“Rev. Rutledge is a remarkable man,” I said. “Everyone for miles has grown to love and respect him as much as anyone in the community.”
“But about what you asked—there are only two people in that congregation for whom we are responsible, and that is us. Why don’t we make sure we apply what he said and don’t just analyze it? Why don’t we each take something to the Lord that we are wondering about and ask him what he would have us do? Then as time goes on we can share with each other how it feels when we think God is answering. Maybe we can learn more about listening to his voice from each other.”
“Good idea. But I thought that’s what you were already doing this afternoon.”
“I was. But believe me, I have plenty of things I can ask the Lord about!”
We fell silent for five or ten minutes and both just talked silently to the Lord. I asked him what he wanted me to do and say to Jennie. Did he want me to speak to her about marriage, about trying to love Tom and be patient with him . . . or did God want me just to be a friend but not offer any counsel or advice?
“Not only is hearing God’s still, small voice vague, quiet, invisible, and subtle, exactly as Avery pointed out,” Christopher said reflectively after a while, “it is a very personal process. Every man or woman has to learn the particulars of how God’s voice speaks to him or her on his own. Someone else can only point in general directions and say how it feels to him. But everyone has to learn to detect that voice for himself. It will have different subtle nuances for each. What did you ask him about? if you feel comfortable telling me.”
I told him about my concern for Jennie.
He gave a little laugh. “I guess Jennie and Tom are important to us,” he said. “I asked him about Tom. I just don’t know how to get on any footing with him. Are we supposed to say anything, do anything? Or should I just let events take their course? I don’t know. That’s where I need some guidance, too.
“I suppose that is another reason why there are no lists of instructions—God desires to speak to each question in a unique way. Circumstances vary, and personalities vary. It’s wonderful, isn’t it! You have to learn to hear his voice because it’s going to have a slightly different sound in your ears than anyone else’s. That’s how personal is God’s love for you, that he will speak to you and me as he speaks to no one else in all the universe.”
“But what if God doesn’t speak?” I said. “There have been lots of times I have prayed and never did feel like I received an answer.”
“We have to remember that there are times when God won’t speak. If his will is clear, then we’re wasting our breath asking him to show us more specifically what he wants us to do. Sometimes it is obedience that is required, rather than prayer for additional leading.”
Christopher paused reflectively.
“I remember a young woman in my church in Virginia,” he said. “She wanted to do something she knew was wrong. The Bible made that clear. Yet she kept praying that God would let her do what she wanted to do.”
“What happened?”
“Eventually she convinced herself that God was speaking to her in confirmation that he was leading her.”
“She went ahead?”
Christopher nodded.
“And you don’t think she heard from God?”
“What she did was contrary to Scripture. God does not contradict himself.”
“How do you know if it is really God’s voice you heard or your own desires interfering with the process? Seems like it would be easy to fool yourself.”
“You have to confirm what you think you’ve heard with all the other ways God speaks. Is it consistent with advice and counsel you have received from wise people? Does it make good common sense? Is it a sound decision? Does it seem to fit with circumstances or go contrary to other things God has been doing in your life? And especially—is it consistent with Scripture?
“God never contradicts himself, as I said before. So if he has spoken, he will gradually confirm what he has said in all these other ways. If there is conflict anywhere, it may well be that it is not God’s voice you heard at all. God’s true voice may be faint and indistinct at first, but it will steadily grow more clear through our lives as we practice and as we obey what he tells us to do.”
As if talk of obedience had stirred him to some action, Christopher got to his feet, then reached down to grab my hand and pull me up, too. He draped an arm around my shoulder as we went out through the bunkhouse door. I circled my arm around his waist, and by silent agreement, we started walking up the trail that led to the mine.
We didn’t say anything for a long time. We were both caught up in our own thoughts and our silent prayers. I must admit I was still worrying a little about whatever it was that was bothering Christopher. But I was also praying silently about turning that worry over to the Lord. And I was enjoying the walk, just being out under the bright blue sky and looking around at our familiar land and being close to the man I loved.
Finally, as we were nearing the mine, Christopher spoke.
“I am very grateful for Avery’s talk this morning. Sometimes we know bits of information, but they are like a map to a gold mine that three or four partners have torn in pieces to insure its safety. Their pieces can get each of them close but they need the whole map to fit together correctly to see the entire picture. I feel like Avery’s teaching us that simple prayer and then his counsel to wait has perhaps been one of the missing pieces of my own map.”
I didn’t answer, just walked along beside him, wondering if maybe I had found a piece of my own map as well.
No matter what, I thought, I have a lot to think about.
Chapter 40
Looking Ahead on the Shoulders of the Past
For weeks after the funeral I couldn’t get out of my head Rev. Rutledge’s words about Mr. Jones sort of representing the history of our Miracle Springs community.
It was the same feeling I sometimes used to get when I’d feel an article starting to bubble up from down inside of me. Right off I knew this was something I wanted to write about.
