by Lyn Cote
Mercy thought of her own daughter. Should she follow Lon’s advice? Was she wrong to hold Indigo up to public scrutiny, and perhaps ridicule and humiliation? Should I have gone with him?
Usually when Mercy asked one of these deep questions, an unmistakable leading—usually a strong feeling—came to her, revealing a clear answer or direction. How often had she heard her mother or father say, when faced with a difficult decision, “Way will open”? That meant that if God wanted them to take action, He would prepare the way, show them the way.
Here and now, Mercy only felt dry and empty—bereft. She wanted to go home and pick up her knitting and never leave her snug cabin again. She gazed up into the slate-gray sky.
No, I can’t give in to that gloom again. Lon is still running from himself. I can’t. I won’t run from this challenge. No more hiding.
“I’m sorry he thinks that way,” Ma murmured, pulling away.
Mercy forced a grin. “I am, too, but I will not despair. Thy son-in-law is new in town. We will hope that as he gets to know people he will accept me as a doctor.”
“You’re always nice to me.”
Ma said the words like a little girl. They stung Mercy’s conscience like darts. How often when she was near Ma had she spoken kindly but inwardly let annoyance consume her?
“Thee has a good heart, Ma Bailey. Thee showed that when the miners needed help. Thee didn’t hesitate to do what thee could for others that night.”
Ma tried to smile, then turned away and hurried toward her house.
It was then that Mercy noticed one of the men who had arrived with Dr. Drinkwater walking across the street toward her. Was he the Boise lawyer she had telegraphed?
Lon, I wish thee had not left me. But I must stay here and fight for Indigo, fight for myself. Ma Bailey’s daughter might need my help and I must stay here for her and the others. Lon, thee must break the bondage of the past completely or there is no future for thee or for us. Father, please, I need Thy “way” to open.
Night folded around Lon as he slipped through the moonlit forest higher on the mountain slope. He was still pursuing the man who stabbed him. And to make things even more difficult, he was favoring one ankle. Someone in the crowd outside the saloon had tripped him and he’d fallen, twisting his ankle. He hadn’t wasted time finding out if it had been on purpose or not.
The cold December wind shook the dried oak leaves nearby. Though slowed by his injury, Lon had managed to follow the man out of town and far up this slope at a distance. Or had he lost him? Darkness had come much too soon for his liking.
From behind, a blow caught him in the kidneys. Pain. He doubled up, falling to his knees. Another blow struck his right ear. Head ringing, Lon rolled onto his back. He jumped up. The man caught him with an uppercut to the jaw. Lon began throwing punches. The near blackness made it difficult to find his target.
A fist punched him in the jaw again. For a moment, stars of light flashed before his eyes. Then he came fully back to consciousness. He heard the man running off, stirring the branches of the fir trees and the underbrush.
With the back of his hand, Lon wiped the blood from his split lip and continued his pursuit. He threaded his way between trees. The man must have stopped. Lon paused, straining to hear movement. An owl hooted. Something—a bat?—swooped overhead.
Again, Lon was struck from behind. This time the man missed his kidneys. Lon rode the punch. He turned, and with a fist to the jaw, downed the man. Then, bending over him, Lon planted a powerful punch to the side of his attacker’s head.
The man lay, gasping in the faint moonlight. Lon pulled the pistol out from his vest. The man cursed him. “Well, go ahead and shoot, Yankee colonel!”
Lon stood stock-still. He couldn’t make out the man’s face. “What did you call me?”
“I called you what you are, you Yankee colonel. I seen you.” The man sounded as if he were fighting tears. “I know you. Your regiment killed practically every man in my company that day at Antietam.”
Bloody Antietam. The worst slaughter of all. But Lon couldn’t put what the man was saying together. “What has Antietam got to do with your stabbing me in Idaho Bend? You and I played cards together for several nights.”
“I didn’t know who you was at first,” the man said, panting. “You just looked familiar somehow. And then that night I recognized you. Something you said triggered my memory and I seen you again, your sword in the air, leading your men down on us.”
