by Judith Pella
“Now I’m curious. Do go on.”
“Well, you said something a minute ago that I hear a lot. I guess it is one of those cockeyed notions I mentioned before. You spoke of your father’s faith and how it wasn’t enough for you.”
“Yes …”
“Here’s what you might find surprising: your father’s faith is just that—his faith. I expect a parent’s faith covers a child while he is young, but there comes a time when that just ain’t enough, when a man—or woman—has to blaze her own spiritual path, acquire her own faith and relationship with Jesus Christ. You take my ma, for instance. She is about the most saintly, godly woman I know. But that didn’t keep me from having to test the waters myself, though I know now her prayers protected me in some pretty dangerous situations. But I had to go under many times before I finally struck the true path to God. And I had to do that alone, just between me and God. It was only then that I began to change and grow, and that I began to see the answers to my need. Oh, believe me, I’ve still got plenty of questions and there’s still a passel of things I don’t understand, but now that I know God personally, I can better trust Him to eventually come through for me, even when times get dark and the questions start to outdistance the answers.
“My mother’s faith is a beautiful thing, but it was no better to me than a valuable china bowl on a shelf. Faith ain’t no delicate china. It’s a good sturdy tin plate you can pack in your saddlebag and take along and use every day on the trail. But even a tin plate is useless unless you got it right along with you and it’s yours. I wouldn’t want to trust borrowing someone else’s, especially in a pinch.” Killion paused, took a breath and smiled rather sheepishly. “Once I get started, Mrs. Graham,” he said, “I can go on forever.”
“You need not apologize, Mr. Killion. What you said makes a lot of sense. It does rather surprise me, for I have never considered it in quite that way before.”
“Most folks haven’t.”
“I always thought of myself as a good Christian girl. Maybe that’s why I became so bitter when it seemed to me I had been deserted.”
“God never deserts, ma’am. It’s always us who do the deserting.”
Killion paused as a large cloud of dust in the distance caught his attention. Riders were approaching, but they were still too far to discern who they were and if they were friendly.
“Mrs. Graham,” Killion said, a bit concerned, “I think we ought to head back to the fort.”
Deborah felt more hope than fear at the sight, though she knew it could not possibly be a war party. The Indian horses, that early in spring, would be too weak and hungry to ride at such a hurried pace. It was not a war party come to rescue her and the others. Yet she returned to the fort with Killion just the same. She did not like to be gone so long from her children. Besides, she had begun to feel strange emotions within at the direction of her conversation with Killion, and she was somewhat fearful of it continuing. So, she accepted this interruption as a rescue of sorts. She needed time to absorb all Killion had said—time alone, not in the company of this convincing and charismatic man.
As they stepped inside the protective gates of the fort, she politely, perhaps coolly, thanked him for taking time to visit her. She gave him no reason to doubt that the conversation was over.
Before they parted, however, Killion spoke once more. “I’d like to invite you to my meeting this Sunday, over in the chapel—well, I’d like to think of it as a chapel in spite of the heavy presence of stale tobacco smoke and whiskey in the place. It’s really the recreation hall because the chapel is too small. Anyway, I’d be pleased if you could come.”
“Thank you, Mr. Killion. I will try to attend.”
He wasn’t sure by her tone if she truly intended to try or if she was just patronizing him, but, undaunted, he continued. “Also, before I take your leave, I best speak for Lt. Godfrey as I promised.”
“Please, don’t waste your breath, Mr. Killion,” she said without rancor. “I know what he wants, and I cannot comply.”
“Just as long as you know he is a good man and has only your best welfare, as he sees it, in mind. They ain’t all bad, you know, Mrs. Graham.”
“I know.” Then suddenly she smiled and added, “Neither are all preachers, Mr. Killion.” Her tone warmed as she spoke. “I am grateful for your concern.”
“I hope to see you Sunday.”
