by Lynn Squire
“Wire from Calgary!” It was Carl, racing to catch up to him. “The train just arrived and no man by your description aboard.”
The clerk was half running, half walking, trying to catch up to Carl.
Dixon frowned. “Can you wire back to hold any vagabonds on that train?”
“Did that already. No one. Chances are he jumped off somewhere between here and Calgary.”
Dixon leaned forward in his saddle and thought for a moment. “I’m riding up the rail line. Could you get the word out to every telegraph station between here and Calgary? Ask them to send police on a manhunt east on this line. We can’t let this crook get away.”
The man hung his head. “You’re chasin’ a wild goose. He’s gone now. Back to his den. Won’t show himself again, at least not in the form you saw him.”
“Just do as I ask.” Dixon resisted shuddering. These people and their ghost stories. Can’t let them get to him. Yet, too much of Abbadon was unexplainable.
“All right.” He waved Dixon away. “Suppose you got to find your peace somehow. Must be pretty bad, what he’s got on you.”
Dixon bristled. Every wrong he’d committed since childhood. Enough to send him to his death. If it didn’t seem so true, he’d say the devil was in it, that he’d been listening to too many old wives tales. “The man ruined a close friend of mine. I’m not letting him get away with it.” Had he not spent the night thinking about destroying that notebook? If Abbadon knew all that about him, then someone else did as well. But, destroying the notebook would not be the end of his guilt.
“That’s how he works. If he can’t get you, he goes for those you care about. ’Course if he already has you, he might be keepin’ you busy to prevent you from finding the truth.” The man lifted his arm as Dixon road away. “The truth will make you free. That’s what the Good Book says.”
Dixon tipped his Stetson and saluted. “I’ll try to remember that.”
With a squeeze of his leg, Dixon urged his horse into a jog. God help him if he didn’t find the reprobate. It was his only road to peace.
Chapter 36
Two days of scouring the prairie between Surbank and Calgary left Dixon bone weary and disheartened. He slipped out of the saddle then led his exhausted horse to the stable behind his office.
The search didn’t even bring a scrap of evidence of Abbadon’s existence, let alone the man himself. Perhaps the telegraph clerk in Carseland was right. The scoundrel had simply disappeared and the whole escapade was just a wild goose chase.
He shook his head and pulled the saddle off his horse. Must be fatigue that’s causing him to even consider the clerk’s folklore to be true.
“Dixon?”
A smile rose on his face at the sound of Ruth’s sweet voice. He rubbed his three-day-old beard then turned to see her. “‘Fraid I’m not too presentable.”
Her eyes twinkled. “I’m just glad to see you’re still alive.” She drew her skirt off the dirt as she stepped into the barn. “I should never have sent you after him.”
“That’s my job.” He tossed a bundle of hay into the manger, and then grabbed a curry comb. His horse immersed his head in the hay while Dixon combed him down, beginning under his mane at the top of his neck. Ruth stepped over a pile of straw and stood beside him, her lavender scent enfolding his senses. “I know about Duck Lake and your mother.”
A lump formed in his throat. He moved to the other side of the horse.
“And I know about Fort Carlton.”
Her words scraped along the raw spot of his heart. He leaned into his grooming. “How? How do you know?”
“Jethro was on guard duty the night you left the fort to see your mother. He followed you.”
His hand froze on the animal’s brown haunches. That must have been why it was so easy to get away from the barracks that night.
“When he saw the fire, he couldn’t bring himself to report your actions to Major Crozier.”
Why hadn’t Jethro helped him? Dixon shook his head. No one could have stopped the fire and there was no stopping Riel. There was nothing Jethro could have done.
“He thought maybe you’d report yourself.”
Dixon groaned. “He must have considered me a great disappointment.”
“You were young.”
“Old enough to know better.” And with enough training to have handled the situation with integrity. But he didn’t have integrity. He was a coward.
