The Rough Rider

by Gilbert, Morris

  Aaron was glad for the distraction, for he did not want to talk. He picked up his fork and tried to eat, but the food seemed to stick in his throat. Finally, he laid his fork down and said hoarsely, “I’m . . . I’m sorry about Jubal.” The words had to be forced from taut lips that grew white when he pressed them together. It was not what he really wanted to say. Everything inside him wanted to cry out with bitterness that it was unfair, and that he should’ve known better than to take the boy. He could not meet their eyes, but sat there staring bitterly at the floor with grief-stricken eyes.

  Quickly, Tom Winslow glanced over at Faith. They both grasped at once the terrible guilt that weighed down the man before them. In a voice that was strangely gentle, Tom said, “You must not blame yourself, Aaron. Jubal went of his own free will with our blessing. We all knew that it was a dangerous undertaking. We knew the risks that he might face.”

  Faith was standing at the stove getting more coffee. She put it down and came back to stand behind Aaron. “You’ve got to forgive yourself.” Her voice was gentle, and yet her hand on his shoulder seemed to burn into Aaron.

  Aaron said bitterly, “If I’d made him stay here, he’d be alive!”

  “You don’t know that—he might have been killed in a runaway wagon or gotten cholera. You’ve got no cause to blame yourself, Aaron,” Tom said. The loss of his only son had been a pain worse than anything he’d ever known. He was, however, a man of strong Christian faith, and he and Faith through much prayer had come to grips with their terrible loss. Now Tom saw that Aaron did not have the same resources to handle such a tragedy. “Do you want to tell us about it?” he asked quietly.

  Aaron hesitated, then blurted out, “Yes!” He felt relieved that he finally had a chance to unburden himself, to get it all out. He sat back in his chair and began to speak, slowly and with awkward pauses. “He was always cheerful,” he said slowly. “I never heard him complain about anything. It was terrible trudging up those mud-covered passes, and the cold was the devil. The rest of us griped all the time, but Jubal never did. . . .”

  Faith and Tom sat there taking in his words, and when Aaron spoke of how Jubal’s Christian faith had never wavered, how he’d witnessed of Christ to everyone he encountered, they smiled at each other. Faith lifted the corner of the apron she was wearing and wiped the tears from her eyes, but they were not tears of bitterness. They were ones of a mother who was proud of the life of her son.

  Finally, Aaron halted. “He was the finest Christian I ever knew,” he said hoarsely. “I’d give anything to bring him back . . . !”

  Tom could tell that Aaron was stretched almost past the limit. “We’ll talk about it more. Come on—I’ll show you your room.” Aaron followed his uncle to his room, and while he unpacked, Tom returned to the kitchen. “That young man is in bad shape, Faith. He’s carrying a heavy burden. Grief can kill a man—maybe not as quick as a bullet, but just as painfully.”

  “He doesn’t know the Lord, Tom,” Faith said quietly. “He doesn’t have a means of dealing with all this.”

  “I know,” said Tom.

  The two sat in silence at the table thinking of their son. They’d dreamed of a full life for him, as all parents do, and now he was gone. Finally it was Tom who said, “We’ll have to do what we can to help bring Aaron out of this. He can’t go on hating himself like this. Did you see his eyes? I’ve never seen such bitterness!”

  Faith reached across to Tom. He took her hands and squeezed them. “We’ll have to turn it over to God. Maybe Ruth can help. She’s good at talking with people who are hurting.”

  Aaron was still up when Ruth came back. He was sitting on the front porch talking idly with Tom. It was after ten o’clock, and he had managed to gain some control of his nerves. When he heard the sound of a carriage, he stood as it stopped in front of the house. Out of the darkness a soft voice spoke, then a young woman came up the walkway.

  “Look, Ruth—Aaron’s here! All the way back from the Klondike!”

  Ruth Winslow halted abruptly. The light from the oil-burning lamp filtered through the window and revealed a tall girl with light-colored eyes. Seeing her cousin on the porch, Ruth came to him at once. A smile curled her lips upward as she grabbed his hands and said, “I’m so glad to see you, Aaron! I want to hear all about Jubal.”