Deborah nodded vaguely and continued on her way toward the prisoners’ quarters. Killion watched her until she had disappeared inside. She was quite a woman. In many ways she was a mystery, but she was the kind of mystery that you didn’t mind devoting a lot of time to solving. She was so vulnerable, yet Killion had the distinct impression that once she got her life in order and once she realized who ought to be first in that life, she would be a woman of tremendous substance.
“Lord,” Sam Killion prayed silently, “bring Deborah face-to-face with you. Let her see your majesty and your unrestrained love.”
Killion nodded to himself, satisfied that his prayer would reach up to attentive, loving ears, and that his God would not forget Deborah Stoner.
51
On that Sunday in spring of 1869, Deborah felt oddly compelled to attend Sam Killion’s church service. She tried to tell herself it was from politeness—after all, he had showed interest in her and so it was the least she could do to return the gesture.
She bathed herself and the children, scrubbing them as clean as was possible in the small basin provided by the quartermaster. She dressed the children in clean clothes that had been provided by some benevolent army wife. They were white man’s clothes and it irked her to use them, but since she had no other clothes for the children, she was forced to swallow her pride in this instance. She continued to wear her same buckskin shift. When it needed to be washed, as she had made a point of doing before the service, she wrapped herself in a blanket while Gray Antelope Woman did the washing. Gray Antelope and many of the women had eagerly taken to wearing the clothing provided. To them, the calicos and the full skirts were an unequaled luxury. There were even a couple of corsets in the box of castoffs that both perplexed and amused the Indian women. The shoes, however, were a torture none could bear; they remained untouched except by some of the children for their make-believe games.
Deborah supposed she had more to prove than her Cheyenne sisters, whose skin and hair color was the only badge of honor they needed. Thus her Indian garb offset her pale skin and hair and marked her, for good or ill, as one of the prisoners.
Gray Antelope surprised Deborah by agreeing to accompany her to the service. Deborah had forgotten her friend’s comments some time ago about the white preacher. She was just glad to have the older woman’s company, even more so as they approached the recreation hall and fell in with the other residents of the fort who were making their way to the service.
The presence of bluecoated soldiers made her nervous, as did the two or three frontier scouts in the crowd to whom this was probably a rare opportunity to attend a real church service. But far more than these, it was the white women in the gathering that most disturbed Deborah. Isolated as she had been with the prisoners, she had had little cause to mix with the handful of white women in the fort. One or two had paid goodwill visits to the prisoners’ quarters, but Deborah had always made a point of being absent at those times. Even on the Stoner Ranch she had been given little opportunity to interact with the other women in the area. Now, for the first time in years she was mingling with women of her own race. She felt odd, out of place, awkward. These women with their fine calico frocks, bonnets tied primly around neatly groomed hair, skin as soft and smooth and white as alabaster, were of a world as far removed as any make-believe fairyland a child might imagine. Deborah’s bronzed skin, so pale compared to her Cheyenne friends’ skin, all at once stood out like a glaring flaw. She had never felt shame before about her place among the Indians, and was certain she did not feel so now; but suddenly she found herself thinking of what she might ha
ve become had she stayed in Virginia, the pampered daughter of gentry, a southern lady.
But would she also have looked with disdain upon outsiders, as several of these women were now doing? Would she have whispered carelessly behind their backs, convinced that savages, and those who consented to live with savages, had no feelings?
Deborah caught snatches of the whispers as she passed, but she held her head high, set her chin defiantly, and walked resolutely.
“White squaw woman …”
“Half-breed son …”
“Did so willingly!”
“Of all things!”
Any doubts Deborah might have had about her loyalty to the Cheyenne prisoners were dispelled. She knew she was better off as she was now than as she might have been. She would never fit into that world of genteel white women.
These thoughts did not leave her in the best frame of mind to accept words about the “white” God. These women were Christian, God-fearing scions of civilization, yet where was their love and simple compassion? Did they believe in a different god than the one her father and Sam Killion spoke of? By whom was she expected to judge God? If not by His followers, then by whom, or what?
