Faithful Heart

by Al Lacy

  “Yes, ma’am,” they said together.

  “Haven’t we prayed and asked Jesus to make Daddy better?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Well, I believe Jesus is going to use Dr. Carroll to make Daddy better. So let’s cheer up and be happy.”

  James and Molly Kate smiled for their mother. Her optimism made them feel better.

  “James,” Dottie said, “I know this whole horrible thing has interfered with your school work, and I won’t punish you for letting it slide. But you really need to buckle down now that things are getting better. Understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

  “I want you to take your McGuffey’s Reader and your arithmetic book to Grandma Reeves’s house and do your lessons. You know which ones.”

  James nodded.

  The morning sun was lifting off the eastern horizon into a few scattered white clouds when Dottie and the children climbed into the family wagon and pulled out of the yard. Twenty minutes later, Dottie left the Reeves place and pointed the team eastward. The birds were singing in the trees that lined the road, and she hummed along with them. She would arrive in San Bruno around 8:15, which would give her plenty of time to get Jerrod released and have him in San Francisco before the 11:30 appointment with Dr. Carroll.

  A little before eight, Sheriff Donner ambled down the boardwalk and entered his office. Since the door was unlocked, he assumed his deputy had already fed the prisoners. Myron always came in at 7:15 when there were prisoners to feed. He picked up their breakfast at the café across the street, then did his janitorial duties.

  The sheriff approached his desk and noticed trash in the wastebasket and that the floor needed sweeping. Puzzled, he walked to the door that led to the cell block, opened it, and listened. Silence.

  “Myron!” he called. “You back there?”

  “Yes!” came the reply. “I’m … I’m locked in a cell!”

  Donner hurried into the cell area to see his deputy standing at the barred door of cell number two. There was dried blood on the side of his face.

  “What happened?” Donner asked as he unlocked the cell door.

  The deputy told him the story. Donner was angry at Hall for letting the prisoners trick him and fumed at the thought of Tillman and Harper working together to escape. Hall apologized for being so gullible and received half-hearted forgiveness.

  “We’ve got to get on their trail,” Donner said. “I’ll go fetch Clancy. We’ll have him watch the office while we’re chasin’ those two.”

  Clancy McBride had been sheriff of San Mateo County before Max Donner. He had retired some seven years previously and often filled in for Donner when both sheriff and deputy had to be away from the office.

  It was 9:10 when McBride stood at the door of the office and watched the two men swing into their saddles. He heard Donner say how sorry he felt for Dottie, who was going to be extremely disappointed in her husband. He gave them a wave as they rode out of San Bruno, hoping to find some sign of which way the escapees had gone.

  14

  THE CRACK OF THE .44 CALIBER WINCHESTER resounded among the jagged peaks on the eastern promontories of the Sierra Nevada Range. Wayne Feaster, K. D. Wilhite, Les Pate, and Brad Cahill stood over Feaster’s dead horse. The chestnut gelding had just stepped into a hole on the steep incline halfway up Luther Pass, breaking its leg and throwing Feaster from his saddle.

  Feaster swore, cursing his luck. He turned his burning eyes on the other three and hissed, “Now, what’re we gonna do? We’ll never make Placerville in three days ridin’ double.”

  The four were on their way westward over the Sierras to pull a series of bank robberies with another gang headed by an old prison mate of Feaster’s, Chick Dubb. The two leaders had run onto each other in Carson City, Nevada, in late August. Dubb revealed a plan he had been working on for several months to make a fortune hitting California banks from Placerville to San Francisco, but he needed more than his three men to pull it off. He had inside information on cash deliveries, and would know when to hit which banks to make the best hauls.

  Feaster and Dubb decided to join forces. Because of prior commitments, the two gangs would meet in Placerville in early October to begin their robbing spree. Feaster knew that Dubb was not a patient man. If they were late arriving in Placerville, Dubb would find other men to help him.

