by Murray Pura
Lynndae sensed a tightening in her throat and a burning in her eyes. “No, never.”
“Did you ever help him to elude the law?”
“No.”
“Did you ever go to the police or the sheriff and tell him what you knew of his whereabouts or his plans?”
Lynndae bent her head and felt the streaks of warm tears on her cheeks. Mary’s hand rested gently on her arm. “We never knew of his whereabouts or his plans. He never wrote, and he never came to our house. I tried, Ricky tried, several times, to get messages to his camp, asking him to stop the raids and turn himself in, but we never knew where to send them. Sometimes the messengers found Seraph and sometimes they didn’t. Two or three times, a reply made its way back to us, months later. They always said the same thing—as far as he was concerned, the war was not over, the war would continue until the day God told him to stop.”
Augustine held up his hand. “I am sorry. It is our duty to ask these questions. Why did you not make a sketch of him for the police?”
“For the same reason you didn’t, Pastor Yoder,” moaned Lynndae. “I did not know what he looked like. The last time I saw him was the last time you saw him—a tall boy, too tall for his age, skinny as a stalk of wheat; yes, just a boy with a pet dog and a pet raccoon, you remember, only twelve. What could I give to the police? A drawing of a young boy, when it was a man who was leading the raids, a man whose face was no longer that of a youth’s, who may have gained weight, grown a beard, perhaps lost one of his eyes in battle and might now be wearing a patch? My memory of a child would have served the law no good purpose. That is why I did not go to them. And that is why no one in Bird in Hand went to them. None of us knew him anymore.”
“Calm yourself,” whispered Mary in her ear.
“I do not mean to be disrespectful. I am still tired from the journey and the danger, but that does not excuse my tongue. None of you passed judgment on my family in 1861, none of you were pastors at that time, and I know that not everyone agreed with the shunning, the streng meidung. I am told several families left the church because of the decision to excommunicate my family and because of the judgment passed on other families. I came back to talk these things over with the church, and so many words have just come tumbling out. I accept that the children must stay. I only ask that you consider the circumstances of my life when you come to make your decision about whether I may come back into the church or not. I do not know whether I will stay or go. I myself have not been able to make up my own mind, but I ask that you consider what my brother Ricky and I went through and how we had no other choice but to leave and start again in the West.”
Lynndae cried with a down-turned face. Moses nodded and got to his feet.
“We will talk alone now, Miss Raber. My Mary will stay with you. When we are done we will ask for you.”
Mary and Lynndae put on long dark mandlies, the woolen cape coats the Amish women wore in the winter season, and thick bonnets and walked out into the road. They held each other’s arms.
“I am sorry, Mary,” Lynndae said.
“Hush.”
“I spoke too much. I cried too much.”
“Hush. None of us have ever been through what you have experienced all these years. None of us have had such a train journey as you had this past week. Hush now. We will not talk. We will walk and pray in our hearts. They are good men; they have wisdom among them. And Moses and I want you to know, we did not agree to the shunning of your family, nor to the shunning of the Kauffmans, Troyers, and Millers. Moses only drew the short straw to be a pastor last month. God have mercy on us all.”
It began to snow gently from a sky that was both blue and the color of woodsmoke. Lynndae hoped they might see Zeph or Samuel or Elizabeth, but the muddy track was deserted. Over their heads, now and then, a few crows flew back and forth. Gradually the snowflakes covered up the mud and ice like a clean blanket.
When they returned to the house in an hour, the ministers were still meeting behind a tightly closed door. Yet no sooner had Mary and Lynndae sat down to coffee, Snitz happy in Lynndae’s lap, than Moses came out to the kitchen.
“Yes, we are ready for you now,” he said.
Chapter 24
Once the two women had sat in their chairs, Augustine stood up and prayed again before they began. Then he sat and nodded at David Lapp.
“Miss Raber,” said David, “we understand the young man Zephaniah Parker was instrumental in seeing you safely to Bird in Hand.”
