The neighbors battled through the morning and, by noon, the fire had stopped. A black line of burnt stubble and grass marked the border of Joab Black’s property. To the north of that line lay the Kirkland’s pasture, unmarred by the fire. To the east, the Shackly’s field stood untouched even by last night’s hailstorm. Dixon shook his head. Astounding.
Tired, sweaty, and black from smoke, men and women headed back to their homes. Dixon scanned the crowd and noted the lack of Abbadon’s presence. The scoundrel may have felt that, not being from the area, he didn’t need to help; but, in this land, strangers, foes, and neighbors needed to stand together against a wildfire. Men like Abbadon ought to be hanged.
He frowned and slapped his blackened gunny sack against his leg. As a NWMP officer, he must remain objective in his investigation; but as a man—well, he could feel what he wanted. Much as he’d like to go ring the man’s neck, he’d forgo the pleasure for now in exchange for making sure his friends were all right.
“Hey, Nathaniel.” He waved to the blacksmith. “Can you go with me to the Blacks’?”
“Sure, Dixon. I’ve got time.” He took his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the smudges of soot from his cheeks. “Hope they survived.” He shook his head. “Mighty hard on them, losin’ their son … and now this.”
Dixon looked to the Blacks’ farm, or at least in its general direction. Now only charred remains stood against the smoke-filled sky. “Mighty tough, indeed.”
“Wonder if they lost those nice Morgans.” Nathaniel fell in step with Dixon. “They were the finest pair of steeds in this country. Joab brought them up from Vermont when he got that prize bull from Ontario. Always wondered how he came up with the money for that trip. Mind you, he’s the best farmer around. Ain’t never seen crops like his.”
Dixon rubbed the back of his neck. How would the Blacks survive winter? “Until this year.”
Nathaniel sobered. “Until this year.” He made his way through the burnt stubble. “Wondered what damage the storm did last night. Guess what the hail didn’t destroy the fire did.”
Images of dead animals strewn across the barnyard pulled on Dixon’s conscience. “The storm did more than enough to match the fire.” Perhaps, in a small way, the fire was a blessing. It would have burned the carcasses and that would keep the coyotes away.
“Funny thing, that storm. Kind of hit and miss.” Nathaniel tugged on his ash-laden sideburn. “My pa used to say a storm like that was the finger of God dispensin’ judgment.”
“Mighty rough judgment, don’t you think?” Dixon smothered a growl. If that was God’s judgment then God was unjust.
“Yeah, but He’s a holy God. My pa said ain’t no sinner could stand before Him, and we all are sinners.”
Dixon twitched his mustache. “Then why did He bother making us?”
Nathaniel chuckled. “Guess He just needed somethin’ to do.”
Dixon snorted. Was God really a distant spirit that stirred the pot of human lives just to hold His interest? Yet, Joab said He was a God of love. Wonder if Joab still thought that.
The black ground crunched under his boots, and puffs of ash swirled around him. What good did destroying a man do? Perhaps it wasn’t God. Perhaps this Almighty just set things in motion and left. Dixon narrowed his eyes, and anger stirred in his chest as he recalled Joab’s words from last week. “Someone once told me we were created for God’s glory. How does destroying a good man bring God glory?”
Nathaniel shook his head. “No one knows the mind of God.”
Dixon lifted his hand over his eyes to block the sun as he scanned the area. “Hey, there they are, in that circle of stubble.”
“Yeah. Looks like they fought fire with fire.”
Dixon broke into a run. “They’re not standing. Come on, Nathaniel.” He could see they were bent over as though praying.
“Sergeant Dixon, Mr. Blake.” Mrs. Black stood. “Please get the doctor. Joab’s badly burned.” Tears cut white streaks down her cheeks. Her blonde hair, gray with ash, blew like a racehorse’s mane in the wind.
“I’ll go.” Nathaniel spun on his heel and ran like a rabbit on short legs.
Dixon gulped back bile as he surveyed Joab’s injuries. They brought back images of a fire years ago. A fire for which he was responsible.
“Can you help me take him to our old soddy?” She bent down and grabbed her husband’s hand.
“Yes Ma’am.” Dixon pushed aside the memories and wrapped Joab’s arm around his shoulder. The smell of burnt flesh churned his stomach.
“Thanks.” Joab moaned as he tried to stand on his feet then fell to his knees. A cry of agony escaped his lips, and he turned white as a sheet under the soot covering his face.
“Steady. Take your time.” How could the man endure this?
Mrs. Black wrapped his other arm around her neck and they tried again. With great care, they half-carried and half-dragged him to the old sod house built into the side of a coulee on the south end of their property. What a wonder. At least they would have some form of shelter.
The blackened grass on the roof matched the world around it, but the inside of the house showed no signs of the fire, though he could smell smoke. Dixon and Mrs. Black laid Joab on the dirt floor.
Joab moaned then called for his wife.
With a lump in his throat, Dixon stepped back and surveyed the house. One small, empty room filled with nothing but dirt, and lit by a single window covered with oiled parchment paper. A wood stove stood in the center. Its pipe stretched to the low ceiling. In the corner stood an empty crate, the only thing left to indicate the Blacks once lived there. A far cry from the house that once stood as a symbol of their success. What cruel god would allow such destruction?
Mrs. Clumpit peered around the entrance. “I brought some blankets.” She stepped into the sod, and her gaze rolled over the bleak interior, but her expression remained unchanged, still tender, still compassionate. She handed Mrs. Black the blankets.
Dixon moved aside to make room for the gentle woman.
“Nathaniel’s coming with the wagon and the doctor. As soon as I saw the men had stopped the fire, I headed up to your farm. I saw you come in here.” She touched Mrs. Black’s arm. “I’m so sorry.”
Mrs. Black shook her head but didn’t speak. What could one say in the face of such devastation?
Rolling his Stetson through his fingers, Dixon pointed his gaze at his friend. The man’s case seemed hopeless. How does one rise above utter destruction?
Joab moaned and shivered beneath the blankets. His face looked like a festering pool of ash and dirt with red eyes as sharpened and pointed in their gaze as rapiers.
“This cold ground can’t be good for him.” Fresh anxiety rolled over Dixon as he watched Joab’s chest make weak attempts to rise and fall. He looked to die, as those men in his past.
Dixon wiped his face of the memories, but he couldn’t wipe away the hopelessness. What lay beyond one’s last breath? A man like Joab had hope in a heaven, without sorrow or pain or death. Could such a place really exist? Or did one merely cease to exist? And if so, what meaning did life hold?
The rumble of a wagon announced the doctor’s arrival.
Dixon hustled out the door, muscles knotted and spine straightened as he greeted Dr. Petrie.
“How bad is he?” The physician asked as he jumped from the wagon before it stopped.
Dixon shook his head. “Not good, sir—not good at all.”