  Brad Cahill, the youngest of the bunch, saw the frustration on his boss’s face, and said, “From what I’ve heard about this pass, boss, it’s traveled quite a bit. Maybe while we’re climbin’, we’ll run into some travelers comin’ down who’ve got a good saddle horse. All we’ll have to do is throw our guns on ’em, take the horse, and keep movin’ west.”

  Feaster swore and said, “I don’t like maybes, Brad. If we don’t make it to Placerville in time, Chick’ll find somebody else to help him. We’ll miss out on all that money.”

  “Wayne, I’ve been over this pass before,” Les Pate said. “There’s a California Stagelines way station right at the top of the pass. There’s always a few good-lookin’ saddle horses in the corral there.”

  “Well, I hate to wait till we reach the summit to pick up another animal,” Feaster said. “We’re still losin’ valuable time. But … all we can do is keep movin’.”

  “You can ride my horse, Wayne,” Cahill said. “I’ll double up with one of these guys.”

  “My horse is a little bigger than the others,” Pate said. “You can ride with me.”

  “Okay, Brad, I’ll take you up on it,” Feaster said. “Let’s go.”

  Saddle leather creaked and horses blew as the outlaws mounted up. When K. D. Wilhite swung into his saddle, something on the trail below and behind them caught his eye. He sat still and peered eastward, studying the rocky, tree-lined ridges that swept downward to the level ground, now far in the distance.

  “See somethin’, K. D.?” Feaster asked.

  “Yeah. I seen somethin’ move down there a few seconds ago. See, look. It’s a wagon train comin’ this way.”

  “Sure enough,” Pate said, lifting his hat to shade his eyes against the brilliant sun.

  Wilhite hipped around in the saddle, unbuckled a saddlebag, and pulled out a pair of binoculars. “I think I saw a couple of men on horseback out in front.”

  Feaster was squinting, trying to make out the line of wagons as they moved slowly along the winding trail amid towering pines and massive, protruding rock shelves. Only part of the train was visible at any given moment.

  A gusty wind swept over the side of the mountain, flapping the wide brim of Wilhite’s hat as he peered through the binoculars. He grinned when he caught a glimpse of the first wagon, because just ahead of it were two riders. He guided his mount to where Feaster sat astride Cahill’s horse and handed him the binoculars. “Take a look, boss. Right ahead of the lead wagon.”

  Feaster placed the binoculars to his eyes, searched for a few seconds, then focused on the two riders. “Either one looks like good horseflesh to me!” he exclaimed.

  “What have they got, boss?” Pate asked.

  “Looks like a big black. The other’s a white-faced bay. Both geldings, I’d say.” He handed the binoculars back to Wilhite and grinned broadly. “Looks like I’m about to get me a good horse, fellas!”

  The outlaws dismounted and led their mounts a ways off the trail. Together they studied the layout of the land below them.

  Wilhite was still using his binoculars. “I think I see the perfect spot to surprise ’em, Wayne.”

  “Yeah? Where?”

  Wilhite handed the glasses to the gang leader and pointed. “Look right past that outcroppin’ of rock down by that patch of blue spruce. See that open spot right where the trail makes a sharp curve?”

  “Yeah, I see it. Sure enough. That’s where I’ll put my hands on that big black!”

  “Perfect spot,” Cahill said. “We can put our guns on the riders and the first wagon or two as they come around the bend. We’ll have the black an
d be gone before the other people even know what’s happened.”

  A bright autumn sun and a cloudless sky looked down on the wagon train as it climbed slowly into the Sierra Nevadas. Luther Pass was lined with trees whose fall-colored leaves danced in the wind. Small animals scuttled across the trail in front of Curly Wesson’s wagon. From time to time, hawks were seen on the wing, climbing toward the sun, then coasting on the currents, wheeling in delightful patterns, then swooping down and floating above the treetops.

  Sitting next to Curly Wesson, Breanna Baylor shaded her eyes with her hand to watch three hawks put on a show. When the great birds had disappeared, she let her glance drift to the two riders a few yards ahead. John Stranger and Rip Clayson were in some kind of discussion about the Scriptures, for John had his Bible in his hand and was reading from it to Rip.

