Faithful Heart

by Al Lacy

  Jerrod yanked Marty Tillman forward, smashing his face into the bars.

  In the office, Deputy Hall heard a heavy thud and a shriek like he had never heard before. He dashed into the cell block to see Jerrod repeatedly yanking Tillman toward him, smashing his bloodied face against the bars.

  “Jerrod! Stop it!” Hall shouted.

  Jerrod continued as if he had not heard him at all. The deputy quickly unlocked the cell door, rushed in, and cracked Jerrod over the head with the barrel of his revolver. Jerrod dropped in an unconscious heap.

  Marty Tillman slumped to the floor. Hall left Harper’s cell, locked it, and entered Tillman’s cell. He found the outlaw conscious but dazed. Blood was coming from his nose and mouth. Hall half-carried Tillman to the cot and laid him on it, then began washing the blood from his face. He didn’t appear to be seriously hurt. Jerrod came to and rolled, groaning, onto his hands and knees. He struggled to rise, his head still filled with swirling fog, and managed to stumble to his cot.

  Hall moved out the barred door, locked it, and said, “What brought this on?”

  Jerrod eyed the deputy from where he sat rubbing the back of his head. “He blew smoke in my face and shot off his mouth about things that’re none of his business.”

  “So what’d you say anyhow?” Hall asked, looking toward Tillman.

  Tillman sat up, grimacing in pain. Before he could speak, Jerrod cut in. “He said Dottie oughtta leave me and find a man who’ll treat her right.”

  “Well, she should!” Tillman said.

  Myron Hall sighed and said, “Well, let’s just say she deserves better than she’s been getting. I’m glad you’ve agreed to put yourself under Dr. Carroll’s care, Mr. Harper. You’ve made your wife very happy … and she has some happiness comin’. Now you two see if you can’t be a bit more civil to each other. If nothing else, maybe you could try ignoring each other.”

  Hall then returned to the office. Jerrod laid down on his cot and quietly stared at the ceiling, his head throbbing.

  Marty Tillman lay there and cursed under his breath. Twice when Hall was tending to him, he could have grabbed the deputy’s gun, but his vision was blurred and he was too woozy to have tried a break.

  The outlaw grinned to himself. He would find a way to get another opportunity. He looked through the bars at Harper, who lay in silence on his cot. Hatred boiled in him toward the big brute. He imagined how good it would feel to put a bullet in him.

  13

  THE AFTERNOON SUN slanted through the latticed office windows, lengthening the shadows of the cross-pieces as they stretched across the polished hardwood floor.

  Flora Downing looked up as the door came open and smiled when she saw Dottie Harper enter. “Back so soon, Mrs. Harper? What can I do for you?”

  Dottie’s eyes were dancing with delight. “I need to make an appointment for Dr. Carroll to see my husband in the morning, Miss Downing.”

  “All right,” said the receptionist, sliding the black appointment book toward her from the corner of the desk. “Is one time better than another?”

  “Late morning would be best.”

  Flora ran the blunt end of the pencil down the page. “Well, I have 10:15, or I have 11:30.”

  “Let’s make it 11:30.”

  “All right,” Flora said, “11:30 it is. Your husband’s name?”

  “Jerrod. J-E-R-R-O-D.”

  “Mm-hmm,” she hummed, writing it down. “H-A-R-P-E-R Same as yours.”

  Dottie laughed. “Most husbands spell their last name the same as their wives.” It felt good to laugh. Things were looking better. Jerrod was going to get help, and Dr. Carroll was the man to do it.

  At the Reeves farm, James Harper was in the barn, watching Grandpa Will milk the big rawboned Holstein. They had fed the chickens together earlier, and would soon go to the house for supper.

  The sun was setting over the low-lying hills that led to the ocean, giving an orange-red cast to the land. The big barn door that faced the house was open, and James took a moment to admire the sunset. The sound of the two milk streams hitting white foam in the bucket was a familiar one to the eight-year-old.

  “Daddy says he’ll let me learn to milk when I’m twelve, Grandpa,” the boy said.

  “Well, now, that’s a good age to learn,” the old man said cheerfully. “Your hands won’t be big enough to do the job till about then. In fact, come to think of it, I learned to milk when I was twelve.”

