Finally he drew his horse to a stop, dismounted, tied his mount to a sapling, and walked along a bluff that fell away sharply to the floor of a small valley. He continued on along the edge, head down, struggling with the misery that had gripped him since Angela’s death. He felt strange, as if he’d been wounded and hadn’t known what he was doing. His perception of the whole thing had been blown out of proportion, as Wesley had indicated. Angela’s love, sacrifice, and death had left him open and helpless. He’d come to the end of something in his life, something he’d experienced before, but there’d always been a new trail—a new challenge to go for. Now there was nothing.
Half an hour later he looked up as the red rays of the rising sun burned along the crests of the distant hills. There was a stillness over the land, like a holy silence, and he longed to stay there in the quietness.
And then it came to him so clearly that he spoke aloud. “Why—peace isn’t in a valley! When a man’s right with God, he can have peace in the middle of a war!” Immediately he thought of Lorenzo dying with such quiet dignity, and he seemed to hear the old man speaking: Lobo, it’s Jesus who gives peace—and there ain’t no other way to git it!
Lobo had little experience with formal religion, but he’d seen a man die a horrible death—but with a smile, as if he were going to bed for the night. And he realized as he stood there watching the light grow stronger that he’d have to choose. He thought of his past, and the little good it held—and the future, which held less.
Without much hope, he took off his hat and bowed his head. The silence was deafening and his voice sounded hoarse when he said, “Lord—I don’t know about you. Lorenzo said that Jesus is the only hope a man’s got.” He struggled with the doubts that rose to torment him, then desperately cried out, “Oh, God—I’ve done every wrong thing a man can find to do—but I’m askin’ you to forgive all of it—make me different—and I’m believing in Jesus right now!”
His words floated over the edge of the bluff. He stood there for a few moments, then slowly sank to his knees. Tears rose in his eyes, but he ignored them. Bowing his head, he began to pray silently, remaining in that position for quite a while. His horse grew restive and nickered at him, jerking his head with impatience.
Finally Lobo got to his feet. He wiped his eyes, put his hat on, and walked stiffly back to his horse. Patting the animal on the neck, he swung into the saddle, then looked back to the place where he’d found God.
“Well, Lord, you know what I am,” he murmured. “I’m believing you’re going to help me—because I sure can’t help myself!” Then he turned the horse toward town and let out a loud whoop as he slapped his heels against the startled animal’s flank, driving him into a dead run.
****
Lobo dismounted, his mind filled with what had just happened to him. A voice broke into his thoughts and he whirled around.
“Come along, Lobo,” Heck Thomas said.
“Come along where?”
“To the jail. You’re under arrest.”
“Under arrest! What for?”
“Something about whiskey. Don’t you remember? You were in jail for it.”
Lobo stared at Heck Thomas. “You mean Parker is gonna put me in jail for that after what I did for him?”
“You know the judge,” Heck shrugged. “He says to arrest you, so gimme your gun.”
Handing over the gun, he said angrily, “All right, here it is.”
“You know the way, I guess.”
As they entered, Lobo headed for the stairs, but Heck said, “Not down there. Fellow wants to see you first.” He led Lobo down the hall to one of the offices and knocked on the door.
“Come in,” a voice called.
As they stepped in, Heck said, “Mr. Winslow, I’ll be right out here when you get through.”
Lobo fixed his eyes on Zach, who was seated in a chair, his crutches leaning against the wall. “Hello, Lobo,” he said. “Sit down. We got some talking to do.”
Lobo shrugged and sat down. “What do we have to talk about?”
The office was small and hot. It had an open door that led to another office, and one window, which was open, letting a slight breeze come in. “Hot, isn’t it? Gonna be hotter down in that jail.”
Lobo said nothing.
“Well, I might as well get right down to it,” Winslow said. “To tell the truth, you’re not going to jail.” He saw Lobo’s eyes open with surprise, then added, “Judge Parker and me, we had a little talk. He’s proud as punch over getting Perrago and his bunch out of commission. He’d make you mayor if he could—and you could sure stay on as one of his marshals if you like.”
Lobo shook his head. “No—I don’t think so. I’ve had enough of that sort of thing.”
“That so? I’m glad to hear it.” Zach leaned back in his chair. “I went through something like this in Alder Gulch. Had to use my gun—and got sick of it! It does something to a man when he has to turn to the gun. Stay with it too long and it makes a man sour and bitter. What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. I’ll find something.” He almost told him that he’d just found something rich and new, but felt awkward and uncertain speaking about it.
Winslow asked abruptly, “Do you love my daughter?”
Lobo’s eyes shot open. “Lanie?” he asked, surprised. The past days of closeness they’d shared flashed through his mind. “I don’t think I need to tell you about things like that.”
“You think I’m not interested in my own daughter?”
“What difference does it make how I feel about her?” He hesitated and shook his head, despair in his eyes. “She’d never have anything to do with me.”
“Know that for sure, do you? You ask her? You told her you loved her?”
“No, I didn’t tell her. She’d laugh if I did—you oughta know that, Winslow!”
“I don’t know anything of the sort! What I do know is—she’s in love with you.”
“Why—that’s crazy!” Lobo exclaimed. “What kind of a father are you? You know I’m not a fit man for her!”
