by Al Lacy
Breanna introduced John to Dr. Laird, who asked him a few questions to test his knowledge of bandages and bleeding. Satisfied, Dr. Laird gave him instructions on what to look for and how to care for the wounded men until he and Breanna could get to them.
Corporal Pinder was moved to a cot, and the man in the next most serious condition was laid on the table. Hours passed. At suppertime, other soldiers fed the wounded men and a couple of privates brought food and drink for Dr. Laird, Breanna, and John Stranger. The three ate quickly, then returned to their work. It was just after nine o’clock when they finished the last of the medical work and surgeries. The first three men Dr. Laird had worked on were critical. All three had taken arrows, one in the back and the other two in the chest.
As the doctor and his helpers were washing up, Colonel Lynch and Captain Meyer came in and commended them for the excellent job they had done. Laird took the colonel and the captain aside and explained that three of the men were in critical condition. He would stay in the infirmary with them all night. If they survived until morning, they had a good chance of making it.
Laird returned to John and Breanna and said, “I want to thank both of you for your help. Without it, some of these men might be dead by now.”
“I’m just glad we arrived when we did,” Breanna said.
“You do well for someone who’s never had formal medical training, Mr. Stranger,” the doctor said. “You should have been a physician.”
“Thanks, Doc, but I don’t think so.”
“Well, you sure have talent in that area,” Laird said.
“He has talents in many areas, Doctor,” Breanna said. “I never knew a man who could do so many things well. He’s even a great preacher!”
Colonel Lynch’s face lit up. “Is that so? Well, tomorrow’s Sunday, and at present Fort Bridger has no chaplain. Mr. Stranger, would you consider preaching our Sunday services for us?”
“I think Miss Baylor’s estimate of my preaching may be a little biased, Colonel, but if you can talk Mr. Clayson here into delaying the wagon train’s departure for a day, I’ll be glad to preach for you.”
All eyes swung to the wagon master, who had entered the infirmary moments before. Rip rubbed the back of his neck for a moment, then said, “Well, we’re already running nearly two weeks behind schedule, Colonel, but I’ve heard about John’s preaching from several sources. I’d like to hear him myself. Okay. We’ll pull out first thing Monday morning.”
“Good!” the colonel exclaimed. “Then it’s settled. I’ll put the word out to the men.”
Breanna quickly told John and Rip that Dr. Laird was prescribing extended rest for Colonel Moore and that the Moores would not be traveling further with the wagon train. Breanna, John, and Rip decided to go see the Moores and went together to the room in the officers’ quarters where Marian sat beside her husband’s bed. Marian was relieved to hear that Dr. Laird thought her husband would be fine if they wintered at the fort. The colonel smiled and said they would join the first California-bound wagon train that came through next spring.
“In the meantime,” he said, “Marian and I’ve got a lot to talk about together. I guess the Good Lord knew what I needed more than I did.”
“He always does,” Breanna said. “Always.”
Morning came with a few puffy clouds scudding across a clear sky. Colonel Lynch was awakened at sunrise by Dr. Laird, who told him that two of the three critical men had died during the night. Only Lenny Pinder was still holding onto life. Pinder seemed better, but the nature of his wound left the doctor wondering if he would make it.
During breakfast the sad news of the two deaths spread through the fort. The two men would be buried that afternoon. Just before the morning service, John and Breanna visited the men in the infirmary, doing what they could to cheer them up. Colonel Lynch and Dr. Laird came in while they were talking to Lenny Pinder, who was quite weak but getting some color in his face.
“I just asked Doc if you men could attend the preaching service this morning,” Lynch said, “providing some of your fellow-soldiers carry you outside on your stretchers. He gave permission for everyone except Corporal Pinder. How about it?”
There was immediate response from the five wounded men. They all wanted to attend the service.
“Colonel, are you going to hold the services just outside the infirmary like usual?” Pinder asked weakly.
“Yes. It’s not cool enough to move us inside the mess hall yet.”
