by Al Lacy
As she continued to pray, God’s peace filled her heart and mind, and she thanked Him for it. Tharyn placed her life and her future in the Lord’s capable hands. She went back to her bed, slipped between the covers, and found rest in the everlasting arms of the one who had shed His blood, died for her on the cross, and had come back from the dead so He could save her and one day take her to heaven.
The next day, Breanna Brockman was working at Mile High Hospital, filling in for a nurse who had to be out of town. During the morning, Breanna was walking through the surgical wing on her way to another part of the hospital when Tharyn happened to come out the door of one of the operating rooms.
They stopped to speak to each other, and Breanna could tell that Tharyn was not quite her usual jovial self.
“Honey, is something wrong? You don’t seem quite like yourself.”
Tharyn smiled. “I’m all right, Breanna. I just went through a very difficult time last night. It’s going to take a little time to shake off its effects.”
“Do you mind sharing it with me?”
“Of course not. It’s simply that Scott came to the house last night to tell me he is going back to Pueblo to live and is going to marry his childhood sweetheart.”
Stunned, Breanna took hold of Tharyn’s hand. “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.”
“It hurt me deeply, Breanna, but Pastor and Mrs. Blandford came to see me after Scott was gone last night and helped me.”
Tharyn went on to tell Breanna of the pastor’s talk on Rebekah and Isaac.
“Good,” said Breanna. “And Pastor Blandford was right, Tharyn. The Lord will definitely guide your life, and when it is His chosen time, He will bring that knight in shining armor into your life. He certainly did that for me when He sent John into my life.”
Tharyn hugged her tight. “Thank you for the encouragement, Breanna. I love you.”
Breanna kissed her cheek. “I love you too, honey.”
Chief U.S. Marshal John Brockman emerged from Denver’s gun shop, having purchased a box of cartridges.
As usual, Brockman was clad in a black broadcloth coat with black trousers, white shirt, black string tie, shiny black boots, and black flat-crowned hat. Slung on his right hip was a tied-down Colt .45 revolver in a black-belted holster. The handle grips on the .45 were bone white.
He stepped off the boardwalk, patted the long neck of his black horse, and placed the cartridge box in one of his saddlebags.
At that moment, Brockman noticed three mangy-looking men coming across the broad street toward him. Each one had a mean look on his unshaven face and dirty hair sticking out from under his sweat-stained hat. All three wore guns, but the one in the middle had his gun belt slung low and his holster tied to his thigh.
The one in the middle stepped ahead of the others. “I’ve been lookin’ for you, Stranger. You are the hotshot John Stranger, right?”
Brockman turned to face him squarely. “I was known as John Stranger for a long time, yes.”
A sneer formed on the man’s face as he looked Brockman up and down with disdain. “I’m challengin’ you, Stranger. Take that badge off and face me man to man.”
Brockman shook his head. “You don’t want to do that, mister. Just move on now.”
“Hah! I’ve heard so much talk about this hotshot John Stranger bein’ so fast with his gun. One of my pals saw you face off with some slow, so-called gunfighter in Dodge City, Kansas, a few years ago. He said you put the man down, but you were only able to do it because the guy was so slow.”
John flicked his cool gray eyes to the other two men with him, then set them on his challenger. “I’m telling you to take your pals and ride out of town right now, mister, or I’ll arrest you for loitering.”
People were gathering around.
“My name’s Cal Dudley, Stranger. You folks hear that? Cal Dudley. I want all of you to remember my name, ’cause I’m about to outdraw the famous John Stranger!”
Brockman set his jaw sternly. “That’s enough, Dudley. Get on your horse and ride, and take your chums with you.”
Dudley backed into the street a few steps, then stopped and went into a gunfighter’s crouch with his gun hand hovering over his revolver.
The growing crowd removed themselves from the line of fire.
Brockman spoke in a soft voice. “Don’t be a fool and go for that gun. I don’t want to have to put you down.”
Dudley bit down hard, his breath hissing through his nostrils. His hand snaked downward, but froze before it even touched the butt of the gun. In less than a heartbeat, Brockman’s gun was in his hand, cocked, and aimed at Dudley’s chest.
