by Judith Pella
“I thought you already knew the answer to that.”
“Well, I assumed …”
“As did Caleb’s court.”
“Then you didn’t?”
“Does it matter, Mr. McCulloch?” She paused, gazing into the fading embers of the fire. When she spoke again it was in a faraway tone, as if she had forgotten anyone else was present. “It would have been better if it had all ended on that gallows. It would have been better for everyone—”
“Now, don’t go talking like that, ma’am! I’m gonna start regretting sticking my neck out for you.”
She seemed to focus with effort on her companion. “You shouldn’t have, Mr. McCulloch. You may have brought yourself a great deal of trouble, for Caleb will not rest until I pay for what happened to his son.”
“I ain’t no stranger to trouble, ma’am.” In that brief moment his flippant tone deepened and became almost introspective.
Mrs. Stoner asked, “And it’s not something you enjoy, is it?”
Griff’s voice softened. She had struck a tender spot in him. “You mean what I do for a living?” She nodded and he continued. “I never thought about it like that before. I mean, I didn’t get into this business on purpose. It just sort of happened.” He paused and poured himself another cup of coffee. He offered some to her, and when she shook her head, he sat back on his haunches and went on.
“Once I owned me a pretty piece of land down by Houston. My well went dry, and I had to dig me a new one. I had to borrow some money from a banker to do the job. Now, in Texas they say no one can take away a man’s land for debts. Only that ain’t exactly true; bankers have plenty of loopholes, as they call ’em. And this here banker used a lot of legal fine print to swindle me outta my place the first minute I fell behind in my mortgage. I had me a girl, too, and was all ready to get married; but when things went sour, I told her to find someone else, since I had nothing to give her. And she did, too.
“I was pretty mad at that banker. I got me a couple of friends, and we robbed that bank. There was no turning back after that, because we sure didn’t want to go to jail. Anyway, it turned out I was pretty good at that line of work. And, believe me, it was a far-sight easier than slaving away on a piece of dirt for nothing but grief.”
“And you have never known grief as an outlaw?” asked Mrs. Stoner.
“You know them two friends that helped me on the first bank job? Well, one of them is Slim over there; the other one Caleb Stoner hanged last month for rustling a couple of his cows. He was my closest friend.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I guess I got me some small revenge today. I been looking out for an opportunity. Rustling Stoner’s cows just wasn’t personal enough. What I did today got him real good. Why, I reckon it was even better than shooting him. Everyone knows what store he set by his oldest son. Not to get proper vengeance for his death—well, that must’ve hurt like the dickens.”
“You can be certain of it, Mr. McCulloch.”
They fell silent for a moment; then Mrs. Stoner asked, “What will you do with me now?”
The frankness of her question took him a bit unawares, despite the fact that he had been giving that issue a good deal of consideration all along. But he had not yet come up with a solution to the problem. He took off his soiled wide-brimmed hat and scratched his matted brown hair.
“I reckon we’re stuck with you for a while.”
“I could leave.”
Griff laughed outright at that. “Ma’am, we’re in the middle of hostile Indian country. If you try and make it alone, you’ll just be saving Caleb the price of some rope. Besides, since you’re here, I reckon we can make the arrangement mutually beneficial.” He grinned in her direction, then said benignly, “I suppose you know how to cook and help set up camp so as to leave more of my boys free to scout and hunt and such like.”
“And that is all?”
“Now, ma’am, what do you take me for?”
“You are an outlaw.”
“Well, if you want to put it that way, Mrs. Stoner, it seems to me that now you’re an outlaw, too.”
For the first time since he had laid eyes on Deborah Stoner, a hint of amusement tempted the corners of her lips. It was no more than an ironic twist of the lips and far from a real smile, but the slightly twitching mouth and the brief glint in her luminous blue eyes was close enough.
Griff thought he was getting to her and decided to press his advantage. “I ain’t never had the need to take a woman against her will, Mrs. Stoner, and I don’t reckon to start now. But you just might soon enough find my charms irresistible.” He gave what he hoped was an inviting grin, full of that promised charm.
