunday. Praise God, you all could make it.”
“Praise the Lord!” came a chorus of shouts.
“I hope you’ve all enjoyed the bountiful blessing of the Lord,” Baldwin said. “I know we have. As you all know, we’ve been in a real hurt without hired help since that boy took off. I can tell you we had some mighty hard prayer sessions, and the Lord in Heaven answered us by sending John Smith to us. He’s standing back there with my sister-in-law Arlena. Some of you have already met him, but the others will have a chance after the services. Hallelujah! He’s a good worker too, neighbors.”
There were some cries of happy congratulations, and several people waved at Ben. He made a slight nod to the greetings, feeling nervous. Arlena’s smile was wide and happy, and she gave his hand a little squeeze.
Baldwin began the services with an opening prayer, then called for a couple of hymns. There were no hymnals in the congregation, but they knew the songs by heart. Men, women, and kids made up for any lack of musical sophistication with the gusto and gut feelings they put into the joyous songs praising their Maker.
After the final hymn, Jim Baldwin began his sermon. It was a simple message delivered to plain folk by one of their own who felt he had been called by God to minister to the small flock.
“Folks,” Jim began. “I want to talk to y’all about forgiveness. It’s something we talk about ever’time we say the Lord’s Prayer. We ask Him to forgive us as we forgive them that trespasses agin’ us. But, folks, it’s one thing to mouth them words, and another to practice ’em.”
“Amen!” somebody shouted.
“I know it’s hard out here where they ain’t no law to back up a man,” Jim went on. “If somebody takes something from you, there ain’t no way he’s gonna be punished unless you—maybe with some neighbors—go after the jasper and get aholt of him yourself.”
Ben knew the feeling of the man being chased.
“Now, I allow as to how that ain’t wrong when you do it to get something back. If a feller steals a harness you need outta your barn, why, just chase him down and get it back. If you have a mind, then tell him how wrong it is of him to do it and let him know what an all-fired inconvenience he’s made. But, folks, the Lord then wants you to forgive him—forgive and forget—that’s the Lord’s way. Don’t whup him or mistreat the poor sinner. Give him the Word of the Lord, then turn him a-loose.”
Ben remembered what Jim had said about the hired hand who had stolen the meat from the smokehouse. He’d said if the man needed it, he was welcomed to it. Evidently, Jim Baldwin literally practiced what he preached.
“If you let the feller go on his way, you might open his eyes to the Lord’s ways, folks. Mercy and goodness hits harder’n meanness and revenge any time. I want you to remember that. And the next time we say the Lord’s Prayer, and you get to the part about forgiving your trespassers, give it some extra thought. I’d personally appreciate it, and the Lord will be most pleased.”
“Praise God!” one of the worshippers hollered fervently.
“Yes, brother, Glory to Him on the Highest!” Jim said. “Now let’s jump into ‘Rock of Ages,’ and let our sweet Lord in Heaven know how much we worship Him.”
The hymn was sung joyfully and with great emoti
on by the small congregation. Several closed their eyes and raised their hands above their heads as if each word of the old song created a special, deep rapport between themselves and God.
It ended and there were several moments of satisfied silence. Jim Baldwin held his Bible, and gestured at the crowd. “And, now, folks—”
“Hallelujah! Hallelujah!”
A tall, lean farmer with a weathered, lined face walked slowly from the crowd and approached the lay preacher.
“It’s Fred Loomis!” someone yelled.
Loomis stopped in front of Jim; he looked up at him with tears streaming down his face. Jim leaned down over him, almost shaking with emotion. “What is it you want here, Fred Loomis?”
“Oh, Jim. I come to find Jesus.”
“Glory hallelujah!” Jim shouted aloud. He raised his Bible and shouted to the sky. “We thank you, Sweet Lord, for bringing our strayed brother to us.” He turned back to the other farmer who was now down on his knees. “Say it again, Fred Loomis! Praise God! Say it again!”
