“We’ll see.” Crockett winked at a wide-eyed Joanna, who stood beside her father. Jasper and the other hands looked at him as if he’d lost his mind.
Silas’s face took on a red hue, but he kept his temper in check. He tossed the reins at Crockett and smacked his shoulder with the force of a small grizzly. “You’re a big talker, Parson. But we already knew that, didn’t we? Time to see if your actions match up.”
26
Nearly everyone at the picnic turned out for the shooting contest. Man after man stepped up to the line and took aim at the first target. The crowd held its collective breath until a shot was fired and then either cheered or groaned, depending on whether or not the bullet hit the scoring disc.
Nelson Ward, still waddling a bit after tasting all the pies during the baking contest, served as referee. Following each shot, he emerged from one of the safety positions, circled the mark where the bullet struck the target with a carpenter’s pencil, and wrote the shooter’s initials below it. Only shots that hit within six inches of the center of the painted X would qualify to move on to the next round, where the distance would be increased.
Crockett eyed Silas as he came up to the line. The man strolled forward with the swagger of a marksman confident in his abilities. Previous contestants had taken the time to check the wind or bend their bodies into the perfect stance before raising their rifles. When Silas reached the line, though, he simply lifted his weapon and fired a shot in one continuous motion. The whole exhibition was over in an instant.
A twinge of unease settled in Crockett’s gut. It was a rather impressive display. Of course, the first target stood only one hundred yards away, so it didn’t require excessive finesse to place a shot near enough the center to continue in the competition. At least not for a skilled shooter. And Silas was definitely skilled.
“You’re up, Parson.” Silas regarded him with such a superior air that when Crockett stepped up to the line he had to close his eyes for a moment to clear his head of the raging voice that demanded he shoot even faster and straighter in order to wipe the smug grin off his employer’s face.
But only a fool would play the game on his competitor’s terms instead of his own. Crockett waved to the onlookers who were busy shouting encouragement, most of it none too flattering. It seemed no one expected a preacher to be able to hit the broad side of a barn.
Well, it was time to open the eyes of the blind.
Silas might be a sharpshooting ex-outlaw, but Crockett was no slouch. The Archers had lived by the gun since they were boys. Life on their secluded ranch required it, both for protection and for food. If he could outshoot Travis, which he had done on more than one occasion, he could outshoot anyone, even a stubborn, middle-aged kidnapper turned rancher.
Inhaling a calming breath, Crockett raised his rifle, sighted down the barrel, and squeezed the trigger.
Wood splintered in gratifying fashion as the target vibrated with the force of the strike.
“You hit it, Parson!” The boy who had scampered up the tree to call out the racers’ positions earlier looked up at him with a mixture of shock and awe.
“He did more than that, boy,” his father said, coming up behind him, his own rifle draped through the crook of his arm. “If I don’t miss my guess, he hit it dead center.” The man held his hand out to Crockett. “Best shot of the round.”
Crockett grinned and accepted the man’s hand. It didn’t take long for others to follow suit. Men who had respected his position as minister now suddenly seemed to respect him as a man—as one of them.
Jackson ran in from the target range, the scoring disc held out before him like a giant serving platter. “You won the round, Crock!” he shouted. “Here, look.” He held out the target for all to see, then pointed to the mark at the center of the white X with the initials CA printed beneath.
“Looks like I’ll have plenty of company in round two,” Crockett said in answer, noting the number of markings within the designated advancement area. “Must be at least fifteen qualifying shots there.”
“Yep.” Jackson pulled a piece of crumpled paper from his pocket. “Mr. Ward gave me the list.”
As he started calling out the names of the men moving on in the competition, Crockett checked to see where Silas’s shot had landed. It was only about an inch away from his own, up and to the right. For a fellow who’d done such little preparation, the result was impressive.
“Don’t get cocky, Archer.” Silas slid in beside him while everyone else circled around Jackson to hear the reading of the names. “We still got us two rounds to go.”
