Parson Sam Blane in HOPE (Episode 5)

XIV.

The last man in the posse heard only the gurgling of the water as his horse reached the middle of the stream. He did not see the puff of smoke from the rifle barrel rise as a tiny cloud from a low sturdy branch on one of many trees along the bank.

What happened in an instant played in his mind slowly and without comprehension of the fatal reality. At first, the high-pitched whirring sound was an irritation. His mind finally asked, ‘What is that?’ He had never heard such a sound and it was quickly growing closer and louder.

He had just glanced up when he heard a thud and felt pressure in his chest like someone poking him with a finger. When he looked down he saw his shirt torn open and covered with blood. Even now the dark red fluid spouted forth like a fountain. Something strange and white and jagged stuck out of his chest. As the day quickly turned to night, his last thought was that he was looking at part of his own breastbone.

The first man in the posse turned his head when the sound of the shot tumbled across the stream basin. Looking back he saw the man who had been shot fall off his horse into the water. Then he felt something bite him in the back of the neck. Another rumble roared across the stream. As he fell off the horse, he grabbed his throat with both hands until everything within him went limp.

Already Marshal Watson and Amos had drawn their rifles from the scabbards and had leapt to the ground. Placing a knee on the ground, Marshal Watson raised his rifle and fired again and again at the puffs of smoke from the trees on the opposite bank.

When the middle man in the posse heard the rifle fire and saw the leader splash into the water, he yanked on the reins in an effort to turn his horse. The horse reared suddenly and the man barely hung on. As the horse splashed down on all four hooves, the man pulled hard on the left rein to turn the horse’s head. Simultaneously, he felt a bullet penetrate his thigh and he screamed in terror.

Feeling spurs dug deep into his hide, the horse struggled against the current to reverse direction. Then suddenly the reins went limp and with the sound of another rifle shot he felt the weight of the man slide off the saddle.

As Marshal Watson fired in rapid succession at the trees across the stream, from the corner of his eye he watched the men of the posse fall one by one into the water until none was left in the saddle. In the span of less than a minute, the men in the stream had been slaughtered.

A shot rang out from the opposite bank and Marshal Watson saw a spatter of mud fly up in front of him. He took careful aim at the lingering puff of smoke from a tree on the far bank and fired. Then he quickly jacked the lever and pulled the trigger again. The hammer fell with a metallic click. He was out of ammunition.

In anger, he threw the rifle onto the ground and stood up. He yelled as loudly as he could, “Come on, you scoundrels!” He pointed at his nose. “Right here!”

Amos shouted, “Marshal, get down!”

Marshal Watson continued to stand defiantly.

Slowly, the sound of the rushing water crept into Marshal Watson’s consciousness. One minute, five of his men were there; the next minute they were dead and gone. Another minute passed. Then another. He began to realize the last shot had already been fired.

XV.

Marshal Watson pulled up the reins and the horse came to a halt. He dismounted and studied the ground. Then he crouched and placed a finger into the imprint of a horseshoe.

The sun had dipped below the horizon and only dim reflected rays lit the western sky. Marshal Watson stood up and glanced at Amos who sat in the saddle, his arms crossed and resting on the saddle horn.

“They’re still traveling north. I’d guess they’re a couple of hours ahead of us if they haven’t stopped for the night.”

Amos nodded. “What do you want to do?”

Marshal Watson slowly looked around. The light was fading rapidly. “We’d better set up camp.”

“Okay, Marshal.” Amos sat up in the saddle and began to dismount.

“Wait a minute, Amos.” The Marshal stood silently for a moment. “When I was a kid I used to go to a place near here. Would you mind if we rode a little further? I’d like to make camp there tonight.”

“Sure, Marshal. Whatever you say.”

Marshal Watson mounted his horse and led off. Amos followed. After a while, they began ascending a ridge. “Amos, at the top there’s a small grassy area that will make a good campsite. In the morning, we’ll have a beautiful view of the valley floor. I spent many nights up there when I was a youngster. I’ve always considered it a special place.”

“Sounds good to me, Marshal.”

At the top of the ridge, the two rode through a stand of trees. The night had come alive with the peculiar sounds of insects calling for mates. An owl hooted. The temperature had dropped a few degrees and a soft breeze caressed their faces. Before long, they came to the open grassy area.

Amos looked up at the night sky. He had never seen so many stars, each trying to out-twinkle the other. “This is a great place, Marshal!”

“This trail is the only way in, so I think we’ll be safe up here. Let’s gather some wood and make camp.”

An hour later, both men were sitting on their bedrolls near the fire. They had stripped the horses and had staked them in the grass between themselves and the tree line. The horses would alert them if anything approached, be it man or beast.

When coffee was ready, Amos stood up and poured a cup for the Marshal and one for himself. Marshal Watson had just finished cleaning his Winchester. He was loading it when Amos handed him the cup. “Thanks, Amos.”

“Careful, Marshal. It’s hot.”

When Marshal Watson had finished loading the rifle, he jacked a shell into the chamber. After gently lowering the hammer, he placed the rifle on a separate blanket within easy reach. He picked up the cup and sipped. “That’s good coffee, Amos.”

When Amos did not reply, the Marshal glanced up. Amos was reading a book. “Whatcha readin’?”

“It’s the Bible, Marshal.”

“Oh.” The Marshal took another sip of coffee and looked up at the countless stars against an endless sky of black velvet. “I guess if there is a God, he must be pretty smart and pretty big, if he made all that.”

Amos glanced over. He saw the Marshal gazing up at the sky and he looked up too. “I find it quite humbling. Don’t you?”

“Tell you the truth, Amos, I’ve never thought about it much. In my line of work, seems like I’m always seeing bad people causing bad things to happen.” He glanced down. “Like today, for example. Five good men murdered in cold blood. I don’t know how a God who is supposed to be good could let that happen.”

“That’s easy, Marshal: holy God; sinful man.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, when God created us, he gave us free will. Right from the beginning, we’ve been misusing that free will…each person trying to be his own god.”

“Seems like God made a mistake then, handing out all that free will.”

Amos chuckled. “No, Marshal. God is not at fault for the way we misuse our free will. We are to blame for our mistakes. God is love. He is pure and holy…and perfect. He gave us free will because he wanted a loving relationship with people who could truly love him back. He doesn’t force us to love him.”

“Seems like it would be a lot better if he did.”

Amos was silent for a moment. “I know you’re not married, Marshal. In fact, I’ve never seen you courting anyone. Seems like you always keep to yourself. You ever love a woman?”

“Me?” Marshal Watson glanced at the flickering yellow and blue flames. “I was in love once.”

“Did she love you back?”

After a moment, Marshal Watson nodded. “Yes, she loved me back.”

“Now, do you see? What kind of love would it have been had you somehow forced her to love you back?”

“I guess you’re right, Amos. It wouldn’t have been love at all.”

“That’s the way God is. He loves you and me with a love bigger than that sky up there. And he wants us to love him back. But we must do it with our free will. Otherwise it isn’t love at all.”

Marshal Watson raised the cup to his lips and sipped the coffee. After a few moments, he glanced up. Amos had returned to reading. “But how can you love something you can’t see?”

Amos placed a finger between the pages and closed the Bible. “That girl you loved…do you still love her?”

Marshal Watson nodded. “I’ll love her till the day I die.”

“What happened to her, Marshal?”

“I was young, Amos. I left my home town to make my way in the world. But it wasn’t my plan to leave her. I was going to go back for her…and I did. But too much time had passed. She had married another man.”

“But you still love her?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t see her anymore, yet you still love her. That’s because your love for her is in your heart. That’s the way it is with God. We carry our love for him in the heart. It’s just as real as the love you have for that girl. Except there’s one difference.”

“What’s that?”