  “That was quite a while before the Civil War, wasn’t it?” James asked.

  Will chuckled. “Yeah, you might say so. Quite a while!”

  James heard a faint rattling sound and turned to see a wagon coming across the field from the west. “Hey, Grandpa! Look! A wagon!”

  Will Reeves’s eyes weren’t that good anymore without his spectacles, which he had left in the house. “I reckon you’re right,” he said. “Can you tell if there are two people in the seat?”

  James moved to the door and focused on the moving vehicle. “Just one person,” he said, calling over his shoulder. “My mother. I can tell by the color of her hair.”

  “Well, I hope she’s got good news for us.”

  “Me, too,” the boy said.

  Will finished milking and picked up the milking stool with one hand and the bucket with the other. “Okay, partner,” he said, “you can open the stanchion and let ol’ Bossy out.”

  A few minutes later, man and boy entered the kitchen to find Molly Kate in her mother’s arms, with Maudie looking on and smiling.

  James rushed across the room and gave his mother a kiss and a hug. “So what about Daddy?” he asked, fearful that she might say the sheriff was going to release him.

  “Well … Grandma’s asked us to stay for supper. So let me help her get it on the table, and I’ll tell everybody at the same time!”

  “Is Daddy getting out of jail, Mommy?” Molly Kate asked.

  “Let’s wait for the good news, honey,” Dottie said, bending over and kissing her daughter’s forehead.

  Horrifying images of her father in a mindless rage flashed into Molly Kate’s mind. She hoped the good news was that he would see Dr. Carroll, but that the doctor could visit him in the jail. She was afraid the nightmare would start all over if her father came home.

  Soon Dottie and her children were seated at the Reeves table with the elderly couple. Will led in prayer, then as they began to eat, Dottie told them the latest news about Jerrod. Tears spilled when she came to the part about Jerrod agreeing to see Dr. Carroll.

  Brother and sister eyed each other furtively, wondering if the “good news” meant that their father would be coming home before the doctor had cured him.

  “Dottie, are you sure Jerrod won’t back out at the last minute?” Maudie asked.

  “I’m sure,” she smiled. “He promised he would do it, and with Jerrod and me, when we make a promise there’s no backing out.”

  “So when does he start?” Will asked.

  “Tomorrow morning,” Dottie said with a lilt in her voice. “I’ve made an appointment for him to see Dr. Carroll at 11:30. I’ll be at the jail shortly after Sheriff Donner arrives for the day. That is, if the children can stay with you while Jerrod and I go to the doctor’s office.”

  “Of course they can,” Maudie said. “You know they’re always welcome.”

  “So after the doctor sees him, is he coming home?” Will asked.

  “Yes! Isn’t it wonderful? Jerrod’s going to get better. I just know it!”

  “Mommy, wouldn’t it be better if Dr. Carroll would just go to the jail and see Daddy?” James asked.

  “The doctor wouldn’t have time for that, James,” Dottie said. “He’s too busy. Psychiatrists don’t make house calls, or jail calls, anyway. People have to go to their offices to see them.”

  Dottie saw alarm in James’s eyes. She reached toward her son and took hold of his hand. “Sweetie, you don’t have to be afraid of Daddy anymore. Dr. Carroll is going to put him on some se
datives.”

  “What’s sedratives?” Molly Kate asked.

  “Sedatives—that’s medicine, honey. Medicine that will make Daddy better.”

  “You mean there won’t be the bad man inside him anymore?”

  “The doctor said Daddy can’t be completely cured, but he will be a whole lot different when he takes the medicine. We won’t have to be afraid like we have been.”

  “Can’t Jesus make Daddy all better?” Molly Kate asked.

  Dottie was taken aback for a moment. Praying for just the right words, she said, “Jesus can make Daddy all well if He wants to, yes. But sometimes He has reasons for not making us all well when we have things wrong with us. The Apostle Paul had a sickness in his body that he prayed to Jesus about, asking Him to make him well, but Jesus told him it was in His plan for Paul’s life that he keep that sickness. And you know what?”

  “What?”

  “The Bible says Paul was a better Christian and servant of the Lord because he kept that sickness in his body. We must understand the same thing about Daddy. Maybe Jesus wants Daddy to have his sickness to better use him for His glory … and to draw our family closer to Him than we would be if Daddy was made completely well.”

