Comanche Cowboy (The Durango Family) (39 page)

“May God forgive us,” Hannah gasped. “May God forgive . . . ”

Joe jerked out of his memories as the buggy bumped over the rutted road toward the church. Already, faint organ music floated to him on the breeze. . . .
Oh,
come to the church in the wild wood, oh, come to the church in the dale . . .

Juan whipped the old mule up a little. “We’re late,” Rosita scolded. “They’ve already started the first song!”

Trask laughed. “Well, now that I seen you to church like I was tole to do, I’m ridin’ on down to the saloon for a drink! I’ll be back about the time services is over!”

Lynnie snapped, “It wouldn’t hurt you or old banker Ogle any to attend services, Mr. Trask!”

“Lynnie,” Joe said, “that’s not polite!”

But Trask just laughed and trotted off down the dusty road.

. . .
No spot is so dear to my childhood as the little brown church in the vale
. . .

Rosita said, “Tie the buggy to the rail, Juan, and let’s hurry in. Si, that’s right. Everybody’s already in but us.”

Joe let Lynnie help him from the buggy, holding her arm as he limped toward the weather-beaten little church with difficulty. “Go on in, everyone,” he said. “I’ve got a very special sermon today and I’d like to pray over it a little first.”

“But, Papa, you’ll be late!” Lynnie protested.

He dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “They obviously aren’t going to start the sermon without the preacher, and Brother Clemets always sings every single verse.”

The sound of their feet going in could be heard over the singing of the small congregation.

. . .
Oh, come, come, come, come to the church in
the wild wood, oh, come to the church in the dale
. . .

Joe held onto the stair rail to steady himself, bowing his head in prayer. He had made the decision last night, but weak as most humans, he was having second thoughts about the consequences, about what he had decided to do.

He heard the sound of a horse trotting into the church yard and raised his head.

“Mr. McBride,” Hank Billings swung down from the big thoroughbred he rode, “what are you doing still outside?”

“Waiting for you,” Joe said softly over the music drifting from inside the church. “I prayed you’d show up at just the right time.”

“What?” the boy said.

“Hank, would you help me? It’s something I can’t do myself because I’m being watched. Would you do me a favor with no questions?”

“What a question, Mr. McBride! After what you done for my family, this town! Why, you just name it . . . . ”

“Then don’t ask any questions. First go to the telegraph and send a wire for the army to stop the Austin stage. . . .”

“Wires are down again, Papa says. Injuns, I guess. No messages going in or out.”

Joe wondered if his message had reached Cayenne in time. With everything else, he didn’t need to have to face up to Maverick’s pistol right now. “Okay, then here’s what you’re to do. Get on that fast horse of yours, ride to the county seat. . . .”

“The county seat?” The boy whistled long and low. “That’s a far piece—”

“I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t important,” Joe said gently. “You get Captain Swenson and the Rangers, you hear? Get ’em back here by tomorrow night.”

“The Rangers!” his voice was a gasp of awe. “You want me to bring Texas Rangers to this sleepy little burg? Why, what—?”

“Something’s happenin’ here about sundown tomorrow night,” Joe said urgently over the hymn drifting from the church. “We got to have help, Hank! I’ll tell you everything when you get back!”

“I don’t know if I can get them here by then,” the boy said uncertaintly, “even with our thoroughbred.”

“Oh, yes, you can,” Joe said with conviction, “ ’cause we’re gonna have help.” He turned his face up toward the hot sun. “Oh, yes, we’re gonna have help!”

“My pa’ll be askin’—”

“Go along with you, Hank!” Joe ordered. “I’ll tell your pa about it so he won’t worry! Now, go! And tell Swenson, if the wires are up to St. Joe, he’d better look into a bank robbery a quarter of a century ago!”

“Robbery?” Then he seemed to decide against asking any more questions. “For you, Joe McBride, anything!” And he turned, the saddle creaking as he swung up and galloped off.

Joe stood listening to the hoofbeats die even as the congregation finished the song.

He felt so helpless in the face of all this calamity. In the sudden silence as he stood there, a line from an appropriate poem came to his mind. . . .
He also
serves who only stands and waits
.

