by Al Lacy
The old man smiled. “I’ll be right here, son.”
When Paul arrived at Max’s shop, he told the wagon builder that Sarge Lewis had given him the wagon for free. Max said, “Because of what you are doing, Marshal Brockman, I will give you two of my huskiest draft horses for free.”
“That’s very generous of you, Mr. Younker.”
“No doubt you will want to take the iron wagon home to Denver.”
Paul nodded. “Since Sarge Lewis gave it to me, I’d sure like to.”
“Well, you sure can’t pull it to Denver yourself. You’ll still need those horses to get the wagon home.”
Paul thanked Max for his generosity. Then he led the horses in their harness to the old cabin and hitched them to the iron wagon. Sarge Lewis looked on, smiling. Paul thanked him again for the wagon and drove back to the office. He found that the six soldiers were still there with the deputies.
Paul showed them the iron wagon with the iron cage built into its bed and the two strong horses, explaining how he got them. “Fellas, since no soldiers or deputies are available to go with me, I’ll just have to drive the wagon to Yuma myself, with the Dub Finch gang locked up in the cage.”
“Marshal Brockman, some of us have recently been in western Arizona. I need to warn you of the danger you’re going to face on the trip to Yuma. Many Apaches who hate white people are running wild in that part of Arizona. It’s bad enough anywhere in the territory, but it’s worse in that direction. At least there are a few U.S. Army camps set up along the way to Yuma to protect white travelers crossing Arizona, but the camps are many miles apart and can only protect a few of those travelers.”
Paul nodded. “I appreciate your bringing this up, Sergeant. I have known about the army camps for a little while, and of course I know about the Apache trouble in western Arizona. As a born-again Christian, I will simply trust the Lord to watch over me as I make this trip.”
The soldiers and the deputies commended Paul for his courage.
Paul turned to the deputies. “I am going to the hospital now to inform Marshal Pierce of my plans.” He looked at Deputy Woodard. “Leroy, I’m going to recommend that Marshal Pierce put you in charge of the office while I head to Yuma.”
“Marshal Brockman, I will gladly do it if Marshal Pierce assigns the job to me.”
Paul smiled at him. “I was quite sure you would accept the responsibility.”
Later that day, Paul arrived at the hospital and entered Marshal Pierce’s room. He found the marshal sitting up in the bed, braced by pillows at his back. “Wow!” Paul exclaimed. “You’re looking much better!”
“Yes,” said Pierce. “Praise the Lord, I am indeed feeling better. My doctor told me this morning that since it has been almost a month since I was shot and I am doing so well, he’s going to let me go home in another day or two.”
Paul told him of his plans, then suggested Deputy Woodard as his choice to head up Marshal Pierce’s office while he made the Yuma trip. Marshal Pierce wholeheartedly agreed.
“Paul, when you arrive in Yuma, will you send a telegram to Deputy Woodard at my office so he’ll know you made it all right? And also let him know approximately when you will return to Phoenix.”
Paul nodded. “I sure will, sir.”
Late that afternoon, Paul sent a telegram to his father at the federal office in Denver. Paul explained about the Dub Finch gang’s escape from Yuma Prison, how he and the other ten men captured them, and that he was going to take the five-man gang back to Yuma Prison in an iron wagon with an iron cage, just like the one they saw together at Fort Logan. He asked for prayer, as he would be driving the iron wagon alone all the way to Yuma.
That evening, John Brockman gathered his family in the parlor of their ranch house, along with Ginny’s fiancé, David Barrett. Whip, Annabeth, and Lizzie Langford and Pastor Robert and Mary Bayless also joined them.
As John solemnly read Paul’s telegram to them, a sliver of well-known fear ran down Breanna’s spine. This is Satan’s work, she thought. He wants me to doubt my Lord and discourage me. Well, it isn’t going to work, devil! I depend on my Saviour to protect Paul, and all of the promises of God in Him are yea and amen. Get thee behind me, Satan!
When John finished reading Paul’s telegram aloud, they had a special prayer meeting for Paul, then and there.
