The Fiery Ring

by Gilbert, Morris

  “You’re a liar! The postmaster gave it to you a month ago.”

  “Oh, one might have come. I don’t remember.”

  At that moment all of the pain, anguish, and loneliness that had been building up in Joy Winslow erupted. She had no control over her words. She was aware that Mr. Wessicks was staring at her, as was every customer in the store, but she didn’t care as she let her anger spill out.

  “You’re a liar and a cheat and a thief! There’s not one kind or decent thing in you, Albert Tatum. You robbed me and my brother, and you’re a filthy, rotten crook!”

  Bismarck was usually a quiet town, so the people in the store were transfixed by this unexpected drama unfolding before them. They moved in closer so as not to miss a word. As for Albert Tatum, his face at first flushed with anger, then grew pale. He held his hand up. “Now, now, don’t talk like that, Joy.” He tried to quiet her, but her voice rose louder, and finally his own anger overflowed. “Shut your mouth, girl! You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  “Yes, I do too know what I’m talking about!” Joy saw that the gathering crowd was hanging on to her words. She pointed at her uncle and turned to the crowd. “He stole my dead parents’ farm, and he’s worked my brother and me like slaves! Now he’s stolen mail from the United States Post Office, and I’m going to tell the sheriff!”

  Joy whirled, but Albert caught her. “You’re not going to do anything but go home. I’ve heard enough of your insolence.” He would have said more, but Joy suddenly swung her arm and slapped him across the face. The print of her hand leaped into his cheek, and he slapped her back with his heavy hand. Joy fell backward and Mr. Wessicks caught her, saying, “Hold on there, Tatum. You can’t strike a youngster like that.”

  “You don’t know what she’s done,” Albert shouted. “She does nothing but make trouble.” He looked around wildly and said, “Witt, take her home!”

  “Sure, Dad.” Witt came forward and took Joy by the arm. “Come on,” he urged, tugging her out of the store. Before the door closed, she heard his father instructing, “Don’t take her all the way home. Let her walk the last three or four miles. It’ll cool her off.”

  Witt yelled back, “Okay, Dad.”

  Tatum turned back and saw the people staring at him. “Well, I hated for you to see her like that, but she’s always screaming. We can’t do a thing with her.”

  Mr. Wessicks said nothing, but he stared at Albert Tatum with his cold gray eyes. “Did you fail to give her the letter that came for her?”

  “I gave it to her. She just wanted something to throw a fit about.”

  Opal stared at her husband. Later when they left the store, she said, “You didn’t tell me about a letter.”

  “It was from that no-good bum of a brother of hers.” “You should have given it to her, Albert. Do you still have it?”

  “No. Now enough about it.”

  ****

  Joy wedged herself against the car door as far away from Witt as she could get. He had spoken to her several times on the drive back to the farm, but she had kept her face averted, returning not a word. The pain of losing a letter from Travis was overwhelming. Where was he? What did he say? He would think she didn’t care because she hadn’t answered his letter.

  Her thoughts tormented her as the car moved along, and finally she was aware that it had stopped. She looked out and was surprised to see that Witt had taken her all the way to the farm. As the two got out of the car, Witt said, “I couldn’t be mean enough to let you walk. Come on now. You’re all upset, but it’ll be all right. I’ll talk to Dad.”

  “Stay away from me! Don’t ever speak to me again, and if you touch me, I’ll claw your eyes out!”

  Joy turned and went into the house. She was so shaken she could not think properly, and she went to her room, trying to calm down. She collapsed on the bed weeping. After several minutes, she finally got control of herself. She began thinking, then suddenly sat bolt upright. “The letter—it’s probably in his desk.” She knew her uncle never threw anything away and suspected that the letter was still there.

  With renewed hope in her heart, Joy ran downstairs and headed straight for the big rolltop desk. Sighing with relief that it was not locked, she pushed up the cover and began searching through the compartments in the top section. She found nothing and had just pulled open the bottom drawer when she spotted a package of letters with a string around them. She untied the bow and shuffled through them. Her breath caught in her throat when she saw Travis’s handwriting. She threw the rest of the letters down and opened it. It was very short, but just the sight of his writing brought a pang to her heart.

