Out of the Crucible

by Marian Wells

  The sun was bright as they left the ranch and turned back onto the main road. Amy rode ahead of the wagon. She could hear her mother, riding beside the wagon, talking to her father and Matthew.

  Blocking out their words, Amy sighed wearily and rubbed her forehead as her horse plodded along. As she reviewed the tossing and turning she had done most of the night, she heard Amelia’s horse cantering up beside her.

  “I changed Matthew’s bandages this morning,” Amelia began. “That was a nasty wound. Did you have trouble with it?”

  Amy nodded. “There were two days when we thought the fever would take him. Strange, Matt didn’t seem happy about having Daniel pray for his arm.”

  Amelia gave her a quick glance. “That tells me things I need to know about him.”

  They rode in silence. Fear for Daniel crept in and possessed her thoughts. Gently Amelia asked, “You having trouble with Matt being here?”

  Amy sighed and admitted, “Is it any wonder? Daniel—”

  “Dear, I know. Please, Amy, don’t let bitterness rob you of hope. Right now that’s the only thing that’s keeping us going.”

  Through the tears she looked at her mother. “Us?” she questioned.

  “Of course. He’s your husband, but we love him, too. Eli just told me he spent most of yesterday praying that things will go well with Daniel, that the Lord will deliver—”

  Amy groped for Amelia’s hand, and it was there, warm against her face.

  Throughout the day they rode in sunshine across the dry, barren end of the territory. Eli explained it all from his bed in the wagon. “You notice it’s just like New Mexico land. Well, this part of the territory was Mexican land a long time before boundaries were set. The Mexicans living in this part of the territory didn’t get too disturbed when they discovered they lived outside of New Mexico. They’ve clung to their traditions, and life has gone on just the same for them.”

  That night the three wagons drew close together for protection, while the horses and mules were picketed within the shelter of the wagons.

  Downs had picked a camp just outside a tiny, quiet Mexican village.

  By the time Amy was off her horse, the men had taken the horses to water. She watched them hobble the horses and mules close to the wagons on a grassy slope. When they left to gather wood for a fire, Amy climbed the slope beyond the wagons. The little village was spread out below.

  A scraggly line of trees marked the river and shaded the village of adobe huts. It appeared the huts had been built close together, with their adobe walls joining to form a solid, square fort.

  From the wagon camp, the village seemed too quiet—empty of life. Filled with her own personal melancholy, Amy sat down to study the village. Its strange isolation was making her uneasy, when a small boy approached.

  He was herding three bleating sheep in front of him. She grinned as she watched the sheep milling around, trying to elude the youth. Just as the boy’s task seemed hopeless, a tall wooden gate creaked open. Abruptly the milling sheep broke into a run, heading straight through the gate.

  The bleating faded away. Amy watched with new respect as the little fortification settled back into silence while their suppertime fires began to puff a contented message skyward.

  Amelia came up the slope toward her. “Mother, I was getting worried. The village seemed too silent, empty. But now I’ve decided they are completely secure and contented. That’s a nice feeling.”

  “Are the Indians making you think this way?”

  “I suppose so,” Amy brooded. “Now, all of a sudden, everything is a threat.”

  Amelia sighed with her and reached for her arm. “Well, come have your dinner. I’m thinking Matthew’s suffering along the same line. He seems to see threats in everything. Please don’t be too hard on him tonight.”

  Chapter 21

  For that first week of travel after Matthew joined the wagon train, Amy and her mother rode together. Amelia explained the change. “I have a feeling that Matthew needs to talk to your father. He also needs to let that arm heal, and that can’t happen while he’s riding in the saddle.” She added, “Eli needs some man talk too.”

  Amy felt her eyebrows slide up. Amelia commented, “Does that surprise you? Any man gets tired of the apron strings.” For a moment her smile twisted and Amy was caught by the expression.

  Amelia added, “Most men don’t like to talk about things close to the heart. Your father’s that way around womenfolk. It just seems to be the way men are. Raised to be strong, not given to tears and fluttery feelings. Sometimes I think I’ve always pushed too much.” She sighed and smiled at Amy.

