by Judith Pella
“They woulda killed you, anyway, if the Apaches didn’t,” added Longjim.
“And where were you during all this, Longjim?” asked Deborah.
“I lit out north at the Cimarron and ended up in California. It was there I met up with Griff and Slim ‘bout a year later. I figured I was ready for the reformed life, too.”
“Reformed?”
“Well,” put in Slim, momentarily distracted from his play with Sky, “after that run-in with the Apaches, Griff and I decided to try going straight. Don’t take too many close calls with the Apaches to get a man to rethinking his life.”
“‘Rethinking,’ you say?” said Sam, a glint in his eye.
“Whoa, Preacher!” said Slim, quickly regretting joining the conversation. “I didn’t mean that.”
“Well, if a near Apache massacre ain’t enough to bring a man to God, I don’t know what will,” said Sam.
“We’re too far gone for that, Killion,” said Griff, “so you may as well not waste your preaching on us.”
“It’s never a waste, McCulloch.” But for the time being Sam contented himself with listening instead of participating.
And he was especially satisfied to remain quiet since the really interesting part of the conversation was about to unfold as Griff asked Deborah to tell her story. Sam had never heard all of Deborah’s tale, and most of what he had heard had been delivered in bits and pieces, so he was eager to hear her now. But even if he had heard it many times, he would not have missed this rare opportunity to listen to her speak at length in her quiet, intense voice. Nor would he have missed studying the various moods and expressions on her lovely face.
And, from that perspective, her discourse was much too short. She recounted facts—names, places, dates—with little or no emphasis on feelings and emotions. She summed up all the pain and heartache of the death of Broken Wing with the simple words, “My Cheyenne husband died last fall shortly before the Washita massacre.”
But even Griff, not the most sensitive of men, could see from the tautness of her eyes and mouth that she had suffered much with that loss.
He said, “I’m sorry to admit that we was fightin’ Indians while you was one of ’em.”
“It’s a complicated situation,” answered Deborah without ire.
“We were hopin’ to get hooked up with Sheridan’s scouts again, but they want to put us with the Seventh Cavalry.”
“We don’t fancy riding with Custer,” said Longjim distastefully.
“He’s one Yankee I still ain’t able to stomach,” said Griff.
“So, what are your plans?” asked Deborah, wondering even as she spoke what hers were. She remembered that she had just had a wonderful experience that she had not even had a chance to share with Sam. How would that affect her future?
Griff scratched his grimy, unshaven face. “First off, I’d give a pound of gold for a bath.”
Deborah laughed. “I think that can be arranged much cheaper.”
“Afterward …” Griff continued, “I don’t know. There’s always something. Riding shotgun for a stage, or a freight shipment, or signing up with one of them cattle drives they been running since the war. And I hear the railroads are looking for guns, what with the Indian troubles—though I’d rather rob a train than try to protect it from Indians.”
“I’m sure something suitable will turn up,” said Deborah. “In the meantime … well, I’m afraid I can’t offer you the same hospitality you once gave me, but—”
Hardee Smith had been half aware of the conversation on the other side of the room, but now his ears really perked up. Hoisting little Carolyn easily up on his thick shoulders, he ambled over to the table.
“You got guests, Deborah,” he said, “and don’t you turn ’em away on my account.” He looked at the men. “Why, this here girl can have anything she wants ‘cause I don’t know what I’d do here without her.”
Deborah smiled at her employer. “Thank you, Hardee. In that case, then, you fellows can at least stay for dinner. I owe you that much.”
“You bet, ma’am,” said Slim eagerly, obviously glad to have his blossoming friendship with Sky prolonged.
“You ain’t gonna find three drifters like us ever turn down a home-cooked meal, Deborah,” said Griff.
57
Three days passed before Deborah had a chance to talk with Sam. Griff, Slim, and Longjim, seemingly reformed outlaws, had a pleasant dinner with Deborah and Hardee and the children, but she saw little of them after that. They bunked with some of the scouts they knew and were away from the fort most of the time—on what business, Deborah never knew. She had been relieved on first seeing them to find they were still alive, especially Griff. But she was nevertheless glad they weren’t planning to remain constantly at the fort. They reminded her too sharply of her past helplessness, and in spite of her recent experience with God, she still coveted her independence.
