by Judith Pella
“Don’t you leave this cabin when we’re gone except to get water. I don’t want you to lose your scalp.”
Her first inclination was to rebel at being ordered around again, but reason showed her he was simply concerned for her safety, and the fact that someone should actually care about her for her own sake rather touched her. In this way, the concern shown her by a rough-hewn outlaw began within Deborah the beginnings of healing from the years of abuse from her husband.
Thus Deborah was able to accept Griff’s warning. But even if she had been inclined to ignore his admonitions, her pregnancy was progressing noticeably, and she realized it was no time to be traipsing over the countryside, especially alone.
Strangely enough, as the child grew within her, she began to feel a kind of protectiveness toward it, and when it quickened in her womb she felt a thrill—if not of love, then at least of affection for it. The baby may have been Leonard’s, but it was also hers. There was no reason why she might not find something about the child to love. If nothing else, she became more open to such a possibility.
In the beginning the frequent time alone in the cabin was a balm to her frayed and wounded emotions. She avoided deep reflection by reading and rereading the material Griff brought. She remembered the many pleasant evenings listening to her father read and the lively discussions they would have afterward. Caleb Stoner’s home had been noticeably devoid of reading material. So, now, after the dearth of the last two years, she found the time enjoyable and stimulating, even if she often had no one to discuss the books and articles with.
Once she tried to engage Griff in a discussion about something she had recently read.
“I read this most intriguing statement by Carlyle this morning, Mr. McCulloch. Listen: ‘The oak grows silently in the forest a thousand years; only in the thousandth year, when the axeman arrives with his axe, is there heard an echoing through the solitudes; and the oak announces itself when, with far-sounding crash, it falls.’ I wonder if he meant that man’s crowning achievement in life is destined to coincide with his death. Or, perhaps it is death itself?”
Griff scratched the unshaven stubble on his face and screwed up his face in thought. When he spoke, it was as if he had come to a profound conclusion. “Seems to me, ma’am,” he said, “that what that feller means is when an oak tree falls, it makes a powerful racket.”
Perhaps Griff was not as intellectually stimulating as her father, but she was nevertheless content. However, as summer slipped away into autumn, Deborah began to feel restless, or just a bit bored. She wanted a change of scene, some excitement, a break in the routine. She was still young, only twenty, and she still had a youthful, eager, adventurous spirit that even the Stoners had not broken. But when she mentioned her restiveness to Griff, he told her to count her blessings because the only excitement he could think of in these parts was an Indian attack, a storm or a flood, or the arrival of the law—none of which he would recommend her wishing for.
When a break in the routine finally came, it happened to fall within the scope of one of Griff’s dire predictions.
It was late October, and most of Griff’s boys were spending a lot of time at the cabin. Deborah saw them more than once huddled outside, heads together, in some intense discussion. She had no idea exactly what they were talking about, although she could hazard a fairly good guess. Griff had alluded to getting a little “nest egg” together for winter. Deborah assumed they were planning one last job before bad weather set in. From the intensity of the conference Deborah thought it must be a big undertaking. She asked no questions, however, for she did not want to know.
Occasionally, one or two of the boys would ride off, be gone a day, or a few days, and, when they returned, there would be another discussion. When Slim and Mitch returned from one of these forays, something most unexpected occurred. The two outlaws did not return alone. A stranger rode between them and, by the look of it, he was their prisoner.
When Deborah heard the commotion outside, she went to the cabin window to watch. The stranger was about the same age as Griff, around thirty. His hands were tied behind his back and his face was almost entirely covered by a bandana acting as a blindfold. Slim removed the bandana once they stopped in the yard, revealing a rather pleasant-looking man whose ruddy, freckled visage appeared both rugged and warm, even in spite of his present predicament. The longish hair curling in an unkempt fashion under his worn, wide-brimmed hat was reddish brown, and his several days’ growth of beard contained far more red than brown. He wore buckskin breeches that had seen much use, and a similar buckskin coat with a faded blue bandana tied around his neck. As he dismounted, Deborah noted he was about two inches taller than Griff, but they were otherwise equally matched in brawn. At first Deborah wondered why she immediately compared the stranger to Griff, but she quickly realized that it was because both men emanated an impression of command. If this situation ever turned into a showdown, it would certainly be between these two.