Crockett clapped his boss on the shoulder with the same degree of force Silas had used on him earlier. “Should make for a good contest.” With that, he edged away from the center of the crowd so the other competitors could examine the scoring disc.
Joanna caught his eye from where she stood among the spectators. She lifted her hand in front of herself, just enough for a small wave. No one else would notice, but the tiny gesture went straight to his heart. She was rooting for him.
Of course, she was probably rooting for her father, too, but right now her smile and encouragement were solely for his benefit.
The target in the second round had been nailed to a tree approximately two hundred fifty yards from the shooting line. Carl was the only Lazy R hand who’d failed to qualify. While he grumbled under his breath about nature’s cruelty in stealing his eyesight, Jasper and Frank both took their turns at the line. When Silas was up, he demonstrated greater care and deliberation in taking aim, but he still fired faster than any previous competitor. And put his shot directly in the center of the X.
Crockett’s bullet veered a little to the left, leaving Silas the winner of the round.
Only six names graced round three’s list. Half of them belonged to the Lazy R.
“Your last shot went a bit wide back there, preacher man,” Silas said as he tucked the stock of his weapon into his shoulder and sighted an imaginary target somewhere among the trees that lined the river. “Too bad. I thought I might finally have some competition.”
Crockett grinned, recognizing the intimidation tactic for what it was. “Oh, I won’t let you down, Silas. Don’t worry. We’re fighting for Lazy R pride, after all. If you and Jasper both miss, I’ll be there to clinch the victory.”
Silas raised a sardonic brow.
“Might even be worth an extra afternoon off, huh?” Crockett gripped the man’s collarbone in a friendly squeeze.
“You beat me, boy, I’ll give you two afternoons off.”
Crockett winked and released his hold. “Deal.”
Two afternoons to spend with Joanna. Now he had even more incentive.
“’Course, if I win, you’ll be giving me an extra hour after supper each night for a week. We got plenty of harness that needs mendin’ and saddles in want of oil.”
“Fair enough.” He wouldn’t mind a little extra work, especially if Joanna found reasons to come visit him out in the barn.
“You want in on the action, too, Jasper?” Silas nodded to the quiet man standing a few steps away.
“No thanks, boss.” Jasper shrugged. “I still remember the contest last Fourth of July. You were the only one who even hit the final target. I’d rather keep my evenings free, thank you.”
Crockett lifted his head and searched the trees along the river for the third scoring disc. There. It was easily five hundred yards out. The X on its face had been painted twice as large as the previous ones, but he still had to squint to make it out. Not quite the same as shooting cans off the woodcutting stump with Travis. Eager to outdo each other over the years, he and Trav had worked their way past the barn all the way to the tree line, which was a fairly comparable distance to today’s target. But even as men, they’d missed those cans as often as they’d hit them.
Winning today would be no small feat.
The first man was called to the line. Crockett’s belly started aching. Each marksman had his own ritual,
and these rituals seemed to grow ever longer as the men set and reset their stances, waiting for the perfect conditions to shoot.
The first two missed the target. The crowd groaned in sympathy and offered polite applause for their good showing. The third man nicked the rim of the scoring disc. The spectators roared their approval.
Jasper stepped up to the line next. The onlookers hushed. He fit his rifle into his shoulder and searched for the best line, making tiny adjustments to his grip. Once satisfied, he stilled. And waited. And waited. The instant the gentle breeze swirling around them died, he pulled the trigger.
The scoring disc jerked as the bullet struck near the top.
“Great shot.” Crockett slapped Jasper on the back as whistles and applause rose from the crowd. “Maybe you should have joined in on the wager after all. You might end up with the best mark.”
Jasper shook his head, though a smile lit his face. “Nah. Silas will find a way to beat me. The boss man don’t know how to lose. Never has.”
Crockett could well believe that. The man exuded confidence and skill in everything he did. Whether he was working the ranch or leading a group of bandits on an abduction mission, one thing remained constant—the man fought hard to accomplish his goals. And never failed.
