Contention and Other Frontier Stories

by Hazel Rumney

  They ate silently, their meal lit by the two flickering candles. As he chewed, Gentry felt as inadequate as the candles that fought the nighttime gloom of the room. Just as the candles were too weak to cast the darkness aside, Gentry felt impotent to dispel the wickedness that had tainted his slice of Texas since Appomattox. But how could one man, a modest preacher who eschewed violence at that, bring peace and justice to a land that thirsted for both? If the Union troops assigned to bring order to the region had failed, how could Gentry become a peacemaker? Questions such as those tormented his conscience every day as a man of God in a godless land. In such moments of weakness as this, Gentry always turned to his Bible. Even if the Holy Book couldn’t provide answers to all his questions, its wise words would soothe his conscience and fight his self-doubts.

  As he finished his thoughts and his supper, he heard a noise muffled by distance. He feared it was the dying boom of a shotgun, likely both barrels. Silently, he looked to his wife and son, their anxious eyes widening. They, too, had heard it. One, two, three, four more delicate retorts carried from the distance, and Gentry took them to be shots fired from one or more pistols.

  “I fear Tom Blevins is dead,” Gentry said softly. “I failed in my prayers.”

  Susannah reached toward him, took his hand, and squeezed it tightly. “You did your best, Martin. You can’t torment yourself over it. What a terrible birthday for his boy.”

  Gentry nodded and squeezed his wife’s hand. “Thank you, Susannah, but I failed.”

  “Papa,” Sammy whispered, “are we safe?”

  “I don’t know anymore, son, I don’t know.”

  “I suppose you’ll handle his funeral, Martin, won’t you?”

  Gentry stared at the table. “I think not, Susannah.”

  His wife yanked her hand from his, shocked by his answer. “But, Martin, you—”

  Gentry raised his hand for silence. “You don’t understand, woman. If his friends came, John Wesley and his ruffians might ambush them as well. So, his friends’ll stay away for their own safety. A funeral without guests honors no man. I’ll not conduct his funeral, Susannah, but I’ll bury him.” Gentry grasped his wife’s hand again, feeling a tremor in her fingers.

  “I’ll go with you, Papa,” Sammy volunteered.

  Gentry pushed his chair back from the table and stood up. “No, son, I must go alone. What I would like you to do is to hitch the team to the wagon and throw the shovel, pick, and axe in the back so I can dig the grave. Come morning, I’d like you to make a cross for a marker.”

  “Yes, Papa,” Sammy answered as he arose and walked to the back door.

  The parson watched his youngest son step outside into the darkness to attend to his task. As the door closed, Gentry arose, eased to his wife, and hugged her. “I think I’ll retire to our room and read the Bible until the wagon is ready.”

  Susannah returned his embrace, then gently pushed herself away far enough to grab each arm and look into his eyes. “Are you are okay, Martin?”

  “I failed Tom, Susannah, I failed him. My prayer went unheard and unanswered.”

  “You can’t blame yourself, Martin.”

  Gentry kissed Susannah on the forehead. “I’ll do better once I’ve had a few minutes to read the Bible and ask forgiveness.” He slipped from his wife’s grasp, picked up a candle, and carried it into the modest bedroom he shared with Susannah. He placed the candle in a holder on the tiny table by his reading chair, sat down, and picked up his Bible, thumbing the well-worn book to the third chapter of Ecclesiastes. “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven,” he read. “A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted.” Gentry knew the whole chapter by memory, but it soothed him to read the printed scripture aloud. He read the entire chapter twice, stopping in between to say a prayer for Tom Blevins, his soul, and his family. When he heard Samuel pull the wagon up out back, he said a final prayer, asking a blessing upon himself for what he knew he must do. He placed his Bible back on the stand, stood up, retrieved the candle, and returned to the kitchen as Sammy barged in and hurriedly shut the door behind him.

  “What is it, Samuel?” Gentry demanded.

  “A rider’s skulking out behind the barn,” Samuel answered, his lip trembling.

  Gentry blew out his candle. “Susannah, kill the other.”