For the moment, however, the stranger was firmly in tow and actually showed no sign of resistance. In fact, he seemed to be taking everything in his stride.
“What you got here, Slim?” asked Griff as he strode into the yard. His casual tone indicated more curiosity than alarm.
“Found him creeping around, boss, just over the ridge. Woulda shot him instead of hauling him in, but he weren’t wearing no gun.”
“You’re too soft, Slim,” railed Sid Miller.
Griff glared at Miller, then said to Slim and Mitch, “You did right, boys. No sense killing the man till we find out what he was doing nosing around here.”
Griff gave the man a careful appraisal. “So, what you got to say for yourself—?”
But as he spoke, Mitch, who was rummaging through the stranger’s saddlebag, interrupted. “Hey, Griff, lookee here at what I found.” He held up two items—a six-shooter in a holster and a black book. “He’s got hisself a Holy Book!”
It was indeed a Bible in the man’s saddlebag, its black cover worn and apparently much used.
“What you got that for?” asked Griff. It wasn’t every day one found a man on the frontier with a book, much less a Bible.
“That’s one of the tools of my trade,” answered the stranger in an easy Texas drawl.
“Which is?”
“I’m a minister of the Gospel of Christ, a circuit rider in these here parts.”
Griff eyed the newcomer again with renewed interest. “You don’t look much like a circuit rider, nor sound like any preacher I ever heard. You look more like a cowboy. Maybe a lawman … ?”
“I’m afraid there ain’t much I can do ‘bout that.” The man spoke with great confidence. If he was afraid, he did not show it; Deborah believed, from the slightly amused glint in his eyes, that he was almost enjoying himself. “I guess I got more of my schooling in the saddle than at some fancy eastern university.”
Dissatisfied with the progress of the interrogation, Griff turned his attention to the pearl-handled Colt .44. He took it from Mitch and turned it over in his hand a few times. It was a fine specimen, as was the holster, which, though worn, was of quality Mexican craftsmanship.
“This here—” Griff motioned with the gun. “One of the tools of your trade, too?”
“I reckon I’d have to say it’s a necessary evil. The Word of God says to be gentle as a dove and wise as a serpent. It would be foolish to roam around in hostile Indian country unarmed.”
“And can you use it?”
“I can, but not without a mighty good reason.”
“So, who are you? And what do you want?”
“My name is Sam Killion. I’m riding over the country tending the Lord’s flock wherever I may find ’em. I saw a bit of smoke in the sky—”
“Hey, boss!” broke in Longjim. “Don’t that there name sound familiar? Killion … where’d I hear it … ?”
“I know!” said Sid. “I shoulda figured it out right away. Sam Killion—this here ain’t no preacher; he’s a
dirty Texas Ranger!”
All the outlaws tensed and, though Killion was unarmed, every hand eased toward a gun. Griff pulled his six-shooter and pressed its barrel against Killion’s cheek.
“Okay, pardner! I think it’s time you started talking straight.” Griff spoke evenly, without raising his voice, but he left no doubt about his seriousness. “You that Killion fella?”
Killion nodded.
“And this preacher business is just a smoke screen? You’re really Sam Killion the Ranger?”
“I’m an ex-Texas Ranger and a current preacher.”
“The Rangers are all supposed to be ‘ex’ now that the Union has taken over the State—but that don’t mean there ain’t some still operating. Ain’t you the Ranger that gunned down them Mexican banditos back before the war?” asked Longjim with unabashed admiration in his tone. “Griff, you heard ‘bout that, didn’t you? Way I heard it was them greasers had Killion pinned down in a deserted barn out by the Pecos. All Killion had was his loaded six-gun, no holster and no spare ammo. There was six Mexicans, and Killion was the only one to walk away alive. He had six bullets and made each one count!”