“We were at war,” Lon said, shaking his head as if he weren’t hearing right.
“That don’t make it right!” The man cursed him.
Lon stared down at the shadowy shape on the ground. “Are you crazy? The war’s over.” His words rebounded against him as if an unseen fist had landed a blow to his own head. The war’s over.
“The war will never be over—not in my mind!” the man retorted. His tone was sick, hateful, venomous.
“Four years of war wasn’t enough for you?” Lon asked, feeling disoriented and dazed himself. “You didn’t get enough of killing and dying in four years?”
“No. Not while Yankees like you live.”
The quick, hot reply shocked Lon. “Why would you want to go on fighting the war?”
“Stop talking. Just shoot me or let me go. I got nothin’ more to say to you.”
Lon was at a loss. He couldn’t release the man he was sure would try to kill him again—and perhaps others. But it was a long way back to town, and Lon had nothing with which to tie the man’s hands. Then it came to him.
“Get up,” he ordered the man. “You’re a prisoner of war. Put your hands on your head and keep them there.” Lon waited to see what the man would do.
His prisoner obeyed his orders, just as if they were both in opposing armies and Lon had captured him. Clearly, the war had not ended for this man. It was a startling, stomach-churning realization.
“Go on then,” Lon ordered. “We’re heading back to the sheriff. You’ll be charged there.”
The man began walking and Lon followed at a safe distance, his pistol poised to fire. He couldn’t trust this man, not if he were still trapped in the war.
A cloud covered the sliver of a moon, hiding his prisoner from him. Would he try to get away? No, the man kept moving forward, his elbows out at that awkward angle. Maybe the man was relieved to have been caught. If he was in custody, he wouldn’t be compelled to try to get revenge. What a weight he must carry—trying to right all the wrongs of the war. That was worse than death. He pitied the poor wretch.
Still, Lon recalled the excruciating pain he suffered after being stabbed, and the long feverish days and nights. He couldn’t let this man go free to do that to some other former soldier.
Lon kept trying to grapple with what it all meant, how it had all happened. The man’s words kept echoing in Lon’s head. The war will never be over—not in my mind.
Deeper into the cold-night hours and with his pistol in hand, Lon steered the man into the dimly lit sheriff’s office. The sheriff looked up from his chair, where he had obviously been dozing. “What’s this?”
Lon told the man to halt. “This is the man who stabbed me in Idaho Bend.”
The sheriff looked at Lon and then at the man. “You’re sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. Can you arrest him, or do I have to do that, too?” Lon growled, cold and irritated.
Frowning, the sheriff grabbed manacles from a peg on the wall, and with a couple of sharp metallic snaps, secured the man’s hands. He motioned for Lon to follow him as he led the man to the cell in the rear of the office. When the prisoner was in the cell, the sheriff slammed the door.
The man glared at the sheriff and Lon. “You a Yankee, too?”
The sheriff gave him an irritated look. “The war’s over. If you think you’re still fighting it, you’re loony.”
Lon followed the sheriff out to the office area again. He shook his head, wincing from the pain caused by the blows he’d taken tonight, and
then collapsed into the chair by the desk.
“You’re sure this is the man who stabbed you?” the lawman asked again.
“Yes, we played cards several times before he decided to stab me.” Lon had thought that catching the man would have given him more satisfaction. Instead, he was gripped by an odd feeling. Something had happened to him during the exchange with this Johnny Reb, the label Yankees had for Confederate soldiers. This Reb who had decided to continue the war single-handedly.
Lon said, “I need a place to stay tonight. Which hotel in town is best?”
The sheriff replied with a few short words and Lon rose.
“Is that it?” the sheriff asked.
“What do you mean?” Lon turned, already heading out the door.
“Well, you sounded all fired up about this man when I talked to you in Idaho Bend. Why aren’t you…?” The sheriff gave him a sideways glance. “You don’t seem mad or excited or anything.”