“I am in mourning, Mr. McCulloch.” Any humor that might have tried to invade her solemnity faded, replaced not by anger, but by a kind of desolate emptiness.
She seemed suddenly to retreat back within herself, leaving no doubt to the outlaw that the conversation was over. She turned her shoulders slightly away from him and gazed off in the opposite direction. Griff shrugged and rose to his feet. They would have plenty of time in the next days on the trail to resume their dialogue and get more familiar with each other. He had no lack of confidence, either with a gun or with the ladies. But, he did think that for both his and Mrs. Stoner’s sake, he ought to stake his claim on her soon. For the moment, his boys assumed he’d have first crack at the lady, but they wouldn’t wait on him forever. He didn’t trust some of his gang to know how to treat a lady proper-like. There was always a bad apple or two, especially in a gang of outlaws. And it had been a long time since any of them had had feminine company. Deborah Stoner, lovely as she was, posed too great a temptation.
Women did indeed cause more problems than they solved. Maybe Mrs. Stoner was right when she said he’d probably brought a heap of trouble with her. Griff ambled over to where the horses were picketed and gave his palomino an affectionate pat. Glancing back toward camp, he shook his head. She didn’t look so strong and self-assured now with her knees hugged to her body, staring into the dead coals of the fire. She looked sad and lost and alone, and Griff felt more than a twinge of sympathy for her. Maybe she would have been happier to have died that day.
5
Deborah stoner had been prepared to die that day in Stoner’s Crossing. Though Doc Barrows, in his capacity as preacher, might have questioned her spiritual preparation, and perhaps she could not argue that point. She had convinced herself that death, even if it meant languishing in hell, was an improvement over the path her life had taken thus far.
And sitting there now, under a dim, moonless sky in the company of notorious outlaws, fleeing for their very lives, seemed only to emphasize the fact that nothing had essentially changed.
She had been acquainted for so long with pain and loss and misfortune that she had nearly forgotten there had once been a time in her life when she had known peace, even happiness. But in four years the memory of such times had all but vanished from her grieving mind. Sometimes, though, vague snatches of those days would try to torment her by returning in her imagination, occurring at odd moments with a carelessly spoken word, or at the sight of an insignificant object, or in a familiar look on a stranger’s face—all conspiring to keep alive within her desolate heart a long-forgotten past.
Once a display of buttons in the general store had conjured up memory of another similar collection, kept in a basket at the foot of her mother’s favorite rocker. Young Deborah loved to sit at her mother’s feet and sort and count those buttons. But the sweetest memory was when Deborah was a few years older and she became the honored student of her mother’s patient instruction in needlework. She could never decide what she loved more—hearing her mother’s soft, gentle voice or watching the dear woman’s nimble fingers move expertly over a piece of cloth, turning even a pair of socks into a work of art. Deborah never became as accomplished in her own work, for those beloved lessons had ended abruptly with her mother’s death less than a year after they had begun
.
A box of buttons in a store … it was too cruel.
Always a close family, the death of her mother, Carolyn Martin, only strengthened the bonds between Deborah and her father and older brother. Josiah Martin owned a prosperous farm in Virginia, and the family enjoyed a place among the notable gentry of the area. Mr. Martin and his children spent much leisure time together, pursuing their passion for horses, whether it be riding, breeding, or racing. Deborah and her brother Graham were expert riders, and Graham had brought several gold cups for racing to the family archives. The birth of a new foal was a family event, accompanied by as much pomp and celebration as Christmas or the children’s own birthdays.
Deborah had laughed back then, giggling with delight as she’d watch a newborn colt’s gangly efforts to stand on its four spindly, delicate legs. She thought there was nothing in the world more beautiful than a new foal, with those larger-than-life eyes, limpid and innocent. And though there were plenty of hired hands in the stable, Deborah and her brother were always given the responsibility for the foals. Mr. Martin taught his children a reverence for life through the wonders of God’s awesome creation so vividly portrayed in the growth of those magnificent creatures. Many times he would tell them, “Remember, children, in the wonders of nature, God is revealed to the wise but hidden from the foolish.”