Dudley’s eyes bulged and his jaw slacked. He stood up straight, removing his hand from its position above his gun handle. “Okay, Mr. Stranger. You win.”
Brockman holstered his gun. “Mount up and ride. Right now.”
Both of Dudley’s friends wheeled and headed across the street where their horses were tied.
Dudley started to turn, but instead of following his cohorts, he whipped out his gun and was bringing it to bear on Brockman.
But John’s gun was out and spitting fire before Dudley could drop the hammer. The slug struck him in the upper arm of his gun hand, its impact twisting him sideways. The gun dropped from his hand. He went down on his knees, then collapsed in a heap, breathing hard.
Brockman looked at the other two, who had stopped in the middle of the street and were looking at him. “You two get out of town right now and don’t come back. I’ll be taking your pal to the hospital.”
Without hesitation, Dudley’s friends hurried toward their horses.
While two Denver County sheriff’s deputies came running up, a man in the crowd stepped close to the fallen Dudley. “You’d better be thankful, mister! You’re still alive only because Chief Brockman willed it so. He could’ve killed you easily.”
“That’s right!” said another man in the crowd.
Brockman turned toward a townsman who was sitting in his wagon a few feet away, looking on. “Hey, Melvin. Will you help me get this man to the hospital?”
“Sure, Chief. Load him in and we’ll go.”
The sheriff’s deputies picked the bleeding Dudley up and put him in the bed of the wagon. Leaving Ebony tied to the hitch rail, John jumped in beside Dudley.
As the wagon rolled down the street toward the hospital, Dudley gripped his bleeding upper arm and looked up at Brockman.
“You just ruined my gun arm!”
Brockman grinned. “Good. Now you won’t be challenging someone who’ll aim for your heart instead of your arm. When the slug is out and you’re feeling better, I want you out of town in a hurry. Got it?”
Dudley’s voice was barely audible. “I got … it. I’ll be gone as soon as I can ride.” He paused. “Uh … Stranger?”
“Mm-hmm?”
“Thanks for not killin’ me.”
Breanna Brockman was at the front desk in the hospital lobby, talking to receptionist Rosie O’Brien, when she saw her husband come in, carrying a bleeding man in his arms.
Excusing herself to Rosie, Breanna dashed to John. “What happened? Who’s this man?”
“Stay beside me, sweetheart, and I’ll answer your questions.”
While they walked toward the surgical wing, John told Breanna the story.
Just as they reached the surgical wing, Tharyn Tabor was coming out of one of the operating rooms. Her eyes widened as Breanna told her John had been forced to shoot this man he was carrying because he tried to force him into a gunfight.
Moments later, when Cal Dudley was in one of the surgical rooms on an operating table, John stood in the corridor with Breanna and Tharyn.
Breanna slid an arm around her husband’s slender waist. “Tharyn, I wouldn’t change a thing about this man God picked out for me, but I hope the one He has picked out for you doesn’t wear a badge.”
John looked down at Breanna and frowned. “Honey, Scott doesn’t wear a badge. What are
you talking about?”
Breanna smiled. “I’ll tell you all about it over supper tonight, sweetheart.”
John looked at Tharyn. “Has something happened between you and Scott?”
Tharyn flicked a glance at a clock on the wall. “I have to be back to the room I just came out of in three minutes, Chief. Breanna will tell you all about it tonight over supper.”
On Monday, October 4, at the hideout in the mountains, Tag Moran and his gang were eating breakfast with Lucinda and Kathryn. The horses had already been watered, fed, bridled, and saddled, and were tied at the hitching posts by the front porch of the old cabin.
Tag swallowed a mouthful of scrambled eggs and smacked his lips. “Well, gals, I’m gonna miss your cooking as usual while we’re gone.”
“Me too,” piped up Jason Moran, “but it’ll be worth it when we come back with lots of money bags chock-full of the green stuff!”
“Sure will!” agreed Tony Chacone.