When the guests were about to leave the Brockman home, David and Ginny approached Pastor Bayless, and David said, “Pastor, Ginny and I will be ready to set our wedding date soon, and we will come to your office to see if the date we choose is all right with you.”
Pastor Bayless smiled. “I will look forward to meeting with you when you are ready to set the date.”
In Phoenix the next morning, Paul Brockman entered the county jail, and while the sheriff and six deputies looked on, Paul handcuffed Finch, Devlin, Bender, Gentry, and Jagger with their hands in front of them.
Finch and the others glared at Paul as he led them outside the jail, accompanied by the sheriff and the six deputies. When the outlaws saw the iron cage built into the bed of the wagon, their stomachs turned over within them.
Paul ordered the outlaws to climb into the cage through the opening at the rear of the wagon, and they stiffened with rebellion, but the angry looks on the faces of the six armed deputies and the sheriff were enough to make them obey. The iron door of the cage was closed by Paul, who used a sturdy padlock to secure it. He slipped the key into his pocket.
Paul put water and food in the boxlike iron sections alongside the wagon bed—some for the prisoners and some for himself and the horses.
The sheriff and the deputies wished Paul the best and watched as he drove the iron wagon away from the jail.
The wagon left Phoenix behind, and Paul was moving the horses at a mild trot along the dusty road, heading due west. The five outlaws sat on the hard, uncomfortable floor of the iron cage and looked angrily at Paul’s back through the small squared openings between the iron bands that made up the cage.
Dub Finch scooted closer to the wagon seat where Paul held the reins and continued to glare at him, his heavy lips set in a thin, bitter line. The agitation on his face preceded a convulsive wrestling of his big, thick shoulders as he growled, “You ain’t never gonna get us to that prison at Yuma, Brockman! We’re gonna find a way to get loose and kill you before we even get near there!”
Paul would not give Finch the satisfaction on responding to him. He simply kept his eyes on the road with every intention of delivering the gang to the prison.
After a couple of minutes, Finch shouted, “Hey, dumb head! Did you hear what I said?”
“Yeah, I heard you.” Paul didn’t turn around. “You’d better just keep your mouth shut and save your breath.”
Finch looked around at his men, who were obviously feeling hopeless about escaping the hangman’s rope. Biting his lower lip, Finch took in the rolling desert, its rocks and cacti.
Paul figured that by driving at least ten hours a day, they would arrive in Yuma, which was some one-hundred-and-eighty-two miles from Phoenix, within two days.
The iron wagon rolled along the desert road, and soon the five outlaws in the cage were lying on its hard floor, snoozing. As Paul held the reins, he happened to look down at a large, flat rock alongside the road, and he saw a huge lizard sunning itself on the rock.
Paul’s thoughts went to his prayers offered to the Lord in the past months concerning the future wife God had chosen for him. He wondered when “Miss Right” would come into his life. Lord, I sure would appreciate it if You would send her to me soon. She’s out there somewhere, I know that. And thank You that one day, by Your leadership, she will come into my life.
Early on Sunday morning, October 6, the wagon train that Edgar, Celia, and Lisa Martin were traveling with was moving westward on the road that led to Yuma and on to San Diego. The Martins’ covered wagon happened to be the last in the row of six covered wagons.
It was early enough that morning that a rosy f
reshness of the sunrise still slanted along the bronze slopes of the desert, and here and there blossoms of ocotillo shone red. Long shadows of the tall cacti made their appearance on the sandy ground.
As the Martin wagon followed the others, lovely Lisa was in her bed asleep in the rear of the wagon.
Celia, who was sitting on the driver’s seat next to her husband, turned to him. “I sure wish we could be in church this morning. I miss it.”
“Me too, honey,” Edgar said, gripping the reins. “But at least we’ve been told of some good churches in San Diego. I can hardly wait to get there and find the one that the Lord will lead us to join.”
“Me too!” Celia smiled broadly.
Suddenly, there was a wild, whooping sound off to the left, along with the rumble of pounding hoofs. Edgar’s head whipped that direction and gasped. “Celia, it’s Indians! Apaches! They’re coming at us on galloping horses—and they’re lifting their rifles!”