  Dear Sis,

  I’ve had a hard time finding work, but at last I’ve had some luck. I’m signing on with a ship, a steamer, that’ll be leaving here to go to South America. It’s not on a regular run so I don’t know exactly where we’ll be going. I do know we make one stop in Brazil.

  I hate to leave the country, but it was all I could find, and pay is good. I’ll save it all, and as soon as I get back, I’ll come for you. Write me in care of general delivery in Galveston, Texas. I won’t be here to get the letter, but I’ll call at the post office as soon as I get home.

  Things have been bad, sis, but God’s going to take care of us. I’ve been thinking a lot about how Mom and Dad served the Lord. I haven’t done that, and I guess you haven’t either, but I’m feeling more and more that I need to.

  Take care of yourself. I know it’s hard for you. I’ll be counting the days until we return, and I’ll come as soon as we do.

  Love, Travis

  Tears came into Joy’s eyes, and she stood there, shaken by the only contact she’d had in months with someone who loved her. She was so overcome she did not hear footsteps before two arms suddenly went around her. She cried out, knowing that it was Witt. She thought he had gone back to town to get his family, but instead, here she was alone with him! She squirmed, but he held her tightly. Raising her foot, she brought her boot down on his toe, and he cried out.

  “Stop that! I’m not going to hurt you!”

  “Let me go!”

  Joy struggled fiercely, frightened by the thought of what he might do to her now that they were alone. “You’ve been running away from me,” he sneered, “but I’ve got you now. Nobody’s here. Go ahead and scream. I’m going to get what I want, Joy. Don’t make me hurt you.”

  Paralyzing fear gripped her, for she saw the wildness in his eyes. She fought with all her might, but he wrestled her to the floor. She struck at him with her fists, but he was much bigger than she, and Joy could no more stop him than she could stop the wind.

  Using the only weapon she had, she scratched her fingernails down across his face. One of them struck his eye, and he yelled with pain and released her. Joy scrambled to her feet and dashed across the room, but he was already coming after her, cursing loudly. She grabbed the front-door handle as he reached her, catching the back of her dress. She wrenched herself free, feeling the dress tear.

  And then she saw the poker that rested beside the stone fireplace. She made a lunge for it, and as she turned back with the poker in hand, she saw that Witt was headed straight for her. She swung the weapon with both hands like a baseball bat. Witt never saw it coming, and it struck him in the temple. He staggered to one side, his eyes rolling upward, but he quickly recovered his balance and lunged at her again. Joy struck him again, and this time the poker caught him above the eye and blood spurted down his face. He fell to the floor, his legs and arms twitching. Then he became very still.

  Panting and petrified at what she had done, Joy dropped the poker. She stood there trembling, waiting for him to move, but he did not.

  “I’ve killed him!” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to kill him!” Panicked, she knew she could expect no mercy from her uncle. I’ve got to get away from here!

  She ran upstairs and began throwing her clothes together. She had no idea which way to go, but she knew she couldn’t s
tay here. She took a deep breath and forced herself to think calmly. I’ve got to get away, but where can I go?

  And then as if from outside of herself, a thought formed clearly in her mind: The two-thirty freight—it’ll be coming along in half an hour.

  The thought galvanized her. She knew that hobos sometimes rode in the empty cars. She had seem them sitting there dangling their legs, sometimes waving at her as they went by. They seemed happy enough, she thought.

  But I’m a girl. I’ll be easy to find among all those men.

  Joy was terrified over what she had done, but some part of her mind still worked rapidly. “I’ll put on boys’ clothes, some of Travis’s old ones,” she said aloud. She ran to pull out a trunk in the attic next to her room where they had hidden some of their possessions. She found a pair of overalls Travis had worn when he was younger, a pair of his old shoes, several shirts, and a floppy hat he had once loved—an old fedora. It was shapeless now but big enough to tuck her hair into and pull down over part of her face. She also found an old green-and-white mackinaw, worn but usable. Quickly she stripped off her own clothes, shoved them in the trunk, and donned her disguise.