That, in fact, was one matter she wanted to discuss with Sam, though he had been busy over the last few days “ministering,” as he called it, to some of the enclaves of settlers located around the fort.
Sam came into the store full of his usual exuberance, spirits not in the least dampened by the late spring rainstorm that had followed him into town.
“Whew! It’s really coming down,” Sam said as he shook off his hat and coat before hanging them on a hook near the door.
There were several customers milling around the store and others seated at the three tables, obviously, at that hour in the morning, more interested in getting in out of the rain than in Hardee’s inferior whiskey. A warm fire blazed in the potbellied stove situated in the center of the store.
“Howdy, Preacher,” said one of the men at a table. “You figure you can put a fix in with the Man Upstairs to get this here rain over with? Haven’t been able to get a blessed thing done for two days.”
“I’ll see what I can do, Jasper,” replied Sam, “but you’ll be appreciating this weather come July when the sun is scorching your back and the dust is choking your throat.”
“It’s a long way till July.”
“A perfect chance to learn patience!”
“I’m doing that, Preacher, but it ain’t easy.”
“Never is, Jasper.” Sam turned his attention to his reason for coming to the store. “Anyone seen Hardee or Mrs. Graham?”
“I’m back here,” called Hardee from behind a stack of tin goods he was trying to inventory.
Sam sidled over to the storekeeper. “Is Deborah around, Hardee?”
“In back with the young’uns. Sewin’, I think.”
“Be okay if I go back?”
“Sure. I reckon you can be trusted, Sam.” Hardee gave the preacher a meaningful wink.
Sam shrugged and strode to the doorway leading to the back rooms, ducking under the low lintel to enter the cramped, musty quarters. As he approached the room that he guessed, from the sound of familiar voices, to be Deborah’s, he pondered Hardee’s comment and the fact that he could indeed be trusted with Deborah. He cared too much for her to risk their growing friendship by venturing into territory where his heart might want to lead him, but where common sense told him Deborah would not soon be able to tread. But Sam was willing to be content with the situation as it now stood. Though he was thirty-three years old, he had only recently begun to consider the possibilities of the more settled life of a family man. There had hardly been a place for a family in his past life of wandering and danger, and now, though the element of danger was somewhat reduced, he was still almost continually on the move. He had to admit he had always rather liked that life. Only lately, perhaps especially since Deborah had returned to his life, were his thoughts turning more and more to a home and a woman to love.
Sam raised his hand and knocked on the door, feeling a little hesitant and sheepish because of the direction of his thoughts, but also excited because he knew something special had happened to Deborah the other day and he had been anxious to talk to her about it.
“Come in,” she said, and Sam obeyed, his hesitancy, as always, overruled by his ebullient, zealous nature.
“Hello, Deborah,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind me barging in on you.”
“Not at all.” She laid aside the shirt she was mending for Sky. “Only I don’t even have a chair to offer you.” Deborah herself was seated on the bed, a straw mattress laid on the floor and covered with hides. It was far more luxurious than anything she’d had with the Cheyenne, but it was hardly suitable for entertaining guests. A highboy chest was the only other furnishing in the room. Sky was on the bed with Deborah, playing with some tin cups Hardee had provided for that very purpose. Carolyn was seated on a braid rug on the floor playing with a hide Indian doll—not her favorite doll, which had been lost at Washita, but another one Hardee had obtained in trade from a Pawnee.
Sam looked around at the Spartan surroundings. He tried not to feel sorry for Deborah because he knew that would be the last thing she’d want from others. Yet he wondered if God might have a better life in His plan for her. Or, perhaps, He would teach her contentment no matter what her surroundings. That was the best way, but he hoped for something better for her also.
He smiled cheerfully. “If it’s all right with you, I’ll just pull up a rug and sit on the floor.”
