The Glorious Prodigal (16 page)

Pete Jennings could do nothing but weep. Here in the dank, poisoned air of a foul prison, he’d seen the mighty God once again perform His ageless miracle!

CHAPTER EIGHT

An Old Debt

“I wish you would just look at this, Lobo! I never thought I’d live to see such a thing in my born days!”

Lobo Smith had been gazing out of the window at his Missouri farm, but he turned now and put his one good eye on his father-in-law, Zachariah Winslow. At the age of fifty-two, Lobo Smith could have passed for a much younger man. He was no more than five ten, but there was a roundness to his arms revealed by the tan shirt that he wore. He had a deep chest and carried an aura of strength about him. His hair was curly and brown, and he was roughly handsome, but the most striking aspect was the black patch he wore over his left eye. It gave him the look of a bandit or a pirate. His good eye was an unusual shade of indigo that seemed to gleam against his dark golden tan.

“What’s that, Zach?” Lobo said, coming over to look at the paper the old man was reading.

“Right there! Look at her.”

Lobo scanned the picture and the caption of the
Springfield Herald
that read,
Bobbed Hair Craze Sweeping America and Britain.
“Well, she does look like she’s shorn pretty close.”

“It’s indecent,” Zach sputtered. “That’s the trouble with the world these days. Bobbed hair and bossy wives!”

“Oh, come on now, Zach! I don’t think that’s really the trouble with the world, do you?”

Zach Winslow threw himself back in his chair and stared at his piratical-looking son-in-law. He was seventy-eight now,
his hair was silver, and there was little to remind Lobo of the strong man that Zach Winslow had once been. Zach had been somewhat of a gunman, a prizefighter, a soldier in the Civil War, and a rancher, but now the years had caught up with him. He seemed frail, and liver spots covered the back of his bony hands. Yet even at his age, his eyes were still clear and his mind sharp.

“You’re right about that, Lobo.” Slipping the paper over, he thumped the front of it and said, “This here war across the water is gettin’ plum out of hand. Look at that headline.”

Lobo stared down at the headline dated November 9, 1916, and read aloud, “Casualties Mount as Battle of the Somme Enters Fourth Month.”

“It’s a pretty bad one from what I hear. Millions of good men are getting killed.”

“I been reading about it, Lobo. Men are dying like flies over there.”

“Well, when you got three million men lined up against each other,” Lobo observed, “all armed with machine guns and cannons and bombs, men are going to get killed.” He sauntered over toward the cane-bottomed chair on the front porch and sat down on it, tilting it back. His eye looked out across the horizon, taking in the cattle grazing in the short distance, the corrals filled with thoroughbreds, and a feeling of pride surged through him. He had married Zach Winslow’s daughter, Lanie, as a young man, and now a part of these thousands of acres would be his one day. He cared little for possessions. Indeed, he cared much more for the old man who sat rocking beside him. Although November, the sun of a late Indian summer shone down brightly, and Lobo sat there listening as Zach read items from the paper.

“I see this fellow Pancho Villa made a raid down in Columbus, New Mexico.”

“Yeah,” Lobo said, “but I hear the army’s after him.”

Zach laughed harshly. “Yeah, a fellow they call General Pershing. They won’t catch Villa, though, not down in Mexico.”

“I don’t reckon so. That army stays all bunched up together, but those Mexican bandits will divide out and take fifty different trails. I don’t reckon they’ll catch ’em.”

Lobo suddenly said, “I got a letter from Logan. He got his twenty-ninth kill.”

Logan Smith, who was a son of Lobo and Lanie, had left America and joined the Foreign Legion, and then transferred into the Royal Air Corps. He was such a skilled pilot that he soon had become an ace.

“He’ll do,” Lobo said briefly. He could not hide the pride that shone in his one indigo eye.

“What are you two doing out here? Swapping lies as usual?” Lanie Smith came out on the porch carrying a tray with three cups of hot tea. She was a tall woman with only a few silver hairs among her rich auburn crown, and her brilliant green eyes that came from her Welsh mother glowed with humor as she studied the two men. She was concerned about her father, for he had been failing lately, and she eyed him carefully as he sat there. “Are you warm enough out here, Dad?” she said.