“That’s quite a piece of shooting,” said Griff.
Killion shrugged. For the first time, though, his expression grew solemn. “I killed five and wounded one,” he said grimly.
The brief silence that followed was broken by Sid Miller’s gruff voice. “Well, what are we gonna do with him? He knows where the hideout is now, ‘cause no blindfold is gonna stop a Ranger.”
Several of the others voiced similar concerns, with the consensus among these being that the Ranger had to be shot. But Longjim and a few others protested.
“You know what they’ll do to us if we kill a Texas Ranger? The Union may have put them outta commission for a spell, but they’re still a clannish lot—and dangerous!” reasoned Mitch.
“If I gotta hang anyway, I may as well get something worthwhile out of it,” said Sid.
The two factions debated heatedly for a few minutes, ending in a stalemate. Killion watched calmly as if his life didn’t hinge on the outcome of the argument.
When Griff estimated his boys had argued the issue into the ground, he spoke up. “Sid, you’re being a hot-headed fool,” he said in a perfectly cool tone. “Right now the law just wants us on general principles. But if we kill a Ranger, we may as well slit our own throats and have done with it. Them Texas Rangers’ll move heaven and earth to get us; they won’t rest till we’re all dangling from a rope.”
“I think you’re getting soft, Griff!” railed Sid.
“I’m getting smart,” said Griff, “like a serpent, right, preacher?”
“I don’t have no argument with that,” Killion replied.
“And what about tomorrow?” said Miller.
“Nothing needs to change,” answered Griff. “We’ll tie up Killion real good and leave him under guard. Then when we get back, we’ll take him downriver and leave him by one of them settlements. By the time he can do anything about it, we’ll be long gone.”
“What about the hideout?”
“So, we have to find another hideout—no big deal.”
“I don’t like it,” Miller grumbled.
“Well, you ain’t boss of this outfit,” retorted Griff, “and until you’re man enough to take over, you do what I say.”
“So be it!” Miller barked, more challenging than conceding. “But when this blows up in your face, it will be me the boys choose as leader.”
“Yeah, when they get a partiality to polecats!” sneered Griff, swinging around with his back pointedly toward Miller, holstering his gun almost as an added insult. He added to Slim, “Get some rope and bring it to the cabin.”
Griff nudged his prisoner toward the cabin door, shoving it open and pushing Killion inside. The ex-Texas Ranger’s look of imperturbable confidence momentarily faded into consternation as he first noticed the pregnant woman standing by the window.
16
Deborah ignored the stranger. She thought she detected a look of pious judgment in his appraisal of her, and thus she wanted no part of him. Without comment, she swept past him back to the table where she had been kneading bread dough before the interruption.
Griff led Killion to a corner of the cabin, shoved him to the floor, and proceeded to bind him firmly with the rope provided by Slim.
“You ought to be comfortable enough here for a few days—” Griff began.
“A few days!” exclaimed Killion sharply, revealing his first note of dismay since his arrival. “You don’t expect me to sit here all trussed up like a roasted goose for days!”
“It’s either that or letting old Sid out there fill you with lead.”
Killion shrugged resignedly. “I see what you mean.”
“Mrs. Stoner’ll see that you get fed proper-like. And Slim will guard you.”
“Me, boss?” protested Slim. “But I was planning to go with you to—”
“Put a lid on it, Slim. If our guest here finds out too much, we may just have to kill him.”
“Sorry, boss. But why do I have to stay behind? It ought to be Pablo or even Sid. I been here longer than them.”
“Yeah, but I can trust you, Slim. And, don’t worry, you’ll get your full share.”
“Okay,” Slim drawled reluctantly, “but I don’t like missing all the fun.”
“Maybe Mr. Killion will entertain you with his preaching,” Griff taunted good-naturedly. “If’n he really is a preacher.”