She rested her hand on the back of the horse’s rump and walked around the back to where Dixon stood. “Jethro loved you like a brother. He knew the turmoil you were going through, your pride, your desire to prove yourself. He’d hoped you would do what was right, but he would never have turned you in, knowing you were only trying to help your mother.” She tugged on his sleeve. “Perhaps that was a weakness on his part. By duty, he should have reported you. For years he carried the same blame you do, maybe even more. He not only didn’t tell his superiors about that night out of loyalty to you, he also recognized that decision cost three policemen and nine volunteers their lives.”
Dixon sank back against the stall boards. He ripped off his Stetson and threw it down the barn isle. “My life has been one wretched mistake after another, costing every person I’ve ever cared for more pain than I’d ever dreamed possible. I reasoned with myself that Riel wouldn’t follow through with the ambush and convinced myself that we were strong enough to win any battle that might ensue without injury to any police officer or volunteer. I was a fool.”
Ruth licked her lips as she stared at the discarded Stetson. “People make choices. Jethro had to live with his choice in not reporting you. That scroll I waved at Abbadon was Jethro’s testimony of that night. From his vantage point. He saw you digging with your hands and kicking the walls with your feet, trying to get your mother out while the house became engulfed in flames. He also saw Riel and the others leave. He chose to follow them. He learned nothing that night of their plot. When he returned to your mother’s house, he found only ashes and that you had returned to the fort. He had to live with the guilt of not helping you save your mother.”
Dixon grabbed the hair on the sides of his head, wishing he could pull the memory of that night out of his mind. For nearly twenty years it had plagued him. The smell of each fire drew up the stench of burning flesh and the muffled cries of his mother. Then, when he burned the fort down by knocking the lamp from its hook, the burden of guilt had nearly driven him insane. “Jethro must have hated me for the trouble I brought him. I hate myself …”
“Don’t.” She studied her shoes for a moment. “Jethro struggled for months after that. If you remember, we met in Prince Albert.” She rubbed her lips together, and a tear slipped down her cheek. “He came to church one Sunday. I saw him in the pew across from me, so handsome in his red serge and dark blue trousers with the yellow-gold strappings. Yet, on his face he bore the worn look of a man who had seen too much and was weighted down with guilt.”
“I remember that Sunday. He came back subdued. I thought at first that he’d gone out drinking, but he didn’t smell of it, and his words weren’t slurred. Within a month, I saw the change and thought you were the reason.”
“Not me. Jesus.”
Dixon sighed and walked away. “Not this Jesus, again.”
Her footsteps followed him, and he bristled. Why couldn’t she leave him alone about Jesus? What did he have to do with a God who would let his mother die and good people like Joab and his wife suffer?
“You’ve been so angry with God, but look at your life. Abbadon revealed to you all that you’ve done that has caused you pain and those you love pain. Do you blame God for that?”
Her words stabbed Dixon, and he rounded his shoulders.
“It’s so easy to say all the world’s woes are because God doesn’t care, but if we followed the trail of evidence, it always leads us back to our own sinful nature. Our own acts. Humanity is guilty. Not God.”
Dixon faced the back wall. H
e could not deny his role. Right from taking the saddle. In his heart he intended to keep it, but he had heard his mother’s words of correction in his head. Those words led him to the family’s cabin. But the family wasn’t alive to claim it.
His mother sold the saddle to pay for her move to Duck Lake. If he hadn’t taken the saddle, she’d not have had the money and would not have been able to follow him.
If he hadn’t run away to join the North West Mounted Police, she’d not have left the safety of Winnipeg.
The barn door banged. Ruth had left. She must hate him now.
He unbuckled his holster and swung it over his shoulder. Tomorrow he’d send in his resignation—and his confession. He’d lived a lie all these years, pretending to be a great police officer when he had withheld valuable information that could have saved lives. He was a murderer and a traitor.
With halted steps, he walked back to his office and collapsed onto his cot. Sleep held for him his last resistance against the pain of failure.