Sam hunkered down on another rug, larger than Carolyn’s and arranged adjacent to the bed. Carolyn glanced up at him and smiled as if she were glad to see a man sit in what was to her a normal fashion, as the Indians did, and not in those hard and uncomfortable chairs.
“The kids are looking real good, Deborah,” said Sam. “You can be proud of them.”
“I am. They’re all I have, but they make me feel rich. I read this morning that children are a heritage from the Lord and His reward. Sky and Carolyn give me no reason to think otherwise.”
“You read … ?”
“Yes, Sam. I have been reading the Bible. Hardee had three of them stashed away in a corner of the store.” She paused and, reaching beneath the folds of the covers on the bed, produced a brand new volume, bound in black cloth boards. “My father used to read to me often from the Psalms, though I recall that his favorite book was the gospel of John. So, that’s where I have begun; since I last saw you, I have read both books.”
“Great!” Sam replied enthusiastically, then paused before adding, “So, what happened to you the day you took that ride?”
“It was wonderful, Sam!”
“I could tell.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes. The minute you walked in that day, I saw a difference in you. You can’t imagine how frustrated I was not to be able to talk to you right then.”
“I was also, but perhaps it was for the best. It gave me a chance to read this Bible on my own and find out that God does want to show me who He is. I suppose nothing really dramatic happened. It was more of a quiet assurance that I was heading in the right direction.
“I’ll tell you what’s truly exciting!” Deborah smiled, and Sam could not remember when he had seen one of her smiles invade her eyes so charmingly. “My father often read the Bible to my brother and me. I’ve heard it many times, though usually I listened out of politeness and respect for my father. Since yesterday, though, it’s been entirely different. I am seeing it all in a completely new light. I can hardly put it down! The Twenty-third Psalm, for example. How many times did my father read that to me! I even memorized it once in Sunday school. But I never truly read it until yesterday. ‘The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want … Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death—’” Deborah stopped suddenly as unexpected emotion choked her throat. “Forgive me, Sam,” she said, almost apologetically as she dabbed her moist eyes. “Every time I think of it, I become emotional. For so many years I was in that valley, and He was there all along, but I refused to let His rod and staff comfort me. Have you ever known anyone so dense and foolish?”
Sam grinned, though his own eyes were filling with tears as well. “Nope,” he said teasingly, “except for this here dense and foolish fellow sitting in front of you!”
They chuckled together over this, then Deborah said in a more solemn tone, “Sam, I really do believe all these things, and I know my heart has been changed in a way I will never forget. I don’t mean to be stubborn, though some have said I am too much so for my own good, but I still have many questions. One in particular troubles me.”
“Everyone has questions, Deborah, even itinerant preachers. But at least when you’ve got the peace of God in your heart, you can rest assured that God will either answer those questions or make you content without the answers.”
“I see that now, but …” Deborah looked down into her lap as if that were the only way she could find courage to express what lay most heavily upon her mind. “Sam, I don’t want to be helpless anymore; I don’t want to depend on anyone again. I am afraid I will not be able to give up everything to God. I know it sounds silly, especially as I learn what a loving God He is; yet I can’t help myself. Surely you must understand, Sam. Wasn’t it hard to give up who you were when you became a Christian? All the freedom and adventure of being a Ranger, all the skills you knew. I’ve heard the saying about Texas Rangers, that they ‘ride like a Mexican, shoot like a Tennessean, trail like an Indian, and—’” Deborah stopped short and blushed slightly as she suddenly recalled the last part of the old ditty.
“‘And fight like the devil,’” Sam finished for her. “I’ve heard that, too, and I guess I used to be proud of it.”
“Didn’t it bother you giving all that up?”
“Bother me … ?” Sam chewed his moustache thoughtfully. “Deborah, why don’t I explain to you what I gave up, and then maybe you can answer your own question. But it might take a while.”
“I’d like to hear, Sam. I’ve got time. The children seem to be content.” Sky had crawled into Deborah’s lap and was sucking his thumb, half asleep. Carolyn was rocking her own “baby” to sleep, but seemed also tuned in to the grown-ups’ conversation.