“Good,” Pinder said. “Then I can hear Mr. Stranger preach, too.”
Breanna leaned over and placed her hand on the corporal’s shoulder. “You’ll be able to hear him, Lenny. John speaks softly most of the time, but when he gets to preaching, his volume rises.”
John Stranger gave Breanna a look of indignation and everyone laughed. Even Lenny Pinder.
Most of the Fort Bridger personnel attended the preaching service. They sang gospel songs and hymns by memory, then the colonel introduced John Stranger, making a few joking remarks about his name.
John went along with it, added his own touch of humor, then opened his Bible. His heart was heavy over the recent deaths of the soldiers, and he chose Hebrews 9:27 as his text: “And as it is appointed unto men once to die, and after this, the judgment.”
He reminded all of his hearers that as death had come to their comrades, so one day it would come to them all. With tears in his eyes, John warned of hell and judgment for those who die in their sins, and made it clear that salvation comes only by repentance toward God and faith toward the Lord Jesus Christ. At the close of the message, several men, including three of the five wounded ones, responded to the invitation to receive Christ.
After the wounded men had been carried on their stretchers back into the infirmary, Corporal Pinder spoke to Dr. Laird and asked if he would tell John Stranger he wanted to talk to him. Moments later, Stranger entered the crowded log building, spoke to the wounded men on their cots, then stood over Lenny Pinder.
“Colonel Lynch said you wanted to see me,” he said, smiling.
“Yes, sir. I heard your sermon. And … and I want to talk to you about it.”
Stranger picked up a straight-backed wooden chair, placed it beside the cot, and sat down. “Questions, Lenny?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Shoot.”
“Well, sir … in your sermon you said that Jesus died for sinners, and that we’re all sinners, right?”
“Yes. He sure did, and we sure are. Romans 3:23 says, All have sinned, and come short of the glory of God. And Ecclesiastes 7:20 says, For there is not a just man upon earth, that doeth good, and sinneth not.”
Pinder nodded. “I believe that, Mr. Stranger, but what if … what if a man stole something from someone and never got caught? And because he never got caught, the thief never made restitution.”
Stranger leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees. “You talking about Lenny Pinder as the thief?”
Pinder hesitated, then said, “Yes, sir. I … I won’t go into details, but I stole something very valuable from a neighboring farmer when I was eighteen. My conscience has eaten me alive, Mr. Stranger. I wanted to go to the man and confess my crime before I joined the army, but I just couldn’t work up the courage to do it. And now … now, I’m dying.”
“Lenny, Dr. Laird says you’re better today, and—”
Lenny rolled his head back and forth on the pillow. “No, Mr. Stranger. I know. Somehow I know I’m not going to make it. I … I want to be forgiven for my crime, and for all my other sins. Help me. Please.”
John Stranger told young Pinder the story of the dying thieves at Calvary. One thief railed at Jesus and died in his sins, but the other admitted he was getting what he deserved. Before he died, he asked Jesus for salvation, including forgiveness for his crimes and all his other sins.
When Stranger told how Jesus promised the dying thief they would be together that very day in paradise, Lenny Pinder’s lower lip quivered and tears
filled his eyes. “Mr. Stranger,” he said weakly, “if I asked Jesus to forgive me and save my soul right now, He would do it, right?”
“He sure would, son. His Word says, Whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be saved. And Jesus said, Him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out. You call on Him right now, I guarantee you, He won’t cast you out.”
“Then … that’s what I want to do. Will you help me?”
“Of course,” Stranger said, laying a hand on Lenny’s shoulder.
John Stranger helped Corporal Lenny Pinder word his prayer, as the farm boy from Iowa called on Jesus Christ to save him. When Lenny was finished, Stranger spoke words of assurance and comfort. Weak and sick as he was, Lenny smiled and wept for joy, knowing he had been forgiven for all of his sins and would go to heaven when he died. The other patients who had become Christians that morning rejoiced with Pinder, sharing the sweetness of salvation.