“God will never let you down.”

“Oh…she wasn’t to blame, Amos. It was my fault. It was me who let her down…though I sure never meant to.”

“Whoever’s fault it was, Marshal, the point is your relationship ended. How can you trust something that doesn’t last? That’s the problem with everything in this world. Nothing and no one lasts forever. That’s the difference between a personal relationship with Jesus Christ and a relationship with anything created.”

“Are you saying not to have relationships with people because the relationships will not last?”

“No, I’m saying to start with the right relationship to God; that is, adhere to, trust in, and rely on the truth of his Word. Your personal relationship with Jesus Christ will last forever. Then you can have the right relationships with others, loving and serving them while they are present and appreciating God for the gift of having known them when they are gone.”

Marshal Watson glanced up. “Amos, let me be honest with you. I’ve never felt like I’m a good enough person to have a relationship with God.”

“No one is good enough, Marshal.”

“Well, how do you get it then?”

“It’s a gift.”

“A gift?”

“Yes. You see, God loves us already. He loves us with perfect love. It’s so valuable it can’t be earned, or bought, or bargained for. So, to receive it you must accept it as a gift.”

Marshal Watson furrowed his brow.

Amos looked over. “That’s what I meant when I said it is ‘humbling.’ It’s like how you feel when someone gives you a gift. You didn’t earn it and there’s nothing you can repay. You just have to accept it and that makes you feel humble. At least, it does me anyway.”

“I think I know what you mean. I had a sheriff a while back give me that Winchester. I couldn’t believe he would do such a thing. He handed it to me and said it was a gift. I said I couldn’t take it, but he told me he wanted me to have it. I said I would only take it if he’d let me pay for it, but he said no. When I took it into my hands, I felt I had been given something I didn’t deserve.”

“Humble.”

“Yeah, I felt…humble.”

Marshal Watson was silent for several minutes. Amos returned to reading, turning slightly to better catch the light from the fire, which was slowly burning out.

“I always thought if there is a God that good people go to heaven and bad people go to hell.”

Amos closed the Bible and set it on the blanket next to him. The light had grown too dim for reading. “Man cannot save himself. Only God can save us. That’s because we can’t be good enough or do enough good things to pay the penalty for our sins.”

“The penalty for our sins?”

“Yes. The penalty for our sins is death and damnation.”

“Is that what the Bible says?”

“Yes, it is. But the good news is that God has already paid the penalty for everyone’s sins by sending his only Son, Jesus Christ, to die on the cross.”

“Does that mean everyone is going to heaven?”

“Everyone who receives Christ as his personal Lord and Savior, yes.”

“But those who don’t?”

“Well, let’s put it this way. If you had rejected the rifle as a gift from that sheriff, would you have it now?”

“No.”

“That’s right. Same with those who reject Jesus Christ. They don’t have the gift of salvation.”

“So that’s why some go to hell.”

“Yes. You see, someone has to pay the penalty. You can pay it, or you can accept Jesus’ payment on your behalf.”

“If it’s that easy, seems like everyone would accept what Jesus did to pay for our sins.”

“Ah, but remember how we misuse our free will? We try to be our own god.”

“Yeah, I guess I’ve been doing that.”

“We all start out that way, Marshal. Think of how a baby must be taught to share. Each person worships himself, so to speak. But we sure miss out on a lot when we do. And without Christ as our Lord and Savior, we wind up in hell, paying the penalty for the wrong we’ve done.”

“Yeah, but how do you know all that is true? Sounds like a fairy tale.”

“When you are willing to accept the gift of salvation…I mean, truly ready to turn from your sins and turn instead to God, God will give you the faith to accept the truth. Then it becomes personal. Until then, it does sound foolish…especially to the so-called wise.”

“I don’t know, Amos. I think I’m a lost cause. I’ve always been the way I am. I’m too old to change now…and like I said, I’ve done too many bad things in my life.”

“God has more forgiveness than you have sins, Marshal. And the Bible says, ‘Today is the day of salvation.’ It’s only too late after you die. Then you begin paying that penalty we were talking about.”

“You’re talking about going to hell again, aren’t you.”

“Yes, I am. Just like it would violate your sense of justice to let those outlaws go free; God, who is perfect justice, will exact punishment. And it lasts forever.”

“So that’s why Jesus died? To pay the penalty for me?”

“That’s right, Marshal. Believe that, and God gives you new life that restores the relationship Mankind had with God in the very beginning. And now it’s a personal relationship between you and Him. Once he’s truly your Father, you will naturally want to please him by being as good as you can be. In that situation, you’re not trying to save yourself by being good, because you’re already saved. Instead you’re being good because you love and appreciate God as the perfect Father he is to you. That’s the difference between Christianity and every other religion. All other religions and all philosophies devised by men teach that you must do something, like being good, to be saved.

“Also, when you are saved the Holy Spirit takes up residence in your heart. Jesus called the Holy Spirit the ‘Comforter.’ The Holy Spirit not only provides solace, he guides the believer into all truth. It’s hard to do evil when the Holy Spirit is always exerting subtle, but divine, pressure to obey God’s Word.”

“But men wrote the Bible, Amos, not God.”

“Men wrote it down, but God is the author. God inspired men to write it down because we can understand what other men say. God wanted us to have a written record of his laws and promises. But he also made sure the men didn’t make any mistakes when they wrote down his Word. That way we can trust it.”

“So everything in the Bible is true?”

“Absolutely. His Word has the power to save the lost and it comforts those who already believe. His Spirit is alive in the passages of the Bible.”

“So that’s why you read it so much?”

“Here. Let me show you. Hand me that stick you were using earlier for the fire.”

Marshal Watson handed the stick to Amos.

Amos stuck the stick into the fire and stirred up the coals. The flames blazed up with a whoosh. “That’s what reading the Bible does, Marshal. It stokes the fire of faith inside our hearts and it reminds us how much God loves us.”

Marshal Watson was silent for several minutes.

“I don’t know, Amos. I think the church is full of a bunch of hypocrites.”

“Why are you worried about what’s in the hearts of others? Where you’re concerned, God looks only at what is in your heart. The individual Christian knows he is a believer. And the Lord knows those who are his. As for hypocrites in church, seems like the best place they could be. There’s always the chance that good Gospel preachin’ will rub off on them.”

Marshal Watson smiled. “Well, it’s something to think about. Thanks for explaining it.”

“My pleasure, Marshal.”

The two fell silent for several minutes. The glow of hot coals reflected off their faces as each man was absorbed in his own thoughts. Marshal Watson lifted the coffee cup to his lips. The cup was empty. “I think I’m gonna turn in. We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

Marshal Watson lay back on the bedroll. For a long time he stared at the night sky. Then he pulled the blanket up to his chin, rolled onto his side, and closed his eyes.

XVI.

Amos felt someone vigorously shake him. Startled, he opened his eyes.

“Amos…Amos! I want to accept Jesus!”

Amos drew in a long breath. Then he sat up. The sky was still dark and the fire had completely burned out. Still, the starlight allowed Amos to see Marshal Watson clearly.

“I want the new life, Amos. What do I do?”

“You’re telling me, Marshal. What you do is tell God.”

Marshal Watson sat back. “That’s all there is to it?”

“That’s all you have to do. God will do the rest.”

“But I’ve never talked to God before!”

“That’s okay, Marshal. Do the best you can. It’s not so much the words. It’s what’s in your heart.” Amos leaned back on his elbow, rubbed his face, and yawned.

“Amos, will you help me?”

Amos sat up. “Sure, Marshal, I’ll help. Let’s bow our heads. Now repeat after me: Heavenly Father, I am sorry for all my sins. Forgive me and wash me clean. I accept your Son, Jesus Christ, as my Lord and Savior, and I believe in my heart that you raised him from the dead. Thank you, Father, that you have saved me. Amen.”