Well, he’d done more than just stand. Through the open church windows, the organ music drifted as the congregation began another hymn. His favorite. It hadn’t always been but it was now.

Lead kindly Light, amid encircling gloom, Lead Thou me on . . .

Joe mounted the steps with difficulty, opened the doors at the end of the church, and stood there a moment, listening.

The night is dark and I am far from home. Lead Thou me on. Keep Thou my feet, I do not ask to see the distant scene, one step enough for me.

Joe started down the aisle slowly while the small congregation sang.
I was not ever thus nor prayed that Thou shouldest lead me on. I loved to choose and see
my path, but now lead Thou me on
.

It was a long walk so slowly up that aisle to the pulpit on crippled feet.

I loved the garish day and spite of fears, pride ruled my will, remember not past years.

He used the backs of pews to steady himself as he walked slowly toward the front, feeling the song had been chosen to speak directly to his heart.

So long Thy pow’r hath blest me, sure it still will lead me on o’er moon and fen, o’er crag and torrent, ’til the night is gone.

As he reached the rostrum, he listened to the final chords and thought of Annie.

And with the morn those angel faces smile, which I have loved long since and lost awhile.

He moved around behind the rostrum with difficulty, using it to balance his unsteady feet. Out of long habit, he took the worn Bible from his pocket, lying it before him, although he had memorized every word and did not need to see the print.

“Let us pray,” he said softly, closing his eyes. He heard people shift in their pews. Someone coughed; a baby cried while its mother tried to shush it, finally taking it out with a rustle of her petticoats moving down the aisle.

“Heavenly Father, Great Jehovah,” he said hesitantly, “forgive us for the sin of pride, for we have all been guilty of it, yes, every one.”

He had prayed over his decision all night and now it was time to face the consequences of it. His voice grew stronger, louder with the strength of his convictions. “I, too, have been weak, glorying in the love and adoration of this town, yea, even encouraging them to idolize me.”

He heard a murmur of protest from the audience, but he held up his hand to stay them without opening his eyes. “I am guilty of the sin of pride of wanting men’s good thoughts and good wishes for actions that any decent man would have done.”

A murmur of protest went up again but he kept praying. Now that he had made his decision, he would not be stopped, no matter the consequences. “I have been a hero, an idol, and yet, idols have feet of clay if one looks too closely and one should give such adoration only to the Lord.”

Now the buzz through the church was one of confusion, curiosity. “What’d he say? What’s this all about?’

“Papa,” Lynnie interrupted from the front row, “we don’t understand. . . .”

“Lynnie, pray about your shortcomings in the field of impatience,” he said gently. “I am trying to tell you, I have been so proud, so loathe to lose my reputation as resident saint, as it were, I have come very close to standing back and letting evil happen while I raised no hand to stop it.”

A whisper went through the small crowd again and old Mrs Rumsley, the one who used the ear trumpet, said loudly, “What’d he say about raising his hand?”

Someone shushed her.

“Joe,” Brother Edwards nasal voice began hesitantly, “we ain’t quite sure what you’re drivin’ at. . . .”

“I’m saying no one should make such a hero of a man for doin’ what’s right and decent anyhow. But it was my fault for gloryin’ in it, maybe encouragin’ it when, if you knew the real Joe McBride, you might be shocked.”

There was dead silence now and he bent his head, glad he didn’t see their faces. If he could see their shocked eyes, he might not be able to to confess. “A long time ago,” he said, “in another place and time, I was a thief, a robber.”

He didn’t look up, but he heard the sharp intake of breath from the small congregation, and Lynnie said, “Papa!”

He made a gesture to hush her. “It’s true, it’s true. I didn’t steal anything, but I tried. At the time, I thought I had good reason to steal the money, I needed it so badly.”

He didn’t raise his head but he could feel the eyes of the group boring into him. The old church was so quiet that he heard a bumblebee buzz in through one window, out another. In the heat, ladies fanned themselves noisily with paper fans. “That was no excuse; I know that now and I guess the Lord knew it, too, because I didn’t get away with a dime. Moreover, a man was killed in that robbery. I didn’t shoot him but I’m responsible; I was there.”