Lon paused, completely still. He probed his emotions and found no anger, just peace and a deep desire to eat his fill and then fall asleep. “Why should I be? I caught him, and now you’ve arrested him.” Lon shrugged and headed out the door to find his late supper and a bed.
Outside in the bracing night air, he shivered and began walking fast. As if touching a recently healed wound, he probed his heart and mind once more. He found no pain. Instead, there was something he’d longed for but which had eluded him until now. He felt a deep peace inside. And suddenly he wanted nothing more than to get back to Idaho Bend and share that peace with Mercy.
Mercy walked into the saloon, which had been turned into a courtroom. She recalled the night she had operated on Lon’s stab wound, and the nights spent in the back room nursing him. The agitating memories rushed through her like a flight of raucous crows.
He’s gone. He left me. Mercy kept her back straight and her chin level. She would show neither fear nor pain. Was she doing right by fighting? Or was this court case a sign for her to leave Idaho Bend? My trust is in Thee, Father.
Indigo walked beside her with her head down.
Mercy didn’t blame her. It was hard to look into faces that held condemnation or censure. The Civil War had outlawed slavery, but what of the bondage of prejudice? How did one fight that invisible war?
The Boise defense lawyer who had come to town yesterday motioned for Indigo to come with him and for Mercy to sit with the other people who’d come to watch the trial. She made an effort to smile at the bystanders she knew and sat down on the edge of a hard chair.
The judge in his black robe, the prosecuting attorney and Dr. Drinkwater entered the room. The people rose and stood until the judge sat down behind a rough-hewn table and motioned for them to be seated.
Mercy followed the exchanges between the two lawyers and the judge. Dr. Drinkwater sat on the opposite side of the room, glaring at her. She smiled at him and refused to show how upset and anxious she was.
For one brief, traitorous moment, Mercy let herself think of leaving Idaho Bend with Indigo and meeting Lon in Boise. But that isn’t what I want. This town is home. That’s why I couldn’t just leave here. This is where I am meant to be. I feel that, know that now. This gave her a measure of confidence, but fear lurked, ready to take her captive.
The selection of the jury began. Men were lined up and questioned by the two lawyers and the judge. When she spotted a few of the locals who had openly disapproved of her profession, Mercy’s spirits weren’t improved. She folded her hands in her lap and continued to pray that God’s will would be done here.
In the quiet Boise café, Lon was eating a leisurely late breakfast. He’d slept better than he had in months and had awakened with the appetite of a lumberjack. Now he chewed, savoring the golden toast soaked with melted butter and coated thickly with red huckleberry jam. Delicious.
He breathed in the intoxicating fragrance of bacon, fresh coffee, melted butter and cinnamon. This blessed morning every sight, sound and taste around him was fresh, brilliant, vital—as if he’d spent the past few years looking at life through smudged spectacles. Today he saw clearly that this was a great morning to be alive.
A man with wild white hair sticking out from under his hat came in and stood glancing around. Then he made a beeline toward Lon. “Hey! You that gambler that caught the man who stabbed him?”
Lon paused, his forkful of egg and sausage halfway to his mouth. He went ahead and took the bite but he nodded in answer to the man’s question.
“I’m Jeffries. Own the newspaper here in Boise. Tell me what happened.” As the man spoke like he was sending a telegram, he sat down. He drew out a pad of paper and a roughly sharpened pencil and licked the lead.
Lon chewed and swallowed, still comfortably at his ease. “The man stabbed me in Idaho Bend. I saw him here and caught him last night.”
“What’s his name?”
“Don’t know.” Don’t care. “Ask the sheriff.”
“Why’d he stab you? Were you cheating?”
“A skilled gambler doesn’t have to cheat to win.” Lon considered whether he should reveal the man’s reason for stabbing him and then decided not to. The Reb had been unbalanced by the war and Lon had suffered something similar until last night.
And did this newspaper man expect Lon to confess to cheating? Though Lon had read this man’s paper in the past, in light of this he might have to reconsider what he thought of it. Something niggled at the back of Lon’s mind, something he’d read in this man’s paper. Or was it in some other newspaper?