Deborah’s reverie was momentarily interrupted as she entered the hall and found seats on the rough wooden benches procured for the occasion. She and Gray Antelope sat toward the back, not so much because of the children, who were too well-trained to disturb the meeting, but rather because she felt little welcome from the occupants of the front rows, mostly officers and their wives.
Killion was seated at the front of the room facing the congregation. His head was bowed as they entered but when the audience began to settle down and quiet, he lifted his head and stood.
“Mrs. Travis,” he said to a woman seated at a piano, “would you begin with ‘Rock of Ages’?”
Killion began the hymn with robust enthusiasm and soon even the most grizzled soldier in the crowd was joining in. Deborah found herself singing the familiar old hymn, too. The words escaped her lips easily, as if it had been only a week, not many years, since she had heard the song, or even been to church.
The next hymn Killion seemed to take special relish in, as evidenced by his broad grin and the lively swinging of his arms. And, because of its aptness to this particular gathering, the audience took up the rousing tune eagerly.
“Onward Christian soldiers, marching as to war, with the cross of Jesus going on before….”
When everyone was adequately warmed up, Killion motioned for Mrs. Travis to end her piano-playing; then he turned to the crowd, eyes blazing with anticipation of what was to come.
“Whew!” he said with a laugh, “that makes my blood run hot! I’m ready for war, folks. I’m ready to fight the good fight! How about you?”
From the crowd, a man yelled in response, “There’s plenty of Injuns to go ‘round, Preacher!”
Without a moment’s hesitation, Killion replied, “Don’t you know, brother, our battle ain’t against Indians. No sir! The Word of God itself declares, ‘For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places.’ The apostle Paul surely wasn’t referring to no Indians when he said that, my friend! He’d never laid an eye on one of our Indians. I’ll tell you who Paul was talking about: someone more cunning, more deceptive, more evil than anyone you’d ever find on the Plains—none other than the devil himself. Satan! That’s who our battle is against, and if he wins, you don’t risk just losing your scalp, or even just your life. You’re gonna lose your very soul!
“And I’ll tell you plainly, it’s gonna take a lot better commander than Phil Sheridan or George Custer—no offense, boys!—to win the fight against such a foe. In fact, there ain’t no man around, not even Ulysses S. Grant himself, who can fight that fight!
“But don’t give up hope. We ain’t doomed. We ain’t alone! We ain’t surrounded and out of ammo. We have, but a prayer away, more power than a hundred Gatling guns, a thousand cannons, and all the generals ever to take the field. You all know who I’m talking about, don’t you?”
Killion paused, looked around the audience, lingering upon several faces, catching their eyes with such a personal interest they felt as if he were speaking directly to them. When his gaze fell upon Deborah, her eyes held his for a moment; then, flustered, she looked away. But she continued to listen raptly to every word. It wasn’t easy to ignore the intense fervor of Killion’s voice, especially when he answered his own question with a tone that trembled with awe and reverence.
“The Lord Jesus Christ!” The name of his Lord tumbled over his emotion. Tears stood in his eyes as he raised his voice and quoted as if he were gazing directly at the throne of God: “‘Lift up your heads, O ye gates; and be ye lifted up, ye everlasting doors; and the King of glory shall come in. Who is this King of glory? The Lord strong and mighty, the Lord mighty in battle.’ What a general we have in Jesus! What a warrior we have! If God is for us, then who can be against us?”
Several hearty “Amens” from the audience accompanied his statement.
Then for several minutes, Killion spoke about how to have this mighty warrior on a man’s side and what kept Him at bay, elaborating on the folly of sin and the fate of those who persist in sin. He minced no words, observed no polite decorum. He laid out in clear, terrible terms just what it meant to be separated from God by sin. Sweat trickled down his face with the exertion of his emotion, and the skin beneath his red beard flamed crimson with his passion. He emanated a very real distress over the prospect that any should be caught in that terrible place. Many of his listeners began to squirm beneath the reality of such zealous concern.
