by Lynn Squire
Barty’s feet shuffled.
Joab moaned.
Nathaniel coughed.
Dixon opened his hand. He stared at the tip. It was different.
A breath whooshed from him, and the expanse it left filled with guilt. He closed his eyes. How could he have doubted his friend?
“Joab, why would you expect God to answer you?” Nathaniel’s voice rumbled over Dixon’s spine like a wagon on a rutted road, jogging him out of his compunction.
He turned to see Nathaniel stand. Surely the man would not verbally attack Joab again.
Nathaniel’s face twitched around hollow, black eyes. “You can’t be justified with God.”
The words hit Dixon like the kick of a mule. He gripped his Stetson. “You dare to condemn him?” He took a deep breath and then another. “I do not profess to be a Christian. I thought I had no opinion of God, but I’ve seen a bit of life. I know that there is a spirit in man.” Dixon lowered his hard gaze on Nathaniel. “And I know some have more understanding than others.” He’d better gain control of himself, or he’d throttle Nathaniel. “I do not know why Joab has gone through this, but certainly he does not deserve to be condemned.”
The other man’s back stiffened.
Dixon huffed. “I’m sure he is not perfectly innocent of wrong doing. What man is? But does anyone have the right to assume they know what God thinks and feels about another?” Dixon ran his hand over his face. “Can anyone know the mind of God? For sure, I don’t.”
The creases around Nathaniel’s eyes deepened as his gaze grew cold as ice.
Dixon ran his right thumb and finger across his eyes as though trying to remove the frost from Nathaniel’s look. “There’s nothing left for me to do here. Joab, I find no solid evidence to hold anyone accountable for the atrocities you’ve endured. I’m sorry, friend.” Never had he felt more defeated. It was as though the world turned inside out. And indeed it had. But at some point he had to admit it. He had to come to terms with his own inabilities. And who could fight against Providence? Nonetheless, his stomach accused him of giving up without a fight.
“I do not deny that there is a God greater than man.” Dixon stepped toward the door and placed his hand on the latch. “There is no one I know who has lived a better life than Joab, but as for God? Who can truly know Him?”
His tense muscles quivered. Why could he not escape the feeling of guilt that surrounded him? It taunted him, threatening to reveal the truth he buried deep inside him. It loomed over him like a dark cloud ready to unleash its fury on the land.
But he was not dirt to be stirred by a wild wind—by the finger of God. Nor would he let this talk of God change his course in life. No, God had nothing to do with him. This God, whom so many feared, let his mother die. He let Joab’s son get killed, and let bad men like Louis Riel—that treasonous murderer—go free. How could a person call a God like that just?
He pulled the door open.
Abbadon’s hand stretched for it.
Dixon froze. Why would Abbadon, a slimy good-for-nothing evil man, be here? No good could come of this.
Chapter 23
Abbadon tipped his hat at Dixon and indicated he wanted inside the soddy. Dixon squared his shoulders and filled the doorway with his body.
The stranger grinned at the sergeant as though he knew exactly what Dixon was thinking. But he couldn’t. No one could read minds, not even the devil—so Dixon’s mother had said.
“Good day, Sergeant. How is Mr. Black?” Abbadon removed his hat and twirled it on his finger.
And why did it matter to the man? “Not much better.”
“I’ve come to pay my respects.”
Dixon sealed his lips in a tight line. Better not to antagonize and ask for more trouble.
Something brushed against his shoulder. Barty’s hand. He could smell Barty’s tobacco laden breath.
“Abbadon, good to see you.” Barty gave Dixon a shove. “Let the man in, Dixon.”
Dixon grunted and moved aside. What did Abbadon have to do with Joab? There must be a connection. Yet, outside of Abbadon’s arrival the day Joab’s son died—killed in a most unusual way, he might add—there was no reason to assume that one man had anything to do with the other.
“You goin’ to close the door, or become it yourself?” Nathaniel’s words came with a hint of snideness.
Dixon couldn’t leave now. Not with Abbadon there. He turned on his heel and stepped back into the soddy, closing the door behind him.