Chapter 37
Dixon tugged on a pair of wool trousers and lifted the suspenders over his shoulders. He poked at his large stomach. Until this day, he never paid heed to his growing midsection, having been able to conceal it under his red serge. But now … he tightened his belt … what would Ruth think of it? He chuckled. Probably, she’d continue to withhold the ice cream and refuse to serve him pie.
Outside, the Chinook wind whistled past the window. Today, his replacement would arrive with his Discharge Certificate. He rested his hands upon his desk and drew a ragged breath. His was a tainted career. But that was his own doing. He accepted it. Now it was time to move on. On to what?
A knock at the door and Dixon turned to see Pastor Perkins poking his nose around the corner. “Sergeant?”
Dixon straightened and threw his shoulders back. “Come in.”
The door swung open letting brilliant sunlight explode into the office and encompass the tall pastor.
Dixon squinted. “Seems the Chinook has made that afternoon sun even stronger. Think you can close the door?”
Pastor Perkins nodded, pressed it shut, and then stepped in front of the window. The sun still beamed through the glass, silhouetting the man’s figure.
“What can I do for you?” Dixon stepped to the side so the sun didn’t glare at him.
“I was glad to hear the commissioner gave you a pardon.” The pastor’s voice rolled like muted thunder.
Dixon shrugged his shoulders and motioned for the man to sit.
“But you don’t feel pardoned.” Pastor Perkins cocked his head to one side and threw a lopsided smile at Dixon.
“Had to give up my position.” Dixon rubbed his nose then leaned back against the desk. “Not sure what I’ll do now.”
With one smooth movement, Pastor Perkins removed his hat, sat in the chair, and crossed his left leg over his knee. He eyed Dixon for a moment as though he were a judge and this were Dixon’s trial. “It’s been a rough road for you since the death of your mother. I suspect you’ve worked hard to disassociate yourself from anything that reminded you of her, including God.”
Dixon cleared his throat. As much as he wanted to disagree, the pastor was right. And so, even as everything within him screamed to deny God, he could not deny that every conversation with those who loved the Deity carved a hole in his soul so hollow, so needy of something greater than he, so hungry for peace, that at present he longed to give up the fight.
“The Bible tells of a man who reminds me of you. His name was Saul.” The pastor leaned forward. “Jesus stopped him on a road, shining as a light from Heaven, and told Saul it was hard for him to kick against the pricks.” He lifted his hand and pointed his bony finger at Dixon. “Why do you offer vain and perilous resistance to God’s love for you? Why do you kick against His pricks like a horse might kick against a switch?”
Sucking air through lungs that suddenly felt too tight, Dixon eased off the desk, a ball of controlled anger rolling in his stomach. Would he forever be plagued by men seeking to save his soul? He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.
“You have received your pardon from the commissioner, but you have not accepted the pardon offered to you by the One who could free you of the condemnation you are experiencing and are destined for.”
Dixon’s gaze shot to the floor. The commissioner’s pardon gave him no peace; how then could God’s pardon?
“You could spend the rest of your life condemning yourself, feeling sorry for yourself, for your past sins, or you could accept the freedom offered you. Freedom that could open up a whole new life to you, if you are willing.”
“Pastor, I …” He choked on the words. So long had he lived with his secret that now he wanted judgment. He wanted to bear the condemnation for his foolish acts.
“There is a woman in this town who loves you. She has prayed for your salvation since the day she met you and with greater fervor since Jethro died. Will you at least consider, for her sake, accepting the forgiveness offered you?”
With a twist of his neck, Dixon walked to the back of the office. He gripped the bars of the cell where almost every Saturday he cast a drunk. Occasionally one would plead for mercy, not wanting his wife or his mother to know what he’d been doing.
But Dixon had locked himself in another cell. Did he want out?
Feet shuffled behind him.
“Sergeant, the choice is yours. God’s arms are open wide. Someday, however, you’ll leave this world and will no longer have the opportunity to call on Him. He’ll not force you.” Pastor Perkins cleared his throat. “Yet, I believe you sense Him drawing you. You’ve faced your life and have hated what you’ve seen. Are you willing to surrender it to Him?”
