A few doors down in the next alley was a stairway up to an office above a gambling hall. Dallas took the stairs two at a time and kicked open the door. A small, stooped, gray-haired man with spectacles looked up from a book, startled. He stood up and grimly said, “This way.” He led Dallas to a room with two cots in it. Gently Dallas laid Lulie down. Her eyes were closed and her face was so white that he thought she might already be dead. The bloodstain on her stomach had spread around to her back, and Dallas’s sleeves were red with blood.
“Is she dead?” he demanded harshly.
The man bent over her and put his hand on her chest and his ear to her mouth. “Not yet,” he said grimly. “But I doubt I got time to get that bullet out. She’s probably going to die before I can get started good.”
Dallas nodded numbly. “Do you think she’ll wake up, Doc?” Everyone called him “Doc Needles,” because no one knew his real name, or if he was a real doctor. But he tended most of the victims of gunshots and knife fights and beatings in Natchez-Under-the-Hill.
“Got no way of knowing,” he said. “She might, before she goes. Sometimes they do, sometimes they don’t. What do you want me to do?”
“I guess just let me stay with her. Would you leave me some morphine just in case she wakes up?”
“You can stay here, but it’s gonna cost you ten cents,” he said carelessly. “Morphine’s gonna cost, depending on how much you give her.”
Dallas gave him a fifty-cent piece and Doc Needles added in a more kindly tone, “If she wakes up she’s not gonna be able to swaller. I’ll fix up a shot. You just call me if you need me to give it to her.”
Dallas nodded, still staring down at her, watching the very slight, slow rise and fall of her chest.
Doc set a chair behind him, and wordlessly Dallas sat down, took Lulie’s hand, and began to wait. Silently Doc went back into his office, closing the door behind him.
Dallas didn’t know how many minutes it was before Lulie stirred. Her one eye opened—the other one was still black and blue and swollen shut—and she whispered, “Is that you, Dallas?”
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“I’m scared, Dallas! I’m going to die!”
Dallas had the impulse to try to offer her some hope, but something kept him from that. Doc Needles had been so certain and the shadow of death was already on Lulie’s face. He could not think of a single thing to say, and finally he said, “I wish I could help you, Lulie.”
“I’m going to die,” Lulie repeated. Her eyes were filled with dark shadows. She said, “I can’t face God, not after what I’ve done. Tell me what to do, Dallas. How can I get right with God?”
No question had ever caught Dallas Bronte with such force. He knew well what to tell the dying woman. His own grandfather had been a Methodist pastor, and Dallas had spent much time with him. Finally he remembered a day when he had gone with his grandfather to make calls. They had gone to a house where a man was dying, and very clearly Dallas remembered the man had asked his grandfather almost identically the question that Lulie had asked him. I’m going to die, Pastor. What can I do to get right with God?
“Tell me, Dallas,” she groaned, “I can’t die. I’d go straight to hell.”
At that moment Dallas Bronte wished with all of his heart that he was a man of God, but he was not. He knew, however, the right thing for Lulie to do, just as he knew the right thing that he himself should have done years ago. He held both of her hands and said, “You’ve got to do two things, Lulie. You’ve got to tell God you’re a sinner.”
“Oh, Dallas, He knows that.”
“I guess He does, but that’s what the Bible says. If we confess our sins, He’s faithful and just to forgive us our sins.”
“Does the Bible say that really?”
“It really does.”
“I can do that. What’s the other thing?”
“You have to ask Him to save you in the name of Jesus. Jesus died on the cross for you and for me and for all sinners.”
“And that’s all I have to do? I’ve always believed in Jesus. I just didn’t obey Him.”
“That’s the way you get saved.” Dallas felt like an absolute hypocrite! When he himself had known for years how to become a Christian but had run from that very thing. Now he saw the dying woman had turned her eyes up to him, and she whispered, “I can do that, Dallas. Will you pray for me?”