While Barty and Nathaniel extended their hands to Abbadon, Dixon studied the stranger. The man’s pale face glowed in the dark of the sod house, an eerie light. But Barty and Nathaniel didn’t seem to notice. They seemed smitten with the man.
Much of the town seemed taken in by Abbadon. What was it about him? He seemed to burrow into people’s hearts like a bloodsucker, unannounced and unwanted, feeding on their secrets. At least, that’s how Dixon felt. However, most people did not show a fear of Abbadon. Why then did Dixon sense the man was ready to send him to the judgment seat?
The stranger’s gaze met Dixon’s. His eyes flicked like a snake’s. “Sergeant, were you not heading some place?”
“I decided to stay.”
Joab made a gurgling sound like a man being stabbed.
Dixon took one step and knelt beside his friend.
Joab’s face, what wasn’t covered with pussy sores, turned red. His eyes …
Dixon’s heart stopped.
Joab’s eyes were spears. Sharp. Ready for war. And cast upon the heart of Abbadon. They did know each other, and, by the looks of both men’s faces, they hated each other.
A knock echoed through the soddy.
Barty opened the door, and Pastor Perkins stood before them, a sentinel between the light behind him and the dark in the soddy. He removed his hat, revealing a head of thick, gray hair.
His coat hung long, an oversized mantle draping from his shoulders. He appeared a giant in the room, and when he nodded to each man, he wore the look of one who knew much but loved even more.
Except when his eyes met Abbadon’s. They locked like bulls’ horns.
Abbadon’s head twisted until the connection severed. He stared at the floor.
Dixon lowered his gaze, unable to look Pastor Perkins in the eye. He never could feel comfortable in the man’s presence—always felt as though the pastor knew everything he’d ever done wrong.
Dixon rose and stepped away from Joab. Perhaps the pastor could help his friend, even if he might despise Dixon.
Shuffled feet thudded against the wall. Dixon looked toward the sound.
Abbadon, now appearing as though he saw a ghost, stood plastered against the wall. His shoulders closed around his chest. The creature had a bad case of fear.
He slunk along the wall and slipped out the door, as quiet and defeated as a wounded dog after a fight.
Did the pastor have something on him? Did they have some previous altercation? Perhaps the drifter should be followed.
“Joab, you have suffered greatly.” Pastor Perkins’ soft voice stilled Dixon.
“Destruction from God.” Joab gasped. His face knotted, and he cried in agony.
Dixon bent beside his friend.
The pastor leaned over Joab, his breath moving the man’s hair. He touched Joab’s brow and frowned.
“My son, dead … my farm … my skin …” Joab gulped for air.
Pastor Perkins laid his hand on Joab’s, but he offered no words of comfort.
No one spoke in that soddy.
Outside, the coyotes howled at the evening sky, and crows cawed great finds of grain to each other. Above the soddy the wind blew, speaking through the stove pipe, almost soothing in its winnowing.
Perhaps, just perhaps, this would be the end of Joab’s suffering. Dixon could only hope.
Chapter 24
While the wind moaned through the stove pipe, Dixon, Nathaniel, Barty, and Pastor Perkins waited in silence. An uncomfortable silence, like
that found in a graveyard—mournful, lonely, sullen.
Dixon crouched beside Joab while the dark passed like a spirit released to walk the earth until the sun rose. And when morning came, it hid in the corners of the sod house, fawning over the ill feelings that spread among friends.
How many more nights could they stay in this hovel, begging the night to leave, only to find it remained in their souls? Dixon averted his thoughts. No good dwelling on it.
“I’ve done nothing wrong. Why has God done this to me?” Joab’s feeble cry crashed through silence’s hold.
Pastor Perkins’ face remained unmarred by the night’s vigilance. Yet, he made no move to comfort Joab. Could he not see the man’s inner turmoil?
Dixon couldn’t stand by and let Joab suffer any longer. Weren’t ministers supposed to have the ear of God? Why hadn’t the pastor prayed for God to heal Joab?