XVII.

Brighter than a sparkling diamond, the first beam of light rose above the horizon and seemed to momentarily sit on the line where the land meets the sky. Then the second and third beams popped above the horizon, followed by four more, then sixteen, then two hundred and fifty-six, and so forth.

After a few minutes, Amos felt the slightest warmth touch his cheek. The black of the inside of his eyelids began to turn red. He opened his eyes and lay still for several moments. He heard a horse cropping grass and birds chirping in the trees beyond.

He sat up and raked his fingers through his hair. Then he turned and glanced at Marshal Watson who was still asleep.

Amos turned over onto his hands and knees and then sat back on his legs. He took the coffee pot from the fireplace and poured it out. Then he filled the pot with water from his canteen and added fresh coffee grounds.

He started a fire with dry kindling and small dead branches. Before long the coffee was boiling happily over the flames.

He stood up and stretched. Then he walked over and checked on the horses. He talked softly and patted each of them affectionately on the neck.

The sun had become a burning globe, playing peek-a-boo through the stand of trees. He walked back to the fire and checked the coffee. Just a bit longer.

He rolled up his blankets and tied them to the back of his saddle that lay a few paces from the fire.

Amos recalled the night before and the long talk he had had with the Marshal. Then he remembered that the Marshal had awakened him in the middle of the night. Amos closed his eyes and said a special “thank you” to his heavenly Father who long ago had made his whole life worth living. Now, at last, the Marshal too would experience the Lord’s joy and peace.

He knelt down and poured himself a cup of the freshly-brewed coffee. Gingerly, he sipped the hot liquid. There was nothing quite like the first sip of good coffee early in the morning.

“Marshal, you plan on sleeping all day?”

TO BE CONTINUED

Parson Sam Blane in HOPE (Episode 4)

X.

The youthful Gary Blanchard felt his heart sink. Instantly, he knew the man sticking the gun in his back could only want one thing: the bank’s money. Also he surmised that what was in front of him, the fire at the livery stable, was cunningly connected to what was behind him, the gun in his back.

As Blanchard began to raise his arms in a gesture of surrender, a gravelly voice behind him said, “Keep your arms down. Turn and walk inside.”

When he turned, he saw the man with the gun. The man wore an evil smile that revealed yellow teeth in a crooked mouth nestled within thick black facial hair. Another man, six-shooter in hand, stood alongside the first.

Blanchard thought quickly. Mr. Drake, the bank president, was in the back office with the door closed. Blanchard also thought of the pistol kept on a shelf below the teller’s window. But he would have little chance to catch the thieves off-guard. He concluded his best course of action was to cooperate fully, to sacrifice the bank’s money, and to hope for the best.

After the trio entered the bank, the thieves forced Blanchard to lead the way into the area behind the teller windows where the safe was located.

“Open it,” the first thief said.

“I don’t know the combination.”

Meanwhile the second thief had already located the cash drawer at the teller’s window and was removing the loot.

Unbeknownst to all three men, Ken Drake, the bank president, had already received an urgent knock at the back door. Deputy Vince Evans had rushed in to inform Drake of the raging fire at the livery stable.

Deputy Evans watched impatiently as Drake scurried about the office in preparation to lock up the bank.

When the numerous details in his office had been attended to, with key ring in hand, Drake rushed out of the office to inform Blanchard of the bank’s closing.

The thief at the cash drawer had just stuffed the money into his vest pocket when the office door opened suddenly. Startled, the thief pointed and fired. Drake doubled over and with a loud groan fell to the floor.

Deputy Evans did not hesitate. He drew his weapon and rushed to a point where he had line-of-sight on the thief through the doorway. The shot from his pistol unerringly found its mark, and the thief crashed back against the counter.

The thief behind Blanchard dove onto the floor and aimed his pistol through the doorway from where the shot had come. When he fired, Blanchard saw flame spew from the gun barrel and he heard the Deputy’s shriek of death.

Catapulted by a surge of adrenaline, Blanchard raced for the pistol beneath the teller’s window. He grabbed the weapon and fired at the thief on the floor. Then everything went blank!

Two more thieves had entered the bank and the bullet from one thief’s gun had penetrated the back of Blanchard’s head.

On a day that had begun with such seeming promise, the youthful Gary Blanchard had met a sudden ignominious death.

XI.

Frank Stayton[1] was horrified. Two of his sons lay on the floor of the bank. “Check on them. Quick!”

Travis, Frank Stayton’s eldest son, hurried around the counter. Zack, who had been shot by Blanchard, lay on the floor, moaning.

Travis grabbed the other son, Jarrett, who lay on his face near the teller window. When Travis rolled him over, he knew his brother was dead. He looked up at Frank Stayton who had followed him around the counter.

“Jarrett’s dead, Pa.”

“Pick him up and carry him out front. I’ll tend to Zack.”

When Frank Stayton bent over Zack, the boy was holding his side tightly with both hands. “Come on, son. Let’s get you out of here.” He grabbed the boy by the arm and helped him to his feet.

The two made their way out of the bank. With the help of Emmett, who had been guarding the horses, Travis had draped and tied Jarrett’s body over Jarrett’s horse. Frank Stayton helped Zack to his horse and steadied him as the boy crawled onto the saddle. “Can you ride?”

“I think so.”

“Good. Let’s go!”

A woman stood in the street near the bank entrance. She had been watching the livery burn when she heard the shots from inside the bank. Shortly afterwards, she saw the Staytons exit the building. One man was dead and another was wounded. Realizing she was witnessing a bank robbery, she screamed, “Hey! Stop!”

Emmett yelled, “Shut up, lady!”

In panic she began running toward the livery where the townspeople had formed a bucket brigade in an effort to extinguish the fire. “The bank’s been robbed!” She waved her arms in the air. “The bank’s been robbed!”

Emmett drew his gun and took careful aim. The bullet ripped through the woman’s back at an angle just below the left shoulder blade and pierced her heart. She spun half around and collapsed to the ground.

“Let’s go!” Emmett yelled. He stepped into the stirrup and mounted his horse. Already Frank Stayton and the wounded Zack had spurred their horses and were riding in the opposite direction of the fire. Travis was close behind, leading Jarrett’s horse with the dead man strapped across the saddle.

Emmett spurred his horse and the animal bolted. Looking over his shoulder, he saw a few men running toward the woman lying in the street. Twisting in the saddle, he fired several shots. One man went down. Then he turned forward and spurred the animal again. “That’ll hold ‘em.”

XII.

Little Joey was the youngest of the Stayton brothers. He was a lanky young man of fourteen. His dark brown eyes were set deep in an angular face that had been darkly tanned by the sun. The faintest moustache appeared above his upper lip, and a thin tuft of hair clung to his dimpled chin.

The cool water of the stream felt good under the late morning sun. Already he had rekindled the fire from the night before. He had also put on coffee and a pot of beans. Then he had left his boots on the bank and had rolled up his pants. Now, as the boy waded to and fro in the shallows, he complained aloud, “I’m old enough to go along when Pa robs some hick-town bank. I don’t know why I’m always the one stuck with tending camp. I ought to run away like Gil did.”

Thinking of his older brother, Gil, Little Joey crouched and drew the six-shooter from his holster. He fired at a rock sticking out of the water near the bank. He smirked when he saw a chunk of the rock fly off and fine debris explode into the air. The sound of the shot and the ricochet off the rock sent thunderous vibrations echoing back and forth between the trees that bordered the stream.

Little Joey had never known Gil very well, and the lack of a close relationship was a source of sadness. Gil left home when Little Joey was still a youngster but Little Joey often heard his Pa and his brothers talk of Gil’s reputation as a gunfighter.