  His wife complied quickly. Gentry eased to the back window, moved the curtain aside, and peered into the distance as Tom Blevins had done less than an hour earlier. Gentry thought he could make out a dark form approaching, but the darkness was thick and his worries thicker. His muscles tightened when Gentry heard the sinister call of a man on horseback.

  “Hello the house,” came the cry. “Is Parson Gentry home?”

  Susannah gasped. “Don’t answer him, Martin!”

  “Who wants to know?” Gentry called back.

  “It’s your friend, John Wesley,” came the answer. “I need you to do something.”

  “I only follow God’s orders, John Wesley.”

  “Get out here or you’ll be seeing God face-to-face in a minute. I’ll burn your house down, if I have to, and shoot your family like varmints when you run out,” Wesley replied.

  “Keep my family out of this, John Wesley.”

  “Then get out here.”

  “No, Martin, no,” cried Susannah.

  “Don’t, Papa, don’t,” Sammy begged.

  Gentry shook his head. “I’ve got to. I can’t let him harm you.”

  “And we can’t let him harm you,” Susannah retorted.

  “I’ve got to trust in God,” Gentry replied as he brushed past his wife.

  She folded her arms across her bosom. “He didn’t answer your prayers with Tom Blevins!”

  “Hush, woman! No more blasphemy!” Gentry stepped to the door and eased it open. “I’m coming out, John Wesley. I’m unarmed, save for the armor of God.”

  Wesley laughed. “His armor won’t do you much good against a forty-five slug.”

  “He’ll protect me when I need it,” Gentry said, slipping outside, closing the door behind him, and stepping off the porch. “What is it you want, John Wesley?”

  “I got some news for you, Parson,” Wesley sneered. “It seems Tom Blevins had an accident between your place and his. Best I can tell he was trying to load his shotgun when it went off and hurt him bad.”

  Gentry looked up at Wesley’s gaunt figure on his skittish horse, just making out the killer’s eyes in the darkness. As Gentry took a step toward the feudist, Wesley’s horse nickered and backed away.

  “Easy, boy,” Wesley said, leaning over and patting his mount on the neck, then describing the accident. “Seems the pain was so bad from him shot-gunning himself that he pulled out his pistol and shot his brains out.”

  “Did it take him four shots to do it?” Gentry answered.

  “Can’t say, Parson, as he was dead before I could ask him. Point is, I know you do preaching and undertaking and even some doctoring as well, Parson. You need to know he’s beyond doctoring, and preaching won’t do him any good now. As for undertaking, you just leave him be, let the wild hogs and varmints take care of his remains, what’s left of them.”

  Gentry shook his head. “I can’t do that, John Wesley. Every man’s entitled to a decent burial. I’ve had no part in this feud and haven’t taken sides.”

  “That’s a lie, Parson. You hid him this evening.”

  “He asked for shelter, and I gave it to him. I’d do the same for you or your accomplices. I’d even bury you, John Wesley, and give you the final respect every man deserves.”

  “I’ve told you once, and I’ll tell you again, Parson. Don’t bury Blevins! I want to come back in a year and see his bones bleaching in the sun. If I return and he’s not where I left him, you’ll’ve taken his side in this feud.”

  Gentry shook his head. “I do what God tells me, not man.”

  “If God tells you
otherwise, he must not like you because I will kill you.”

  The parson stepped suddenly toward Wesley, whose horse shook his head, snorted, then danced away from Gentry. “Then do it now, John Wesley!”

  Gentry heard Susannah gasp from behind the door.

  “Go ahead, John Wesley, shoot me now and save yourself a trip.”

  Wesley spat at Gentry’s feet, then yanked the reins on his horse, which spun around. The murderer looked over his shoulder at the parson. “I’ll be checking on you, Parson, and on Blevins and he better be where I left him or someone’ll have to dig you a grave.” Wesley nudged his horse in the flank, and the animal trotted away into the darkness.

  Instantly, Susannah and Sammy burst out the door, racing to Gentry. Susannah flung her arms around her husband. “Oh, Martin, what are you going to do?”

  “Bury Tom Blevins,” he answered.