“Sure I will, Lulie.” Dallas bowed his head still feeling like an absolute hypocrite he prayed for the girl. Even as he prayed, he heard her whispering a prayer, and when finally he said, “Amen,” he said, “Did you tell the Lord that you sinned against Him?”
“Yes, I did.”
“And did you ask Him to save you in the Name of Jesus?”
“I did that, Dallas. Is there anything else?”
“No,” Dallas hesitated and then said, “There was a thief on the cross next to Him, Lulie, when Jesus was being executed. That thief looked over at Jesus, and he did what you just did. He said, ‘Lord, remember me,’ which was what you said to God.”
“What happened?”
“Jesus looked at him while He Himself was dying, and He said, ‘This day thou shalt be with me in paradise.’” The old words came easily, for he had heard his grandfather preach many a sermon using that verse. He looked down and saw that Lulie was nodding, but her eyes were fluttering, and finally closed. He sat still, watching her, holding her hands. Finally her chest rose, fell, and she didn’t breathe again.
Dallas mumbled sorrowfully, “I’m no good, Lord, but I think You heard this woman’s prayer.” He got up and left. He knew then what he had to do. It was something that he had put off for years.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Dallas, along with his horse, made his way slowly along the pathway that hugged the Mississippi River. It was late afternoon, and the clouds were rolling up carrying with them a hint of rain, or so it seemed to him. A sound caught his attention, and he stopped and turned to face the river where he saw a side-wheeler appear around the bend. He watched it and recognized it almost at once as the Julia Tavers. He knew it was named by the owner Henry Tavers after his wife had died after a brief marriage. He knew that Tavers had spent the rest of his life alone and had never really gotten over her death. He had heard a man once who knew Tavers well say, “On his death bed the last thing he said was, ‘Now, I’m going to be with Julia again.’”
Still thinking about this, Dallas was startled when a huge frog suddenly croaked and made a tremendous jump, hitting the water with a plunking sound and disappearing in the brown current. Dallas smiled briefly. “You don’t have any worries, frog. I’m not trying to catch you. Never did like frog’s legs anyway.”
Fifty yards farther down the pathway he stopped, sat down on a fallen tree, and for a moment became as still as a statue. He had been alone for most of the week that he had been at his camp. He had built a lean-to on a piece of high ground, stashed his grub and the feed for his horse there, but had actually spent little time except to sleep. Every day he had gotten up with the sun, cooked a breakfast, then started walking along the bank or following trails through the timber. The first two days he had walked hurriedly, taking long strides as if he had a schedule to follow, but then he had realized that this was not doing what he had come for. He made his mind up, and the next day after breakfast, he went to the river and for six solid hours had sat on a log, soaking up the sounds of the river and from the woods. He had come to this isolated spot to try to find some meaning for his life, and for him that meant finding the God that his grandfather had preached and believed in.
Slow going were those first days of silence and stillness, but he had found himself with a discipline he had not known he possessed. Most of his life had been a time of activity, sometimes a furious period of work that occupied him completely. Now as Dallas sat quietly watching t
he Mississippi roll toward the south, he realized that he had learned one thing that his grandfather had drilled into him when he was just a boy. Get alone, away from folks, boy. Find a place and learn to be still, and if you wait long enough, God will find you!
He thought of the days that had gone by, seeming to move more slowly all the time in some mysterious way. During this period he had waited for God to speak, but nothing had happened. It was not as though he expected a literal voice to come down out of the heavens or for God to speak to him as He spoke to Moses, but he had to have something. At times during this period he wanted to run away, to get back to the world of action, of people, but he had doggedly stuck it out and still he sat there as the minutes passed him by.
A light rain began to fall, but he paid no heed to the tiny drops, little more than a mist. Finally when it stopped, he got up and made his way back through the cane break that bordered the river. When he arrived at his camp, he dug out the canvas sack he used to store his food and discovered that it was practically empty. He had eaten most of the food that he had brought with him, and when he looked farther he discovered he had run out of feed for his horse. For a moment he hesitated, then decided to go to the small town he had passed a week ago and buy some supplies.