  “Oh,” Molly Kate said.

  To James, Dottie said, “Do you see what I’m saying, son?”

  “I think so. So even though Daddy won’t be all well, he won’t beat on us anymore when he’s taking the medicine?”

  “Well, honey, that’s what Dr. Carroll hopes. But we love Daddy enough to give it a chance, don’t we?”

  “Yes. He’s a good Daddy when that bad man inside him isn’t showing.”

  “Well, we’ll all be praying that the medicine will work,” Will said. “In fact, as soon as we’re finished with supper, why don’t we have a time of prayer for him?”

  All were in agreement. When the meal was over, Will led them in prayer, asking God to give Dr. Carroll wisdom as he cared for Jerrod, and that the sedatives would accomplish the doctor’s intentions. He also asked the Lord’s special protection on Dottie and the children.

  Dottie intended to stay and help with the dishes, but Maudie told her to take the children and head on home. They needed some time together, and Dottie needed to get to bed early.

  Eager about what the next day would bring, Dottie embraced the elderly couple, thanked them for all they had done, and drove her children home.

  Dawn came on August 10, 1861, with a gray reluctance. Jerrod Harper and his fifty men-in-blue were part of the left flank in the two-pronged surprise attack on the Confederate forces positioned along the banks of Wilson’s Creek. Harper’s unit was under the direct command of Brigadier General Nathaniel Lyon, who led the main body of Union troops. Colonel Franz Sigel led an enveloping force that would strike the Confederates from the rear.

  A heavy mist drifted through the treetops and choked the surrounding fields and woods with suffocating humidity. It had been blistering hot the day before, and the night had hardly cooled at all.

  The Union troops crept toward the Rebels through the mists that appeared ghost-like on the surface of the moist, grassy fields. General Lyons was in the lead some fifty or sixty yards ahead of Sergeant Harper’s unit. The signal to commence firing into the Rebel-infested thickets along the creek would come when Colonel Sigel opened up on them from the rear.

  It was zero hour. The Yankees were so close, they could hear the rippling of the creek and the Confederate troops talking among themselves.

  Suddenly Sigel’s guns opened up, both muskets and artillery. General Lyon’s forces commenced firing, and the battle was under way. The Confederates had been surprised, but were ready for the fight. Both sides of the creek were swept with fire and smoke.

  Sergeant Harper and his men were to converge on a cluster of Confederate artillery imbedded in a heavy stand of trees on the creek bank closest to them. The fifty yards that lay between them and the line of enemy artillery was partially covered with patches of trees surrounded with heavy brush.

  Harper gave the signal and led out. They were to wait until they could see the whites of Rebel eyes before firing. The Union soldiers knew they were charging into the teeth of Confederate artillery and that certain death awaited many of them as they followed their big husky sergeant.

  Shrapnel exploded in deathly puffs of smoke, and Rebel musketeers rained bullets on the advancing Yankees. Harper ejected a wild cry and heard the cries of his men as they charged. The thunder of battle roared in his ears. Suddenly a second line of Confederate artillery appeared off to their right a few yards up the creek bank.

  Harper’s heart almost stopped. He and his men were about to be caught in a deadly crossfire. Bullets were already whipping around them like sleet in a northeaster. The cannons to their right opened up, and Harper’s men began to drop like flies. The field was filled with smoke, and the sergeant lost sight of his unit as cannon shells exploded all around him.

  A bullet whizzed past his head, its hot air kissing his ear. He staggered, slipped on the wet grass, and fell.

  A gust of hot wind abruptly cleared the smoke, and there was a break in the firing. Jerrod staggered to his feet, reeling about, and saw Rebels coming from the creek brush across the grassy field. He looked around for his squad. He was alone. Where were his men? Had the Rebels killed them all?

  “Hey!” he shouted. “Maynard! Wilson! Dougherty! Girard! Where are you?”

  A cannon shell exploded a few feet from him. Shrapnel whistled dangerously close, and the blast of it took his breath. Hundreds of Confederates were coming at him now in a swarm of gray.

  There was more smoke, then it cleared again. When it did, his eyes fell on dozens of blue-clad bodies, sprawled all around him. “No!” he screamed. “No-o! All my men are dead! No!”