  “I know,” Amy admitted. “I always wanted something more’n he gave out. But Aunt Maude made him uncomfortable at times. Tears just don’t set well with Father.”

  “It isn’t tears, so much,” Amelia said slowly. “Sometimes I get the feeling that if he’d allow me to say it all out, then it might be he’d trust me more.”

  “Mother!” Amy couldn’t keep the pain out of her voice. Staring at her mother, feeling her heart sink in the old familiar way, she thought, If she can’t be trusted, then what about me? How’ll I ever get to the place where I can trust myself? She thought about God and felt the old, familiar shrinking.

  Amelia was watching her. Amy straightened and tried to smile. “I guess I’m not sticking as close to the Lord as I should. It’s—”

  “Hard when there’re troubles?” They rode in silence and then Amelia looked at Amy. “I suppose I should be telling you to have faith and trust, but Amy, I’m only beginning to live there. Now I feel only a happy companionship with Him. I remember the story about the woman washing Jesus’ feet and wiping them with her hair. Jesus explained her actions by saying a person forgiven much is inclined to be very grateful. That’s the way I feel. At the same time, I’m realizing it isn’t so much a matter of how many sins are forgiven but that they are forgiven.”

  They rode in silence again until the sun was nearly overhead. Amy tucked her shawl behind the saddle and glanced at Amelia. “Maybe I’m not grateful enough; sometimes I forget—”

  Amelia looked surprised. “Oh, Amy, that isn’t what I meant. I’m not mourning over my sins. I have no right to that attitude. Eli made me know that right off. See, God’s love is like showers of gold. When He forgives and pours the forgiveness out on us, it’s like being bathed in gold. It sticks to you, reminding you that it’s still all there—the forgiveness.”

  For a time there was only the creak of wagon wheels and the plop of hooves. Finally Amelia spoke slowly, softly. “My past makes me shudder now. Dance-hall girl, madame, runaway mother.” She turned a bleak smile Amy’s direction. “The only merit in it all is the Lord’s willingness to forgive my sins and to allow you and your father the grace to forgive and accept me again.” She paused, then added, “When I finally faced my sin under God’s eyes, I would have died without having His forgiveness. But that is by faith, because He says so.

  “It is just as Eli says, when the Lord pours His glory out on us, we frail humans have golden souls. He keeps reminding me I can polish gold all I want, but it’s His business to keep the gold there. By our faith and trust.”

  When she looked up and smiled, Amy caught her breath. “Mother, you are beautiful! One of these days—”

  Amelia shook her head. “Now, Amy, I can see it. The Lord has started His beautiful work in you, too.”

  The next day they continued to journey away from the mountains while the landscape grew increasingly arid. Amy knew they were heading for the Arkansas River. Beyond that lay Colorado City and even farther beyond was Denver. Straight north, she was thinking when her mother remarked, “It seems to be taking us a long time. Since Raton it’s been over a week we’ve been traveling and we haven’t reached Pueblo.”

  Amy nodded. “I said so to Mr. Downs. It’s over a hundred miles from Raton Pass to Pueblo. He did say we’ve been making fifteen or twenty miles a day, and that’s good. That’s because it’s
mostly downhill.”

  Her mother was watching with a puzzled frown. Suddenly she said, “Amy, what is wrong? You seem—”

  Amy looked up in surprise. “Why, nothing much. Just tired of traveling. My stomach’s been bothering me. Guess it’s too much cornmeal and beans. I’ll be so glad for home, at least when I don’t think about—” She paused, sighing deeply. “If only Daniel would be there!” Then she closed her lips firmly over the worry, and for a time they rode in silence.

  Finally Amelia straightened with a sigh. “I fussed at Mr. Downs because the trip was taking so long. He said it’s because of the Indians. Can’t move very fast with the wounded men and can’t travel late because of the Indians.”

  Amy asked, “Did you have trouble with the Indians when you and Father traveled this way?”

  “No, and I can’t understand the fuss—we haven’t seen a one.”

  “But Matt said he thought the Indians he traveled with had something brewing, and he didn’t seem happy about the whole situation.”