“I come for Jesus!” Loomis shouted.
Jim Baldwin leaped down from the wagon. He gripped one of Loomis’s shoulders and began praying aloud.
Ben in the back of the crowd stayed silent. He was acutely aware of Arlena’s hand gripping his. There was also something about the services that gnawed at his gut. It was a feeling of discomfort, regret, and yet there was a soothing side to it too. Whatever emotions it brought out in him, it was more than Ben Cullen could stand.
Arlena sensed the surge of emotion. “Do you feel it, John Smith?”
“Huh?”
“Do you feel Jesus a-calling you? Listen! Listen! He’s a calling to you, John,” Arlena said. “He wants to save you.”
“I, uh, I reckon I don’t hear nothing,” Ben said.
But Arlena was not discouraged. She put her free hand on his arm while making her grip on his hand even tighter. “You’ll hear Him soon, I know! That’s why He sent you here to us, John.”
“Well, maybe so,” Ben said. He breathed in deeply to regain control of his tossing emotions.
This was the religion of his people—stark, unabashed, and as wide open as the country they lived in. This sort of worship appealed to them with its simplicity, openness, and the promise that their trials and hardships during their short mortal journey across the face of the earth were only temporary. Religion pledged that something better lay ahead than fourteen hours of hard toil under a broiling sun, death from unknown sicknesses, and the cruel uncertainty of weather during the growing seasons.
Ben finally regained complete control again. He now had the world and his plans back in the proper perspective. He was more interested in survival and avoidance of death by hanging than in seeking the Kingdom of God. Religion was for honest, hardworking farmers—not for a man wanted for murder.
The services continued in unrestrained joy. The saved man, Fred Loomis, was feted and hugged with plenty of pats on the back as he was welcomed into the congregation. Arlena took Ben around by the arm and introduced him to each and every person present. Her mannerisms were those of a woman with her man, and Ben had to admit she sure as hell wasn’t the shyest woman he had ever met.
The meal was a huge feast. Every farm woman seemed to have tried to outdo the other in both the quantity and quality of the food she brought to the services. Ben, whose lifestyle dictated that a man eat as much as he could possibly hold at every opportunity since there would be plenty of hungry times in between, flattered and pleased the ladies with his appetite. Their most common expression at seeing him devour their food was: “I love to see a hungry man eat!” Summer afternoons and evenings are long on the prairie, but most of the people had great distances to travel. Sunset was still hours away when the crowd broke up. Empty pots and dishes were repacked into baskets for trips homeward, and farewells made among people who had no regular contact with each other. The main attraction of the day was Fred Loomis, who still received best wishes—and also several shopping lists. He had business in Red Rock, a town some distance away that was too far for all but the most necessary of visits.
Ben was glad to see the visitors depart. The peaceful feelings he had been enjoying before the services returned as the last buggy rolled out of sight over the horizon.
Jim Baldwin stood beside him, patting his belly. “I reckon there won’t be a need for supper tonight.”
“I reckon,” Ben agreed. “I think I ate enough to last me a week or two.”
Baldwin laughed loudly. “I’ll tell you one thing, John Smith. You can sure put the vittles away.” They turned and walked back toward the house. “Well, this is the most peaceable time o’ the week for us, John. Sunday evenings is time to sit on the porch and sort of relax away what’s built up over the previous seven days. We’d be most pleased if you’d join us.”
“I’d be happy to,” Ben said.
The four people sat in silence mostly. Sunsets are as prolonged and lovely on the wide horizons of prairie country as they are on a quiet evening at sea. There are no mountains or forests to break up the distant lines of land, and the sun takes its time as it sinks and colors the sky at the same time.
The moon was also bright that night. The sky had a few high clouds that obscured nothing. It was as easy to see across the farmyard as if it was high noon. Ben stretched, then finished off the cup of coffee that Arlena had fetched for him. “I reckon I’ll turn in.”