A moan rose from his friend, rolling through the soddy like storm clouds, then falling away to a whisper. “I’ve done nothing …”
Tension whipped across Dixon’s shoulders. “Listen, I’ve always thought you a good man, Joab.” Truth be told, Joab almost made him a believer.
Dixon tugged on his mustache and stretched up to his full height. His joints complained as he did. Had he any right to speak to Joab? “I know I am nothing but dirt.” The words slipped past Dixon’s lips, catching him unawares. He swallowed.
Feet shuffled in the corner as Nathaniel and Barty moved closer.
Truth was, in comparison to Joab, Dixon was dirt. He knew it and had kept it a secret all these years. He tried to ignore his mistakes, his horrible mistakes. But those errors of judgment, they were catching up to him now.
He ran his fingers past the corners of his mouth. In all his life as a NWMP Officer, he’d never known a man without some fault. “I don’t want to say anything to hurt you, but can you truly be guiltless?” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I mean …” Had he not seen the hateful looks exchanged between Abbadon and Joab? Something went on between them, something so malicious that they could easily kill each other. He’d seen that look before between a murderer and his intended victim—between the rebel Riel and Major Crozier, his own former superior at Fort Carlton, Saskatchewan, about twenty years ago.
The night his mother’s house burned, Dixon had worn that look.
But Joab—a man of God. … Malice corroded his face as plainly as it did others. Joab would have killed Abbadon with his own hands had he been able to stand.
The fact hit Dixon’s gut like a ton of lead. Joab was as capable of wrongdoing as any of them. If such a man as this righteous person could plot evil, then who could ever be right with God—then who could ever change God’s mind once it was bent on destruction? Truly, God was untouchable.
“Didn’t you tell me God is greater than man?” Dixon shrugged his shoulders, rattled by his own outburst.
Pastor Perkins didn’t move. He stood between the other two men and Joab. Only Dixon faced the pastor, and the man unnerved Dixon. Such penetrating eyes, cutting through to a person’s soul.
Dixon turned and shook off the feeling. Who was he to judge Joab? Wasn’t he also guilty? Guilty of betraying his comrades.
The wind that night, long ago, had gone right through his serge when he had sneaked past the guard and out of Fort Carlton. Major Crozier had refused to listen to him. The Métis, those murderous half-breeds, occupied the Village of Duck Lake, and Dixon had to get to his mother. Once the Métis learned she was the mother of a NWMP Officer, they’d murder her.
The snow crunched beneath his feet. So much for alert guards on duty. Perhaps they thought him a deer or some other wild animal.
He glanced at the sky. The cloud cover made it easy to slip through the trees. On the North Saskatchewan River, the ice cracked as the rising water shoved it aside. Shoved it aside like the major had Dixon.
For more than twenty miles, he ran in the dark. A foolhardy trip what with the unrest between the Indians, the Métis, and the whites. But Mother’s life was in danger. He had no choice.
Past midnight, he rounded the corner of his mother’s home, a plank-sided shanty with oiled parchment for windows. Smoke rose from the chimney. A dull light shone from the house, and he could hear voices.
Men’s voices.
His jaw locked. What were men doing in Mother’s house?
He squatted below the window to listen.
“Zee fort, it is not well guarded.”
Dixon grunted. That was an understatement.
“We should move quickly.” The second voice sounded like Riel’s, but Dixon couldn’t say for sure. He’d only heard him once, and that from a distance
“It’s too soon. Zee people, they need to become comfortable with zee new government.”
That voice was decidedly Pierre Parenteau’s, his mother’s neighbor, and a powerful man.
Dixon swallowed. Pierre knew Dixon. That explained their presence.
God, if there were ever a time Mother needed you …
Dixon needed to get in there. He reached for his sidearm. Nothing. He slapped his thigh and groaned. Desperate to sneak away undetected, he’d left it in his lock box by his bunk. Now what?
“Zee North West Mounted Police are too strong. Undefeated.”
“Zen we will defeat them while zey are weak.”
Enough. He needed to know where Mother was, if she was safe or not. He crept along the side of the house, careful not to make noise in the snow. If he found Mother in the lean-to, he’d smuggle her out. That was a big if.