Gil visited the family at their ranch near El Paso when Pearl Stayton, the boys’ mother, had become ill and died. After the funeral, Gil left again and soon the family lost track of his whereabouts. Periodically, the family heard rumors that Gil had killed another man. Once, the news came from Santa Fe. A while later, from Denver. No one was ever sure where Gil Stayton would turn up next.

During Gil’s visit to the ranch, Little Joey begged his brother to demonstrate his prowess with a six-shooter. Gil had set up a few tin cans on a fence rail. Even as a youngster, Little Joey knew he was seeing something satanic when Gil drew and fired. Almost simultaneously, the cans leapt from the rail and the blasts of the individual shots were indistinguishable. When Gil had re-holstered his gun, he turned to Little Joey and said, “Tin cans don’t shoot back. That’s the difference between shooting cans and facing down another man.” He winked. “Better to shoot ‘em in the back.”

After his mother died, Little Joey noticed a significant change in his father. Frank Stayton had become listless and extremely depressed. When he stopped working on the ranch, Little Joey’s brothers quickly lost interest too. Before long, the ranch fell into disrepair from neglect.

When the need for money grew intolerable, Pa and a few of his brothers robbed a bank. From then on, the family was always in trouble with the law.

Shortly after that first bank robbery, the family abandoned the ranch. They began wandering as nomads, using their wits to live off the land and to “outsmart people with more money.” Frequent crossings of the Mexican border kept them from capture by the law. Some people called what the Staytons did stealing, but Little Joey knew it was simply a matter of survival. And if a few people got killed, well, they probably deserved it. But he did not waste time thinking about those things.

When his Pa received news of the deaths of Wade and Clem, the entire clan mounted up and began riding north. They were after someone called Parson Sam Blane in Abilene, Kansas.

Little Joey knew the importance of paying back crimes against the family. He had learned the lesson when his brother, Toby, had been killed by a man driving a wagon. Shortly afterwards, Emmett had slit the man’s throat and had received praise from his Pa and brothers. Little Joey knew that, one day, he would make Pa and his brothers proud of him. Then they would praise him too!

The pack horse whinnied. Little Joey turned and looked in the direction of the town. In the distance, he saw riders. That would be Pa and his brothers.

He stepped out of the water and sat down and pulled on his boots. By the time he stood up, the riders had drawn closer and he could see them clearly. Something was wrong. A body was draped over one of the horses!

Within a few minutes, the men rode into camp on heavily lathered animals. Little Joey took the reins of the horses as the men dismounted. Now he could see it was Jarrett who had been killed.

After dismounting, Frank Stayton hurried to the side of Zack’s horse and helped the slumping boy from the saddle.

Little Joey watched as his father sat Zack at the base of a tree and leaned him against the trunk. “What happened?”

No one answered.

Little Joey turned and looked at Jarrett’s lifeless body. Horror struck him when he saw Jarrett’s wide staring eyes, glazed over with the milky slime of death.

Travis came up behind him. “Cool down the horses then let them drink.” He brushed past the lad and untied Jarrett’s body. Then he pulled Jarrett’s legs. When the body slid off the saddle, Travis caught Jarrett under the arms and lowered him to the ground. Noticing Little Joey had not moved, Travis glanced up and saw the alarm in the boy’s eyes. “Get going!”

Little Joey turned and began walking the horses. After he let the horses drink, he tied them to a couple of trees. Then he sat down at the campfire. Emmett was thoroughly engrossed in a pan of beans and Travis sat cross-legged, sipping coffee from a tin cup.

When Frank Stayton walked over and sat down, Travis asked, “How is Zack?”

“Only a flesh wound but he’s lost some blood. He won’t be able to ride for a while.”

“We can’t stay here.” Emmett spoke with a mouthful of beans. “The fire we started at the livery will only hold that townsfolk a little longer.” As he talked, a half-eaten bean jetted out of his mouth and landed on the ground. “They’ll come after us. And we left an easy trail.” He scooped another heaping spoonful of beans into his mouth.

“Little Joey,” Frank Stayton said, “shimmy up that there tree and set yourself on that big branch.” He looked up at the branch as if pointing to it with his nose. “You keep watch for a posse. I don’t know how much time we got. We killed a couple of folks back there.”

“More than a couple,” Emmett said. A few beans spilled out of his mouth onto his beard. “I got me that loud-mouthed woman and maybe a fella. Caught him dead on the run from atop my horse.”

Frank Stayton poured himself coffee. “Zack said he got him the deputy that shot Jarrett. The townsfolk will form a posse and they’ll be comin’ as soon as they can.”

Travis threw a small wad of dollar bills on the ground in front of the group. “I took this off Jarrett’s body. It’s all him and Zack got from the bank.”

“How much is it?” Emmett asked.

“Twenty-five dollars.”

Frank Stayton picked up the money and stuffed it into his shirt pocket. “My boy was worth more than that.”

“What are we gonna do about Zack if he can’t ride?” Travis asked.

Emmett threw down an empty pan and leaned back with both hands on his stomach. “Zack’s gonna have to ride, that’s all.” He stood up. “We best get to burying Jarrett.”

Frank Stayton looked up. “No, we’re not burying him here in plain sight. I don’t want no chance of the posse diggin’ him up.”

“We can’t take him with us. He’ll slow us down.”

“I said not here!”

Emmett sat back down. “Okay Pa. You’re the boss. You don’t have to git so riled up about it.”

“Just sit there and shut up!”

After several minutes, Frank Stayton leaned forward and tossed the remaining coffee in his cup onto the fire. “Here’s what we’ll do.” He picked up a stick and began drawing on the ground. When he was done, he stood up and rubbed out the drawing with the sole of his boot. “Let’s get movin’.”

They had just broken camp when Little Joey sat up on the branch. “Here they come!”

Frank Stayton looked up. “How many?”

“Five, six…seven of them!”

“Okay, let’s go!”

XIII.

Under any other circumstances, Marshal Bill Watson would not have been leading the posse. His gray hair peeked from beneath his hat and heavy lines creased his face. He felt the pain of arthritis in his back with every stride of the horse.

In about a month, he had planned to turn over his duties as Marshal to Deputy Vince Evans. But now his deputy was dead. Marshal Watson was left as the town’s only lawman, and the responsibility for catching the outlaws had fallen squarely on his shoulders. Even so, he knew his health was failing.

Although he had told no one, within the past week he had experienced what he knew could only have been a heart attack. The pressure in his arm and chest had seized him suddenly, and for a long moment he could hardly breathe. Then, as abruptly as it had begun, the physical anguish left him. But the solemn warning had remained.

When he and the posse arrived at the stream, he saw the remains of the Stayton camp. He dismounted along with several others.

He carefully studied the tracks and everything about the site. “They spent the night here and must have started for town at first light. There’s blood over by that tree, so one of them is wounded. They entered the stream here.” He turned to a man in the group. “Amos, head over to the other side and see if there are tracks where they rode out. If not, we’ll have to split up and try to pick up their trail either up or down stream.”

Amos mounted his horse and crossed the swollen stream. In the middle, the water rose almost to his saddle. When he rode up onto the opposite bank, he clearly saw the tracks of the Staytons’ horses.

He waved to the Marshal and then pointed at the tracks.

Marshal Watson ordered, “Okay, they crossed over. Mount up.”

The crossing was slow-going. When they finally reached the other side, Marshal Watson followed the tracks, leading the men west at a fast gallop. They paralleled the stream for about a quarter mile. Then the tracks turned, showing the Staytons had entered the stream again.

Pulling up at the edge of the water, Marshal Watson slowly scanned the opposite bank. His mind was on the possibility of an ambush. If the posse were caught in the open while crossing the stream, they would have little chance to escape. “Amos, see if they crossed all the way over.”

