by Judith Pella
“Indians,” Deborah corrected, but not harshly. “Cheyennes. And it is true.”
“I didn’t mean no offense, ma’am. I got nothin’ but high regard for them Inj—I mean, Indians, ma’am. Big part of my business is tradin’ with ’em, and it’s a cryin’ shame what’s become of ’em. Not to mention how this trouble’s played the dickens with business. When I took over the place last fall, it were thrivin’. I thought I had me a gold mine.”
“It will pick up again now that the weather is clearing,” offered Deborah, politely trying to keep up her end of the conversation.
“I reckon so. Winter’s never good for much of anything ‘cepting cold and hunger. I’ve sold a lot of whiskey, but I’d prefer trade of a different nature.” He paused, seeming for the moment to have run out of conversation.
Deborah took the pause as a sign that she should leave. “I had best let you get back to work, Mr. Smith. Thank you for your time.”
“Not a bit of trouble.” He smiled and the warmth of that small gesture more than made up for his alarming features. “As you can see—” he swept a hand in the air to indicate the empty store, “I got loads of time.”
She smiled in return, then turned to go. But as she reached the door, she realized she had no idea at all of where she would go. She was not only alone, but penniless, as well. Of course, the army would have been more than willing to put her up in one of those homes Lt. Godfrey had often mentioned, but she had no desire for this kind of charity. Instead, she turned back to the friendly storekeeper.
“Mr. Smith—”
But the fellow interrupted her with a loud but good-natured snort. “Oh, ma’am! I don’t know what to do when someone calls me Mister Smith—sounds like one of them fancy Nashville lawyers. I’m just Hardee to ever’one.”
“Well … Hardee, I was wondering if you knew where I might find lodgings in these parts?”
“Humm …” He ruminated as he rubbed his salt-and-pepper stubble. “There ain’t no such thing as a hotel here at the fort. But shouldn’t the army be obligated to look out for you?”
“I have been their prisoner for several months. I hardly relish the thought of now becoming their houseguest.”
“That do make sense, I reckon.”
“You wouldn’t perhaps have something,” said Deborah boldly, “that I could take in exchange for work … since I also have no money.”
“You’d be wantin’ to work for me?”
“I am a good worker.”
“I wouldn’t doubt it … wouldn’t doubt it a’tall. But it ain’t exactly genteel work here. Wouldn’t you prefer gettin’ back to the life you had before?”
“Never, Hardee.”
“Well, if’n you’re serious … I got a little room in back—nothin’ fancy, mind you, just big enough for you and the young’uns to be snug. I might could use help ‘round here once the trappers start coming ‘round, and the settlers, too, lookin’ for seed and what all.”
“Then I’ll take it, if you are willing.”
“I sure am.” He paused for a moment as another idea came to him. “I’d be even more willing if you could do somethin’ else for me. I reckon after all them years with the Cheyenne, you can speak the lingo right well.”
“Yes, I can, and Arapahoe as well, and some Sioux. I even know some rudimentary Pawnee.”
“Could you teach me the talk? I figger it could double my business.”
“I’d love to teach you.”
“Then it’s a deal.”
They shook hands on it, and Deborah found that she once again had a new home. And Hardee Smith never made her feel as if she were taking charity—in fact, he gave the distinct impression that he needed her as much as she needed him. Still, as he helped her turn the back room into living quarters, dragging in a straw mattress someone had traded him a while back, gathering blankets, and even locating a small storage chest, Deborah was acutely aware of the fact that she was again dependent on another—a man, to boot.
Would she ever be on her own, have her own place, her own home, be in control of her own destiny?
Part 6
Surrender
54
Killion was delighted when he heard of the turn in Deborah’s fortunes. However, knowing how difficult it must have been for her to break from her Cheyenne family, he made a concerted effort to subdue his enthusiasm.