  His day of reckoning with John Wesley would come as sure as the sun would rise in the morning, Parson Gentry knew, but he had done what was right, what God led him to do. He worried not for himself, but for Susannah and Samuel, for he had dug a hole and then made a grave for Tom Blevins the very night he had died, contrary to John Wesley’s orders. Gentry had spent twice as much time as he usually did in preparing the final resting place for a deceased. Gentry had found Blevins’s body a bloody pulp from the shotgun blast, likely to the back, though it was hard to tell in the darkness. He searched Blevins’s pockets and found a few greenbacks and the tin whistle he had planned to deliver as a birthday gift for his son. Gentry regretted he had not taken one of Susannah’s old quilts with him so he could have wrapped the feud’s latest victim before lowering him into the earth’s dark embrace. But the night was cold, and Gentry had too much work to do in decoying Blevins’s grave so that his body might rest in peace. After he had lowered Blevins into the earth, Gentry placed the dead man’s hat over his face, said a silent prayer, and then shoveled dirt over the body.

  When he had finished filling the grave, Gentry climbed into his wagon and directed the team over the pimpled spot several times to help disguise the site. It was a feeble effort, Gentry knew, because freshly turned dirt was hard to disguise, but he did it in the hope that Blevins might rest peacefully. Then he had ridden to the Blevins cabin and informed Emma that she was a widow. She and Jacob sobbed, and, despite his efforts, Gentry could not console them. He fished the tin whistle out of his pocket and offered it to Jacob, identifying it as a gift to him from his father. He gave the inconsolable widow the greenbacks her husband had carried in his pocket. As if the death of their husband and father wasn’t sorrow enough to face, Gentry told them he feared for their lives, the vindictiveness of John Wesley and his gang likely unsatisfied by Blevins’s death. Gentry helped them hurriedly pack what clothes and belongings they could, then tossed those possessions in the back of his wagon. After the last load, Emma boosted Jacob into the wagon seat, turned around, and retreated to the door, kissing it and her home goodbye, likely forever. After she climbed into the wagon, Gentry drove them toward the freshly turned dirt on the grave where Tom Blevins would spend eternity. Emma sobbed and Jacob blew his tin whistle, but Gentry did not stop for them to pay further respects as evil men might be watching and might return to desecrate the grave.

  Back home Susannah and Samuel had welcomed Emma and Jacob, promising them they could stay as long as they needed. Gentry ran the wagon into the barn without unloading their belongings, then saddled a horse and rode off to find a trustworthy neighbor who could take Emma and Jacob out of the county to a place of safety. That very night the sorrowful journey of Emma and Jacob Blevins continued as a reliable neighbor drove them in Gentry’s wagon to a safe haven thirty miles west of Fort Worth. The next morning, Gentry rode back to the mound of freshly turned dirt, leaned over in his saddle, and stuck Samuel’s makeshift cross into the still soft ground at the head of the upturned soil. He mouthed a prayer for the safety of Tom Blevins’s family and for an end to the county’s wickedness.

  The next evening after supper, Gentry and his family heard shouts and gunfire from the direction of the Blevins place. Gentry slipped outside and in the distance saw a glow like a yellow tombstone on the horizon. John Wesley or his allies had returned to the Blevins place to murder his wife and son, then burn the cabin to the ground. They, of course, had failed to kill Emma and Jacob, which was God’s blessing, but now Parson Gentry feared he had thrust his own family into the feud simply by doing the right thing. Might he wake up one night with his own home aflame? The fear tormented him for the following week. He prayed harder than ever and yet nothing allayed his apprehension. During that week, he relieved Samuel of all outside chores so his son might not be seen or ambushed by a cowardly sniper. Then he waited for the day that John Wesley would return.

  That moment arrived on a crisp morning as Gentry exited the barn carrying the pail of milk he had just squeezed from the family cow. Halfway between the barn and the kitchen door, Gentry observed John Wesley approaching on his black gelding. The murderer cradled a double-barreled shotgun in the crook of his arm. His vindictive eyes burned with the rage of revenge.

  Gentry felt fear coursing through his veins, but he walked, firm and steady, determined to hide his fears, even when John Wesley leveled his shotgun at Gentry’s stomach. The parson took solace in Romans 8:31: “If God be for us, who can be against us?” Surely God was for him. The thought gave him a dose of courage. He thrust out his chest and strode proudly forward.