Jeffries stared at him, pencil hovering. “I hear you’re sweet on the woman posing as a doctor over there.”
The intrusion and the word posing shattered Lon’s peace. “Are you a gossipmonger? And let me tell you, Dr. Mercy Gabriel saved my life and has saved many others this year.” Lon glared. “She nursed with Clara Barton during the war and no doubt saved hundreds of lives there also. I’ve seen her certificate and I’ve seen her operate. And my only comment is that anyone who would prefer Dr. Drinkwater over Dr. Gabriel is an idiot.” Lon felt like punching the man in the nose, just to make sure he’d gotten Lon’s point.
Jeffries made a humming sound. “You don’t say?”
“I do say.” Lon took a long, reviving swallow of the good coffee.
“Drinkwater’s been bad-mouthing her all over town.” The man’s gaze darted from his notes to Lon’s face and back again.
“That means he’s not only a bad doctor, but also no gentleman.”
Jeffries nodded, tapping the pencil on the pad. “I think you’re probably right. Now, what about this trial that’s going on against the black girl—what’s her name?”
Lon froze. He’d awakened this morning feeling so good after last night’s capture that worry even about Indigo had drifted from his thoughts. He’d been a fool. “Has the trial started? I thought the judge wasn’t expected in Idaho Bend till next week.”
“No, he left here yesterday—”
Lon downed the rest of his coffee and handed the waitress what he owed with a generous tip and a smile. Then he headed straight for the door.
“Hey!” the newspaperman called, following him. “Hey, I’m not done interviewing you!”
Lon ignored the man and hurried down the street toward the livery. He’d have to hire a horse. I must have been out of my mind to leave Mercy to face that trial alone.
Chapter Fourteen
Mercy was so proud of Indigo. Throughout the hours spent choosing the jury, her daughter had sat beside the lawyer, straight and composed. And then as the case began, she had faced those who testified about the exclusionary law that said she couldn’t live here.
“Your honor,” Mercy’s tall, reedy lawyer said, “the intent of the exclusionary law is attached historically to the slave state versus free state conflict, which is no longer a reality. The Civil War settled that controversy once and for all. Our Negroes are no longer slaves but free citizens. And as such, free citizens cannot be stopped from en
tering any U.S. territory.”
“Counsel,” said the judge, who looked as if his face had been carved from rock, “I understand your case, but this is a circuit court, not the Supreme Court. It is not in my jurisdiction to declare a law unconstitutional.”
“A little over a year ago, on January 10, 1867,” the defense lawyer continued, “the U.S. Congress passed the Territorial Suffrage Act, which allowed African-Americans in the Western territories to vote. The act immediately enfranchised black male voters in those territories. Doesn’t it follow that the U.S. Congress wouldn’t have passed this if territories could indeed exclude black citizens?”
“That still doesn’t address the coming of new immigrants to Idaho,” the judge countered.
The prosecuting attorney—young and very well dressed—gloated with a smile. “Your honor, since the defense counsel has no way to discount the law, I ask that the jury bring in the only logical verdict. Indigo Gabriel is guilty of entering the Idaho Territory unlawfully.”
The judge looked to the defense attorney. “Defense counsel, do you have any other witnesses or arguments you wish to present at this time?”
“No, your honor. The defense rests.”
Mercy felt each of these solemn, hopeless words like a knife thrust.
The judge turned to the twelve men sitting together along one side of the saloon. “You men have heard the evidence. Now go into the back room, elect a foreman and then talk this all over. When you have your decision, come back out and have your foreman announce it.”
The judge banged his gavel and adjourned court. The jury filed out, and the onlookers who were standing against the walls or sitting on chairs began talking in low tones to each other.
Indigo turned around to Mercy. As she looked over Mercy’s shoulder, her brave smile transformed to an expression of shock.
Mercy whirled around and saw Lon Mackey walking into the saloon.
She rose. “Lon Mackey.”
“Mercy Gabriel.” Then she was within the circle of his arms and he was kissing her. She heard the gasps of surprise around them, but she found she didn’t care.