Straightening up, he walked over to the horse that he had hobbled and slapped her on the shoulder. “Got to eat and so do you, Rosie.” The grazing was pretty good around his camp, but the mare had gone through the grain he had brought. He saddled up quickly, mounted, and rode toward the south. He kept Rosie at an even trot, for she was short-legged and chubby, built to haul a cart, not really a saddle horse. He didn’t mind. Patting her neck with affection, his mind went back to what had become practically an obsession with him. Where are You, Lord? I don’t know how to find You—but I am not giving up!
A WEATHER-BEATEN SIGN LEANING askance on a skinny pole proclaimed the name as Bennettville. A smile came to Dallas’s face, and he murmured, “That sign is in about the same bad shape as the whole town.”
Indeed, Bennettville was nothing to write home about. It had one main street though there were several side streets and some alleyways. He passed by a blacksmith’s shop, a lawyer’s office, a post office. He finally drew up in front of a sign that read simply, “General Store.” Stepping out of the saddle, Bronte grabbed the two empty feed sacks he had brought for supplies and moved through the doorway. He saw at once that it was the typical small general store, with both sides of the narrow building lined with shelves containing groceries, medicine, some hardware, and rolls of textiles. Across the back was a counter with a pair of scales and a roll of paper. There were barrels with pickles and crackers, and the smell of spices was in the air.
“Help you, friend?” The speaker was a heavyset man with a full head of brown hair and a neat beard to match. He was chewing on a twig of some sort and shifted it to different positions as he spoke. “You just barely caught me. I’m closing early.”
“Need a few things,” Bronte said and called out the items he needed. The clerk moved quickly, and when Bronte had finished he began totaling the items on a small tablet. He said firmly, “You owe me nine dollars and fifty-three cents.”
Handing the money over, Bronte asked, “Closing pretty early, aren’t you?”
“Why, we got us a fine revival meeting going on at the church.” He put out his hand, smiling and said, “I’m Davis Williams, one of the deacons. Didn’t get your name.”
“Dallas Bronte.”
“Mmm. Don’t know of any Brontes in this part of the world.”
“No, I don’t have any people here. Or anywhere else, for that matter, that I know of.”
“You staying in town tonight?”
“No, I’m camped out on the river.”
“Doing a little fishing? Some hunting maybe?”
“A little fishing. Mostly just soaking in the silence and enjoying being out of the crowd.”
“A man needs to do that sometimes. Well, Mr. Bronte, you’d do well to come to the meeting tonight. A fine evangelist we got! Best I ever heard! You’d be right welcome.”
Ordinarily Bronte would have put the invitation aside instantly, but right now he felt an impulse that this was something he needed to do. It was the first indication of any sort of sign or pressure from what might be the Lord, so he said, “Well, maybe I will, sir. My grandfather was a Methodist preacher.”
“I know you’re proud of him. Tell you what, Mr. Bronte, my wife always cooks enough for ten people. So I have to eat leftovers most of the time. Let me close up here, and you and me will go get some of her cooking.”
“Oh, that would be an imposition.”
“Not at all! Not at all!” Williams said. “She loves to cook. She loves to feed me and so you wait right here.”
It took only a few minutes for the owner to close the store down, and then the two started down the street. “The house is right down the street. You better bring your horse. You can keep her in the barn in case it starts raining.”
Williams kept up a steady flow of warm conversation all the way down to his house, and Dallas’s sense of embarrassment at imposing disappeared. I could use a good home-cooked meal. And maybe the preacher will give me a little push in God’s direction.
DALLAS FELT UNCOMFORTABLE AS he entered the church, which was crowded. “I think I’ll just take this one seat back here, Deacon.”
“You better come up front where you can hear good.”