He had sensed for some time that her path would eventually lead back to the white man’s world, though he had never voiced this feeling to her. Gray Antelope had shared her concerns with him regarding this, and he had encouraged her to talk to Deborah. Apparently she had, and had convinced Deborah not to follow the Indians onto the reservation. He regretted that he had been called away to officiate at a funeral and had not been there to lend support and encouragement to Deborah when the move took place, but, as he should have known, God had made provision for Deborah. He still could hardly believe she had cast her lot with good old Hardee Smith. A more mismatched pair he could not imagine, but Hardee was a kind, well-intentioned, if gruff and coarse, man; and Deborah could not have found a better situation for her and the children.
Over the next weeks Killion watched with satisfaction as Deborah settled in. Even while caring for her children, she earned her keep well in excess, and Hardee insisted on paying her a small salary as well as room and board. She not only kept the store clean beyond all the unkempt storekeeper’s dreams, but she proved to be a natural teacher and had Hardee speaking many full Cheyenne sentences before her first month was over. In addition, she cooked for Smith—better food than he had enjoyed in years—and helped him with the bookkeeping, a task that had always been difficult for him with his negligible education. A side-benefit to all this for Deborah was that daily exposure to Hardee was encouraging the children to pick up English.
But what delighted Killion more than all this was Deborah’s growing willingness to talk with him about the gospel. He didn’t even have to bring up the subject on their first meeting after his return to the fort. She accosted him!
“Mr. Killion, I’d like to talk with you about my friend, Gray Antelope.” She had sounded so formal; he at first thought she was going to take him to task for haranguing a poor, helpless Indian.
“I’d be pleased. Do you want to go somewhere more private?” They were standing in the store with several customers milling about.
“Shall we walk?”
“Let’s.”
The days were growing definitely fairer, more than hinting at the approach of that summer of 1869. A flock of geese winged overhead, and the gentle breeze carried the fragrant scent of prairie grass. The feel of newness and vitality pervaded the air. Killion knew that the land still suffered because of the Indian wars, the raids on settlers continuing, while the army maintained its unfair superiority. Misunderstanding and deceit seemed to reign over the affairs of men. But, nevertheless, Killion felt a lightness of heart as he stepped out into the balmy spring afternoon. Was it entirely because of the woman at his side, that she at long last seemed open to him, and perhaps even to his God? He had never ceased praying for her, although at times he had wondered if she would ever surrender. If all the trials and hardships she had encountered hadn’t turned her heart toward God, what would it take?
In Deborah’s case, it seemed her troubles had turned her from God instead of toward Him. Killion had puzzled over this, and though it wasn’t uncommon, he found himself often beseeching God about just how to minister to such a person. Once, while in prayer, the scripture in 1 Kings had come to his mind: And, behold, the Lord passed by, and a great and strong wind rent the mountains, and brake in pieces the rocks before the Lord; but the Lord was not in the wind: and after the wind an earthquake; but the Lord was not in the earthquake: and after the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was not in the fire: and after the fire a still small voice. And it was so, when Elijah heard it, that he wrapped his face in his mantle, and went out.
All the big, dangerous things weren’t gett
ing Deborah’s attention. For her, perhaps it must be on the scale of that “still small voice.” And perhaps it would, after all, be better that way, for Killion was always uncomfortable with the convert who did so under the stress of adverse circumstances. He preached his share of “hellfire and damnation” sermons—most of his listeners would have been downright disappointed if he didn’t—and he earnestly believed in the ultimate penalty for sin; but he always stressed that above all, God drew His people in love, not fear. That’s how he hoped Deborah would come to her God, through a deep stirring of love in her heart and a yearning after the true Lover of her soul.
He gazed covertly at her for a brief moment—still in her buckskin, still with her pale hair, grown somewhat longer since the death of her husband, and braided and wrapped Indian style … still lovely. Yet all the pain of her past was etched deeper into her countenance than the scars of mourning on her forearms. It was in the hollow, lost aspect of her eyes. But he sensed intuitively that her pain had not yet reached the point of complete despair. Though she might have experienced occasional moments of despair, he was certain he saw an unquenchable hope within her. Or was it simply wishful thinking on his part?