Lucinda took a sip of hot coffee, set her cup down, and looked at Tag. “So you’re going to hit the bank in Vernal, Utah, first, right?”
Tag nodded. “Yep. Then as usual, we’ll have to hide from the law for a few days. After that, we’ll head into Wyoming. As you gals know, after each bank robbery, we have to hide out a while to let things cool down. Whenever we hit a bank, word spreads fast to lawmen in nearby towns that we’re in the area. They also alert the banks in their towns.”
Lucinda nodded. “But when things cool down after the Vernal holdup, you’ll hit the bank in Evanston first.”
“Right. Then after another cooling-down time, we’ll hit the bank in Green River. The bank in Rock Springs will be next, then we’ll head for home. We should be back here in about three weeks with lots of money.”
Kathryn had barely touched her breakfast. She seemed drained of her strength, and her stomach felt nauseous. She knew when she watched Gib ride away she may never see him again.
Sitting beside her at the table, Gib saw the look of dread in her eyes. He patted her arm. “Honey, don’t get upset now.”
This drew everyone else’s attention to Kathryn.
She swallowed heavily, blinking back hot tears that sprang to her eyes and burned like the bile that was pushing into her throat. She grabbed Gib’s hand. “Darling, I—I’m afraid you’re going to get killed like Darryl did.”
Gib sighed and laid his palm on her cheek. “Kathryn, you’re borrowing trouble needlessly. Don’t be afraid. I’ll be fine.”
The others saw Kathryn’s eyes roam his features as though committing them to memory. “But you don’t know that, Gib. We all thought Darryl would come home from that stagecoach robbery—but now he lies in a cold grave at Cheyenne.”
Gib lifted the hand that she held, and with both hands, cupped her face tenderly. “Honey, you have to keep your mind on the fortune we’re building toward our retirement in sunny California in just a few years.”
She closed her eyes and the tears spilled freely onto his hands. He kept them there and dropped his head, biting his lips.
The others could see that Kathryn’s attitude was weighing on Gib.
He wiped away tears from both her cheeks and kissed her lips. “Honey, all of us will be back in three weeks, richer than ever.”
Kathryn struggled to keep her composure while the men were filing out the door to mount up and ride away. When Bart was kissing Lucinda good-bye on the porch, Gib took Kathryn into his arms and said, “Remember, now. Keep your chin up and just keep dreaming about our retirement in California with all that money.”
With her throat tight, Kathryn nodded, then kissed him.
After the men had ridden out of sight, Lucinda turned from the porch railing. “Kathryn, you shouldn’t act this way. It can only hinder Gib, not help him. It bothers the other men too. I could see it in their eyes.”
Kathryn blinked at the tears that were still forming and looked at Lucinda. “I’m sorry. I’ll try to do better. I really will.”
“Good. You’ll help all of us if you do.”
That same morning in Cheyenne, Dr. Dane Logan was at the Minard home. Walt was doing quite well, which made his doctor very happy. Loretta tearfully looked at Dr. Dane and said, “How can I ever thank you sufficiently for saving Walt’s life? I’ll be forever grateful.”
Dr. Dane smiled. “Loretta, I already have all the thanks I need just seeing Walt alive and doing so well.”
Walt said, “Doctor, I deeply appreciate your dedication to your work. If you hadn’t acted as wisely as you did, I would have died.”
Dr. Dane smiled and laid a hand on Walt’s shoulder. “If the Lord hadn’t given me the wisdom, I couldn’t have saved your life, Walt.”
Moments later, Dr. Dane drove away from the Minard home and headed out of town. His next stop was the Ballard farm. “Lord,” he said, “thank You for allowing me to fulfill my lifelong dream to be a physician and surgeon.”
Some twenty minutes later, Dr. Dane guided the buggy onto the Ballard place, and when he pulled up in front of the house, the door came open. Clyde and Frances stood at the open door and welcomed him.
As he stepped into the house, he looked at both of them. “So how’s Bertha doing?”
“She’s napping right now, Doctor,” said Frances, “but I’ll go wake her up.”
“Oh no. I don’t want to disturb her nap. She needs the rest. Is she doing all right, though?”