“Me too,” Baldwin said. “We got threshing tomorrow.”
Ben stood up. “G’night.”
“G’night.”
He walked across the yard to the barn and went inside. After sitting down on the bed, he pulled off his boots Baldwin had loaned him, and unwrapped the rags he used to help the fit. The footwear worked fine that way, and he hadn’t gotten a blister or suffered too much discomfort. He stood up and took off his shirt, then lay down on the bed with his pants on.
“John.”
Ben quickly sat up. He could plainly see Arlena standing just inside the door of his room. “Yeah?”
“John, you’re a man—and I been married before, so I know men,” Arlena said.
Puzzled, Ben continued to look at the woman, curious to hear what her visit was about.
“I know what men want, John,” Arlena said. She slowly began to unbutton the top buttons of her calico dress. She opened it to reveal her breasts, large and protruding in the moonlight. Then, just as languidly, she refastened the garment. “I am a Christian woman, John Smith. And if you want me, you’ll have to marry me.”
“Uh, yeah.”
She abruptly left him.
Ben lay back down on the bed. He stared at the ceiling in thoughtful silence for a while. No woman had ever offered herself to him like that before. Plenty of cowtown whores had made themselves available for a price, but this was the first time Ben had experienced such a thing where affection and commitment were included. His present situation and the previous ten years of his life prohibited any thoughts of settling down, so there was no reason to torment himself with useless dreams of happiness with any woman.
Ben closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.
That night he was restless again. Ben figured it was because of the strangers who had come to the services. He awoke several times, and even went for a walk with Ol’ Bob. When Jim Baldwin came for him in the morning, Ben was wide awake. He followed him into the house for breakfast.
Arlena served his food, brushing lightly against him from time to time. And from the way Mrs. Baldwin checked out her performance, it was plain to see that the whole idea was something both women had cooked up. Baldwin himself didn’t seem to be aware of what was going on.
“Threshing is a terrible hard thing,” he said. “You’d better dig into that food, John.”
Arlena smiled at Ben. “At least you won’t have to go out in the field. You’ll be working right close-by.”
“Mmmm,” Ben acknowledged with a mouthful of food.
The wheat the
y had scythed and shocked had been brought in on the wagon. It was stacked in the barn, ready to be laid out and flailed to separate the grain from the husk. When that had been done, and it was sacked up, Jim Baldwin would take it all the way to Red Rock in order to sell and barter it away for the things they needed at the general store there.
The men started the work immediately after breakfast. It was unpleasant in the barn. Dust and chaff filled the hot air, and the labor itself was muscle cramping hard. They used flails and beat down on the wheat in uneven rhythms, the staccato out of tempo but loud.
To Ben it was like digging coal in the penitentiary. A man learns to let his mind go numb and not pay attention to the burning fatigue as he works with the mechanical concentration of a machine. Up-and-down-up-and-down, walking in a circle around the stalks with Jim Baldwin opposite him.
There was no talking. Just occasional grunts as the whack-whacking went on through the morning. The passage of time meant nothing to the men concentrating on the difficult, monotonous task. They were surprised when Lucille Baldwin called to them.
“Dinner!”
They dropped the flails without speaking and trooped over to the trough. Ol’ Bob, excited, scampered along with them hoping that at least one of them would finally give him some attention. But the two workers simply scooped up water and poured it over themselves. Arlena appeared with soap and towels, and they washed away the grimy, musky smell of male sweat and dried off. “Lucille wants to see you,” Arlena said to Jim.
“I hope she don’t want wood chopped for the supper fire,” Baldwin said. “See you at the table, John.”
“Right,” Ben said.
Arlena picked up the towels they had draped over the trough. She had undone her top button and leaned over to expose cleavage. When she was sure Ben was watching, she continued for a few more moments then stood up. Her voice was soft and friendly. “You look tired.”
Desperado Run (An Indian Territory Western Book 2) Page 9