  “Harper! Hey, Harper, wake up!” came the voice of Marty Tillman.

  Jerrod’s mind came clear, and he sat bolt upright on his cot. The vague light from a street lantern showed him where he was. He was bathed in sweat, and he was breathing hard.

  “Shut up, crazy man!” Tillman yelled. “I’m tryin’ to get some sleep!”

  Jerrod jumped off the cot and charged across the cell. “You shut up, Tillman! You think I asked to have these nightmares?”

  Myron Hall lived in an apartment directly above the jail. Jerrod Harper’s voice first brought him awake with the soul-wrenching cry that all his men were dead. Then he heard Marty Tillman shouting at the top of his voice.

  “Oh, no,” Hall mumbled groggily, “Harper’s got his hands on Tillman again.”

  Hall hurriedly pulled on his pants, slipped into his boots without taking time to put on his socks, and darted for the door, pulling his suspenders up over his long johns. He put his hand on the door knob, then stopped and wheeled around. “Never go out the door without your sidearm,” he whispered, quoting his boss.

  Quickly, Hall strapped on his gunbelt and headed down the stairs. He made his way into the office and heard Tillman and Harper still shouting at each other.

  Hall fired a lantern, adjusted the flame, and hurried into the cell block. Tillman heard Hall’s heavy footsteps in the corridor and fell to the floor, doubled up in a fetal position with his hands covering his face, and moaned as if in great pain.

  Hall glowered at Harper. “Now what did you do to him?”

  “Nothing!” Jerrod said.

  The deputy shot Harper an angry look, moved to Tillman’s cell, and inserted the key into the lock. The cell door swung open, and Hall hurried in with the lantern. He set it down on the small table and bent over Tillman.

  “Let me see, Marty!” Hall said. “What’d he do?” “Rammed his fingers into my eyes!” Tillman said, peeking to see if Hall was wearing his gun.

  “I did not!” Jerrod yelled. “I never touched him!”

  Myron turned, pointed at Jerrod, and hissed, “Sit down and shut up!”

  Tillman yanked the deputy’s revolver out of its holster, snapped back the hammer, and
lined it on Hall’s face. “Get back!” he commanded. “And put those hands in the air!”

  Hall blinked in disbelief. Tillman had tricked him, and he fell for it. Or had both prisoners tricked him?

  Tillman rose to his feet and said, “Turn around.”

  “Now look, this isn’t gonna get you anywhere. You—” The gun barrel came down on Hall’s temple, dropping him like a rock.

  “You won’t get far,” Jerrod warned. “They’ll hunt you down like a hound hunts a fox.”

  “We’ll see about that,” grinned Tillman, lining the gun on Jerrod through the bars. “You’re goin’ with me, wife-beater.”

  Tillman left the unconscious deputy in the cell and locked the door. Still holding the gun on Harper, he unlocked cell number one, swung the door open, and growled, “I’m gonna give you what you deserve, pal. Only it ain’t gonna be a mere horsewhippin’, and it ain’t gonna be here. A gunshot here might alert somebody. C’mon. Let’s go.”

  Deputy Hall opened his eyes and tried to figure out where he was. His vision was blurred, and his head felt like it had been split open. A trickle of blood ran down the side of his face.

  Marty Tillman!

  Hall sat up, shook his head to clear his vision, and winced at the pain it caused. Slowly his eyes began to focus, and he looked around. Both men were gone. He struggled to his feet and staggered to the cell door. It was locked. He sat down on the cot and pressed Tillman’s pillow against his temple to stay the flow of blood.

  So they both tricked me, he thought. Made friends in spite of what Jerrod did yesterday, planned the escape, and it worked. All Deputy Hall could do now was wait for Sheriff Max Donner. He dreaded that, too. His own stupidity had led to the escape.

  At sunrise, Dottie Harper was up and preparing for her day. Her hopes ran high. She was optimistic that with the sedatives and Dr. Carroll’s counseling, Jerrod would be made better.

  At breakfast, she could see apprehension on the faces of her children. She smiled at them and said, “I know you’re both wondering if Mommy’s doing the right thing in getting Daddy released from jail. Please trust me. We want Daddy to get better, don’t we?”