  “Yes, and I think he said a great deal more to Downs,” Amelia added soberly.

  Later Amy stirred herself to ask, “You’ve been through Pueblo; what’s it like? The name sounds interesting to me. Probably because we traveled through Taos.”

  “Well, it has nothing to do with that kind of pueblo. It’s a little place, mostly a trading post and a freighting stop. It was settled by the Mexicans a long time ago. Just a farm area then, back before the gold mines were opened. It’s situated on the Arkansas River, so there’s plenty of water.”

  “I wondered,” Amy murmured. “The past couple of days I’ve been thinking it looks pretty desolate. Right now I can’t see anything except sagebrush and rolling hills.”

  “Pueblo is interesting,” Amelia continued. “Most of the buildings are adobe, just like the ones we saw in New Mexico, except these have better roofs. More rain around here. There’s a big church. The Mexicans come from all over the valley to worship.”

  “Catholic?”

  “Yes, but there are white people around who aren’t. And there’s people passing through all the time. Freighters too.” Amy turned to look at her mother, and Amelia glanced at her with a smile. “I don’t know why it took our attention. It’s not the comfortable place a person would want to live; still—” She sighed. “Your father is excited about it. So much so, I’m guessing he’ll find an excuse to come back here later to look around.”

  Downs was riding toward them. There was a heavy frown on his face as he pulled on the reins. “Report of Indians hanging around. The fellows have been watching them play hide-and-seek in the rocks over there.” Amy followed his pointing finger. To the northeast the low bushes and touch of green in the meadows abruptly ended at a rearing wall of rock.

  Amy shaded her eyes against the sun and studied the rough rampart of gray rock. The wind moved bushes and bent grass, but there was only stillness in the rocks. She shivered. “I hope the fellows are as mistaken as my eyes say they are.”

  He threw a quick glance her direction as he curtly replied, “I’m giving the orders to stretch leather. You ladies be certain to keep the wagons between you and those rocks. Indians like pretty women with blond hair.”

  “Amy,” her mother said calmly, “we need to catch up with the wagon. I want to speak to your father.”

  Matt was awake and seated beside the driver. “Wanna trade places with me?” he addressed Amelia.

  She shook her head. “I have more arms than you do right now. Is Eli asleep?”

  Eli answered by scooting forward in the wagon. “Amelia, do you want to take this rifle?” Amy watched her mother’s face and tried to keep from shivering.

  Amelia shook her head. “I need both hands on the reins.”

  He scooted closer and reached his hand across the side of the wagon. “Amelia, no matter what happens, ride hard for Pueblo. I love you both.” The wagon was moving faster now. Amy watched it go. Her throat was tightening with fear.

  When she turned, Amelia blinked and smiled. “Come on, daughter of mine, let’s stretch leather, like Downs said.”

  With a nod, Amy grasped the reins and smacked them sharply across the flank of her horse. As the mare moved out, Amy glanced toward the rocks. She caught her breath and studied the rock again. “Mother,” she cried into the wind, “I see dust up there!”

  “Ride!” Amelia shouted. Amy bent low over the horse’s neck, but her thoughts were filled with the facts. There’s just three wagons and a handful of wounded men and two women.

  It seemed they had been riding forever. Only the dry wind chafing her face and the snorting horses existed until Amy raised her head and blinked. She could see a dark slash across the horizon.

  A cluster of trees appeared. “Mother!” she cried. Looking over her shoulder, she saw Amelia smiling. They were keeping abreast of Eli’s wagon. Amy began to relax.

  She heard the shout before she saw the wagon in front of them swerving. “Amy!” Her mother cried the warning and cut away from the trail. Amy’s mare followed, plunging down the embankment. Amy was still trying to understand when she heard a sharp crack, a shout. Amelia circled her horse beside her. “Indians! Amy, head for the river.”

  There was another crack. This time Amy knew it was gunfire. She clung to the saddlehorn and bent low on the horse’s neck. But in the dash toward the river, while wind lashed at her and the horse jumped sagebrush, Amy’s mind was filled with another picture—an image of blue and gray uniforms, of plunging horses. The sharp crack of gunfire went on and on in her mind. She heard her mother screaming her name.