Could it be that the very self-sufficiency that allowed him to be such a successful rancher and leader of men was also his biggest barrier to accepting Christ? A man who needed only his own strength and wits to succeed in life would be blind to his need for a Savior.
Conviction settled in Crockett’s gut as he watched Silas stride up to the line. The man’s face showed nothing beyond concentration. No perspiration beaded his forehead. No tremors seized his hands. His legs stood solid beneath him; not even a heel dared swivel for better purchase. The crack of his shot rent the air, followed quickly by a distant thunk as his bullet collided with the target.
As a shout exploded from the crowd, Crockett’s attention turned inward. If he could hand Silas a loss, would it put a chink in the man’s armor? A chink that could weaken his defenses, giving truth a better chance to find its way inside?
If so, Lord, I ask that you steady my hand. Make my aim true. And grant me victory today, so that you can claim the victory tomorrow.
Silas backed away from the line, and gestured with a sweep of his arm for Crockett to take his place. Crockett hesitated, then slowly moved forward. The knot in his gut tightened with each step. He braced his right foot behind him, digging his boot into the dirt for better balance. He eyed the scoring disc and tried to picture a can on a tree stump. Well-wishers called out encouragement and advice, but their words were nothing more than a faint buzzing in his ears. He lifted his Winchester into position, and the buzz faded into silence.
Crockett inhaled. Sighted the center of the target. Adjusted for the breeze that ruffled his hair. Exhaled just enough air to relax his lungs. Then with a prayer in his heart, he squeezed the trigger.
The rifle butt kicked into his shoulder. A touch of smoke leaked from the muzzle. The shot blast rang in his ears.
But what made his heart sing was the telltale jerk of the scoring disc as his bullet lodged into its wooden surface.
Mr. Ward wandered out to mark the shot and take the necessary measurements. Then Jackson retrieved the target and ran ahead, collecting spectators as he went. By the time he reached the firing line, the entire community swarmed at his back. Everyone pressed forward, eager to hear the results, but Jackson held the large disc flat against his midsection as he struggled to catch his breath after the long jog.
A cool hand slid into Crockett’s overheated palm. The light touch only lasted a moment before it pulled away, but a moment was all he needed to recognize its source. Joanna. He twisted his neck in the direction of the touch and found her at his side, her shy smile throwing his heartbeat into an erratic rhythm.
“The winner of the shooting contest,” Jackson shouted, tearing Crockett’s attention away from Joanna’s sweet face, “with a mark only two and a half inches from dead center—” he paused, then twirled the scoring disk around for all to see—“is Crockett Archer!”
A loud cheer arose, but it was the pride glistening in Joanna’s eyes that reverberated loudest in his heart. She smiled and clapped, but when others moved in to offer their congratulations, she quietly retreated. While he appreciated the handshakes and good-natured back thumping, what he really wanted was to sweep Joanna into his arms and twirl her around until her laughter spilled over them both. Then he’d kiss her and take that laughter inside himself as together they reveled in the joy of the moment.
But when the next hand firmed around his and Crockett found himself staring into Silas’s face, he remembered that this moment was not about him at all. It was about what the Lord had done through him.
“Looks like you earned yourself some time off, Archer.”
For once, Crockett offered no grin, just a slight nod of acknowledgment. “It was a fine match. One that I can’t take credit for.”
“What do you mean, you can’t take credit for it?” Silas’s grip tightened, grinding Crockett’s fingers. “You find some way to cheat?”
“No,” Crockett said with a little chuckle as he eased his hand out of Silas’s vise. “I just meant that my abilities are not my own—they come from God. He provided the training during the hardship of my youth and helped me hone them as an adult. He deserves the credit.”
“But he wasn’t the one standing here pulling the trigger. You were.”
“Oh, he was here,” Crockett said, taking encouragement from the confusion that pushed past the defiance in Silas’s eyes. “I visited him in prayer before raising my rifle and felt his presence throughout.”
“Why would he care about a stupid shooting contest?”