Again, Amos crossed the stream and found the tracks. When he waved to the Marshal, one of the men yelled, “Okay, let’s go.”

Marshall Watson held up his hand. “Wait a minute. I don’t like this. We’ll cross over one at a time. I’ll go first.”

One of the men whined, “We’re wasting time, Marshal.”

Marshal Watson led his horse into the water. “Let’s do it my way.”

When everyone had crossed the stream, one of the men complained, “Marshal, we’re letting them get away! We should have crossed together. Look at the time we lost!”

Marshal Watson did not reply. He turned his horse and began following the Staytons’ tracks. The others fell in behind. After another quarter mile the tracks turned, showing the Staytons once again had entered the stream.

Now Marshal Watson was extremely apprehensive. What were the outlaws up to? He called to Amos. “Cross over and check for their tracks.”

A man in the posse shouted, “We ain’t got time for this, Marshal! We know those outlaws keep crossing the stream to slow us down. Each time they cross they gain ground on us. We’re never going to catch them before dark!” He turned to the others, “Come on. Let’s go!”

Several of the men spurred their horses and began crossing the stream.

“You men stop!” Marshal Watson ordered.

The men, however, continued to ride.

Amos and another man stayed with the Marshal and watched the men cross. When the men had safely crossed the stream they waved and pointed at the tracks. The other man turned to the Marshal. “They’re right, Marshal. If we’re ever going to catch them, we have to cross together. Otherwise we lose too much time.” He spurred his horse and headed across the stream.

Marshal Watson watched the man cross the stream. “I’ve completely lost control.”

“You still got me, Marshal,” Amos said. “I’m with you all the way.”

Marshal Watson glanced at Amos. “Thanks.” His lips curled in a quick smile. “Okay. Let’s cross over.”

Once they arrived on the opposite bank, both men spurred their horses. Riding at full speed Marshal Watson and Amos had almost caught up to the others when the Staytons’ tracks turned again. Marshal Watson watched as the posse did not hesitate at all. As a group, they rushed into the stream.

Marshal Watson and Amos pulled up and stopped on the water’s edge. Watching the riders, bunched up in the middle of the stream, Marshal Watson grumbled, “You fools!”

TO BE CONTINUED

Stayton Clan Profile

1 – Frank Stayton: The patriarch and the meanest of the clan. He is committed to retribution for the death of any of his sons:

“The loss of a son creates a hole in my heart that can only be filled by the knowledge that I repaid the injustice with the death of the perpetrator.”

2 – Travis Stayton: Eldest son and Frank’s right-hand man. His job revolves around the care of the clan. He frequently gives orders to the other sons, who varyingly begrudge or freely assent to, but in all cases carry out, the orders. Travis is a bit cautious contrasted against the general nature of a ruthless, sometimes reckless, clan, which believes itself invulnerable. Of all the sons, he is the only one from whom Frank Stayton will sometimes allow debate and to whom, in rare cases, he may defer.

3 – Emmett Stayton: Emmett is the enforcer of the clan, ensuring that the other sons stay in line. He’s short and stocky, but he is the most capable physically. He is also the most ruthless of the sons.

4 – Gil Stayton: A renowned professional gunfighter who normally travels alone. He is the best of the clan with weapons. He is the fastest draw of not only the clan but of most men in the west. He travels extensively and only rarely takes part in clan business.

5 – Jarrett Stayton: Killed during the bank robbery in Denton, TX.

6 – Miles Stayton: Appears later in story.

7 – Zack Stayton: Wounded during the bank robbery in Denton, TX.

8 – Little Joey Stayton: Youngest of the Stayton boys.

9 – Wade Caldwell: Executed by hanging after conviction at trial.

10 – Clem Caldwell: Killed by Blane in self-defense.

11 – Toby Stayton: Killed in a wagon accident.

12 – Al Stayton: Killed for the reward money by Royce Lee, a bounty hunter.

---

[1] Stayton Clan Profile is included at end of this entry.

Parson Sam Blane in HOPE (Episode 3)

VII.

The stagecoach rolled to a stop, belching a small volcano’s eruption of dust high into the air which then cascaded in a dirty mist onto the numerous onlookers.

Julie Weber was the first to disembark. As she placed her foot onto the step, a man wearing a badge reached out his hand, and she took it to steady her descent.

“Welcome to Abilene,” the man said.

“Thank you.”

“I’m Marshal Hickok. I’m guessing you’re Miss Weber, the new school teacher.”

Julie nodded. “That’s right.”

“Come with me, Miss Weber. Let’s get through this crowd.”

Wriggling through the throng, Julie followed Hickok until they stepped up onto the sidewalk. Several men in the crowd caught the pieces of luggage that the driver threw from the top of the coach. “Those are mine,” she said, pointing.

When all the baggage had been unloaded, the driver yelled to Hickok, “Marshal, can I talk to you a minute?”

Hickok turned to Julie. “Will you excuse me?”

“Of course.”

Hickok stepped off the sidewalk and through the crowd to the side of the coach where the driver had climbed down and stood on the street.

Julie took in the town. This was the raw West, and everything showed it: the dusty street, the austere wooden buildings, and the bizarre excitement of townspeople over the arrival of a stagecoach.

She glanced at a dusty young man sitting on the edge of the sidewalk. He was staring ahead blankly, his mind seemingly far from the hubbub of the crowd. His scraggly hair fell in dirty strands from beneath an oversized cowboy hat.

The other passengers had already disembarked, and the crowd had broken into smaller groups, gathering around the newly-arrived travelers. After a time, however, the crowd began to disperse. Splintering into threesomes, couples, and individuals, they headed off in various directions.

The driver of the stagecoach climbed up and once again took his seat. He snapped the reins and the coach jerked

ahead, kicking up a dust cloud that relentlessly pursued the vehicle even as the coach turned a corner and disappeared.

Julie watched the few men left standing in the street. Marshal Hickok was nowhere in sight. As long minutes passed, she told herself to remain patient. Surely the Marshal had not forgotten her. Or had he? Perhaps he had been called away on urgent business.

Julie’s trip had been long and hard. She was eager to get settled, to wash up, and to change into more comfortable clothes. Furthermore, she felt irritated she had traveled by stagecoach in the first place! The hardship of the journey was a lesson she would not soon forget. ‘In the future, I travel only by train!’

Before long, even the few men in the street had meandered off. Now she was completely alone with her three suitcases and a hat box.

Julie shifted her weight onto one leg and placed her hand on her hip. Unconsciously, she began tapping the ball of her foot on the wooden-plank sidewalk. She lowered her eyelids and scanned the entire length of the street, first left then right.

Finally she drew a deep breath in through her nose and then exhaled through her mouth. ‘Okay, that’s it. I don’t care if he comes back or not!’

She glanced around. The only other living entity she saw was the dusty young man sitting on the sidewalk edge.

“Excuse me, young man.”

She waited a moment. The young man held a small tree branch that he struck on the street in an erratic rhythm that told Julie his mind was still far adrift.

“Excuse me, young man.” Her tone was sharp.

She saw the young man turn his head slightly, as if the firmness of her voice had finally penetrated the fog of an aimless mind. He turned and looked at her. His blank expression told her he had heard the words but he had not applied them to himself. He turned his head even further to see whether or not someone else was present.

Julie stood as patiently as she could until the young man finally asked, “Are you talking to me?”

“Yes I’m talking to you.”

The young man sat erect. Then, like the uncoiling of a compressed spring, he leapt up onto the sidewalk. He took off his hat and held it by the brim at his waist. In a rich alto voice, he said, “Yes, ma’am.”

Julie’s jaw dropped. “Why, you’re a girl!”