I’d been writing in my journals, of course, all along. Even marriage and talking to Christopher all the time couldn’t stop that, but it had cut down the amount I wrote by at least half. For one thing, I didn’t have so much time by myself anymore. Besides, much of the energy and thought I used to put into my journal writing now went into face-to-face dialogue with Christopher.
I hadn’t written a newspaper article in longer than I could remember. But the minute I started writing about Mr. Jones I knew I wanted to send it to Mr. Kemble. I didn’t even care if he paid me for it. I felt it was an important story, important not just for Miracle Springs but for all of California.
I’ll have to admit I was nervous as I sent the finished story in to Mr. Kemble. I hadn’t heard much from him since I had decided not to write about Mammy Pleasant’s boardinghouse. He had accepted my regrets graciously enough—after all, I had gotten him his dinner!—but I knew he thought my refusal was silly. What if he decided never to publish my work again?
I needn’t have worried. Mr. Kemble was delighted with the story and paid me twelve dollars for it. When we opened the September 17 issue of the Alta to read it, Christopher dove right into the article. I was more concerned to see if they had gotten my new name right.
I was proud in a whole new way as I read the words: “Colorful History Fades with Passing of Old Forty-Niner,” by Corrie Hollister Braxton.
Here is the article I wrote:
I have been a Californian now for more than fifteen years, exactly half of my still-young life. When I first came here in 1852, it seemed as if the gold rush and all the excitement and wonder of that time was already past. Yet now, to look back, I realize that I was right in the middle of it and hardly knew it.
Time is like that. Things look different to your eyes as time goes by.
California was still young then, still wild, still populated mostly by men who still had that look
of gold fever in their eyes. What women and children happened to be in the West were here, as was I, almost by accident. The men, however, had come for only one thing—to strike it rich!
Some of them did. Most didn’t. But nearly all of them stayed, for gradually they, and those who came after them, discovered that there was more on the shores of the Pacific than gold. There was a land to grow with, a good land, a land where homes could be built and families could be happy.
Through the years people continued to come, but fewer and fewer were coming for the gold.
And now that almost twenty years has passed since that first nugget gleamed up from out of the water at Sutter’s Mill, California looks different. It feels different. A colorful and historic era is slowly fading into what we call “history.” Do what we will, we are powerless to halt time’s wheels slowly turning across the events of our lives.
And as we pause to glance backward, it is not the shiny lure of gold we first see, but rather stains of red. This nation has recently endured the strife of a great war whose bitter bloodshed further separates us from the memories of the first half of this century. Glancing forward again, those wheels grind steadily onward toward the century’s final decades.
I stood some weeks ago beside the new grave of an old prospector by the name of Alkali Jones. It seems unlikely that was his given name, for what mother would call a little baby Alkali? But it was the only name any of us knew him by. We used it with affection, for he was greatly beloved by all.
Alkali Jones was a forty-niner of the original breed—tough, hardworking, a loner, adventurous, and with more tall tales than any ten ordinary people. He came west before there was even thought of statehood. He was here in the little town of Miracle Springs before any of the rest of us arrived. No one knew Miracle Springs without Alkali Jones.
But from this day forward we will have to know our town without him, for he has left us for a greater adventure still. His era is passing. He has now gone to join the rest of our memories in the quiet places of our hearts, where we go to reminisce with fondness about days gone.
How many other places in the mountains and foothills of California have lost their own beloved Alkali Jones in recent years? How many more will lose them in the not-too-distant future?
These are the men to whose legacy we owe our statehood and all the promise of its future.
With the passing of Alkali Jones and a thousand like him, the era of the gold rush is slowly receding into the distance. For as it always does, death symbolizes both an end and a beginning.
A new era continues to dawn over this land at the Pacific border of our continent. It is an era that will see families and churches and industry and commerce and farming all replace gold as that which holds communities together. Many of these changes are already upon us. California is growing into a maturity of its own alongside its older sister-states. Even now, thousands of workers are straining their backs to link the Pacific with the Atlantic by rail. New times are coming, and it will not be long before a new century dawns.
All this passed through my brain in a second or two as I stood solemnly by that old forty-niner’s grave. When I turned to walk away, I knew I was leaving something precious behind, and yet realized at the same time that much more yet lay ahead.
Alkali Jones, we will miss you. You were a dear friend. We thank you for what you gave us—a history to be proud of. Upon your shoulders we now stand, that we might look forward to the new eras ahead.
Chapter 41
Stranger in Miracle Springs
Marcus Weber was the first person in Miracle Springs to spot the stranger. He was just coming from the General Store back to the Mine and Freight when he glanced up to see a filthy rider on a tired-looking horse clopping slowly up the street.
After reaching the opposite side he paused and turned back, following the rider with his eyes as the man dismounted in front of the saloon, spat furiously into the dust, tied his horse to a rail, and walked inside.
The silent observer shook his wise old graying black head back and forth a few times. “That there be a bad-looking man,” he muttered to himself.