“We talked about that. I told her you’re honest and have a lot to offer. The stuff that don’t matter like education and money—why, you can pick those things up along the line. What I’m interested in is—do you love her? If you don’t—why, just say so and the conversation is over!”
“I don’t know,” Lobo said, confused. “I never met anybody like her. Any man would be proud to have her as a wife.” Then he ducked his head. “But—it’s too late.”
Zach got to his feet, picked up his crutches, swung across the room, and put his hand out. Surprised, Lobo took it. “Son,” Zach continued, “you saved both my daughters. I could spend a lifetime and not get across what that means to me. I’m telling you now one thing I can do. I’m leaving Chicago, buying a ranch in Montana. Never did get my heart out of that country. I need a man there—a young man. Somebody who can fight anybody who stands in the way—to make a place for me and my family. I’d like you to be that man. It’s yours if you want it.”
Lobo sat there numbly as Winslow left the room, his mind whirling. Out the window he could see a small peach tree with a mockingbird preening its feathers, then breaking into a song. At the same moment, a movement in the room caught his eye. He glanced toward the door that led to the other office—Lanie!
He jumped to his feet, faced her, feeling awkward in her presence. Her face was pale, but she was smiling. Without a word she came to him. He took her hands, searching her eyes.
“I was afraid you loved her—Angela,” Lanie whispered. “Maybe you did.” She waited, then asked, “Did you?”
Lobo shook his head. “Not like that—but, she died for me. Nobody can do that for somebody unless they love them, can they, Lanie?”
“No. She did love you. You can be proud of that all your life. She was a brave woman—and she died for what she loved. Not many people can do that.” Then she asked, her voice light but strong, “Lobo, I have to know: Di
d you love her?”
“Once we had something,” he said. “It wasn’t much, and after it was over, there was nothing left.” He shook his head. “And I lied to her, deceived her! Lanie, I’ll never get over that!”
“Yes, you will,” she said. “We always get over things—at least the pain of it. Betsy will get over what happened to her. Time will change things. It can even change hearts.”
He looked at her, a peculiar expression on his face. “You heard all your dad said?”
“Yes.”
“It was a lot of nonsense!”
“Was it?”
“ ’Course it was! You’re a fine lady, educated. I’m nothing but a gunman.”
“You’re what you are—gallant and brave. If it weren’t for you, both Betsy and I might be dead.” There was pride in her eyes as she spoke. “I want to ask one thing—and I’ll ask only once—”
“What is it?” he asked.
She hesitated, then whispered, “Do you love me?”
His eyes shone as he remembered her pride and arrogance when they first met. Now it was gone! She was broken, and stood before him with all the sweetness and loveliness that a woman could have.
He knew how difficult it must have been for her to come to him like this—and he admired her strength and determination as much as he admired her beauty and goodness.
Suddenly Lobo Smith knew what lay within his grasp. Putting his arms around her, he drew her in. He held her close, pressing his cheek against hers. “I love you,” he said. “I always will—but I can’t ask you to marry me. I don’t have anything to bring to you.”
She drew back, and he saw tears in her eyes. “It is slow you are! A little kindness I’ll have from you!”
“Maybe—I’ll work for your dad.”
“He’s a smart man, my dad! He said you’d never marry me—not for a while.”
He took in her fineness, the honest look of her, and without meaning to, told her of his experience on the bluff. “I—I’ve got a long way to go—to learn how to serve God like Lorenzo did. But I know Jesus is real!”
“Oh, Lobo!” Lanie cried out, “I’m so happy for you!”
“Someday,” he said, “I’ll come courting you, Lanie. When I really find myself. You wait!” Then he kissed her—savoring the wild sweetness of her.
Quickly she drew back, her face bright with hope. “One thing I’ll know right now—no argument, is it?”
“What’s that?”
“What is your first name?” she demanded. “I can’t go on calling you ‘Lobo,’ can I?”
He looked at her, then glanced around as if he were about to reveal a dreadful secret. “All right, you asked for it.” He hesitated, then shrugged his shoulders. “Faye,” he said defiantly.
“Faye? Your name is Faye?”
“Well—it’s Lafayette, actually—but that’s worse! Everybody shortened it to Faye. I got tired of whipping men who laughed at me for having a girl’s name.” He made a sour face and said, “Awful, isn’t it?”
“Faye—” Lanie tapped her full lower lip with her finger, then smiled and put her hands on his shoulders. “I like it!” She drew him close, saying firmly, “When I get very angry with you, I’ll call you Lafayette Smith!”
And then she slipped her arms around his neck and whispered, “But sometimes I’ll say, ‘I love you, Faye!’ ”
He smiled happily. “You know—it doesn’t sound so bad the way you say it!”
“You’ll have a lifetime to get used to it,” she assured him. Then she asked pertly, “Well—are you going to kiss me—or not?”
Their lips met in powerful completeness as the mockingbird, perched on the peach tree limb, sang a musical carol to heaven.
GILBERT MORRIS spent ten years as a pastor before becoming Professor of English at Ouachita Baptist University in Arkansas and earning a Ph.D. at the University of Arkansas. During the summers of 1984 and 1985, he did postgraduate work at the University of London. A prolific writer, he has had over 25 scholarly articles and 200 poems published in various periodicals, and over the past years has had more than 70 novels published. His family includes three grown children, and he and his wife live in Texas.
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