“Oh, my hearing’s fine.” He smiled at Williams and sat down. Williams looked around and said, “Folks, this is Mr. Dallas Bronte. Make him welcome.”
As soon as the deacon left, those sitting close to Dallas spoke to him. A couple of the men extended their hands, those that could reach him. He shook them and then sat back on the bare straight-backed pew.
They arrived about on time, for a tall, lanky man with a mournful face but a beautiful tenor voice said, “Folks, we are going to sing the Holy Spirit into this meeting. So, put your heart right in it while we praise the Lord.”
They all stood to sing, and Dallas was surprised to recognize most of the songs that followed. He had heard them over and over again as a young boy attending his grandfather’s services, but he had no idea he could still remember the words after all these years. The congregation was untrained musically, but they had enthusiasm and there was a good spirit in the place. It was a crude church with homemade benches, people wearing working clothes, but Dallas felt at ease here.
Finally the service was over, and the song leader said, “Folks, let me introduce you to our evangelist, Reverend Cletus Calloway.”
Reverend Calloway stepped up to the lectern. He was holding a Bible in his hand, but he did not open it. He stood looking out over the congregation, and Dallas saw that he was a middle-aged man, trim, with neatly-combed hair and a pair of gray eyes that had a direct look in them that Dallas had seen in some strong-willed men. He was wiry, but Dallas could see that he had the hands of a working man. His voice was clear, and to Dallas’s relief he did not shout or scream at his congregation. He smiled pleasantly and said a few words by way of welcoming visitors and thanking the church for having him.
He said in a firm voice, “If you will turn in your Bibles to the Gospel of Luke, the eighth chapter, beginning at the forty-third verse, I will read the text.” Dallas noted, however, that he didn’t open his Bible but simply began to quote.
And a woman having an issue of blood twelve years, which had spent all her living upon physicians, neither could be healed of any, came behind him and touched the border of His garment: and immediately her issue of blood staunched. And Jesus said, Who touched me? When all denied, Peter and they that were with him said, Master, the multitude throng thee and press thee, and sayest thou, Who touched me? And Jesus said, Somebody hath touched me: for I perceive that virtue has gone out of me. And when the woman saw th
at she was not hid she came trembling, and falling down before him, she declared unto him before all the people for what cause she had touched him, and how she was healed immediately. And he said unto her, Daughter, be of good comfort: thy faith hath made thee whole; go in peace.
Reverend Calloway continued, “We have this same incident set forth in Mark’s Gospel, the fifth chapter, which adds several elements not given in Luke. For one thing it says she had had the issue of blood twelve years, that she had suffered many things of the physicians and had spent all that she had and was not better but worse.”
Looking calmly over the congregation he said, “I suppose most of you may know the penalty that was imposed on people in this woman’s day who had her malady. There’s a terrible chapter in the book of Leviticus. Any woman like this was unclean. Everything she sat upon, all who touched her shared in the defilement. So in addition to her continual weakness, she was made to feel herself nothing but an outcast. This must have destroyed this poor woman’s spirit and brought great loneliness to her.”
He paused for a moment then smiled. “This is what I call a wayside miracle. It didn’t occur in a church. There were no officials present. Jesus was on His way to heal somebody else. But on the way this woman, this much afflicted woman who had literally been dying for twelve years, decided somehow to come to Him.”
Dallas leaned forward, for the minister was a good speaker and Dallas found himself caught up with the story.
“I think she was a woman of great determination. She knew this disease was going to take her life. I think she said to herself, ‘If there is any possibility of getting rid of this sickness, no matter what it costs me, I’m going to do it.’”
Then the minister looked out and said, “There may be someone in this building tonight who says I’m a lost soul, but if a lost soul can be saved, if guilt can be washed away, it will be done. Even if you have a hard heart, you can press on until God does something.” This statement struck Dallas hard for he felt it described his case exactly. He listened as the preacher went on speaking about the woman who had decided to risk everything in order to gain the blessing that she wanted from Jesus.
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