Deborah listened to his words, but her mind wandered—not from boredom, for no matter what a person’s reaction to Killion’s preaching might be, boredom certainly had no part in it. What captured Deborah’s attention, almost mesmerizing her, were Killion’s expressions and the captivating tone of his voice. His was not a polished, intellectual bearing. If he had ever received any formal training in the ministry, it had not robbed the quintessential element of personal involvement from what he preached. Then Deborah recalled what Gray Antelope had once observed about Killion. He spoke from his heart. He felt every statement, believed every word, and the sorrow he experienced over those who rejected these things sprang from a fountain of love.
It surprised Deborah when she realized thirty minutes had passed. Hardly anyone had moved or even breathed. Blue Sky had fallen asleep in Deborah’s arms, and even Carolyn was sitting quietly, sucking her thumb.
Then Killion’s tone abruptly changed, lightening with a hope that reflected brightly in his eyes.
“But don’t despair!” he said. “All is not lost. You are hanging over a fiery pit, by a rope that is slowly but surely unraveling. It looks bad; you ain’t got much time left. But the hand of God is ready at a moment’s notice to save you. Don’t be mistaken, though, He ain’t gonna be impressed by your goodness or your virtue. No sir! There is only one thing that is going to make Him able to look upon you and pluck you from Satan’s lair.
“Only the blood of Jesus! The pure, clean, wonderful blood of our Lord. The blood He shed in order to bring salvation to this rotten, despicable world. Are you covered by the blood, folks?”
Again Killion’s eyes swept the audience, probing, searching, beseeching.
“Are you sure? You don’t want to take any chances; this is too important. Your eternal soul lies in the balance.
“God wants to reach out to you. He wants to save you from Satan’s pit. He loves you—each and every one of you. That’s the really good news! God loves you! He loves you enough to have sacrificed His Son for you. Jesus spilled His blood for you. He doesn’t want anyone to fall into that pit. But it’s up to you. God is waiting patiently … patiently.” Killion lowered his voice to a fervent whisper, “Patiently.”
His eyes closed and, tilting his head
back as if his inner eyes were focused fully on the heavenlies, he began to sing in a stirring tenor:
There is a fountain filled with blood
Drawn from Emmanuel’s veins;
And sinners, plunged beneath that flood,
Lose all their guilty stains:
Lose all their guilty stains,
Lose all their guilty stains,
And sinners, plunged beneath that flood,
Lose all their guilty stains.
The audience listened in rapt silence. Killion’s voice floated over the gathering with such subdued power, such reverent love, that Deborah found tears welling up in her eyes. Words she had heard all her life suddenly seemed to come alive, and it was obvious they were not mere words to him.
E’er since by faith I saw the stream
Thy flowing wounds supply,
Redeeming love has been my theme,
And shall be till I die….
As he began the next verse of the hymn, his voice trembled over the words and tears seeped from the corners of his closed eyes:
When this poor lisping, stammering tongue
Lies silent in the grave,
Then in a nobler, sweeter song
I’ll sing Thy power to save….
Killion’s voice trailed away, and complete silence filled the room. His eyes remained closed, and though Deborah noted that many others also had closed eyes, she could not shut hers even if she did feel somewhat like a Peeping Tom spying on the audience. But for the most part, she was watching only Killion, fascinated by his animation as he communed with the One whom he had so eloquently extolled. Tears continued to trickle from his closed eyes, but an enraptured smile slipped across his lips.
When he spoke again, Deborah was a little disappointed that he had stopped singing, but she continued to be compelled to listen, especially since his voice had become soft with gentle entreaty.
“Father God in heaven, I know you are working on the hearts of every man and woman in this room. I know you love us and will never give up on us.” He paused, then, still with eyes closed, directed his next words at his listeners. “My friends, will you join me in singing a final verse to this precious hymn, and as we sing, search your hearts, and don’t put off for another minute entering into the glorious life Christ has waiting for you. Come forward and publicly proclaim your repentant heart and desire to follow Jesus!”