Celia looked past her husband, who was quickly picking up his rifle, and saw the attacking Indians. With her heart pounding, she looked into the covered part of the wagon and saw that Lisa was still asleep.
The Apaches began firing their rifles as they drew closer, and as Edgar told Celia to duck down low, he fired in return, as did the other men in the wagon train.
Bullets were striking the canvas of the Martin wagon, and Celia was weeping as she twisted from her low position on her seat and looked back at her daughter.
Lisa’s eyes were wide with terror as she gasped, “Oh, Mama! We’re going to be killed!”
TWENTY-THREE
The men in the covered wagons had their horses galloping hard as the Apaches drew nearer, firing their rifles.
One wagon hit a large rock on the side of the road and turned over. A man and a woman were thrown onto the ground beside the road. The tongue of the wagon had broken, and their two horses went galloping away with the wooden wagon tongue bouncing on the ground behind them.
The Apaches drew rein and quickly shot the man and the woman, killing them instantly. Then the warriors put their horses to a full gallop and went after the other wagons.
While the five wagons were racing away as fast as possible, the Apaches drew close to the last wagon in line. Suddenly both Edgar and Celia were hit by bullets, and as they buckled on the seat from the hot lead in their bodies, the Indians also shot their galloping horses. The horses immediately collapsed, and the wagon turned over, throwing terrified Lisa Martin out of the rear of the wagon and onto the ground.
The entire band of the Apaches agreed to let the other wagons go, then quickly turned around and rode back to the Martins’ overturned wagon. Dismounting, they saw the young lady lying on the ground, looking at them with fear showing in her tear-filled eyes. They also saw the couple lying a few feet from her on the ground with bloody bullet holes in the clothing of their upper bodies. Both of them appeared to be dead.
Lisa Martin lay weeping as she looked at her lifeless parents, expecting the Indians to kill her.
Just as the Indians were raising their rifles to shoot her, pounding hoofbeats were heard, and a larger band of Apaches rode up and drew rein. Their leader spoke sharply to the Indians about to shoot the young lady on the ground.
Lisa didn’t understand the Apache language, but when the guns were lowered, she knew the chief had commanded them not to shoot her. She was surprised to see the chief speaking to them again, showing anger.
It seemed that he was asking them questions. They answered him in soft words, and after he said spoke to them again, he moved to the spot where Lisa lay. She was still weeping over her dead parents as the chief knelt beside her.
“Young lady, I am Chief Windino. I am very angry that some of the men from my reservation attacked the wagon train you were with. I assume this man and woman lying on the ground over here are your parents.”
“Y-yes sir.” She wiped tears from her eyes, surprised to hear him speak English.
“I am very sorry for what my men did to your parents, but I want to tell you that you will not be harmed. I will take you to my reservation, and I will have some of the women take care of you until I can get you to the nearest army camp where the soldiers can help you.”
Lisa was sniffling and still wiping tears. “Thank you, Chief Windino.”
A few minutes later, when the Apaches were preparing to ride away, one of the warriors looked at Lisa with blazing hatred in his eyes. Her heart trembled within her, and she silently prayed, asking the Lord to protect her from that Indian and any other who felt the same way toward her.
Lisa then set her eyes on the bodies of her parents on the ground. Tears streamed down her ashen cheeks as she considered her predicament. Whatever am I going to do? Papa and Mama were my only living relatives. I have no one to go back to in Phoenix, nor do I have any reason to continue on this trip to California. I have hardly any money or any means of supporting myself.
Sorrow overwhelmed Lisa as she sat behind Chief Windino on his horse. I hope Chief Windino is true to his word and will take me to the nearest army camp. Please, Lord. Please, please help me.
Lisa took a shaky breath and whispered, “Dear Lord, I am so glad to know that Papa and Mama are in heaven with You. I am alone here on earth, but I am glad to know I am in Your care.”
Chief Windino put his horse in motion, and his men followed as he headed in the direction of the Apache reservation.
Less than half an hour later, Paul Brockman was coming along the road, driving the iron wagon with the murderous outlaws in the cage. He guided the wagon around a slight bend in the road and came across the two overturned wagons and the bodies of their occupants lying on the ground. He drew the iron wagon to a halt, jumped down from the driver’s seat, and hurried toward the overturned wagons. Passing the first one, he ran to the second and examined the man and the woman on the ground.