  “Not tonight!” Faith said quickly, knowing that Aaron could not face any more talk about his cousin. “You can hear all that tomorrow. Now, tell us all about the meeting.”

  Aaron stood for a while, listening to the three talk about the revival meeting Ruth had attended in Independence. He was glad his aunt Faith had averted any more talk about Jubal, for he knew he could not bear to speak of it right then. It had been hard enough to face Jubal’s parents, but to talk about it again with Ruth would be too much. I won’t stay long, he thought to himself. This is no good—my being here—but I had to come.

  ****

  All the next day, Aaron forced himself to be cheerful around his relatives—but it proved extremely difficult. He kept seeing the face of Jubal in the features of his parents, and he could not put it aside. Finally, he said at supper, “I’ve got to get back and see my folks.”

  “Stay a few days, Aaron,” Faith urged. “We’d love to have you.” She saw, however, that he’d already made up his mind and she nodded. “I know that Davis and Belle are anxious to see you. They wrote us and mentioned how much they’ve missed you.” She went to him and put her hand on his shoulder. “Aaron, your uncle and I are so glad you came. It has helped us a great deal to hear about Jubal.”

  Later that night after Tom and Faith had gone to bed, Ruth came to Aaron as he sat on the front porch staring blankly out into the night. She was one of those women who, despite her cheerful ebullience, was able to listen well. After a long time, he found himself speaking about Jubal without being aware of it. He told of the time that Jubal had stood up and preached a sermon. “He was a good preacher,” Aaron said softly, thinking of the time he had gone and heard Jubal preach in a feed store that had been converted into a church. “He preached on Jonah. I remember he said, ‘A greater than Jonah is here.’ It was a sermon on the resurrection of Jesus, and he made it all so . . . so real! Since the day I heard him, I haven’t been able to get away from that sermon, Ruth.” He turned and stared at the girl, whose face was silhouetted by the silvery light of the moon. “What Jubal said kept coming back to me. ‘If you could find the tomb of Buddha, you’d find a body in it. And if you could find the grave of Confucius, that man would be there, but the tomb of Jesus Christ is empty!’ ” Aaron leaned forward and put his chin in his hands, thinking of that time. He said no more, but Ruth somehow sensed that her brother’s stirring sermon had tremendously impacted this tall cousin of hers, who sat beside her staring out into the darkness of the night.

  She wanted to urge Aaron to accept that Gospel, but somehow she felt the Spirit of God restraining her from saying anything. He’s not ready yet, something seemed to say to her. You must pray that he will be made ready.

  The silence dragged on until finally Aaron spoke with a distinct strain in his voice. “There’s something I haven’t told you.”

  “What’s that, Aaron?” Ruth asked quietly, leaning forward to see his face. She saw that his lips were pulled tightly together, and even as she watched, he reached up and passed his hand over his face in an involuntary, almost helpless gesture. It was a strange sort of movement, yet enough to reveal the frustration and bitterness she had sensed in him from the moment she’d seen him.

  “I . . . I told you and your folks how Jubal had died—that he was buried in snow from an avalanche and that we couldn’t get him out in time.”

  “Yes, you’ve told us about that,” said Ruth, waiting for him to go on.

  “What I . . . what I didn’t tell you was that when the snow came down at us, it came so fast I couldn’t move. We were all out on a ledge and I . . . I just stood there! I froze and couldn’t move. It was Jubal who grabbed me and shov
ed me back, away from the outer edge. I fell back and looked up just in time to see Jubal thrown over the edge by the avalanche.” Aaron’s voice had grown unsteady. He grasped his hands together tightly and his voice was a rasp. “If he hadn’t done that, Ruth—he could’ve saved himself!” He struggled for a moment, then turned to look at her, his grief making his eyes bright in the pale moonlight. “He gave his life for mine—that’s what I’m trying to tell you. And it’s not right—Jubal’s the one who should have lived, not me.”

  Ruth Winslow reached over and gently pulled Aaron’s hands away from his face. She saw how tortured he was by the memory of her brother’s death. She understood his pain and loss, for she and Jubal had been close—closer than most brothers and sisters. Her life had been tied to his, and when the news reached them that he was dead, it was as if the sun had been stricken from the sky.