“Yes, Pastor Lapp. God alone knows, but I do not think we would have arrived here in good health were it not for Mister Parker.”
“Is it true the Raber Gang stopped a train you were on?”
“Yes. The Union Pacific between Cheyenne and Omaha. They wanted Samuel and Elizabeth because the children had seen their faces.”
“How did you escape?”
“Zephaniah told us to hide in the baggage car. When outlaws boarded the train, he refused to tell them where we were.”
“Did he shoot them?”
“Zephaniah does not carry a gun, Pastor Lapp.”
“Yet he sometimes wears a badge, the children tell us.”
“He was deputized by his brother before we left the Montana Territory. If he needed to ask for help from government officials, he put the badge on. Being deputized was not his idea. But his brother insisted on it.”
“His brother is?”
“A federal marshal. His other brother is pastor for the church in Iron Springs.”
David nodded slowly. “Why does he not carry a gun when so many other English do?”
“The war.”
“So it is not a religious conviction?”
“I cannot say it is or isn’t, Pastor Lapp. You must speak with him.”
“Have you never discussed it?” “Not at length, no.”
“Yet you were on a train together for so many days.”
“We read the Bible together a good deal, spoke with the children, looked at herds of buffalo. We slept. No, we did not spend any amount of time discussing firearms and killing people.”
Another squeeze from Mary Beachey’s hand.
“Tell us, what do you think, can you see yourselves as a married couple, raising children, starting a farm?”
“I have thought about it a little. But he has never declared such intentions to me in so many words.”
“If you remained here and were welcomed back into the church, what do you think, would he wish to remain behind and marry you? Would he willingly take up our ways and ask for baptism?”
“Oh, I cannot answer that. He knows so little about our ways. He would need more time to think it over than a day or two.”
“But would he stay behind for you?”
Lynndae felt her face growing warm. “I hope if he stayed behind it would be for God as much as it would be for me, Pastor Lapp. But I cannot say I matter to him anymore. He did not know my real name until last night. He did not know I was Seraph Raber’s sister. Now I have told him, and I do not know if he can love me or forgive me.”
“What did he say when you told him?”
“He looked at me in disbelief. ‘Why did you hide the truth from me?’ he asked. ‘You were not the killer, were you? Why could you not trust me after all we have been through?’ Then he turned and walked back into the house.”
“He is a farmer in the Territories?”
“Beef cattle. A rancher. As I am.”
“Yes. As you are. You have many men working under you, we are given to understand.”
“I have ten hired men and a cook.” “And a cook?”
“I am often out and about on horseback, Pastor Lapp.” “Yet you found time to sew plain clothing for the children and for Mister Parker.”
“I did.”
“You own a good deal of land out there among the English?” “Ricky bought it. It is in my name, yes.” “Can you give it up?” “Pardon me?”
“If it were God’s will for you to remain h
ere and marry and raise a family, could you give up the land in the Territories? Could you give up being a boss—der chef—out in the west and be here a mother to your children and a helpmeet to your husband?”
“That is something I am praying about.”
“Well, keep praying. I am sure the answer is not difficult to find, Miss Raber, not for an Amish woman baptized into the church as you are.”
Lynndae sensed a fire rising up inside her, but she bowed her head, so the men would not spot it in her eyes.
Moses Beachey spoke. “You are not sure yet and neither are we. We hold nothing against you from your past, not from your father’s decision to be a soldier or from your brother’s decision to be an outlaw. What we are uncertain about is whether you can submit to a Christian life that sees you in the home instead of telling ten hired men what to do. It does not sound as if you are certain you can see yourself in that Amish home yet, either. So we must proceed slowly. There is plenty of time. We hope you can remain here indefinitely—or at least until a decision is made on your part.”