Had Marcus only known how bad, and what exactly was the stranger’s business in Miracle Springs, he would not have let the incident pass so uneventfully. The faithful old man would have given his life for any one of the Hollister clan, who had employed him since his first days working for the Parrish Mine and Freight Company in the early 1850s.
But Marcus did not know. He simply mopped his copper-colored brow with a big blue bandana and continued on his way back to work.
In the Gold Nugget, meanwhile, not so thriving an establishment as during the height of the gold rush, yet still making enough of the old miners drunk with sufficient regularity to stay in business, the stranger at the bar was already downing his second glass of whiskey and inquiring as to the whereabouts of certain of the town’s well-known inhabitants. Thinking nothing unusual about the request, the bartender obliged him with the information. Only later did he recall those fiercely glinting eyes and wonder if he had done the right thing to tell the stranger where Drummond Hollister lived.
Thirty minutes later, the man was on his way out of town along the dirt road the bartender had so helpfully and unknowingly pointed out. As he made his way into the foothills, the rider grew ever more vigilant. That his errand was a deadly one could be seen by the way his right hand wandered from the rifle strapped to the saddle behind him to the pistol tucked into a holster at his side.
Ascending the final ridge about which the bartender had told him, the stranger finally dismounted to proceed on foot. He would survey the area first and learn what he could of the lay of the land.
He led his horse off the road and tied it to a tree out of sight. He drew out his pistol and held it in readiness in case he encountered someone unexpectedly. Then with stealthy step, keeping off the road, he proceeded cautiously over the ridge.
Chapter 42
The Hunting Trip
Fall came right on schedule.
The green of the leaves began to evaporate into hints of yellow and red, then turn deeper golds and more brilliant reds and fiery oranges. Gradually a nip crept into the air in the evening and morning, though for a while the days remained nearly as warm as the summer.
I knew what was coming when Pa started looking up into the mountains with a faraway gaze, and then when he and Zack started cleaning and oiling their rifles and checking the sights. Then came target practice at cans and fenceposts and trees, and I knew it wouldn’t be long. This was one of the times of the year Pa loved most.
I came upon Zack alone in the barn once, practicing his quick-draw with his new pistol. I’d heard shots off in the distance that were different from rifle shots, and I knew them to be from Zack, too. He had always been more fond of guns than I was comfortable with. But he was a man now, and there was nothing I could do about it.
One evening during the first week of November, Pa announced at supper that the time had come.
“Time to be heading up into the hills to get started on our winter’s meat,” he said.
Zack and Tad were nearly out of their seats and on their way to saddle up their horses the next instant!
“Hold on!” laughed Pa. “We still got a few preparations to make. I figure two days from tomorrow morning, we’ll head out.”
Christopher was the only one around the table who didn’t know what was going on, and he listened to Pa with raised eyebrows.
“Besides, we’ve gotta get Christopher instructed with his rifle before then,” Pa added in answer to his look of question.
“What—I don’t own a rifle,” he said.
“You will before we leave. I’m buying you a new one myself.”
Tad and Zack gave out exclamations of their approval.
“What need do I have of a rifle?” asked Christopher.
“If you’re going to go hunting with us,” rejoined Pa, “then you’ve got to know how to use one. We’re going to
come back with a couple of deer, maybe a fat bear getting ready to settle down for a long sleep—meat enough to smoke and dry to last us into the winter at least. When the first snows come, we’ll go out again to get more to freeze.”
The very next day Pa and Christopher went into town together to pick out a new gun. Christopher was uncomfortable, I could tell, but he went along with it for Pa’s sake. I knew as well that despite his nervousness he was looking forward to a hunting trip up into the Sierras with the men.
“We’ll make a Westerner yet out of this husband of yours, Corrie,” said Pa that evening around the table. “I’ll teach him to shoot, to track, to know where the game is, and to read the weather.”
“It sounds like you plan to turn him into another John Fremont!” I said with a laugh.
“Nah, I just want him to know where to go out and get himself a couple deer every year.”
We all laughed.
“I had to shoot an occasional fox for Mrs. Timms,” said Christopher, “and took her rifle out to get her a deer or rabbit when I could, but it seems like half the times I missed and the critter got away.”
“I tell you, Christopher,” Pa went on, “things and critters are different out here. Back in New York and Virginia bear and deer have been hiding from men for a hundred years. It’s easier to find the game here.”
Christopher loved being part of this group of men. He’d never before had the opportunity to enjoy this sort of thing. But he was strangely quiet for a while after Pa’s comment about turning him into a Westerner. I didn’t know why.
When we were alone I asked him about it.
“Why did you get so quiet?” I asked at length.
Christopher sighed and shrugged without answering.
“Pa didn’t mean anything by what he said.”
“I know that,” Christopher replied. “But maybe I’m not cut out to be a Westerner.”
“I . . . I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”
The Braxtons of Miracle Springs Page 18