  “Morning, Pastor. You didn’t pay no mind to what I told you on my last visit.”

  “I follow God’s commands, not yours, John Wesley.” The parson stepped toward Wesley.

  The killer’s horse nickered, then backed away. “Damnation, Pastor, even my horse don’t like you.”

  “Don’t use that kind of language on my place, John Wesley.”

  The kitchen door swung open, and Susannah rushed onto the porch, gasping in fear. “Martin,” she cried.

  Sammy came out behind her, his jaw set in defiance, but his eyes jittery and nervous.

  “Morning, ma’am,” John Wesley mocked. “Just wanted to visit your husband and take him for a stroll. Seems he doesn’t take to instructions well.”

  “He takes to God’s instructions, not man’s,” she shot back.

  Proud of his wife and her defiance of evil, Gentry smiled. “It’s okay, Susannah. God will protect me.”

  Wesley laughed. “We’ll see if God can protect you from a shotgun blast, Pastor.”

  “Not in front of my family, John Wesley. Surely, you are not so evil as to do that.”

  “Nope, Pastor. You and I are going for a little walk. I told you not to bury Tom Blevins, but you went ahead and did so.”

  “I’d do the same thing for you, John Wesley. The deceased harbor no vendettas.”

  “But I do, Pastor. Now have your boy fetch your shovel, and let’s go visit Tom Blevins.”

  Gentry stepped to the porch and sat the milk pail at its edge. “Samuel, would you run to the barn for my shovel.” He nodded, jumped off the porch, and raced to the barn. “Susannah, would you retrieve my Bible for me?”

  “Oh, Martin,” she said, “I’m scared for you.”

  “The Bible will be my shield.”

  John Wesley laughed as Susannah retreated into the kitchen. “You place a lot of faith in that old book. It ain’t gonna save you now, not after you sided with Tom Blevins. I intend to settle our score.”

  “Vengeance is God’s, not yours or mine,” Gentry replied as Samuel came running from the barn, carrying the shovel. Gentry took the tool from his son, noticing a quiver in Samuel’s lower lip. “It’ll be okay, son. God will look after me.” He patted Samuel on the shoulder as Susannah, tears streaming down her cheeks, burst from the house, bounded down the steps, and thrust the Bible in her husband’s hand. As soon as he took the Bible, she threw her arms around him.

  “Oh, Martin, I don’t want to lose you. Tell me what I can do?”

 
“Just pray, Susannah. That’s all any of us can do.”

  “Okay, Pastor, it’s time for us to go.” Wesley scowled and waved his shotgun at Gentry.

  “Let me saddle my horse first,” Gentry replied.

  Wesley shook his head. “It’s not that far, Pastor, and you won’t be returning.”

  Susannah bawled and hugged her son.

  “God’ll decide that, John Wesley, not you.”

  Wesley looked up at the cloudless sky and snickered. “I don’t see your God anywhere, Pastor. And if he’s a Yankee God, I don’t want any part of him.” Wesley waved the shotgun for Gentry to start walking, then turned to Susannah and sneered. “Say goodbye to your man of God. If I hear you or the boy’ve told the law about this, I’ll come back and kill the both of you.”

  With his right hand Gentry placed his Bible against his heart, then took the shovel mid-handle with his left and smiled at his wife and son. “I’ll be back by noon. Have a good meal for me,” Gentry said, strangely confident of his return. As he started toward the Blevins place, Gentry said a silent prayer for God’s grace over his wife and son to ease their worry until he returned. He felt no need to pray for himself. His faith assured him he would survive, even though the sobs of his wife told him otherwise.

  As he walked around the corner of the cabin, John Wesley trailed, riding a gelding as black as his own heart. The horse seemed as skittish as John Wesley was wicked. Perhaps a nervous horse favored a man on the prowl, sensing danger before a rider’s instincts kicked in.

  “Where are we headed, John Wesley?”

  “To the grave I found where Tom Blevins died. You even put up a cross to spite me.”

  “I did what God told me.”

  “So you speak to God, do you? Have him say something to me, Pastor.”

  “Your heart is too hardened to hear, even if he spoke.”