He should report his knowledge of Riel’s planned attack to the major. A knot formed in his chest. If he let the major know, then he for certain would be punished for desertion. If he didn’t inform, he could be responsible for the death and injury of many good men.
A hand landed on his shoulder, jolting him back to the present. Pastor Perkins lifted the corner of his mouth in a partial smile. The corner of his eyes, though, remained turned down. Did he know what Dixon had done that night, years ago?
Dixon ground his teeth. How could he possibly stand in judgment of Joab, a much more righteous man than himself, when he, afraid of punishment, decided not to inform the major of Riel’s plot years ago? If more troops had been sent, Fort Carlton wouldn’t have been lost. But that would not have changed what happened to Mother. His stomach rolled over in regret.
“God is greater than man.” Nathaniel’s voice cracked. “He won’t hear any vain words. The Almighty just ain’t going to listen. That’s why we’ve got to ‘fess up when we’ve done wrong.”
“I’ve done nothing wrong.” Joab winced. His lips bled.
“Give him some water, Nate.” Barty pointed to the bucket and held his stomach. His face looked paler than birch bark.
Dixon stepped toward him. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Think I’ll step out for fresh air.”
As Barty opened the door, the draft pulled a whiff of smoke through the soddy. Smoke, just like that night nearly twenty years ago.
Dixon coughed. Running around the Duck Lake countryside that night had brought on a bad cold. It had clung to him for weeks. He sweated beneath his serge despite the frigid weather.
Many men died when they were ambushed by the Métis a few weeks after the Métis burned Dixon’s mother’s house with her in it. He could have prevented the ambush if he had ‘fessed up and told the major what he knew of Riel’s plans. Instead the NWMP scrambled to save lives and retreat to Prince Albert.
He leaned against the post supporting the fort’s catwalk and heaved, expelling his last meal.
Men scuttled to bring gun powder barrels to wagons. Horses stomped their feet, sensing the urgency. Shouts ricocheted across the barracks, and horsemen galloped out the gate to fall into formation. Fort Carlton would be Riel’s, and the NWMP would face their first humiliating retreat.
All because of Dixon.
He staggered to the lampposts. His orders were to empty the oil into the last barrel an
d extinguish each lamp left burning after the troops left the fort.
He lifted the last lamp off a hook in the back storeroom. His knees gave out, and he succumbed to a fit of coughing. The lamp fell from this hand, crashing to the floor. Kerosene splashed everywhere. Flames lapped it up and raced.
He ran from the building.
“Who is this that darkens the counsel by words without knowledge?” Pastor Perkins’s soft voice resonated with power. “Be a man, Joab.”
Chapter 25
Sarah Black lifted the delicate teacup to her lips and sipped the sweet berry tea. One could almost imagine sitting in a proper dining room in a proper hotel in Barrie, Ontario.
Mrs. Clumpit’s artistic flare showed in her bouquet of dried wildflowers. Though they are nothing like the flowers that grow in Ontario. Sarah sighed and set her teacup on its saucer. One should focus on one’s present situation, not the past.
She blinked and lifted her gaze across the restaurant. Several vacant tables made the room feel cold and empty. Perhaps it was just the late hour of the morning, but she could not help but feel her neighbors were avoiding her. She supposed her behavior of late was not so congenial. She must have looked a fright when she came in last night. And then to blither on about mother the way she did. She blushed and ran her finger along the edge of her cup.
On the other side of the dining room sat a man whose features reminded her of Lord Dunsbury. His height equaled the lord’s and the unmistakable chiseled jaw— so strong. So powerful. Not to mention the blond hair with red hues. Heat rose up the back of her neck. He was the most handsome man she had ever known.
Her fist tightened around her serviette. Perhaps dwelling on the past was not such a bad thing at a time like this. Lord Dunsbury had provided her with many happy times. She stretched her fingers and smoothed the cloth on her lap. After all, in times of adversity, such as what Joab and she had endured, shouldn’t one remember the good things in life?