“He doesn’t, Silas. He cares about you.”
27
Two days later, Silas was still puzzling over Crockett Archer’s declaration as he rubbed Marauder down after a long ride through the woods. Crazy preachers. Always talkin’ in riddles. He drew the currycomb through the gray’s coat, wishing he could use the same method to untangle his thoughts.
What in the world did a shooting contest have to do with God? And why would his losing be a message that God cared about him? More likely God was showing favoritism—helping Archer win. Silas wanted no part of a God who cheated. But then, he’d always known the Almighty didn’t play fair. For if he were truly interested in justice, Andy Murdoch would still be alive and that Bible-totin’, child-bashin’, sermon-spewin’ stepfather of his woulda had his brains fried by some holy lightning.
Instead, God had turned a blind eye to the preacher’s faults and let an innocent suffer.
Silas blew out a harsh breath, stormed out of Marauder’s stall, and flung the currycomb onto the shelf. He kicked the wall hard enough to jangle the tack above, then bent over the half wall that sectioned off the milk cow’s quarters and pressed his forearms against the wood.
“Daddy?”
Silas bit back an oath at the sight of his daughter climbing down the loft ladder.
“Are you all right?” she asked, wiping her hands on the painting smock that protected her dress. “I heard a crash.”
He turned to face her, rubbing the dents out of his forearms. “I’m fine, Jo. Just had some bad memories sneak up on me and stir my temper. Nothing to worry about.”
She glided toward him, a penetrating look in her eyes that reminded him so much of her mother he wanted to spin on his heels and run. Martha had always been able to see past his bluster to the doubts and pain beneath. But he didn’t want his sweet Jo exposed to that darker side. It was his duty to protect her, to shield her from the ugly part of the world, even to the point of preserving her illusions about a loving God.
Jo halted in front of him and touched his arm. “Can I pray about it for you?”
He flinched.
“If it’ll make you feel better,” he grumbled. Silas turned away from the compassion in hi
s daughter’s eyes. He knew she was only trying to help, but doggone it, prayer was the last thing he wanted. The very idea chafed like a pair of sandpaper drawers.
“I’m not the one who needs to feel better, Daddy. You do. God can heal those old pains if you let him. He loves you.”
“Ha!” Silas shoved away from the half wall and glowered at his daughter. Maybe he’d kept her too sheltered. Maybe it was time for a dose of reality. Something to protect her from the wiles of smooth-talkin’ preachers.
“If your God was interested in sparin’ me pain, he shoulda restrained the evil that caused it in the first place. You and Archer can go around spoutin’ off about how God cares, but all I’ve ever seen from him is cold indifference. So forgive me if I’m not too eager to deepen our acquaintance.”
“Did he feel indifferent toward you when the soldiers stripped the clothes from his only Son’s body and plied him with whips until flesh was torn from bone?” Jo’s quiet voice knocked him back. He wanted to discount her example. God had sent his Son for all mankind, not for him individually. It wasn’t personal.
Yet somehow, when Joanna murmured the words, it felt personal.
“Did he feel indifferent when they pierced his Son’s hands with nails and spat upon his face? Was it coldness he felt when his Son’s tortured cry punctured the heavens, accusing him of forsaking him? It must have been agony for the Father to turn his back. Yet he could not gaze upon the sin clinging to Jesus. Your sin. My sin. Was it indifference that kept him from intervening? No, it was love. Love for you.”
Silas couldn’t answer. He couldn’t look at her, either. Why wouldn’t she just leave? He wished she would quit muddying the water. He was entitled to his opinions, to his anger—justified in them.
So why was he still listening?
She stepped closer. He could feel her, though she didn’t touch him again. “Evil exists in this world, Daddy. When people choose that path, there are harsh consequences. Innocents are hurt. Once in a while God chooses to intervene. Many times he doesn’t. Why? I don’t know. But what I do know is that he promises to work things out for good for those who love him. He finds ways to create blessings even in the wake of disasters.”
Karen Witemeyer Page 19