  Breanna smiled to herself as she studied the broad back of the man she loved. Thank You, Lord. Thank You for bringing that wonderful man back to me. My life is full, Lord, because of the salvation You’ve given me … and it will be complete the day I can become John’s wife.

  While the wagon train climbed higher and higher into the Sierras, Breanna let her thoughts run to her sweet sister. Her heart thrilled as she pictured the moment she and Dottie would first see each other. Breanna envisioned that it would be on the front porch of the big three-story house Dottie had so carefully described for her in a letter. And she was eager to finally meet Jerrod after all these years. And her niece and nephew. Breanna wondered if Molly Kate could really look as much like her mother as Dottie’s letters had indicated.

  “What’s that your playin’ with?” Curly Wesson’s voice intruded on her thoughts.

  “Hmm?”

  “Pardon my inquisitiveness,” Curly said, “but at first I thought that round thing in your hand was a silver dollar. I can see now that it ain’t. It’s got a star in its center and some words engraved around the edge. What is it?”

  “Oh, this,” Breanna said, and raised the silver disk up so he could get a good view of it. “It’s a medallion. Pure silver, all right. Here, take a look at it.”

  Curly took the medallion in his hand, squinted, then extended his arm to its full length.

  Breanna giggled. “Before long, Methuselah, you’re going to have to break down and either buy a pair of spectacles or get an extension built on your arm.”

  Curly snorted. “Methuselah, eh? Well, I may be gittin’ a li’l gray and wrinkled around the edges, missy, but I ain’t old! I’m just mature!”

  Breanna laughed. The dear old man had been such a blessing to her. She had led many people to Christ since she had become a Christian, but none more enjoyable to be around than Curly Wesson. Curly had grown so much in his faith since he had been saved on the trail in Wyoming, and Breanna had experienced much joy in helping him to grow.

  Curly held the medallion so it did not catch the sun’s rays and read the inscription aloud. “THE STRANGER THAT SHALL COME FROM A FAR LAND—Deuteromony 29:22.”

  “Deuteronomy,” she corrected him.

  “That’s what I said.”

  “No, you said Deuteromony.”

  “Well, you may be barely into your thirties, honey pie, but your ears are a-failin’ ya.”

  “All right. First mistake I made today. You said it right.”

  “That’s better,” he said with a smile. “Curly Wesson don’t make mistakes.”

  “Oh, is that so?”

  “Well, I guess I should admit that I made one mistake once.”

  “Only one?”

  “Yep.”

  “And what was that?”

  “I thought I was wrong, but I wasn’t.”

  Breanna laughed. “Your a case, Mr. Wesson.”

  Curly showed her his nearly toothless grin. “We’re both cases, honey. It’s just that your case is a lot perttier than mine!”

  Breanna laughed again, shaking her head. She was going to miss the old man when the journey was over.

  Curly handed the medallion back to her, and Breanna answered his question before he could voice it.

  “From John.”

  “John? He’s the stranger from a far land?”

  “John’s whole mission in life is to help people. To help them believe the Bible and open their hearts to Jesus, and to help them out of trouble, often even saving people’s lives.”

  “I done figgered that out.”

  “Good for you.”

  “But what’s the medallion for?”

  “Whenever John has helped people, he always leaves behind one of these medallions before he rides away. I have several of them myself.”

  Curly lifted his hat and scratched his head. “But what does this ‘stranger from a far land’ mean? And what’s Deuteromony 29:22 say?”

  “Well, in Deuteronomy 29, God says if the people of Israel do not obey Him, He will plague their land and bring various kinds of sickness upon them for their idolatry. ‘The stranger that shall come from a far land’ is taken from verse 22 of that chapter, where God says that if the people of Israel turn from Him and worship false gods, the next generation of Israelites and strangers who come there from far lands will find a land desolate and judged by Him.” Breanna reached inside the wagon for her Bible and said, “Here, let me read it to you.”

  While the wagon rocked up the steep, winding trail, Breanna read Deuteronomy 29:22 to Curly, then followed with verses 23 through 27, teaching her new convert how much God hates idolatry and the kind of punishment he exacts on idolaters. She then told Curly that John Stranger had simply adopted the nine words from verse 22 to place on the medallion.