Solid footsteps echoed through the room. The door creaked and closed.
Dixon stood alone. Or was he? This God they spoke of, He was supposed to be everywhere. Could He be here, now, watching Him?
Beside the cell hung a mirror, and in its reflection stared dark, haunted eyes.
His eyes.
It was as though God opened his heart and let him see inside.
Brokenness. Hopelessness. Pride. Stubbornness.
All those things that kept him from finding—no, accepting—what had been offered him. The hollow, empty soul he’d become—could it be changed?
The door creaked again. “Clarence?”
He closed his eyes, and his fists tightened around the bars. Ruth must not see what he saw in his eyes. He loosened his grip. But perhaps she had already.
“I passed Pastor Perkins. He thought you might want to speak with me?” Her skirts swished behind him. “Are you all right?” The sweetness of her voice, so caring, how could he resist it?
His chin dropped to his chest, and a tremor rushed through his body. “Have I hurt you, too?”
He sensed her stiffen. It cut him to the quick.
“Have I, in my stubbornness, hurt you?” His arm muscles hardened, anticipating the accusation, the rejection, the hurt.
“You have only hurt me in that you have rejected my Lord and my Saviour. You have only hurt me in that I want for you the peace I have found, that Jethro found.”
Jethro’s eyes had changed after that Sunday in Prince Albert. Dixon could not deny that. His friend had sobered, and yet in many ways, he had become deeper, more genuine, more the hero Dixon looked up to. Could that happen to him?
Ruth’s hand touched his arm. He flinched then slowly turned to meet her gaze.
Tears glistened in her eyes. She searched his face, and he ached under her scrutiny.
Could he find the peace her husband had found? “I want to know.” The words faltered as they crawled past his lips.
“Do you believe?” Her gray eyes held hope out to him.
“Believe what?” He wanted to run, but she held him in her gaze.
“Believe that Jesus died, was buried, and rose again to pay for your sins?”
He huffed. His mother had spoken of this. Jethro
had spoken of this. Even Joab. But could he believe? Could one man really wipe away the stain of sin on another man’s life? Could that man be so good that death couldn’t hold him? For so long he saw himself as a protector of this community, yet he had failed. He could not keep the Blacks from facing destruction. He couldn’t keep others from meeting their fate. But this Jesus. Joab said Jesus was a safe haven, a person who gave peace. Could this be true? If it were, then truly He was God, for no human could do this.
“It is your choice. Ask God, and He will give you faith.”
The cavernous hollow of his soul longed to be filled, and his knees weakened. He stepped away from Ruth. “I’ve spent so many years denying Him.”
“And yet, you could not escape Him, could you?”
His breathing came in short spurts as though his empty, impeded spirit turned from the truth. No, that was not right. All these years he had sought truth but denied it could be found. He’d hid behind his own pride, the same pride that had kept him from admitting his mistakes—just as Abbadon said.
His hands grasped the sides of his head. He could believe. He’d lived under self-condemnation for so long, what would it be like to be free of it? What would it be like to be forgiven?
Like a drum, his pulse beat. He ran his hands down his face and placed them on his hips. His dead spirit had not turned from truth. No. It had sought to be moved from death to life, but he had denied its desire. Now, more than ever, he wanted to move from his doomed existence to God for new life. He turned back to Ruth. “I want to believe.” Was it possible one simply chose to believe? Something stirred inside him, like a voice calling to him. “I …” he gripped her arms, “I choose to believe.” Now he knew he had to settle this matter of faith before it burned him up inside. Never had there been such an urgent matter. “I do believe.”
A grin rose on Ruth’s face, and he laughed. “I choose to believe that Jesus died for my sin. That He was buried, and that He rose again.” The words shattered the shackles about his heart. This was real—more real than anything he’d ever experienced. He had bucked against such faith, but now he felt it. “What should I do now?”