In this loving atmosphere Deborah grew into a beautiful, sensitive young woman. Her protective ramparts had not yet been constructed, except perhaps in one small part of her that still mourned a mother whose love she had never had enough time to fully experience. But she still had her father and brother, and to them she opened her innocent heart, fearless and bold, unaware that the capacity to love is often measured as much by sorrow as by joy.
Deborah’s fondest memories were of the stables and riding all over the enchanting Virginia countryside, to the extent that some neighbors chided Josiah that he was raising a tomboy. But she also remembered quieter, domestic moments. Deborah’s father was a learned man and put much store by literature and poetry, and he passed this appreciation on to his children during the frequent evenings they spent together reading. Even now, so long removed from those days, Deborah could still close her eyes and hear her father’s deep, resonant voice imparting Dickens or Scott or even the Bible. Almost as delightful as the reading were the lively discussions afterward, when Josiah encouraged both of his children to freely voice their views.
But without the presence of a woman in the house, Josiah was greatly challenged in the raising of his daughter. At fourteen she went to the Young Ladies’ Day School, where she learned the art of southern gentility. Manners, attire, and decorum were taught fastidiously, and Deborah became a fine Virginia lady in spite of her frolicking out in the countryside. The more intimate aspects of a woman’s lot, unfortunately, were sadly ignored. But Deborah had no concern for such things while she was within the sheltering arms of her family.
The War Between the States intruded cruelly upon all this. When her brother went away to fight in the summer of 1861, Deborah did not think a girl could feel so lost and lonely. Looking back from her present perspective, she could see how naive she had been, but that was the first time since her mother’s death that she had to bid even a temporary farewell to a loved one.
Graham was her closest friend, for Deborah had never been one to open herself up to others. Her father was dear and she enjoyed his company, but it was not the same. He was not as eager to spur his mount into a pitched race with her as Graham was. When her father did, she knew he always let her win. Graham was fiercely competitive; when she won, she knew it was a victory of which she could be proud. Graham did not care about condescending to her femininity. He expected as much of her as he did of himself, which was a great deal. She loved him especially for that. When neighboring boys began to take more than a childish interest in her, Deborah could always speak frankly with her brother about these things and receive from him honest and loving advice.
She wished she had known that day when he rode away, looking so gallant and dashing in his gray uniform, that it would be their final farewell. Somehow she would have made more of those last days together, perhaps taken one last ride on their favorite horses upon the beloved estate. At least she would have wept more when he departed. But like so many foolish southerners, she had been caught up in the glory of the cause and the thrill of watching the heroic soldiers march away to war.
She had not even a vague premonition of what was to come. Like everyone else, she thought the war would be over in a few months and they could return unscathed to their horses and races.
But Graham was killed in the very first battle of the war. Bull Run might have been a technical victory for the South, but for Deborah it was no less than a jarring defeat. To lose her brother and best friend in one terrible instant was nearly devastating. Lost and empty, she could not even assuage her grief upon the back of her horse—that only deepened her pain as it made her recall the many happy hours she and Graham had spent riding. Josiah Martin attempted to sustain his daughter with his great faith in God. She tried to listen to her father’s gentle admonitions, often accompanied by his own tears, that God works all things for good to those that love Him. She tried to believe that her father’s God had some great purpose for calling her dear Graham home. And she tried to find hope in her father’s faith. But as great a man as Josiah Martin was, as devout a believer, and as strong as his faith was in the ultimate victory of Christ, his relationship with God was not enough to carry Deborah’s burden. She knew her father’s God, but she was only vaguely acquainted with the personal God of Deborah Martin.
Instead of using her father’s faith as fertilizer for her own, she began to resent it.