  She ran back into her room and grabbed her journals, the thirty-eight pistol, and her egg money. It wasn’t much, but it would have to last her. She stuffed the money into one pocket and the pistol into the other. Then she crammed the journals, some underwear, and a few other items into a gunnysack, knowing she could not carry much.

  Moving cautiously downstairs, she started to leave. Expecting to see Witt’s lifeless body on the floor, she was startled to see that he had turned over onto his back and was breathing regularly. Blood flowed from the cut over his eyes, but he was not dead!

  Relief washed over her, and she tiptoed quickly past him toward the front door. She stopped only to glance at the clock and saw that it was fifteen minutes past two. The two-thirty freight was nearly always on time. She had to hurry. The train stopped to add water at a tank a mile from the farm. Realizing she was going to need some food, she went to the kitchen. She got a few cans of food from the cupboard, a can opener from the drawer, a tin cup and plate, some utensils, and some matches that were by the stove. Then she stopped dead still. Her lips set in a straight line as a thought occurred to her. Going over to the counter, she reached into a jar marked TEA. She pulled out some bills and some change and stuffed them in her pockets. “He’s robbed me of everything, so I’m going to have this at least!” She did not count the money but knew she would need every penny.

  She hurried outside and headed toward the train tracks, then suddenly thought, I need to buy some time. The ax was stuck in the chopping block beside the house. Putting down her sack, she ran and got the ax and carried it to the car. She drew the weapon back and struck one of the balloon tires with it. The tire made a mild explosion, then flattened. She flattened all four tires, then threw the ax down. Retrieving her sack, she hurried west toward the railroad tracks, with one thought replaying in her mind: I’ve got to get to Galveston.

  She reached the water tank by the tracks, and within a few minutes she heard the lonely sound of a whistle. She hid herself behind a clump of dead grass, and when the train pulled up, expelling steam as it came to a stop, she watched to see if the brakeman would emerge. He did, and she saw him making his way to the water tank to release the water into the engine. She had watched him do it many times.

  She picked up her sack and moved nervously along the line of dull red freight cars. She came to one with the door open and saw that it was empty. She threw her sack on, then sprang up and pulled herself into the car.

  She pulled the door shut so that only a little light filtered through the bars. Then she sat down, her back against the side of the car. She closed her eyes and put her head back, pulling the soft cap over her face.

  As she sat there aware of every sound, fear quickened her breathing. She had nothing, not even friends, and she knew that her uncle would soon have the law looking for her. The fear grew until it occupied her completely, and she cried out, “Oh, God, help me!”

  As soon as she cried out, she remembered what Travis had said in his letter about wanting to serve God.

  She tried to pray, but nothing came. She wanted to ask God for help, but she knew she had hardened her heart, that she was not the same girl she had been a year earlier. Now she sat in the gloomy interior of the empty boxcar with nothing to hold on to, and whispered bitterly to herself, “If God couldn’t keep my mom and dad alive, He can’t help me.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Terror in a Boxcar

  For a moment, as he struggled back to consciousness, Chase Hardin could not remember a single thing. All he knew was that his head was pounding and his mouth was dry. He lay still, trying to think, but the pain in his head was terrible—like a spike being driven through from temple to temple. His first conscious thought was, My head is killing me. Why do I drink and bring on these awful hangovers?

  Using all his determination, he lifted his head and gazed around. He did not recognize the room but was mildly surprised when he realized it was not a jail cell. He usually awoke behind bars from his drunken binges, but this room, though small and plain, was obviously a dwelling. Coats were hung on nails on the wall, and a scarred and battered pine chest sat in the corner, looking forlorn. The window to his left let in pale beams of light filled with dancing dust motes, illuminating an ancient carpet with the pattern worn off down to the backing.

  He was lying on a feather mattress in an iron bed, and a colorful patchwork quilt lay on top of him. Each quilt square had a chicken on it—some were red and some were blue. “I don’t know this place,” he muttered. “Where am I?”