He waited a long moment but no one said anything. From the very back pew, the Harrison baby wailed fretfully. He felt sweat run down inside his collar in the August heat. “It was a long time ago,” he said, “and I guess the sheriff in St. Joe is still lookin’ for me. But I wanted to tell this congregation before I told Captain Swenson and turned myself in. That’s all I got to say and I ask your prayers, hope you don’t hate me too much for disappointing you.” Tears came to his eyes, filled them. “One more thing,” he said. “I request that at sundown tomorrow, you all gather in your homes and pray for the future of this church; this town, yes, even for me if you can find it in your hearts to do so. That’s all I got to say.”

With difficulty, he stumbled from the rostrum to a grip on the first pew.
It was a long way up that aisle,
he thought,
up the aisle and out to the buggy
. Somewhere in the crowd, a woman began to weep and he realized suddenly that it was old Rosita.

It was over and done with and he was glad he’d confessed. Now he had no money, no reputation, no pride, but he’d done the right thing—finally.

He grasped the back of the pew to steady his crippled feet and started on up the aisle. He’d been protecting those outlaws, not so much because he feared for the townspeople or even his own family; he realized now he’d been protecting his own guilty past. Well, that was a club Slade couldn’t hold over his head any more, and when the Rangers got here, they’d take care of that trio, maybe catch them red-handed robbing the stage. He wouldn’t tell the people about that. The gentle farmers might try to stop the hardened outlaws and that was a job for the Rangers.

The part about Annie he couldn’t tell without labeling his children “bastards” and they didn’t deserve that, so he’d not tell it.

“Joe,” Brother Clemets said, but Joe kept doggedly walking up the aisle toward the doors at the rear. If they were going to publicly condemn him, take his position as preacher from him, well, he expected no less.

“Yes?”

Brother Edwards walked across the creaking floor and caught Joe’s arm. “It took more courage to do that, Brother, than it did to face the Indians.”

“What? I—I don’t understand. . . .”

And then the congregation seemed to break out of the spell of his confession, coming up off the wooden pews en masse and crowding around him. “We love you, Joe McBride! We’ll pray for you, Brother, and you pray for us, too!”

A murmur first, then a roar of agreement went up from all of them as they crowded around him. “You got guts, Joe, I’ll say that for you, to tell something none of us would ever have known if you hadn’t told it!”

“That’s right!” Billings said. “You’re a braver man than I am, Joe McBride!”

Hands reached out to shake his in the press and confusion, and his little girl gathered around his legs.

“Papa,” Lynnie said, “you were wonderful! Just like the heroes in my books! We’re so proud!”

He started sobbing then, sobbing for all the years that he’d worried over this, all the weight that had been lifted from his back.

Mrs. Billings’s high soprano began to sing.
In heav’nly love abiding, no change my heart shall fear . . .

Mr. Harrison’s deep bass picked it up. . . .
and safe is such confiding
, for nothing changes
here!

One by one the congregation joined in and the music swelled as they sang with spirit and feeling until the rafters seemed to shake on the old weather-beaten building.

The storm may roar without me, my heart may low be laid, but God is round about me, and can I be dismayed?

Joe broken down and wept then as he joined the singing with fervor, hugging his little girls to him.

Later, before Trask rejoined them on their way home, he warned his family not to tell the trio about his confession; they wouldn’t understand a man getting right with God anyway. But as they drove back to the ranch, Joe felt almost dizzy with it all. He hadn’t been ostracized; instead, he was a bigger hero than ever. He hadn’t told anyone about the bandits, not wanting to endanger them, but they’d all be in their homes tomorrow at sundown, praying for him, for the whole town and its future. If the Rangers would just do their job. . .

And when Swenson got here with the news from the Missouri law, Joe was ready to go back for trial, take his punishment like a man. But who would look after his children? The congregation would help, of course, but he really would only feel confident about turning them over to Cayenne. If she only had a good, steady husband . . .

A shadow passed overhead and he jerked up. “Papa!” Lynnie gasped, “the eagles are back! They’re circling over our ranch!”