  The old man glanced at her, furrowed his brow, and asked, “Is his name really Stranger?”

  Breanna did not reply immediately. She let her gaze take in two hawks looking down on them from atop a giant rock pillar, then said, “Don’t you think the name fits him? I mean, the way he travels about helping people out of trouble or capturing outlaws … then like a phantom, fades out of the picture and is gone?”

  “I … uh … I ain’t shore you’re answerin’ my question.”

  “Many people have called him Stranger when he’s been of help to them, but he hasn’t volunteered his name.”

  “Well, I’m still not sure just ‘zactly what you’ve told me, girl. But I think it’s all you’re gonna tell me. So, let me ax ya somep’n else.”

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  Curly raised his bushy gray eyebrows. “Now, wait a minute here! I ain’t axed the question yet!”

  “I already know what it is.”

  “All right, miss smarty—what is it?”

  “Your curiosity is screaming to learn what far country John Stranger is from. And like I just said, I don’t know.”

  “You’re in love with that tall drink o’ water an’ you plan to one day be his missus an’ you don’t know where he’s from?”

  “John hasn’t told me anything about his past, Curly. I figure when he wants me to know, he’ll tell me.”

  Curly rubbed his stubbled chin. “Don’t it seem sorta strange to you, all this secrecy?”

  “Why do you suppose he’s called Stranger?”

  “Well, I—”

  “Some things are better left alone, Curly. I’m comfortable with things the way they are. John’s the most wonderful man I’ve ever met. He loves me, and I love him. I trust him completely. The Lord has brought us together. I know that for sure. What else do I need?”

  “Nothin’, honey. Pardon this ol’ fogy’s curiosity. You an’ that John Stranger just have yourselves a wonderful an’ happy life!”

  “With God’s hand on us, we will!” Breanna said.

  As the horses ahead of the train pressed up the steep trail, John Stranger twisted in the saddle, placed his big black Bible in the saddlebag, and said, “Well, Rip, that’s probably enough for today.”

  “I’m going to miss these sessions, John. You’ve taught me so much.”

  “Glad to be of help,” Str
anger said.

  The light wind continued to sweep down off the jagged, towering peaks above them. A cold chill washed over Rip Clayson. “I’ll be glad when we get through these mountains.”

  “I’m sure it can get pretty bad when the snow flies,” Stranger said. “I’d say, however, chances are we’ll get through before that happens. Even if we see some snow, it shouldn’t be too bad.”

  “Ordinarily that’s so,” Clayson said. “It’s that slight chance that we could get caught in a blizzard that keeps my stomach on edge.”

  Stranger ran his gaze over the mountains that dwarfed them, then looked back toward where they had come from. “I figure we’re up about thirty-five hundred feet right now, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Luther Pass tops out at just over seventy-seven hundred feet. I’d say we’re not far from halfway to the top.”

  “Cool as it’s getting at this altitude, I expect it’ll be downright cold at the top.”

  “Cold I don’t mind,” Rip said. “It’s blowing snow and ice that makes it dangerous on this steep trail.”

  They were passing through a heavily wooded area and started around a sharp curve as they came out into the open. There was a stretch of about a hundred yards before they would be in heavy timber again. Towering rocks lined the trail on both sides.

  A lone man stepped out from behind a boulder and into the middle of the narrow trail. He stopped and raised both hands, signaling for Clayson and Stranger to stop.

  “What do you suppose he wants?” Rip asked, turning around and motioning for Curly to draw rein.

  “I don’t know,” Stranger said, “but we’re about to find out.”

  15

  WAYNE FEASTER’S HANDS held no weapon as he stood with his feet spread in a defiant stance. His revolver remained in the holster on his hip.

  As Rip Clayson and John Stranger drew up, Feaster gave them a threatening look and said, “Stay in your saddles. If you so much as flinch, you’re dead men. If you don’t believe me, lift your heads very slowly and take a look in the rocks off to your left.”