48

Michael woke before the others. Clouds had moved in during the night, delaying the dawn. He slipped away from the camp and walked to the stream. Sitting on the bank, he prayed, his voice a soft murmur. He lifted his face to the sky, eyes closed, his Bible against his chest. “Lord, help me be Your instrument today to minister to these men.” Peace washed over him like a soft, warm light, driving back the darkness that skulked at the edges of his spirit.

The rest of the camp stirred as the overcast sky took on the rosy color of sunrise. Michael rekindled the fire while Jeremiah put coffee on to boil and prepared breakfast. Frank and Sheriff Davis—Caleb—saddled the horses. Michael joined them and secured the dwindling packs of supplies to one of the animals. Caleb patted the supplies and looked toward the nearby foothills. “Maybe we’ll find some deer to help stretch these out a little more.”

Frank turned from cinching his saddle. “I wouldn’t mind doin’ a little huntin’.”

Caleb shook his head. “Nah, we best stick together. ’Sides, Thomas’ll have to get it with his bow. Can’t risk a shot lettin’ the kidnappers know where we are.”

Michael studied Caleb as the posse gathered around the fire. It had been four days since the two men had prayed together, and the man looked unchanged on the outside. Lines and creases made his face seem long and somber. His heavy-lidded gray eyes reflected the burdens and grief he carried. Michael wished he could open Caleb’s head like a jar and pour in all that God had for him, but Caleb would have to learn it as Michael was learning it, one lesson at a time. Rebuilding the foundation of his life brick by brick, making corrections along the way.

“Some eggs and steak and flapjacks would sure taste good about now,” Frank said as he spooned beans over his biscuit and bacon. “Wash it down with some good chuck wagon coffee.”

“Just close your eyes and imagine,” Caleb said. He turned to Michael. “Would you say a blessin’ for us?”

Frank halted the spoon an inch from his lips. He canted one bushy eyebrow. “Sheriff, I ain’t never heard you ask for blessin’ before.” He looked at Jeremiah. “If I’d cooked this delicious meal, I’d be insulted.”

Caleb shook his head. “I . . . um . . . just feel like we oughta let the good Lord know we thank Him for all He’s given us. Go ahead, son.”

Michael bowed his head. “Lord, we thank You for this day and for food to nourish our bodies. Thank You for guiding and leading us and sending Your angels to minister to and protect us. We ask You to be with us today. Help us find Mr. Carstairs and bring him home safely. In Jesus’ name. Amen.”

When he finished, Frank shoveled a spoonful of beans into his mouth. “Caleb, what happened to—?”

Caleb shot him a look from under lowered eyebrows. Frank shrugged. “Oh, well. ’Tain’t none of my business anyways.”

Caleb met Michael’s eyes and smiled.

Old Thomas stood in one fluid motion, his knees cracking just a little. “Caleb, old friend, I do believe you have had a transformation. This is a good thing. May your God bring you comfort and peace and wisdom.”

Caleb nodded, and Frank opened his mouth, then closed it and shrugged again. He poured a cup of coffee and spoke to Caleb. “Are we going to push on or wait for Barkston to join us?”

Caleb swallowed his last bite of biscuit. He brushed crumbs off his hands. “Good biscuit, Jeremiah. ’Course, I remember my wife addin’ honey to the dough. Made ’em extra sweet.” Scratching his chin through his beard, he glanced skyward through half-closed eyes.

“I think we push on,” he said, answering Frank’s question. “There’s no telling where Bill and his men are. With Malachi tracking, he’ll get here eventually. The trail from here is pretty hard to miss, so he should be able to catch up to us. If the trail peters out or splits, we can leave him some sign.” He pushed to his feet and gave another upward glance. “Hope it don’t rain, though.”

The group rode out with Old Thomas and Jeremiah in the lead. Caleb, Michael, and Frank followed about a hundred yards behind. They maintained an easy trot for several miles, altering their straight course only to follow the contours of the land as they entered the foothills.

After several hours, they stopped at a small brook to water the horses.

“They sure are makin’ this easy,” Frank said. “Why do you suppose that is? Think they’re leadin’ us into a trap?”

Caleb remounted and looked across the brook to where the tracks continued. “Could be. Could be too they’re getting close to wherever they’re headed and want to get there quick.”

Jeremiah said, “They might have panicked after murdering Vernon and the others, or they might think Vernon was the only one following them and now they’re safe.”

“Could be any of those things,” Caleb said. “This outfit is tough to read. We best figure they may be laying an ambush somewhere up ahead and keep our eyes open.”

As they rode off again, Frank lagged a little ways behind. Caleb paced his horse to keep in step with Michael. “Thanks for, you know . . . the other night.”

“You’re welcome.”

Caleb tugged his hat lower over his eyes. “I can see now what my wife would talk about—the peace, that feeling like a heavy load’s been lifted. It feels strange after all these years, especially since she died. It’s like the bitterness just kept building. But that’s gone now. It feels good to be able to talk about her without wantin’ to bawl my eyes out.”

Michael nodded. “I know what you mean. It’s a good thing to lay your burdens down.”

They rode on until dusk, enjoying the respite the cloud cover provided from the relentless sun. Old Thomas and Jeremiah finally stopped at the top of a small rise that dipped between two taller foothills.

“What do you see?” Caleb asked as the others joined them.

Old Thomas squinted at the sky and then down the other side of the rise. “It is getting dark. These clouds will hide the moon, so the trail will be hard to follow. If they are planning an ambush, the next few miles would be the place to do it. There are plenty of places for them to hide, and we will be moving very slowly.”

“I reckon you’re right, old friend. Let’s ride on a little ways to find a place to camp. It’ll have to be a cold camp, and we’ll mount a guard again.”

At the bottom of the small slope, the trail turned around the hill to their right. A small spring gurgled from the rocks, forming a shallow pool that fed a small green meadow. The men dismounted and tended to the horses, their movements hushed and tense. Michael brushed Buddy and checked his hooves for stones or damage. The others did the same. The packhorse rolled on his back, happy to be released from his burden.

Michael took the first watch with Frank. He held his rifle across his chest, a round in the firing chamber, his finger on the trigger guard, praying he’d have no need for it. The clouds blotted the stars and dimmed his vision. Every sound seemed magnified and a potential danger. Time crawled. But nothing happened.

After a quick, cold breakfast, they were on their way again.