“She’s doing very well,” said Clyde. “She’s walking with her cane, and as you prescribed, she is walking a little more each day.”
At that moment, they saw Bertha come out of her room down the hall, and she smiled as she walked slowly toward them.
The doctor smiled back as he watched her move their direction. “She is doing well, isn’t she?”
When Bertha drew up, she looked into the doctor’s eyes. “I’m doing well because my surgeon did such a beautiful job in replacing my hip with the ivory ball. It’s given me a new lease on life.”
“Well, praise the Lord,” said Dr. Dane. “He is the one who made it possible for me to become a surgeon, Bertha. Well, I’d better be going. I just wanted to stop by and check on my patient.”
The Ballards stood on the porch and waved as the doctor put his horse in motion and headed up the lane toward the country road that led to Cheyenne.
As the buggy reached the end of the lane and Dr. Dane guided it onto the road, he said, “Thank You once again, dear Lord, for allowing me to do this work that I love so much. I’ll enjoy it even more when someday I have my own practice.”
A moment later, with the sound of the horse’s hooves pounding the surface of the road, Dane Logan let his mind go back to the dismal days when he was orphaned at the age of fifteen. His parents had been so encouraging to him as he contemplated his future as a physician and surgeon. When they were murdered by the street gang, not only was he devastated by this horrendous loss, but the hope of having a medical career was lost too.
He had a few medical books that his parents had bought him and a dream in his heart, but when he had to take up residence in one of Manhattan’s back alleys with a colony of other orphans, it seemed impossible that he would ever have the funds to cover the cost of medical school.
As Dane was guiding the buggy on a turn in the road, a smile curved his lips. He thought of dear Dr. Lee Harris, and how Dr. Harris had taught him how to treat the injuries and mild illnesses of the other children in the colony. And then, Dr. Harris got him the job at Clarkson Pharmacy. This put him in touch with medicine, which brightened his life.
Then came that dreadful day when he was arrested for murdering Benny Jackson. A few days later, he was sentenced to life in prison. All hope for ever becoming a doctor was gone.
He thought of the long, hopeless months he spent in the Manhattan prison, then, a smile curved his lips again when he remembered that wonderful day when he was released from the prison because the real killer had been caught.
Romans 8:28 came to mind. �
��And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose.”
God had used Dane Weston, even in the bleak days of his imprisonment, to lead precious souls to the Saviour. His heart thrilled anew at the thought of God’s faithfulness, even though he had despaired at times. God had a purpose for him being in the prison, and that purpose had eternal results.
Cheyenne lay ahead of Dane in the beautiful autumn sunshine. “Thank You, Lord, for working out Your purpose in my life. Look where I am today! My dream has been realized. Thank You, precious Lord, for Your faithfulness and Your wonderful blessings. Here I am doing the work I love so much. Great is Thy faithfulness, Lord, unto me!”
When Dane arrived in Cheyenne, he stopped at the hospital to look in on a couple of patients. Just as he was coming out of the second patient’s room, he met up with Dr. Jeremy Winstad.
Dane’s face brightened at the sight of his friend. “How was your trip to Denver last week?”
Winstad smiled warmly. “It was fine, Doc Dane. I’ve been wanting to talk to you ever since I got back yesterday. While I was in Denver, I visited Dr. Matt Carroll. You know who he is, don’t you?”
“Uh-huh. Head man at Mile High Hospital.”
“Right. You’ve mentioned to me several times that someday you’d like to have your own practice.”
Dane let a grin form on his face. “Yes, I have.”
“Well, Dr. Carroll told me that Dr. Robert Fraser in Central City is looking for a young doctor to come and take over his practice. Central City is in the mountains some thirty miles west of Denver. There are several towns in that area that have no doctor. He’s the only doctor in a thirty-mile radius. Dr. Carroll says it is a good solid practice. Dr. Fraser will turn seventy-five next month and is finding it more difficult all the time to keep up with the workload.”
Dane’s pulse throbbed. “Sounds good! Thanks for giving me the information. I’ll look into it right away.”