“I thought you loved him!” she once railed at her father in her pain. “But you seem to go on as if nothing happened.”
“I go on because I must, Deborah. I go on because it would be an even greater injustice to Graham’s memory to allow his loss to consume and destroy me. I go on because there is comfort and peace in the knowledge that he is in a better place now.”
Deborah could find no such comfort for herself. She simply could not come to grips with a God who would so senselessly take away her friend and brother. Given time, her father’s loving witness might have eventually worked its way into her spirit. But in a way, Josiah did end up letting his grief consume him, and thereby also consume his daughter. It drove him to an act of pointless self-sacrifice.
Josiah Martin was not a political man. Like his friend and neighbor, Robert Lee, Josiah had never been an enthusiast for secession or war. He was not a slaveholder, and he abhorred that heinous institution. Yet he could not turn his back on his native state or on his friends who were marching off to war. This sense of loyalty became even more profound after the death of his son. Graham had died for this cause, his life snuffed out by the Union tyrants who would dominate a sovereign state’s right to self-determination. Suddenly Josiah Martin became a zealous Confederate and joined Lee’s regiment as a staff officer.
When he told his daughter of his decision to join the Confederate Army, she simply could not understand. “Haven’t we sacrificed enough for that stupid cause?” she cried.
“I know it is hard for you to understand a man’s duty, my dear. But it is because of Graham that I must go. How can I refuse the cause he saw fit to die for?”
She wanted to be brave, but her foundation for such a response was built more on sand than rock. And in the fall of ’62, the pilings were knocked out of even that fragile foundation. Josiah Martin was with Lee during the Peninsula campaign when the South valiantly repulsed McClellan’s attempts to take Richmond. He was at Antietam in the fall for Lee’s first major defeat. And there, Josiah Martin himself fell, thus bringing further grief and pain to his daughter’s life.
Lee himself had come to her to extend his sympathy and to assure her that her father had died bravely and nobly, but Deborah saw neither heroism nor pathos in Lee’s account of Mar
tin’s last days. To her it was all pure futility. She felt as if her loved ones had been human sacrifices to a cruel and vengeful God who, instead of leveling wrath against sinners, did so against the just, the good, the gentle. Because her father was not there in her time of crisis to represent to her the true nature of God, and because she refused to hear it from anyone else, she allowed herself to believe the worst about her father’s God.
With her growing despair she began to hate even the sight of the beloved estate. The horses, which her father had always believed so mirrored God’s awesome love, brought pain instead of comfort. Yes, they reminded her of God, but the reminder tasted like ashes to Deborah.
Caleb Stoner was a distant relation on Deborah’s mother’s side of the family. How he learned of the tragedy in the Martin family Deborah did not know, but men like that had ways of knowing things that would benefit them. He had traveled west in the early ’40’s, made a fortune in the California gold rush and used his wealth to start a vast ranch in Texas. He maintained loose connections with relations in Virginia, and even before the war had made overtures to Josiah Martin about the possibility of a union between their two children. Martin had turned Caleb down without even consulting his daughter, ostensibly on the ground that he could not bear to have Deborah live so far away. He felt no need to voice his further reluctance—that he never had liked Stoner, who had a reputation in the family as a hard, cold man.
Unfortunately Deborah was not privy to any of this insight. Upon learning that the beautiful daughter of Josiah Martin was not only still available but orphaned as well, Stoner again pressed the suit. Suitable women were simply too scarce in the West, and he wanted the best for his son. The fact that Deborah would now also bring a sizable inheritance into the marriage was of no small interest to Caleb.
What Deborah recalled of that first visit of Caleb and Leonard to Virginia were the fanciful insights of a young girl. Caleb was stern and rather intimidating, but Leonard was handsome, with striking, if a bit sharp, features. To Deborah’s romantic naivete, his dark eyes were mysterious, and his aloof maturity worked to charm her rather than warn her. It did not occur to her that he was but a younger version of his austere father.