Slim groaned in reply. Then, swinging a leg over the log bench he sat down rather dejectedly at the table. He stared wistfully at Griff’s back as he exited the cabin.
Killion smiled. “I’d be happy to oblige you.”
“Anything but that—please!” pleaded Slim.
“What do you got to fear from the redemptive mercy of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ?” said Killion. His amusement faded into an earnestness. “He has the gift of everlasting life to offer you, brother—a gift, I might add, given freely to any who’ll just turn their hearts to Him.”
“My pappy used to tell me to be wary of Greeks bearing gifts,” said Slim smugly.
“Then you got nothing to fear, for Christ is no Greek.”
“Aw, you know what I’m getting at! There’s nothing in this world that’s free.”
“Except the love of Christ—a fact that the entire Gospel of salvation hinges on.”
Slim eagerly changed the subject. “You really a preacher?”
“Yup.”
“How’d you switch from Texas rangering to preaching?”
“It’s a long story, but I’d be happy—”
“Never mind!” Slim wasn’t dumb; he saw when he was getting lured once more into one of Killion’s religious tirades. He hitched himself to his feet. “I’m going out for a spell. Mrs. Stoner, you holler if he tries anything.”
Like a spooked rabbit, Slim darted out the door.
Deborah continued kneading her dough vigorously on the table. She was feeling as uncomfortable as Slim had with the stranger. The last thing she wanted was to be preached at, and she had no doubt that if this man was a genuine cleric, he’d find no loss of recriminations against her—that type always did, attacking appearance without regard to truth. Deborah’s father may have presented a moderate, balanced example of Christianity, but Deborah had been exposed to enough other types to support her suspicions. Virginia had its share of itinerant preachers, hollering about hellfire and damnation and the wrath of God. In fact, their own local parson was of that ilk. How Josiah Martin managed to retain his gentle outlook on religion, Deborah never knew. But she came to believe it had more to do with Josiah’s innate personality than with God’s character. Josiah Martin saw goodness in everything and everyone, so it was not surprising he’d attribute such qualities to God. Deborah found it easier to recognize the wrathful, avenging Deity who sends His judgment upon the just and the unjust alike.
Thus she averted her eyes from the
stranger, concentrating on her work. She placed the dough in a bowl, covered it with a cloth and carried it near the hearth, setting it down by the emanating heat. She had to pass in front of Killion to do so, but she paid no attention to him. Completing her task, she returned to the table to clean up and prepare supper. All the while she was acutely aware of Killion’s eyes on her, following her every movement.
Finally, the preacher spoke. “I hope you’ll forgive me, ma’am, for watching you. It’s just been a long time since I’ve watched such a homey scene. You know, kneading dough, making bread, all that. I ain’t been home for a long spell.”
Deborah remained silent, absorbed in measuring water from a pail into a large black kettle.
“I guess I’ll never forget,” the preacher continued, undaunted, “how my ma would make bread and then how I’d get a big, thick, hot slice spread with her boysenberry jam.” He took a deep, dreamy breath as if the aroma of his mother’s bread was filtering past him. “I don’t reckon you got any boysenberry jam here, do you?”
In spite of herself, she glanced up at the innocuous question, wondering what it would hurt to answer it. Instead, she dumped a measure of beans into the kettle.
“Ma’am,” said Killion contritely, “have I offended you in some way?”
Deborah lifted her eyes once more in his direction. “No” was all she said.
“Whew! That’s good. I wouldn’t want to do that. ‘Course, there’s no reason you got to be friendly. But if we’re to be holed up here together for a few days, there’s no sense in it being unpleasant. I’m afraid I have to admit I’m a man who likes conversation. I like to think I have some of the more spiritual gifts like wisdom, or prophecy, or faith; but one thing’s certain, I got an abundance of the gift of gab. I just have to believe God knew what He was doing when He gave it to me.” He paused. As much as he liked to talk, he preferred a two-sided exchange to listening to his own voice.