“Warm enough!” Zach snorted. “Why it’s about as hot as any summer day today. Did I ever tell you about the time when we was fightin’ down in Arkansas at Pea Ridge? It was spring but hot in them hills, let me tell you—”

“Now, Dad, I didn’t ask for another one of your lying war stories,” Lanie said. She put the tray down, stirred a generous spoonful of sugar into one of the cups, and handed it to her father with a smile. “If it gets too cold, you come in the house.”

“Come in the house—come in the house!” Zach muttered. “That’s all I get. Orders around here.”

Lanie sat down on a chair and sipped on her tea as the men enjoyed theirs. “The reunion plans are going fine.”

“Is everybody coming?” Lobo asked. He was looking forward to the reunion, which had been Lanie’s idea. She was afraid that Zach might not last another year, and she wanted
to get all the family possible together and had worked hard at it.

“John and Jeanine will be leaving Africa in time to be here.”

“A mighty long way to come for a party,” Zach said. Nevertheless, he was pleased, for John Winslow had been such a wild young man. Now, however, he had settled down and married a fine woman named Jeanine Quintana. They were serving as missionaries in Africa. “Be good to see them and that granddaughter of mine, Mallory. Never laid eyes on her. Ain’t right a man should have a grandchild and not lay eyes on her.”

“What about Phil and Cara?” Lobo asked. “They going to be able to make it?”

“Yes. Phil’s doing a show, but he’s going to cut it short.”

“Seems funny to have an artist as a son,” Zach muttered. “All the rest of us Winslows were roughnecks.”

“Will they bring all the kids with them?”

“Yes. All three.” Then she added, “Bill and Elaine will be here with their kids. And, of course, Tom and Helen and Betsy and Wesley. They’ll all be here except Logan, of course.”

“I reckon he’s got better things to do, like shootin’ down enemy planes. I wish he’d shoot down that horrible Red Baron.”

“That might take some doin’,” Lobo said, stroking his chin thoughtfully.

“Look, there’s the mail. I’ll go get it,” Lanie said.

“No, let me. You sit here and drink the rest of my tea.” Lobo got up and strolled out to the mailbox, where Ernest Benegian pulled up in his Studebaker and leaned out.

“Here’s the mail, Lobo. How you doin’?”

“Fine.”

“Read about that boy of yours shootin’ down half the German air force. Congratulations. That’s some son you got there.”

“We’re right proud of him,” Lobo said. He turned and walked back to the house carrying a handful of envelopes
and gave them all to Zach, who sorted through them. He handed most of them back to Lanie.

“Mostly bills and advertisements for stuff we don’t need,” he muttered.

Lanie left soon to start dinner, and Lobo sat with the old man, listening as always. He respected Zach Winslow as he respected few others and knew that time was short. He looked up finally and said, “We got a visitor.”

“Who is it? My eyes ain’t as good as they used to be.”

“Looks like Tom. Yeah, it is in that fancy car of his. What is it? A Stutz Bearcat. He’s gonna get killed the way he drives that thing. Give me a horse and buggy any day.”

“I guess we’re kind of past that,” Zach said sadly. But he cheered up as the automobile stopped with a loud explosion out front and Tom Winslow came sailing out. He was a tall man with astonishing red hair, for which he was teased unmercifully. His father often told him, “You ain’t none of ours. We found you under a farkleberry bush!” But wherever it came from, it highlighted Tom’s light blue eyes.

Lobo rose, saying, “Hello, Tom. I’ll let you sit here and listen to some of your dad’s lies. I’ve had about all I can take.”

“Okay, Lobo.” Tom plumped himself down, leaned over, and patted his father on the knee. “How are you, Dad?”

“Can’t complain.”

“You never do,” Tom said. He sobered briefly as he noticed the lines of pain and marks of weariness on his father’s face. He had a quick memory of Zach Winslow when he had been a younger man, full of strength. Now that day had passed, and Tom covered up his surprise at the toll the years had taken on his father.