Augustine Yoder coughed. “It is something you must come to terms with in your own time and through your own prayers. Of course, we will be praying with you. But it must be your decision. If you can be that Amish wife in an Amish home, we will bring you back into the church. Meanwhile, the ban is lifted. There will be no more shunning directed toward you from anyone in the community. This Sunday the church gathers for worship and teaching at Amos Zook’s house. You are welcome to join us; the door is open to you. It is also open to your young man. He is welcome to attend. We owe him a great deal. It would be good for him to see how we come to God and good to have him worship alongside us. Though it will be in our heavenly tongue and not the tongue of the English—or the Spanish.”
The men laughed.
“Thank you all for being patient and gracious towards me,” said Lynndae. “It means a great deal to feel I have been heard, forgiven, and embraced by my childhood friends and neighbors and Christians.”
“There is so little to forgive,” said Malachi Kauffman softly. “But there is much to give thanks for in heaven this day. Personally, I must thank you, from my heart, especially for young Bess’s safe return. She lights up our home like a hundred lamps.”
“I grew to love her very much. It was a privilege to bring her home to you, Pastor Kauffman. I hope I will see her again very soon?”
Malachi nodded. “We have told her she will see you on Sunday. We will make sure it is a long and wonderful day spent with God and with one another.”
Moses stood up. “So we will conclude.” He prayed and then the meeting was over.
After a quiet lunch with Moses and Mary and a short walk to the barn to look at the dairy cows, Lynndae took the cat with her into the bedroom that the Beacheys had set aside for her use. She lay back on a quilt with a brown and navy mariner’s compass design, Snitz purring and licking herself. Lynndae had borrowed a Bible and was leafing through it, thinking about reading some of the Psalms and the Gospel of John.
She found she missed the days on the train when, for the better part of a week, she had been wife and mother in a family of four. Every day she had spoken with Zeph. Every day she had laughed with Samuel and Bess. Now she felt lonely without them. She drew a circle over and over again on the quilt with her finger. At first the cat was interested in this movement, but after several minutes without any variation on the part of the circling finger, Snitz chose to tuck her tail around herself and doze off.
Lynndae found herself wondering if the kisses in the baggage car had been real. Had Z meant them, or was it just the relief they both felt once the gang had been captured? They had said so many wild and crazy things to one another on that trip, all the way back to Virginia City and the days on the stagecoach—did any of them matter now? Zeph felt so far away from her, it was as if he didn’t exist.
Lynndae propped her head up on one hand and gazed out the window. It was snowing heavily now, like salt pouring out of a shaker. She had a view of the barn and the sloping land behind it. A lovely place. But then, so was the Sweet Blue a lovely place. Could she leave her cattle and horses behind, her mountains and rivers, the heart-stirring bugle of the elk, and the chilling night moan of the wolf?
What about Z? How was he feeling about her now that he knew who she really was? Did he hate her? Could he forgive her? The woman he had cared about was the sister of a monster. Did that make her a monster in his eyes as well? Was he willing to wake up every morning and look in her eyes and see Seraphim Raber? How could he forget she shared blood ties with a cold-blooded killer?
She stood up and began to pace, squeezing her hands together.
A killer who still hunted them. She felt no fear. Yet she had experienced moments of great fear on the journey from Iron Springs to Bird in Hand. Was it this place, with all its prayers and faith and open Bibles and absence of violence, that calmed her spirit? She glanced down at the Gospel of John and picked the Bible up. It was chapter 14 and verse 27 that caught her eye, underlined as it was with a neat black line of ink and marked with a date in equally neat and precise handwriting, August 17, 1863, probably by Mary Beachey: “‘Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.’”
She laid her head back on the pillow and watched the snowflakes pelt against the window and the frozen earth. Her fingers stroked Snitz’s fur.
Please protect Mary and Moses, Lord. Bless and protect Samuel and Bess as You have already done. Watch over these homes and these families. Watch over Zephaniah—and grant this peace You speak of to all.