  From the next room he could hear someone moving around, and he wondered who it was. He closed his eyes and tried to go back to sleep. Sleep was a refuge for him, a haven where he did not have to face the world. Drinking served the same function, but he always wound up like this—with a splitting headache, clothes covered in vomit, and quite often in a cell waiting to appear before a judge who would pronounce a fine he could not pay.

  He lay there quietly hoping for sleep, but it would not come. Instead, memories ran through his mind like a motion picture. He remembered meeting a man called Mack, who had told him there were jobs to be had in Pierre, South Dakota. Mack had been a convincing fellow, and Chase had ridden the rails with him until they reached Pierre.

  Sadly, there had been no jobs, and Mack had vanished. Chase had been disappointed too many times to feel anything more than a dull pain at the memory of yet another unfulfilled dream. He remembered spending his last two dollars on a bottle of bootleg whiskey. It had had an oily, vile taste, but he had gagged it down anyway, seeking oblivion—and he had found it.

  Suddenly the door opened, and light from the other room fell across Chase’s face. He blinked and turned away as a voice said, “Well, you’re awake, I see.”

  Shading his eyes, Chase sat up and then swayed, for the pain jarred his head ferociously.

  “That’s some hangover you’ve got.”

  Chase gritted his teeth and waited until the waves of pain faded, then opened his eyes. A man stood before him—an older man with white hair and a pair of steady gray eyes. He was wearing overalls, a blue wool shirt, and a red sweater with one button fastened. “Do you think you can get up? I’ve got somethin’ on the stove.”

  “I guess I can.” Chase turned the quilt back and saw that he was fully dressed except for his shoes. He wore two pairs of socks, both of them full of holes, and he groped around for his brogans. He wouldn’t put them on right away, though. He knew that leaning over to fasten them would destroy him. He had learned that much about hangovers. He got to his feet, swayed, and almost fell back.

  “Hey, let me give you a hand.” Chase felt a strong hand on his arm steadying him and then urging him toward the door. “Come on, you can sit out here. I’ve got a good fire going.”

  Chase managed to move into the next room, which was o
bviously an all-purpose room for cooking, dining, and living. Soothing heat emanated from a wood stove to his left, on top of which were several pans. A table with two mismatched chairs sat over against the far wall, and his host led him to one of these. “Sit down there, and we’ll get some coffee down you.”

  “That sounds good.”

  Chase leaned back, and when a cup was set before him, he picked it up with trembling hands. He tasted the boiling-hot black coffee and murmured, “This is good.”

  “How do you like your eggs?”

  “Any way I can get ’em.”

  “That’s the way I fix ’em. Scrambled is the easiest.”

  Chase watched as the man broke four eggs and mixed them in a large blue bowl. He poured them into a frying pan with some melted butter and then opened the door of the oven next to the firebox. “Got some biscuits from yesterday. They ain’t fresh, but they ought to be good.”

  Chase felt he should say something, but he was still befuddled. “How did I get here?”

  “I found you passed out down the street a ways. What’s your name?” the man asked while stirring the eggs in the pan.

  “Chase. Chase Hardin.”

  “My name’s Thad Gilbert.”

  “How’d you get me here?”

  “Oh, a friend and I, we carted you in and put you to bed.” After the eggs were cooked, Thad occupied himself with finding some plates, knives, and forks. He set them out on the table, then dumped half of the eggs out of the pan onto Chase’s plate and took the rest for himself. He moved back to the stove and picked up a plate covered with a white cloth. “Got some pretty good bacon here.” He put butter, sugar, and cream on the table, then sat down. “You want to bless this, or do you want me to?”

  Chase stared at the older man. “I guess it’ll have to be you. I’m not on speaking terms with God.”

  “Well, that can be fixed.” Thad bowed his head and said in a conversational tone, “Thank you for this good grub, Lord, and thank you for my friend here. Give him a good day. In Jesus’ name.” Without a change of breath, he said, “I got some blackstrap molasses here. Put some butter on one of those biscuits and pour this on top. It’ll go down pretty good.”