“I’m Charli Benton, ma’am. And I can ride and shoot better than any boy around. And that’s with a pistol or a rifle. Makes no nevermind to me!” The girl put her hat back on and drew the six-shooter from her holster. Effortlessly, she twirled it vertically and then horizontally. In a quick circular motion she brought her arm back to her side and twirled the gun into the holster.

Not knowing quite what to think, Julie finally said, “That’s very impressive.”

“Aw, that ain’t nothing.”

“Forgive me for calling you a young man.”

“Aw, I wish I was a boy. Nobody pays attention to no girl.”

Julie blinked several times. She was about to speak when Charli stepped forward.

“You need help with these?” Without waiting for Julie to answer, Charli picked up two of the suitcases. “Where ya staying?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, there’s only two choices. The Merchant’s. It’s nice. But the better deal is Spencer’s Boarding House. Nothing fancy, but old lady Spencer keeps the place clean, and it comes with three squares a day. It costs about half as much.”

“Okay, I’ll take the boarding house.”

“You won’t regret it, ma’am.”

“Call me Julie. I’m Julie Weber. I’m going to teach school here.”

“Oh, so you’re the new teacher. Yeah, old lady Somerset quit almost a month ago.”

“She quit?”

“Quit; retired. Same thing.”

“What have the school children been doing for the past month without a teacher?”

“Nothing.”

“You mean they haven’t been attending school?”

“Nah. Kids around here only attend school anyway ‘cause their folks want them out of their hair. Till they get old enough to do chores.”

“Well, we’ll have to see about that!”

“Got big ideas, huh? Well, you’ll see how it is. Right now, let’s get you over to old lady Spencer’s.”

As Julie and Charli crossed the street, they passed an elderly man crossing in the opposite direction.

He tipped his hat. “Good afternoon, Miss. Hello Charli.”

Charli said, “Hello Mr. Barnes.”

As soon as the man was out of earshot, Charli muttered, “That’s old man Barnes. He runs the stage depot. He’s a son-of-a-bitch. Why the other day—”

Julie stopped abruptly. “Now wait just a minute, young lady! As a teacher, I can stand your double negatives until you’re taught, or until you choose to speak, proper English. As a woman, I’m appalled at the disrespect you show your own womanhood. But as a Christian, I absolutely will not tolerate disrespect for God with your profanity! Do you understand?”

In a reflex reaction, Charli dropped a suitcase and raised her arm and shoulder as if fending off one of many violent blows of the past.

Witnessing the girl’s involuntary display of vulnerability, Julie was filled with compassion. Before she could speak, however, Charli tilted her head and opened her eyes, glaring at Julie. The girl hesitated only a moment before she threw the other suitcase to the ground. Then she began to stomp off.

“Wait. Don’t go.”

The girl’s walk evolved into her characteristic swagger that propelled her along without the slightest hesitation.

Julie’s heart felt the fall of each of Charli’s steps as she watched Charli walk away. She had offended the girl and she felt stinging remorse. But there was something more. Feeling herself choke up, finally she said, “Charli, I need a friend.”

Charli turned her head, listening with an ear over her shoulder. After a few more steps, she stopped and closed her eyes. Julie’s words had settled on a sensitive part of her heart that she had ignored for too long. When she turned around, she looked Julie in the eye. “You want to be my friend?”

“Yes.”

“Then take back what you said.”

“I can’t, Charli.”

“Why not?”

“Because friends tell each other the truth. But I take back the way I said it…and I take back my self-righteous attitude. I had no right to judge you.”

Charli stood perfectly still, pondering the strange woman before her. She had never heard anyone speak the way this woman spoke. Although she could not claim she understood everything the woman said, the woman’s tone and facial expression appeared unquestionably genuine. The woman had touched an emotionally tender part of her core. Still, she was wary of the possibility of another tongue-lashing. “I don’t let nobody boss me around.”

“Charli, I propose an agreement.”

“Agreement?”

“I’ll agree never to talk down to you again. In exchange, I would like you to agree to refrain from profanity.”

“You mean stop cussin’?”

“Yes.”

Charli thought for several moments. Deep within, she knew she too needed a friend: someone with whom she could share confused feelings that churned inside a troubled heart; someone she could trust. “I spose I could stop cussin’.”

Julie stepped forward and held out her hand. “Friends?”

Charli stood looking at the woman’s graceful hand with perfectly manicured fingernails. After a moment, Charli rubbed her own dirty sun-browned hand on her shirt. Then she reached out and the two shook. “I guess it’ll be alright.”

VIII.

Spencer’s Boarding House sat on a corner on the east side of town. The house was a freshly-painted two-story building with a front yard bordered by a white picket fence.

When Julie and Charli arrived at the front gate, an attractive woman in her late thirties was sitting in a rocking chair on the front porch. After looking up, the woman placed a ribbon between the pages of the book she had been reading and laid the book aside. Then she stood up and smoothed the front of her dress with her hands.

As Julie and Charli opened the gate and started up the short walk, the woman said, “Hello Charli. Who is this with you?”

“This is my friend, Julie Weber. She’s the new school teacher.”

“Hello Miss Weber. I’m Faye Spencer. Are you looking for a room?”

“Yes I am. Your boarding house comes highly recommended.” Julie smiled and glanced at Charli.

“You’re in luck, Miss Weber. The best room I have was vacated just last week.” Faye turned and called out, “Andy. Will you come out here, please?”

A boy of about ten years old opened the screen door and walked out onto the porch. As he continued down the few steps and out onto the sidewalk, Julie noticed the boy walked with a slight limp. A younger girl walked out of the house behind the boy.

“Miss Weber, this is my son, Andy, and my daughter, Amie. Children, say hello to Miss Weber. She’s the new school teacher.”

The little girl curtsied and the boy said, “Hello Miss Weber.” He stepped forward and took the suitcase and hatbox from Julie.

“She’s going into the big room, Andy.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Come with me,” Faye said. “I’ll show you the house and then you can get settled into your room.”

As Julie stepped onto the porch, she noticed the book Faye had been reading was the Bible. “Oh, are you a Christian, Miss Spencer?”

“I’m struggling with it. I want to believe, but when I honestly examine my feelings I’m not sure I always do. Do all Christians feel that way?”

“I’ve never found a good answer to that question, Miss Spencer. The best I can do is to ask you a question: Do you believe the sun is going to come up tomorrow?”

“Of course.”

“Does the sun’s rising depend on how you feel about it, or can you rely on the sun to come up regardless of what you feel?”

“I can rely on the sun regardless of what I feel.”

“That’s right, Miss Spencer. Each day dawns simply because the sun is what it is. In the same way, we know Jesus Christ is who He is. In other words, instead of relying on feelings that change as easily as wind scatters the leaves, we keep on relying upon Him.

“As we continue to hear and read the Gospel, our thoughts and actions, as well as our feelings, align more and more with the truth of His Word.”

Faye smiled. Then she noticed everyone had stopped and was watching her. “Oh, look at me! Where are my manners? Let’s get you settled. We’ll have plenty of time to talk later.”

“I always have time to talk of our Lord, Miss Spencer.”

“Call me Faye.”

“Alright Faye, but you must call me Julie.”

IX.

In 1873, Denton, Texas, was a humble settlement with a population of less than four hundred residents who were mostly farmers. The town, however, did have a small bank.

The youthful Gary Blanchard was the teller at the bank. He was a rather short fellow with chestnut-brown hair and blue eyes. A personable lad, he took great pleasure in serving the small number of customers who regularly conducted business at the bank.

Blanchard was up at dawn as usual. He lived with his parents and was responsible for the early-morning and evening chores on the small farm just outside of town.

As Blanchard spread feed on the ground, the chickens clucked vigorously amid perfectly placed pecks upon those of lower order. Then he walked into the small barn and milked the family’s only cow, which had calved in the early spring.