John Stranger found Dr. Laird and asked what he thought about young Pinder’s chances of living. Laird said that the damage to his heart and the wound next to it could result in his death. Only time would tell.
Stranger went to Breanna, who was removing a splinter from a soldier’s hand. He was part of the burial detail for the soldiers who had died during the night and had gotten the splinter from the handle of the shovel he was using. They were sitting on a bench in the sunshine. Stranger waited till she was through and the soldier had gone, then he sat beside her and told her of Lenny’s conversion. Breanna was elated at the news and took John by the hand and hurried to the infirmary.
For the rest of the day, Dr. Laird kept a close watch on Lenny, fearing that his time was short. As night fell, Lenny began to grow weaker.
After the evening preaching service, John and Breanna took a stroll around the inside perimeter of the fort’s stockade walls. The time spent together served to deepen their devotion to each other and to mold their hearts in a stronger bond of love. Once again they prayed together, asking God to guide them in their decisions. They also thanked the Lord for the way He had worked in hearts that day, bringing so many to Himself. They prayed too for Lenny Pinder, asking the Lord to spare his life unless, in His wisdom, He had higher plans for him.
Before retiring for the night, they went to the infirmary and found Dr. Laird sitting beside Lenny, who was asleep and resting easy. Laird still had hope that Lenny would make it. If he lived till sunrise, he most likely would be over the hump.
Dawn was a gray hint on the eastern horizon when John Stranger awakened where he slept on the ground to the whisper of a voice calling his name. He blinked and sat up and saw that it was Dr. Laird. “Yes, Doctor?”
Laird hunkered down beside him and said in a choked voice, “Lenny didn’t make it, Mr. Stranger. He died ten minutes ago.”
Sadness washed over the tall man as he threw back the covers of his bedroll and sighed, “It was God’s will, Doctor. You did all you could.”
“That I did. There comes that point when we doctors can go no further. He’s in God’s hands now.”
“Yes,” John said, rising to his feet as Laird rose with him. “I’ll tell Breanna as soon as she gets up. Have you let Colonel Lynch know yet?”
“Not yet. I’m going to his quarters now. I wanted to advise you first.”
Stranger thanked him, and as the doctor moved away, he called after him, “If the burial can be right away, I’ll be glad to conduct the funeral service.”
There was sadness in Fort Bridger over the loss of Corporal Lenny Pinder, but the Christians also rejoiced that the boyish young soldier was now with the Lord.
John Stranger conducted the funeral service at the graveside. He and Breanna, along with Rip Clayson, went to the officers’ quarters and told the Moores good-bye, then the wagon train rolled out of the fort with its cavalry escort.
4
A FARM WAGON threw up dust as it bounced and fishtailed at full speed northward toward San Francisco amid vineyards, orchards, and truck farms. The two horses pressed into the harness, running as fast as they could go. They seemed to know the trip was urgent. Foam flew from their open mouths, flecking their sweaty bodies as the young woman in the seat snapped the reins, shouting at the top of her voice to hasten them on.
In the seat on either side of her were her eight-year-old son and her six-year-old daughter. The boy’s head, which lay in her lap, was wrapped in a blood-stained towel. The girl crowded close to her mother, clinging to her slender waist for all she was worth.
The mother was near panic. She could not spare the horses. Her son’s life was possibly at stake.
Like many great cities of the world, San Francisco was built on a harbor which was part of a great bay extending forty-five miles inland and varying from three to thirteen miles in width. And like many boom and bust towns of the West in the early 1870s, its main streets were lined with hotels, gambling casinos, dance halls, and saloons. In the area known as the “Big Bad” Square Plaza, banks and other financial institutions crowded together with shops of every description, restaurants, clothing stores, and the like.
San Francisco, with its sixty-five thousand residents, was larger than any town between the Pacific Coast and Kansas City, Missouri. It was a busy, bustling town of fog-blurred mornings and clear afternoons, the sun shining on a blue bay flecked with white caps and a brisk, clean wind whipping the sails of the ships that passed in and out of the harbor.