The two men talked for a while, and Tom said, “I’m staying overnight if I can have my old room.”

“Go get unpacked, and then maybe we’ll go for a drive tonight. I’d like to look over the place.”

“Sure, Dad.”

Tom went inside, kissed his mother, then moved his things
upstairs. When he had finished unpacking his few belongings for his overnight stay, he looked around the room and thought of the years he had spent growing up here. They had been good years. He and his brothers had learned to ride wild horses, they had hunted and fished and rodeoed together. Now they were all grown, and he felt a sudden nostalgia for the good old days. He was a successful lawyer in Springfield now with a fine wife and family, but as he stood in the midst of the old trophies tacked to the wall, he suddenly laughed.

“You can’t go home again,” he said. “I can’t be sixteen years old anymore. I have to be what I am.” Then he went downstairs and found his sister with a worried frown.

“Something’s wrong with Dad,” she said.

“It’s not his heart, is it?” Tom demanded quickly.

“No. I don’t mean physically. He got a letter. He didn’t tell me what it was, but it bothered him. I could see that.” Lanie was mixing up biscuits, and she stopped and wiped her hands on her apron. “I’m worried about him, Tom. Go out and talk to him. Maybe he’ll tell you.”

“Sure, Lanie.”

Going back on the porch, Tom sat down and stretched his long legs out, but he was too good a lawyer to say anything. He saw immediately that Lanie had been right. Something was bothering Zach, but the old man would have to come out with it himself, which he finally did, but not right off. As was his way, Zach began talking about something else.

“Wish I could have known Gilbert Winslow,” he said, giving a quick glance at his son. “Been studying the old genealogy and the journal he left.”

“That’s some journal,” Tom said.

The journal of Gilbert Winslow, the first of the Winslows to come to America, was indeed a treasure. It revealed the heart of a man struggling with himself and finally finding God. It also revealed a love story. Gilbert Winslow fell in love with Humility Cooper.

Tom smiled and said, “I know that journal by heart. I wish there were a picture of him.”

“There was one of his brother Edward, but do you know that’s the only person who came on the
Mayflower
we have a picture of? Of course, Edward was a famous man, so he had commissioned more than one portrait of himself. Why, he became governor of the colony and all that. He was a fine-looking fellow with auburn hair. Not as bright as yours, but lots of Winslows have had it. Same kind of tapered face and light blue eyes. All Winslow men look pretty much alike.”

The two talked about the Winslows for some time. Indeed, the Winslow family was most interesting. The extensive family line included judges, governors, hunters, prizefighters, and some missionaries. Most of them had left a good legacy, serving well, but as is common, there had been a few black sheep along the way.

Tom finally said, “I’d like to have a reunion and get as many of the Winslows together as we can. Not just our own family, but all the rest that are scattered out all over the country. I’d like to see Cass Winslow and Barney from over in Africa. Some of those who have really made a mark in the world and those who haven’t, too. We can’t all be heroes,” he laughed.

Zach was silent for a time, and then finally he said, “You better have it soon, Tom. I won’t be around to enjoy a get-together like that much longer.”

“Oh, Dad—”

“I’m not complaining, Tom. I’ve had a good life. I’ve had a good family, and I’m anxious to see heaven.”

“I hope it won’t be for a long time, Dad.”

“I got a letter that’s brought me some grief,” Zach said.

“What is it, Dad? Maybe I can help.”

“Here. I want you to read it, but before you do, let me tell you a little about something you don’t know about.” Zach clasped his hands together, dropped his head, and was quiet for a moment. Then he shook his shoulders and handed the letter over. “It’s from Diane Winslow.”

“Who’s she, Dad?”

“Well, go get that genealogy chart, and I’ll show you. It’s on my desk.”

“All right, Dad.” Tom went at once to the desk and came back with the chart that showed the extensive Winslow family tree in a diagram. He laid it out on Zach’s lap, and the old man touched it with a thin finger.