“So, Mrs. Graham, you’re concerned about Gray Antelope?” he asked casually enough to mask his anxious anticipation of this opportunity he felt God had provided.
“I don’t know if that is exactly how I would have put it, Mr. Killion. Of course, I am concerned about her well-being, now that we are separated. But my purpose in approaching you was due more to my curiosity.”
“Curiosity?”
“She had begun to act somewhat … peculiarly after the Sunday meeting we attended. She went up after the service to speak with you, and though I know that what transpired there is none of my business, I cannot help but wonder if her later actions had something to do with that incident.”
“She never spoke to you about what happened?”
“No, not really. But I never asked her.”
“Really? Weren’t you close friends?”
She stopped abruptly in their casual stroll and turned sharply to face him. One look into her stormy eyes told Killion he had spoken amiss.
“No, I didn’t ask,” she retorted. “It was none of my business! I don’t make a habit of interfering into other people’s lives.”
Killion made no response, his expression of benevolent concern did not alter. He had dealt with people enough to know when anger was directed inwardly and not at him personally. Deborah was struggling with herself, and that was good, but Killion felt a sympathetic distress for her nonetheless.
Deborah began walking again, and Killion strode quietly at her side. She could have walked off and left him at any moment. She could have asked him to leave her. But she said nothing about his continued presence. They walked for several minutes thus, Killion praying silently, Deborah staring straight ahead, the stony stillness of her face a poor mask for all the turmoil of emotions swirling about in her head. When she at last did speak, her features had begun to soften, and a smile even tried to infiltrate her earnestness.
“Thank you, Mr. Killion, for your patience with me,” she said. “I don’t know why I was suddenly so touchy.”
He smiled in return, a broad, easygoing smile. He knew exactly why she had behaved so, but he showed the good sense to keep this insight to himself. “No harm done, Mrs. Graham. I’ve met folks touchier than that. Why, just a couple of months ago a fellow in Wichita even challenged me to a gunfight after one of my services.”
“Really?”
“He said he’d become a believer if I was faster than him. Well, I told him I knew some about shooting and for his sake he oughta make his peace with God before the gunfight. Someone in the crowd shouted I was Killion the Texas Ranger, and that fellow dropped right then and there on his knees and accepted Christ as his Savior. But when he was done, he said he was still ready to fight me.”
“After all that, he still wanted to fight?” said Deborah, incredulous.
“That’s sort of the code of the West, ma’am. He called me out, and he felt honor-bound to give me satisfaction. Well, I looked at him and said, ‘I forgot to mention one thing. I don’t draw my gun on human beings anymore.’ He seemed relieved to hear this. I said, ‘If you want to change your mind about your conversion, I’ll understand.’ He shook his head and said, ‘I reckon if this here Jesus Christ is good enough for a Texas Ranger, he’s good enough for me!’”
“You must have many interesting experiences in your profession,” said Deborah, relaxing.
“Indeed I do.”
“How many Indian converts have you had?”
“Gray Antelope Woman was my very first one.”
“Would it be a breach of confidentiality for you to tell me what happened to her? Or, perhaps I should tell you what I observed. I could tell you about the great peace I saw in her those days after Sunday. And her serenity in spite of the fact that her world was obviously crumbling around her. She’d found something to sustain her, and she found it at your meeting. You know, she was a medicine man’s wife, deeply steeped in the spiritual traditions of the tribe. Thus, I find it incredible to think that she actually found Christianity.”