They were dead, and their horses were gone.
He then rushed back to the other overturned wagon, noting that both horses lay dead. He knelt down and examined the woman first, finding quickly that she was dead. He rose to his feet and went to the blood-soaked man. Just as he knelt to examine him, Paul was stunned to see that the man was barely breathing and looking up at him.
Before Paul could speak to the wounded man, Edgar Martin spoke weakly. “My wife is dead, isn’t she?”
Paul nodded sadly. “Yes sir.”
Edgar closed his eyes for a few seconds, biting his lower lip, then opened them. “You—you look very much like chief U.S. marshal John Brockman, who lives in Denver.”
Paul swallowed hard. “Sir, I am Chief Brockman’s son. My name is Paul.”
Edgar’s voice grew weaker as he told Paul his name, then how he, his wife, Celia, and their nineteen-year-old daughter, Lisa, were saved under the preaching of his father last April at the First Baptist Church in Phoenix.
Paul’s eyes filmed up with tears. “My father told our whole family about you and your family being saved and baptized that Sunday morning.”
Edgar managed a slight smile. “Your father is some kind of man!” He then told Paul of the Apache attack, saying that he passed out two or three times during the attack. The next thing he knew, the Apache chief, who spoke English, was telling Lisa his name was Chief Windino.
“I know of Chief Windino, sir. I was about to ask about your daughter. Where is she?”
Edgar feebly licked his lips. “Chief Windino said some things to Lisa I could not understand. My—my brain was fading on me. But then I clearly heard him tell her he was going to take her to his reservation. I passed out then, and when I came to, Lisa and the Indians were gone.”
Paul nodded. “I see.”
Trembling severely, Edgar grasped Paul’s wrist. “I was so scared that the Apaches would torture Lisa and kill her. P-please, Paul, I beg you! Do whatever it takes to rescue Lisa from the Apaches! Get the army to help you!”
Paul’s mind was racing. Edgar’s breathing was now very shallow. Paul was abo
ut to try to encourage him by telling him that Chief Windino was friendly toward white people when suddenly Edgar gasped, drew a deep, ragged breath, and let it out. His eyes closed.
Paul carefully examined him, checking for breath and a pulse in his neck and his wrists. But there was no breath and no pulse.
Edgar Martin had died and gone to be with the Lord and his wife in heaven.
At that precise moment, a unit of ten U.S. Army soldiers rode up and dismounted. The leader introduced himself as Lieutenant Felix Armendall. Paul told the lieutenant who he was and where he was from. Then, pointing at the prisoners in the iron wagon, who were now awake and sitting up, he explained who they were and what he was doing. All of the soldiers had heard of the Dub Finch gang.
Paul told the soldiers about the Apache attack on the wagon train and how he had come upon the victims in two of the wagons, with one man still alive, who had told him the story before dying just now.
“Lieutenant Armendall,” Paul asked, “can you and your men see that the bodies of the four people lying on the ground are buried?”
The lieutenant nodded. “Absolutely. It’s the least I can do.”
“Thank you, sir. I need to go to Chief Windino’s reservation immediately to see about Miss Lisa Martin. I sure hope she’s all right.”
“That’s mighty kind of you, Deputy Brockman. Tell you what. My men and I will escort you to Chief Windino’s reservation. It’s only about twelve miles from here. Chief Windino is quite friendly, even to us soldiers, though some of his warriors are not. It’s because of those unfriendly warriors that we’ll escort you there. I’m quite sure that if Miss Martin is all right when we get there, Chief Windino will let her go with you.”
Paul smiled. “I appreciate your offer to escort me there, Lieutenant.”
“Glad to do it. And later today, my men and I will see that the people from both wagons are given a proper burial.”
While the soldiers were mounting their horses, Paul climbed up onto the driver’s seat of the iron wagon. Ignoring the Finch gang glaring at him, Paul put the team into motion. As Paul drove the iron wagon, Lieutenant Armendall rode beside him as the rest of the soldiers followed behind.