  Leaning forward, holding his hands tightly, she said, “Aaron, you must stop blaming yourself!”

  “How can I help it?” His voice was bitter and the twisted features of Aaron Winslow’s face revealed the heavy guilt he was suffering.

  “It will destroy you if you don’t put it aside,” Ruth said.

  “Put it aside?” Aaron snapped. “How can I do that? It’s like I killed him!”

  “No—that’s not true!” Ruth shook his hands gently. “Listen to me, Aaron, please!” She waited until he calmed down, then said, “Jubal is with God now. His time on earth had meaning. Why, he was the one who led me to Jesus Christ, and he gave his life to save yours. That’s more than some men do in a whole lifetime.”

  “Then why did God let him die?”

  “We can never know things like that, but let me tell you this—” Ruth took a deep breath and continued, “His life will have whatever meaning you give it, Aaron.” She saw his head jerk up at her words. He turned to stare at her, and then, she said even more slowly, “If your life is wasted, then so is his death. But if you do something great, it will be Jubal’s work in a way, because he made it possible for you to do it.”

  Far away a dog howled stridently, then barked in a staccato fashion. Aaron sat there silently trying to make sense of Ruth’s words. Finally he rose and said, “He was a fine man. I’d give anything, even my own life, to bring him back, but I can’t do it!” Quickly he turned and went into the house.

  The next day, Aaron left, and it was Ruth who followed him out to the carriage. The last thing she said to him, lifting her face to his, was in a whisper, “Remember, only you can make Jubal’s life have meaning!”

  Aaron stared at her, nodded, then solemnly climbed into the carriage and rode to the station. As the train carried him farther east, clattering over the rails, he thought about Tom Winslow and Faith and Ruth. They’ve got a faith most don’t have—and my folks have it too. Most of all, he thought about what Ruth had said about Jubal. He could make little of it, for the bitterness within him still burned his spirit. Strangely enough, as the train wound its way toward the East, he felt better. Facing Jubal’s family had been one of the hardest things he’d ever had to do in his life, but that was over. Now as the wheels clicked out a steady cadence, Aaron Winslow took a deep breath and looked out the window, wondering what the future held for him.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Aaron Makes a Promise

  “Who could that be at this hour!” Davis Winslow rubbed his eyes and sat up abruptly in the large poster bed at the sound of pounding on the front door.

  Across from him, Belle stirred and sat up as well. As Davis fumbled about, throwing his feet out of the bed and feeling for his slippers, she said, “I can’t imagine! I hope nothing’s wrong at the college!”

  Pulling on his robe, Davis groped his way out of the bedroom, pausing to pull a cord that dangled in the center of the hallway. The new electric lights that had been recently installed in the college president’s home flicked on. And as always, he was a little shocked by the bright light that instantly illuminated the hall. He was a very conservative man, this Davis Winslow, and he was fond of saying, “I’ve seen a lot of changes in my lifetime, and I’ve been against most every one of them!” However, he was grateful for this new wonder, if for no other reason than the lights saved his eyes for his long hours of reading every night.

  Reaching the front door, he pulled it open and stood there, staring blankly at the tall figure in front of him. “Aaron! What in the world—”

  “The bad penny’s come home again, Dad!” Aaron smiled. He allowed his father to pull him through the door, and then he set his suitcase down. “I should have taken a hotel room, I guess, rather than wake you up in the middle of the night. It’s after two o’clock.”

  “Aaron!” Belle entered the foyer and moved across the floor quickly, tying the belt to her robe. She threw her arms around Aaron’s neck, and he bent over and kissed her noisily on the cheek. They clung to each other for a moment, for they’d always had a warm relationship. Belle often said, “You get all that devilment in you from me, Aaron! I was just like you when I was your age!” Stepping back, she reached up and laid her hand on his stubbled cheek. “Why didn’t you wire us and tell us you were coming?”

  Aaron stretched his shoulders wearily. “You never know when these blasted trains will get in!” He grinned at his father, adding, “Why don’t you do something about that? This one was two hours late!”

  “Come on in, son,” Davis said, grabbing Aaron by the arm. They led him into the kitchen, and Belle stirred up the fire and began to heat the coffee. For half an hour they pumped him with questions faster than he could answer, until finally he threw up his hands. “Not so fast—you don’t have to know everything at once, do you?”