As the sun climbed higher in the east, it lit the sky into an azure and pink tincture that promised a winsome spring day.

Done with the morning chores, Blanchard entered the house and washed his face and hands. Then he changed into his work suit. Finally, he combed his hair, paying particular attention to the unruly strands of a front cowlick.

He walked into the outer room and kissed his mother on the cheek.

“Let me look at you, son.”

He obliged by standing erect and slightly lifting his heels off the floor, hoping to compensate for an embarrassingly insufficient stature.

“You’re a handsome boy.”

He turned to his father who was seated at the table. “See ya later, Pop.”

“Have a good day, son.”

When Blanchard arrived at the bank, he spent the first forty-five minutes dusting counters, emptying trash, and sweeping and mopping the floor.

By nine o’clock, he had finished counting the cash drawer and had recorded the dollar amount on the shift sheet. Then he walked to the front door and unlocked it.

Through the window in the door, he noticed several men running along the street. He opened the door and stepped outside. He had never witnessed such commotion!

He heard someone yell, “Fire!”

He looked in the direction of the livery stable. A mammoth undulating mass of smoke rose above angry flames that blazed against the sky that had promised such a lovely day.

Suddenly, he felt the point of a gun in his back!

TO BE CONTINUED

Parson Sam Blane in HOPE (Episode 2)

IV.

The tall stranger with eyes as dark as midnight stood motionless. He did not speak.

Deputy Mitchell felt his face flush red. The stranger was deliberately ignoring him.

Slowly, the tall stranger lifted his gaze.

Deputy Mitchell felt the stranger’s steady intent look as if an icicle had pierced his heart. He had never seen eyes so black, so completely devoid of emotion, so very cold.

Then without a word the stranger turned his back. After a calculated pause, he took a step toward the entrance of the saloon.

Deputy Mitchell felt an explosion of rage within him. He raced forward and grabbed the stranger’s arm to swing him around.

The instant his hand touched the stranger, the stranger whirled and drew his pistol in a flicker. The cocked weapon came to rest one inch from the bridge of the deputy’s nose.

Deputy Mitchell had no time to react. He stood staring into the black hole of death of the stranger’s gun.

The stranger allowed ample time for the deputy’s heart to hiccup and for the deputy to realize that, on any other occasion, the error would have been fatal.
“Lose the gun belt.”

Deputy Mitchell took a cautious breath. He reached down, unbuckled his gun belt, and let it fall to the ground.

“Now, take the badge off your chest and drop it on the ground.”

Deputy Mitchell felt his jaw tremble. His gaze again fell upon the barrel of the stranger’s gun. He unpinned his badge and dropped it to the ground.

“Now, step back. Turn and walk slowly. Tell Marshal Hickok I want to talk to him.”

V.

Riley burst into the Marshal’s office. “Mitchell’s in trouble!”

Hickok, who was seated at his desk, sprang to his feet. Riley turned and began running toward the Alamo Saloon. Hickok ran right behind him.

Halfway to the saloon, they spied Deputy Mitchell walking toward them. Both men stopped. Deputy Mitchell glanced at the two men and then he lowered his head.

Riley exclaimed, “Are you alright, son?”

Without looking up, Deputy Mitchell said, “Yes, I’m alright.”

Hickok immediately saw that the deputy was wearing neither his badge nor his gun. He pressed his lips together and drew a breath in through his nose.

“What happened?” Riley asked.

“I’ve never seen a man draw so fast.”

After a long silence, Hickok said, “Well, where’s he at? The saloon?”

Deputy Mitchell nodded.

“Come on. Let’s go get your gun and your badge. Riley, you go back to your shop.”

Hickok led the way and the deputy followed. After a few steps, Hickok turned. “Son, if anything ever happened to you I would blame myself. If you thought this fella was trouble, why didn’t you come and get me?”

“I thought I could handle it myself. I didn’t want to bother you.”

“I hope you don’t believe that. I don’t. It’s your pride, son, that makes you reckless. After you collect your badge, hand it over to me. You’re suspended. Wait a week. Then come in and we’ll talk. If your attitude has changed, you can have your badge back. Understand?”

Deputy Mitchell nodded.

Hickok pointed to the badge on his chest. “This badge, son, is not about the rule of Mitchell. It’s about the rule of law. It does not serve us. We serve it.”

Deputy Mitchell continued to hang his head.

“Now, who is this fella?”

“I don’t know. He rode in earlier. Never seen him before.”

They walked to the spot where Deputy Mitchell’s badge and gun lay on the ground. Deputy Mitchell hesitated.

“Well, pick them up.”

Deputy Mitchell picked up his gun belt and strapped it on. After he picked up his badge, he held it out and Hickok took it.

“Do you want me to come in with you?”

“Yes, come in. You may have to point him out to me. But I doubt it.”

When the two entered the saloon, the buzz in the room fell to a hush. The tall stranger who sat in the back corner did not look up.

Glimpsing the faces of the usual crowd, Hickok followed the men’s guarded glances to the back corner.

“Stay behind me, son.”

Deputy Mitchell followed Hickok to the back corner of the saloon. The tall stranger looked up when Hickok and the deputy reached the table.

“Marshal Hickok. Right?”

Hickok immediately noticed two things. First, were those eyes as dark as midnight. Second, both hands were under the table. Was the stranger holding a gun aimed at his heart?

“Yes, I’m Hickok. You assaulted my deputy with a deadly weapon.”

“I was the one assaulted, Marshal. I plead self-defense. Several people in here saw the incident. Under oath, they would have to testify to that.”

Hickok heard the ring of truth in the stranger’s words. “What are you? Some kind of lawyer?”

“I’m no lawyer, Marshal. But, like you, I know something about the law.” As the stranger said the words, he brought his hands above the table. They were empty. Casually, he lifted his glass and sipped whiskey.

Hickok felt his stomach muscles relax a bit.

“May I ask you to join me, Marshal. I have business to discuss.”

“Business? What kind of business?”

With a leg under the table, the stranger pushed out a chair for Hickok. “You can sit down, too, Deputy. I have nothing against you.”

One side of Hickok’s mouth tightened. He glanced at Deputy Mitchell and nodded. Both men sat down.

“Who are you and what kind of business are you talking about?

“First, Marshal, can I offer you a drink?”

“No thanks. Let’s get to it.”

“Alright, Marshal, but this may take a while. Are you sure you don’t want a drink?”

The stranger glanced up. Hickok’s expression had not changed.

“Okay, Marshal. My name is Abe Jackson.” As he said the name, he pressed his index finger vertically to his lips. Then he reached up with his left hand and pulled the vest away from his heart.

Hickok was staring straight at a Texas Ranger badge.

Hickok blinked. Then he nodded. “That explains a lot.”

“Like I said, Marshal. I have business to discuss. You see—”

Hickok held up his hand. “I think I’ll take that drink now.”

VI.

Parson Sam Blane pushed away from the small desk in his room. Cupping his hand above the chimney globe on the oil lamp, he blew out the flame. Already it was morning.

He closed his eyes and pressed the heels of his palms against his eyelids. He had spent most of the night in study and prayer. Then he had returned to writing: polishing old sermons, developing new ones, and finally he had had time to work on his manuscript.

Several members of the Abilene congregation had asked him to write an exposition on St. Luke’s Gospel, and he had been happy to oblige.

Ironically, Abilene itself had been named for a verse in the Gospel of St. Luke. The story goes that in 1860 the people of the Kansas territory foresaw the coming of statehood. About then in Dickinson County where Abilene is located, a contest developed over the selection of a county seat.

A man by the name of C.H. Thompson laid out a town site on his land east of Mud Creek. He hastily constructed several log houses to give the appearance of a town. He then asked his neighbor, Tim Hersey, to give the new town a name.