  Amy lifted her face. The horse had stopped. Amelia and the trees were in front of her. Slowly Amy pried her fingers away from the horse’s mane, sat up. Mother was patting her face, “Amy, dear! It’s all right. See, this is—”

  “Ma’am, this is Pueblo. You ladies need help?” Amy stared at the stranger. He was a white man and his eyes were filled with concern.

  Amy pressed her fingers against her numb lips and watched Amelia slip from her horse and turn toward the trees and the river.

  She saw the cluster of adobes and the sprawling log building. She caught her breath and focused her eyes on the man. “We’re safe?”

  A stream of people poured down the dusty street toward them. Amelia flung her arm, pointing and crying, “Indians! Please help.”

  “Ma’am, look.” The man pointed toward the road cutting away from the log building, climbing the hill. “My men heard the commotion, they’ll give your menfolk a hand.” His tracing finger followed the whooping men on horseback headed up the hill.

  He was grinning and at ease as he added, “I’m Bill Whiteside, I run the trading post and stage stop. Now don’t you worry about the Indians. ’Tis too close for them to try anything much. More damage jest from those wagons plowing into each other. See?”

  Amy turned. In the distance, outlined against the sky, she could see the Indians. They were bare and bronze, with feathers and paint. She watched them circle the cluster of wagons, moving cautiously closer.

  The shouting men from the trading post breasted the hill and Amy heard a shot. Like toys on a stick, the Indians whirled their horses. The lump in Amy’s throat disappeared as she watched the bronze streak stretch out across the horizon, to be swallowed by the barrier of gray rocks.

  It was nearly twilight before the two wagons were separated and slowly pulled down the hill to join Amy and her mother under the trees. They could see the other wagon still on its side with one broken wheel outlined against the sky.

  The wounded soldiers and two new casualties were made comfortable on the the grass while the wagons returned to the hill. When her father hobbled toward them, Amy saw his face was white, but he was smiling as he said, “Our driver stopped an arrow. He’s in pain and he needs help. There’s another fellow with gunshot wounds, though not bad. We can only thank the dear Lord for protection.” He paused, adding, “The wagon in front of us broke a wheel and we tangled with them
, otherwise we might have outrun the Indians.” Amelia moved and sighed. “Amy, are you up to helping?” She blinked. Her mother’s face was white, so colorless that the red scars had become brilliant blotches. With a quick lunge, Amy threw herself at Amelia. Finally, with another hug they smiled at each other and headed for the wagons.

  From the litter of blankets and supplies the men had dumped on the ground, Amy pulled tents, cots, and blankets. Matthew came limping up to help. His grim face was still pale. She said, “Matt, between the two of us, I think we can get a tent up.”

  “I’ll do the tent. You go help your mother. Here’s some bandages, and I guess this stuff is turpentine.”

  Eli was seated on a box, working beside Amelia. Some of the wounded soldiers came to help Matthew. Another fellow began to gather firewood. Amy stopped, looked around, and took a deep breath. A young soldier with a bandaged head grinned at her. “Good to be alive, huh?” She nodded and blinked back the scalding tears in her eyes. It was Daniel she wondered about.

  In the morning, while the members of the wagon train gathered around the fire for breakfast, Downs got to his feet and faced the group. “I’ve spent most of the night trying to decide what to do. Either we leave supplies, which we can’t afford to do, or we leave people. I’m under contract to get you soldiers to Denver pronto.” His eyes shifted toward Eli and Matthew.

  Eli spoke up. “We’re in no hurry to move on. In fact, we’re just happy to have had company this far.”

  A protest boiled to Amy’s lips and she pressed her fingers to her mouth, but she could only think, We’ve just been attacked by Indians, and Father wants to go on alone!

  Matthew offered, “I’m footloose. I’ll stay here and wait for the stage.”

  She saw the relief on Downs’ face. “We can make it with two wagons and most of the supplies. We can also get these men to a doctor a great deal quicker. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.”