37
Michael and Jeremiah Turner gathered firewood from a small copse of trees that bordered a narrow, muddy creek a few yards off the road.
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a Christian gunslinger before.”
Anger flashed in Turner’s hazel eyes. Then he sighed, a long, deep exhalation that seemed to come from his toes. “I don’t think I’m ever going to get rid of that reputation.”
“What do you mean?”
Michael felt weighed and measured in the other man’s steady gaze. Turner shrugged. “I see my gun as the last tool in my bag, my last resort. So I’ve learned to use it that way, to be better with my revolver or rifle or shotgun or whatever than the other man, because at that point my life depends on it.”
Michael nodded. Made sense. A farmer wouldn’t last long if he didn’t know how to use a plow. “What led you into this kind of work?”
Turner examined a piece of wood as if it held the answer. “The war more than anything else. I was in Missouri, assigned to stop Quantrill’s Raiders. Always felt like we were behind enemy lines. Never saw such cruelty. Drove some men to disbelief, but somehow it drew me closer to God. And I think that led me to what I’m doing now, defending people and their property.” He added the piece of wood to the pile in the crook of his arm and picked up another.
“Seems like a tough job.”
Turner stacked another piece on his armload of wood. “Yep. Especially when the law sometimes thinks I’m as much an outlaw as the men I’m fighting against.”
The two men walked back to where the others had set up camp. As they drew near the picket line of horses, Turner spoke. “So what’s your connection to Mr. Carstairs?”
“I have some things to deliver to him, along with a message.”
“Bad news?”
“His youngest son was hung. They were estranged. I’m bringing his son’s belongings back to him with some letters the boy wrote looking to be reconciled.”
Michael gave him the rest of the details about his relationship with Ben and their efforts to contact his father before the execution.
Turner shook his head. “Seems like a mighty long trip to take, especially when it could end with the door being slammed in your face.”
“I know. But I’m hoping God’s going to make a way for me to speak to Mr. Carstairs’s heart.”
They stacked the wood near the spot Shorty had cleared for the fire. Turner continued. “Carstairs is carrying a heavy load. I could see it, but he didn’t want my prayers. Said God didn’t want anything to do with him and he didn’t want anything to do with God. He just wanted me to take care of the threat to his safety.” He straightened and turned to Michael. “It’s something to pray about.”
“I’ve been doing that every day, Mr. Turner.”
“Guess we need to start praying together. And by the way, you can call me Jeremiah. The way I look at it, a man that prays with me can call me by my Christian name.”
They walked over to where Shorty was coaxing the fire to start. Sheriff Davis set a coffeepot at its edge and surveyed the group. “Anyone here know how to cook?” Jeremiah shrugged, and Dave Roberts raised his hand. “Dave, you’re elected. Shorty, Michael, see what McGuffy packed in there for food.”
Michael and Shorty rummaged through the packages. Michael found a small ham, and Shorty held up cans of beans and a sack of flour. “You know how to make biscuits?”
Michael shook his head. “Not that this group will eat. My horse won’t even eat ’em.”
Shorty patted the bag. “Sure wish Bill Barkston was here. The man knows how to cook on the trail.”
They carried the supplies to the fire. Dave Roberts took the flour and soon had biscuits baking. Shorty started the beans heating and rigged a spit for the ham.
The sheriff approached Michael and Jeremiah, who stood a little apart from the group. “Is the water in that creek any good?”
Jeremiah shook his head. “Not right here, Sheriff. Too low and muddy. Looks like it’s getting ready to dry up. There may be better water farther upstream.”
“All right. We’ll check it out in the—”
A voice boomed from the darkness on the north side. “Hello, the camp!”
The sheriff gripped his pistol, but he didn’t draw. Jeremiah slipped the leather thong off the hammer of his Colt and adjusted the pistol in the holster. Michael’s fingers tingled, and he took a side step toward Buddy and his rifle resting in its scabbard.
“Who’s there?” the sheriff called.
“It’s Bill Barkston from Riverbend. That you, Caleb?”
“Come on in, Bill. Was wonderin’ what happened to y’all.”
The group of five riders stopped a short distance from the camp and dismounted. Fatigue and frustration showed in their faces and the stoop of their shoulders. They unsaddled their horses, and Alexander Phelps led the mounts to the picket line that had been set up between two of the trees.
“I’m tellin’ you,” Barkston said in a rumbling voice that seemed to start at his toes and then work its way up the considerable distance to his mouth. “That was the most miserable ride I’ve been on in a long time. I bet we ain’t more than five miles from the stage station, but I know we rode at least thirty miles, none of it in a straight line. If it weren’t for ol’ Malachi here, we’d still be moseying around out there looking for tracks.”
“How’d ya find us?” Frank asked.
“Wasn’t looking for ya. The trail led us back to the stage road. We were gonna head back to the station when Harold here spotted the fire. I figured no kidnappers are gonna light a fire out in the open this near the road, so I decided to check it out.”
Sheriff Davis had started to speak when Vernon and Old Thomas rode in.
Vernon eyed Barkston as he and the Indian dismounted and handed their reins to Alexander. “This isn’t good if your trail brought you back here. I was hoping one of us was on the right track.”
Barkston shrugged. “Stinks having to start all over again.”
“Find anything, Vernon?” the sheriff asked.
“Nah. Couldn’t find a sign of them ’fore it got too dark. Have to try again tomorrow and see what we can find.”
“They keep doing this,” Dave Roberts said, “we don’t have a prayer of finding ’em before Christmas. And that’s if we’re even on the right track. We don’t know that these trails have anything to do with Mr. Carstairs.”
“Right now they’re all we’ve got to work with,” the sheriff said.
Vernon crouched by the fire next to the sheriff. “There’s always hope.”
“What’re you gettin’ at?” the sheriff asked.
Vernon turned toward Michael and Jeremiah. Michael’s shoulders tensed as everyone in the group stared at him. “Mr. Archer, I understand you’re a religious man and that you’ve worked as a minister some. Would you pray over us for the Lord’s guidance and a quick resolution to this problem?”
Michael scanned the group. Some of the men wore hopeful looks, a few seemed hostile, others curious. Soften their hearts, Lord. Prepare them to receive or at least not reject. He stepped to the edge of the fire, the waves of heat warming his face. Sheriff Davis scrutinized him and then stared into the fire. Jeremiah Turner came and stood on one side of him. Vernon Phelps stood on the other. Michael looked up into the dark night and extended his arms, palms open.
“Father—” he kept his voice soft, in awe of his God and the responsibility resting on him at this moment—“we worship and thank You for Your goodness and mercy and love. We come into Your throne room with boldness in the name of Jesus as Your Word says we can.” He raised his voice as the power of prayer rose in him. “Your Word tells us to believe we have what we pray for and we will have it. Father, we pray for Your wisdom and direction as we seek Sam Carstairs and those who may have kidnapped him. We pray for Your divine guidance to protect us and show us the right trail. We thank You, Lord, that as we journey tomorrow, You will guide us every step of the way. We thank You that You hear our prayers and that You do answer them. We believe we receive what we pray for, and we give You the praise and the glory and the honor for it. In Jesus’ name. Amen.”
The chorus of amens ranged from muttered and mumbled responses to clear, affirmative statements of agreement.
“Well, that was to the point,” Sheriff Davis said. “Tomorrow we’ll see if it does any good.”