“She didn’t find Christianity, Mrs. Graham,” Killion replied matter-of-factly. “Not in the sense that you mean it. She didn’t find a religion. She found a Person. She told me that she thought that in these difficult times her people could use what I spoke about. I told her, I knew they could, but that Jesus Christ didn’t usually save nations; rather, He saved individuals like her. I explained that it was like each member of the tribe having his own personal Sun Dance, only in this case it was more like a Son Dance—the Son of God renewing each of His people. She said this was a dance she wished to join. I spoke with her on several occasions after this to make sure she had it all straight, and she really seemed to. That is one intelligent lady!”
“Yes, I have never known one wiser.”
“Wise enough to know a good thing when she sees it.”
“Would that I were so wise,” mused Deborah half to herself.
“You saw it in Gray Antelope, Mrs. Graham; that’s half the journey.”
“I’ve seen it also in my father, and in you, Mr. Killion. And I have admired it, yet at the same time, I must frankly admit that it has frightened me also, especially lately.”
“‘It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the Living God.’”
“Exactly!”
“What scares you most?”
Deborah could have given him the answer in a single word without even pausing to consider. She could have said, “I fear surrender, giving up control, remaining helpless.” But Sam Killion was a man. How could he possibly understand a woman who yearned for her independence? And, in order to make her case, she would have to talk about the last five years, especially the horrible time with Leonard Stoner. Not only was it all too painful to recount, it was too personal, too intimate, especially to tell a man. She hadn’t even been able to tell Broken Wing; and Killion, a nice enough man, was practically a stranger.
So, she buried this essential, fundamental fear deeper in her heart, and instead verbalized another, albeit valid, concern.
“How can I truly trust God, Mr. Killion?” she said. “How can I place myself in His hands when it seems He has brought so much difficulty to my life? Just when I think I might be able to, another crisis occurs. You talk about God loving and caring for people, but I wonder. Or, maybe it is just me He despises.”
“I’m sure it ain’t that, Mrs. Graham.” Killion scratched his red beard thoughtfully. “You know, it always amazes me how quick we are to blame God for all the bad things that happen. From hurricanes to heartburn, He seems to be the ready scapegoat. Maybe folks think that because He is all-powerful, and can do anything, that if He doesn’t stop the bad things, then that makes Him to blame for ’em. Just because He doesn’t prevent hardships, it doesn’t mean He causes them. Supposing He did prevent al
l disasters from happening? What would life be like then? Could we grow and learn; would we ever learn compassion or patience? It seems to me God has His reasons for not stepping in. If He did, we’d be like some china doll in a child’s playhouse. We’d be empty and hollow, helpless, useless almost. God don’t want no playthings; He wants real people who can think for themselves and make choices.”
Killion paused briefly, and when he continued, his eyes were glinting with enthusiasm. “But I’ll tell you what really bothers me about blaming God for the bad things—” but he stopped abruptly with an apologetic grin when he realized he was starting to preach. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I guess this is one of my pet peeves. I didn’t mean to light into you.”
“Don’t stop now, Mr. Killion. If you have an answer to this, I want to hear it,” encouraged Deborah.
“I don’t know if it’s an answer. It’s more like an insight, and it’s just that we seldom think to ‘blame’ any of the good things on God. The flood that wiped out the farm is God’s fault, but the sunshine that brought the bumper crop of wheat … it just was. Mrs. Graham, you feel hurt and even betrayed by the awful things that have happened to you—and you’ve had a heap of them, I won’t deny. I don’t know why your brother was killed, or why things didn’t go better for you in Texas, or why Broken Wing had to die. I just don’t know! But try to look at it from a different angle. You could have been hanged in Texas, but Griff McCulloch came out of nowhere and rescued you. You could have died out there on the prairie when you got separated from him; you could have been found by a rattlesnake, but instead, it was Broken Wing who found you. And with him you knew real happiness, didn’t you? Did God give you that time of happiness, or did He take it away? I guess that’s what it boils down to—what kind of God is He? I can tell you what I believe, what I know in my heart, but it won’t mean nothing to you until you figure it out for yourself.”