  But Belle and Davis were anxious to hear all about their son’s travels. Belle poured the coffee, scalding hot as Davis liked it, and the three sat down. The two older people listened eagerly as Aaron told them of his time in the Klondike.

  As president of a college, Davis had learned how to read young men. Listening to Aaron’s story, he saw that something was troubling this son of his. Finally, as Aaron finished, Davis understood what was burdening his son. “You’re hurting over Jubal’s death, aren’t you, son?”

  Aaron shot a startled glance at his father. “You always could read my mind, Dad,” he muttered. Leaning forward, he put his chin on his hand—looking suddenly very young. “Who wouldn’t be?” he said quietly. “It was my fault he died. If he hadn’t rushed to shove me out of the way, I think he would have made it.”

  “He was a fine young man,” Belle whispered. She reached over and took Aaron’s hand in hers and held it. “We’ll never forget him, and I’m forever grateful to him.”

  There was a stubborn set in Aaron’s face, she saw, and he said, “It’s not fair! He had his whole life before him and now he’s gone.”

  Belle shot a quick glance at her husband, then said, “How are his folks taking it?”

  “Better than I am!”

  “Tom and Faith have always been strong people in the Lord,” Davis remarked. Realizing that it would do little good to talk at the moment, Davis skillfully led the questioning to other things about Aaron’s trip.

  Belle listened quietly, and then finally said, “We’ve got to get this young man to bed. We’ve got lots of time to talk later.”

  “That suits me,” Aaron said, glad to end the talk about Jubal’s death. He stood up, picked up his suitcase, and headed up the stairs toward his room. “I’m hungry for some of your good pancakes, Mother,” he called out. “I’ve missed those more than anything else!”

  Belle called back, “You’ll have them for breakfast—all you can eat!”

  As his footsteps faded down the upstairs hallway, Belle turned and said, “He’s not doing well, Davis. He’s hurting terribly over Jubal’s death.”

  A troubled light flickered over Davis’s eyes, and he ran his hand through his thick hair and shook his head. “You can’t blame him for that, dear. I saw it happen a number of times in the war. It seemed like th
at was one of the worst things—when a man saved someone else, the fellow who lived sometimes never got over it. Thank God that Jubal was a Christian and is with the Lord now!”

  “Yes,” Belle said thoughtfully. She looked up the long stairway that led to the second floor and could hear Aaron shutting the door to his room. “He’s got a streak of something in him that I’ve never seen before. I’m worried about him, Davis. We’ll have to talk more tomorrow.”

  ****

  The next day after a sumptuous breakfast of pancakes with rich syrup, Aaron and Davis sat talking. After the maid had cleared the table, they all moved into the drawing room. Aaron sat in a chair across from a cream-colored divan where his parents sat and said, “I feel out of place. At my age a man should have a vocation, a calling, and I don’t have the vaguest idea of what to do, and I know you’re disappointed about it.”

  “That’s not true,” Davis said instantly. “Lots of men don’t find themselves until they’re much older than you are.” He stared at his son’s face, then said, “Would you like to go back to college? We’ll see to it if you would.”

  “I’m a little bit old to be a schoolboy,” Aaron said, shifting his weight on the chair uncomfortably. “I’d hoped to strike it rich in the Klondike,” he grinned sardonically. “Then I could just be a rich bum! I suppose that’s all I’m suited for.” He thought for a moment, then said, “I’d sure like to see Cass and Serena make a big strike, but I guess that’s a long shot.”

  Belle bit her lip nervously and said, “Aaron, your father and I are worried about Lewis.”

  “Lewis? What about him? He’s in New York with Uncle Mark, isn’t he?”

  “Yes,” Davis answered slowly. “He went there hoping Mark could find him a job in the railroad. He really doesn’t know what he wants to do either.”

  Aaron laughed shortly. “How does it feel to have two worthless sons that can’t make up their own minds? You must be real proud of that.”

  There was a sharpness in his voice that neither of his parents had ever heard. They both realized instantly that the experience in the Klondike had done something to Aaron that was not good. There was a caustic quality about him that had not been there before he left.