Chapter 25
Even with the bellows making the forge roar and Augustine hammering a section of an iron plow on his largest anvil, Zeph could still hear the horse walking carefully up the icy track to the Yoder shop. Was there some sixth sense of his that had come back into operation since they’d ridden out of Iron Springs in the middle of the night? He’d had that feeling for things during the war, but had been determined to bury it once the fighting stopped. Yet there it was, back again. He could see that Augustine didn’t realize a horse and rider were coming. He tapped him on the shoulder, and the big man looked up, face and beard dripping sweat. Zeph indicated the visitor with a jerk of his chin.
Augustine stared at the man on the tall chestnut horse and said something in Pennsylvania Dutch. Then he spoke in English for Zeph’s benefit. “Big R. What brings him out?”
“Hello, the smithy!” called the man. “A good Saturday morning to one and all in the Yoder family.” “Velkommen, wie geht es dir?” “Gute.”
The man swung down from the saddle. He was taller than Zeph or Augustine by half a foot. He squinted up at the February sun as it pulled free from a cloud bank and made the snow and ice dance. Then he took off his dark-brown Stetson and ran a gloved hand over his iron-gray hair—it was cut close to his scalp, Zeph noticed. Under his earth-brown duster he wore a lighter brown, three-piece suit. A star glinted on its lapel.
“Always the Lewis Tweed,” complained Augustine with a smile.
“Not plain enough for you?” “The pattern—”
“Houndstooth? I have seen your women wear calico that makes my tweed look Amish enough for the bishop.”
“Only the young, maybe you’ve seen.”
“Depends what you call young, August. Well, the day you strap on a six-gun and clean up Lancaster County is the day I wear Amish black. How are you?”
He and Augustine shook hands.
“The Lord is good,” said Augustine.
“I feel the same way.”
“Is there something wrong that you are up and about on your best horse?”
“Shotgun and I are just doing our duty, August, working hard to keep you Amish out of trouble.”
The man turned to Zeph. “Mister Parker? I asked for you at the house. Sheriff Friesen. Lancaster County is my jurisdiction.”
Zeph took
his hand. “Sheriff.”
“Folks call me Rusty. Or Big R. Take your pick.”
“Rusty?”
“No, it’s not too red anymore, is it? Someone sticks a handle on you when you’re young, and it’s yours for life.”
“He came to us with the news of what had happened in your Territory,” said Augustine, looking somber.
The sheriff nodded. “I had to find out who the kids’ relatives were. August, we’re going to walk a bit, is that all right with you?”
“Sure, sure, I’ll go inside for a coffee; take your time.” “Danke.”
Sheriff Friesen led his horse back toward the main road, and Zeph walked with him. Augustine suddenly clapped Zeph on the shoulder, and he turned around. The blacksmith put his cape overcoat in Zeph’s hands.
“One of you must be plain,” he said.
Zeph shrugged it on and immediately felt warmer in the cool winter air. He caught up to the sheriff. They went a ways in silence.
The sheriff didn’t appear to be armed. Zeph wondered if that was because he harbored the same sentiments about guns and violence the Amish did.
As if sensing his thoughts, the sheriff spoke up. “I go heeled, Mister Parker. But it doesn’t seem right to aggravate these good folk unnecessarily. I have a Smith and Wesson Schofield snug in a holster that’s sewn into my suit jacket, just inside on the left, and unseen. It’s the Wells Fargo model, barrel cut to five inches and the whole revolver refinished in nickel. I favor a cross draw; I believe it’s faster. Only had to use it twice in Lancaster County. Which makes my parents happy. I am of Mennonite stock, and a good many of them hold to the same opinion of guns and shooting our fine Amish friends do. I appreciate my parents’ point of view, but considering the evil I’ve seen men do, I beg to differ on what’s best needed to quell some of that wickedness. The lawful authorities have the power of the sword, and sometimes we need to use it. How does the Bible put it?”