“Like I said, Deborah, I was proud of the Rangers’ reputation,” Sam began. “In fact, all my life I didn’t want to be nothing else but a Ranger. My uncle was a Ranger, among the first recruited right after Texas got its independence from Mexico. Since he practically raised me, I suppose I wanted to be just like him. I refused to learn from his mistakes or see the struggles within his own heart about his rangering days. All I saw was the glory and the chance to avenge my father’s death. I made my uncle teach me everything he knew—and he did, ‘cause I guess he figured I was going to learn it anyway, and he wanted to be sure I learned right. When he taught me all he could, I asked anyone I could find to teach me to be better. By the time I was thirteen, I could handle myself pretty well and I was off fighting Indians—Apache and Comanche, mostly. I joined the Rangers when I was fourteen, lying about my age to get in. I’ll risk sounding boastful to make my point, but I was as good with a gun as Rangers twice my age. All I wanted to do was fight. I was partial to fighting Mexicans because of what happened to my pa at the Alamo. But I had so much hate in me that I wasn’t too choosy. I’d fight Indians or white outlaws, too, if they was around. The other Rangers jokingly made sport of the name Killion by changing it to killer. ‘Killer Sam’ they’d call me. And, believe it or not, I took it as a compliment.
“Well, just before the war between the states, me and three other Rangers were down in the Pecos area tracking a bunch of Mexican rustlers. They’d been wreaking havoc among all the ranches from the Rio Grande to the Pecos, and we were determined to get them. The four of us decided to split up into pairs in order to cover more ground. My partner, Doug, and I caught up with the banditos’ trail and the next day sighted them. There were half a dozen of ’em, all heavily armed, and they were herding some recently rustled cattle. We followed them all day, ‘cause there wasn’t enough cover to mount a successful attack on them. By sunset they led us right to their hideout, an abandoned ranch house ne
stled in between some scrub-covered hills. We wouldn’t have minded being outnumbered if there had been some decent cover around. But as it was, we decided to go for reinforcements instead of risking the odds. Doug went and I stayed to keep an eye on the desperados.
“I didn’t do a very good job of it, ‘cause toward morning I dozed off to sleep. When I opened my eyes again I was looking up the barrel of a shotgun. They dragged me down to the barn, tied me up, and threw me in. I could hear ’em outside debating about what to do with me, and I speak Spanish well enough to know the majority wanted to kill me right off. They figured to make some sport of me first, though, ‘cause they didn’t often get a chance to kill a Texas Ranger. I remember how filled with hate I was, daring them to untie me and let me defend myself properly. I cursed them and called them cowards, lumping their present cowardice with what they did at the Alamo, even though most of them had only been babies in ’36, if they had been born at all.
“They hauled me outside, and I realized I was a dead man and didn’t have nothing to lose by making a bold escape attempt. I waited till they were distracted in arguing who’d have the first crack at me; then I dove at the one I estimated as the easiest mark. I knocked him down and grabbed his six-gun in my tied-up hands; then I rolled back into the barn under a heavy barrage of gunfire. I got off one shot on my way to the barn and killed one bandit. That left five.
“Inside the barn, I locked the door and discovered I had taken a fully loaded gun and had five shots left. Next, I got the rope off my hands with an axe blade I found. By then, the banditos had the barn surrounded. If they had been smart they would have hightailed it out of there right then, but they were so mad I got the better of ’em there was no way they was gonna leave without killing me first. They were firing like crazy, but I knew I couldn’t waste a single shot. Though I figured I’d never make it out of there alive, I thought at least I could lower the odds for when the other Rangers arrived. Every time I fired my gun I thought of my pa so hopelessly outnumbered, and Santa Anna vowing to take no prisoners—a vow, I might add, that would later become one of the Texas Rangers’ own mottos. Maybe it was my hatred that made my bullets fly so true—my own private vengeance, I guess, for the Alamo. When I walked out of the barn, I couldn’t believe what I’d done. Four of them was dead. One was gut shot and would die pretty quick. The sixth one was shot in the leg, and when I cautiously eased my way out of the barn he fired at me and missed; then he slipped down into a gully and knocked himself unconscious on a rock. We hanged him later.