Mr. Hersey referred the matter to his wife. Mrs. Hersey found a reference in Luke 3:1 that speaks of the “tetrarch of Abilene.” She decided that “Abilene,” which means “city of the plains,” would be appropriate, and so the town was named.

Over the years of traveling from town to town, Blane had made Abilene the hub of his activities. He received his mail at the town’s post office and he kept a room at the Merchant’s Hotel.

Now, at the beginning of a six-month sabbatical, Blane was grateful for the opportunity to engage in concentrated study. The hiatus would also afford him time to recuperate from the rigors of constant travel. Finally, he hoped to gain a fresh outlook on his service to the Lord.

Blane stepped to the bed and sat down. He kicked off his boots and lay back. He had spent the entire night awake and he needed a few hours of sleep. After his nap, he planned to spend the afternoon at the site where a new church building was under construction. He enjoyed visiting with the other congregation members who were helping to build the church. Also, he found the physical exercise of construction labor invigorating.

Before long, Blane was dreaming. He stood on the edge of a cliff. Suddenly, the rock crumbled beneath his feet, and he fell straight down. Tumbling, tumbling. His fear vanished when the speed of his fall began to decrease. He was able to lift his head and soar horizontally above the valley floor.

He landed gently on his feet in a meadow. He heard the birds’ staccato warbles and he smelled the scent of pine trees. He turned and saw his wife, Sarah. She wore a shimmering white dress and her hair flowed in the wind.

They sat together in the plush green grass. She played her guitar and sang for him. Suddenly, her guitar turned into a baby wrapped warmly in a soft blanket.

“Shh,” she said to the crying child, and the infant became calm. Sarah extended her arms, holding the baby out for Blane to take into his embrace.

He reached for the child but Sarah and the child drew away. He stepped forward, but again the two drew away. He began to run toward them. But they quickly withdrew until at last they disappeared.

He called but they did not answer. He sat down and began to weep. He wept as he had when he was a very young child, holding nothing back, crying uncontrollably. A sharp tapping noise caused him to turn his head. For a moment, he was outside himself, seeing and hearing himself weep. The tapping noise grew louder and more insistent. Again he turned. He turned. He turned. And then he was half awake.

A series of sharp knocks came at the door to his room.

For a moment, he could not determine where he was. The knocks came again. He turned and looked. Then, not knowing whether or not someone was there, he said, “It’s open.”

Deputy Mitchell opened the door and stuck his head in. “Parson Blane?”

“Yes, what is it?”

“Marshal Hickok sent me to fetch you. There’s something important you must hear.”

“What is it?”

“It’s best you come with me. I’ll wait for you.”

“Okay, let me get my boots on and splash some water on my face.”

VII.

When Blane and Deputy Mitchell entered the Alamo Saloon, Deputy Mitchell said, “Follow me. They’re over here.”

Blane saw Hickok and another man sitting at a table in the back corner of the saloon. When Blane and Deputy Mitchell reached the table, Hickok said, “Hello Parson. Sit down. I want you to hear what this man has to say.”

As Blane sat down, Hickok said, “Parson, this is Abe Jackson.” Hickok lowered his voice. “He’s a Texas Ranger.”

“Parson,” Jackson said, “you ever hear of Frank Stayton?”

“Frank Stayton? No. Like most everybody, I’ve heard of Gil Stayton, a professional gunfighter. But I’ve never heard of Frank Stayton.”

“Gil is one of Frank Stayton’s sons. You remember the man you turned over to Marshal Hickok last summer?”

“How could I forget? Wade Caldwell.”

“You also killed his brother, Clem, in self-defense.”

“That’s right, Mr. Jackson. But when it happened I didn’t know Wade and Clem were brothers.”

“Well, Wade and Clem were brothers by blood. But they were raised by Frank Stayton. Like Wade and Clem, most of the Staytons are wanted by the law. Dead or alive.

“You want a drink, Parson? I want to lay this out from the beginning.”

Blane settled back in the chair. “I could stand a good cup of coffee.”

Deputy Mitchell said, “I’ll get you one.”

Jackson drew in a breath. “What I’m about to tell you, Parson, I want you to keep to yourself as much as possible. My intention is to bring the Staytons to justice, and I don’t want anyone tipping them off. If word gets around about this, my job will be a lot harder. Understand?”

Blane glanced down and then back at Jackson. “Okay.”

“You see, Wade and Clem were raised by Frank Stayton from the time the two boys were infants.” Jackson took a sip of whiskey. “Old man Stayton took the boys in after his sister, Bessie Caldwell, died. Tom Caldwell, Bessie’s husband, had been killed earlier in a bar fight in El Paso.”

Jackson finished off the whiskey in his glass. “To Frank Stayton, Wade and Clem were his sons, just like the rest of his sons.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“I’m afraid you’re in a lot of trouble, Parson. You killed Clem and brought Wade in and he was hanged. The Staytons will be out for revenge. They won’t stop until they hunt you down and kill you.”

“But you said it yourself, Mr. Jackson. I acted in self-defense.”

“To Frank Stayton and his sons, that doesn’t matter. You’re responsible for the deaths of Wade and Clem. A few years back, Toby Stayton was run over by a wagon and died. It was purely an accident. But within a month, the driver of the wagon was found with his throat slit. That’s the way the Staytons operate. They won’t rest until you’re dead.”

“But that’s ridiculous!”

“And here’s the bad news.”

“You mean that’s not bad enough?”

“I’m afraid not, Parson. The bad news is that Frank Stayton had twelve sons!”

Blane closed his eyes and shook his head. “Are you telling me there are twelve brothers who are out to kill me?”

“Wade, Clem and Toby are dead. That would have made nine brothers plus Frank himself. But less than a week ago, a bounty hunter, named Royce Lee, turned over the corpse of Al Stayton, one of the middle sons, to the Marshal in Fort Worth. That probably means the Staytons are traveling north.

“It’s a stretch to imagine Royce Lee could have picked off Al Stayton if Al was riding with the entire clan. I’m guessing Al was alone. It could be that Frank Stayton is leading only part of the family and plans to join up south of here with the sons who sometimes ride alone.

“One thing’s for sure. Sooner or later they’ll show up. As warped as it is, it’s like a code of ethics with them: An eye for an eye and all of that. When they come, they’ll want blood.”

“But why now? Wade was hanged almost eight months ago.”

“My guess is they were waiting for the weather to break.”

Deputy Mitchell returned to the table and placed a cup of coffee in front of Blane.

Blane looked down at the rising steam from the black liquid. “Thanks.”

Hickok glanced at Jackson, “You know, of course, you’re out of your jurisdiction.”

Jackson lifted the whiskey glass to his lips and realized the glass was empty. He set it back on the table. “I’m perfectly happy, Marshal, to turn any of the Staytons I run across over to you. If we happen to capture a few, we can extradite them. These men have committed enough crimes in Texas to hang a hundred men. But I doubt that will happen.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because they won’t give up without a fight. Besides, Marshal, before it’s over, you may be glad I’m here. You’ll need all the help you can get when they show up.”

Hickok gulped down the last of his whiskey. “But you’re only one man. How are you going to round up all these Staytons?”

“I can’t guarantee anything, Marshal. That’s why I’m warning you and the Parson. But I’ve been after these men a long time. Now I have precisely what I’ve needed all along.”

“What’s that?”

Jackson looked at Blane. “Bait.”

Blane glanced down. His coffee was getting cold. “So I’m the cheese in the trap.”

“Can you handle that gun you’re wearing, Parson?”

“I’m fair.”

“I’d advise you to get a lot better in a hurry. They’re after you, Parson. They may come at you one or two at a time, or they may come at you all at once. But on that day, you better be in good standing with your Lord.”

TO BE CONTINUED