Always on the minds of San Francisco’s residents, and those who visited there, was the threat of earthquakes. From its earliest days (the town was founded in 1776 and named after explorer José Francisco Ortega), the area was frequently shaken by quakes. Most were minor, but some were major. The minor ones merely unnerved San Francisco’s residents. The major ones shattered windows, cracked walls, and often left small crevices in yards and streets.
On one thing the seismologists agreed—the quakes were going to become more serious, and they looked for a “big one” to come sometime around the turn of the century.
The formidable coast ranges shielded the inland valleys from the fogs and winds that plagued the town and bay. The flat lands immediately south of San Francisco and the valley east of the coast ranges produced healthy orchards, vineyards, and fields of fruits and vegetables.
The young mother who raced the family wagon into San Francisco with her children beside her was from a fruit and vegetable farm several miles south of town.
Dottie Harper’s wagon thundered into San Francisco on Third Street, racing northward, then threw dirt as she veered it onto Market Street and headed for Powell. The town’s two hospitals were only a block apart on Powell Street, but Dottie chose to go to City Hospital. It had more doctors than Smith Memorial, and her chances of getting immediate attention for James were better there.
At the corner of Market and Powell, she almost struck an elderly couple just starting across the intersection as she whipped the wagon around the corner and raced toward the hospital’s front doors. Dottie jerked on the reins and skidded the wagon to a halt, the horses blowing hard.
Her heart beat against her ribs like a caged bird bent on escape as she climbed down, catching her skirt momentarily on the brake handle. Her anxiety rose when the towel around her son’s head slipped down and she saw fresh blood flowing from his left ear.
“Here, Molly Kate,” she said, extending her arms to the girl. “Let Mommy help you down.” Molly Kate’s pallid face and widened eyes gave evidence of the fear she felt for her brother.
Dottie placed the girl on the ground, then leaned against the wagon’s side and gathered James into her arms. The air was cool, but sweat trickled down the side of her face. James was conscious, but had not spoken a word since they left the farm. His eyes were dull and his mouth hung open listlessly, shock shadowing his features.
Dottie cradled James in her arms and headed for the hospital entrance. Molly Kate hurried along behind her. Dottie was almost to the double doors when one of them swung open. A young man w
ith an arm in a sling started out, saw her coming, and held the door open.
The receptionist at the desk took one look at Dottie’s face and knew something was seriously wrong. When her glance fell on the bloody towel that encircled the boy’s head, she rose to her feet.
“We have an emergency here, ma’am,” Dottie gasped. “My son’s left ear is bleeding.”
The receptionist’s features stiffened when she looked at James and saw also the purple bruises on his face, the swollen left eye, and the split in his upper lip.
She glanced at Molly Kate, making sure she was untouched, then said, “Your name, ma’am?”
“Dottie Harper. My son’s name is James.” The receptionist picked up a pencil and scribbled quickly on a sheet of paper. “H-A-R-P-E-R, ma’am?”
“Yes.”
“And your address?”
“General delivery, San Bruno. We have a truck farm and orchard near San Bruno.”
The receptionist wrote it down hastily, dropped the pencil, and said, “Come with me. You can bring the little girl, too.”
As they hurried down a long hall, the receptionist studied James and asked, “Same person who beat the boy put those bruises on your face?”
A cold knot formed in Dottie’s stomach. Her throat constricted, and she attempted to clear it.
“Sometimes in cases like these, we’re told that the child fell,” the receptionist said.
“No. No, he didn’t fall. He—”
“Right in here.” The woman stopped suddenly and pushed the door of the examining room open. “Lay him on the table. I’ll get a doctor right away.”
Molly Kate’s eyes were wide as she looked around the room. It smelled like medicine, and there were two large cabinets with shelves full of cans and bottles. Three straight-backed chairs stood against the back wall.
The receptionist paused at the door. “Somebody gave that little fellow an awful beating. And whoever it was got pretty rough with you too, didn’t he?”