The Clayton Chronicles
Author's Note: One of Pernell Roberts' pre-Bonanza roles was as Reverend Dave Clayton in the Bronco episode "The Belles of Silver Flats". Once known as Sam Driscoll, a notorious gunfighter, Dave's entire life changed when a bullet meant for his heart hit a small Bible he carried instead. Taking it as an omen, he rejected his former life, changed his name and allowed the rumor of his death to spread. Having consigned Sam Driscoll to the grave, he now travels from rough mining town to rough mining town starting churches, leaving bells behind when he leaves.
This collection of short stories follows Dave's trials and triumphs as he carries out his calling in the wild and tempestuous West. Enjoy.
A Time to Stand
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“Hey, Preacher!”
The gravelly voice from the saloon stopped Dave in his tracks and he turned slowly, a pleasant smile on his face, though he knew the man stopping him had no desire to be pleasant. Bill Patterson stared at him over the top of the saloon doors, his face hard and scowling.
“What can I do for you, Bill?” Dave kept his voice calm, though his patience with this particular man was starting to wear thin.
Bill stepped through the doors and stopped toe-to-toe with Dave, his beefy hands on his hips and bending his surly face down within inches of Dave’s. “You know what you can do for me, preacher. You can get yourself outta town,” he growled with a jerk of a thumb down the street.
The man’s breath showed he’d been having a few too many already that morning and his temper only reinforced that impression. Dave paused a minute, considering his options and realizing they were few. Patterson had been a thorn in his side ever since he had come to this town, and no amount of friendliness or patience on Dave’s part seemed to make one bit of difference in the man’s animosity toward him. But then Dave didn’t take it personally; some people were just that way about ministers. Patterson was belligerent for no apparent reason, but he wasn’t the first man Dave had faced that was.
He stepped back, then crossed an arm over his chest and placed a hand over his mouth as if considering the matter for a moment. He smiled again and pointed a finger towards Patterson. “Well, Bill, I’ll take that into consideration, but seeing’s as how I have a church service in the morning, I’m afraid I’ll have to disoblige you this time.”
“You been disobliging me ever since you came here and I ain’t taking no more of it!” The man reached forward and grabbed a handful of Dave’s shirt, dragging him forward again. “I don’t like you, preacher,” he growled into Dave’s face. “I don’t like you and I don’t want to see you around here again. Now, you just pack your bags and git. We don’t need your kind around here.” He let Dave go with a shove, then turned and walked back into the saloon.
Dave let his breath out with a whoosh, then took another deep breath as he tried to settle his own flaring temper. There were still times when that old man reared up and tried to take over. He shrugged his shoulders to settle his coat back into place and straightened his collar. His face set hard as he stared after Patterson.
“You oughten ta let him push you around like that, Reverend,” a voice at his elbow offered. He turned to find Carl Simpson next to him, his old eyes flashing fire and his gnarled hands clenched as if ready to take on Patterson himself. The sight soothed Dave’s own ruffled feathers and he chuckled.
“Well, if I can’t put up with men like that, I don’t have much business tryin’ to tell other men to walk the path of peace, now do I?”
“Wal now, I reckon that’s so, but there’s some men as would try the patience of a saint, and the way you been putting up with ol' Bill, I reckon you’re as close as Hatton’s Gulch is gonna git.”
“I wish that were so, Carl, but I’m afraid I’m a long way from sainthood.”
“Wal, you got the patience of one, and that’s a fact.”
“Patience that’s running pretty thin, actually,” Dave admitted ruefully.
“Wal, all I’s got ta say is a man like that is someone that don’t stop til you push back at him.”
“Maybe, or maybe there’s a better way. Speakin’ of which, you comin’ to service tomorrow?”
“Wal, sure, Reverend I ain’t missed yet, have I?”
“No, you’re my most faithful attendee, and I appreciate it.” Dave clapped him on the shoulder. “See you tomorrow.”
The problem of Bill Patterson didn’t go away. It followed Dave back to his room at the hotel and settled into his thoughts as he lay back on the bed, tucked his hands behind his head and stared at the cracked plaster of the ceiling.
He had no intention of leaving until he felt his job here was finished. The church he had established was growing little by little and he was making good headway, but it was too soon to leave; the small congregation still needed him. Only Patterson was becoming a problem, and more insistent and belligerent by the day.
He knew the type; he’d faced many like him, men who liked to throw their weight around and lord it over men they considered weaker than themselves and that was the problem - he saw Dave as weak because he was a minister. It was a misconception he met a lot in his travels. He’d found that people had preconceived notions as to what that collar around his neck meant and what kind of man he was because of it. Weakness for one, absolute saintliness for another, it all depended on which side of the street the person was standing on, both equally wrong. He wasn’t weak and he wasn’t a saint - the good Lord knew he wasn’t - though he was doing his best to remedy that.
Besides, his patience with Patterson didn’t come from the collar. He’d learned that when his occupation had been very different. Then he’d needed a cool head, to be slow to react to a situation or find himself gunning down man after man set on proving what a fast gun they were. His temper had been quick enough in the beginning, but as the body count mounted and his reputation had grown, he’d learn not to be goaded into a battle he wasn’t wanting - a skill he’d found even more useful now that he’d exchanged a gun for a Bible.
Of course, none of this was bringing him any closer to solving the problem with Patterson. He had a feeling that Carl was right. Patterson would push until Dave pushed back; the only thing to figure out now was - how hard to push and when.
Dave had spent the rest of the night on his knees searching for wisdom from the only Source he knew of to find it. He arose as the dawn turned rosy outside his window, still not sure of a plan, but at least with the confidence he wouldn’t be fighting alone.
The thought made him smile as he remembered how his friend Bronco used to insist he had help whenever Dave bested him at anything. He hadn’t seen Bronco in some time, but he heard from him occasionally and he still had fond memories of the man who’d helped him start a church in Silver Flats. He found himself wishing he had Bronco by his side this morning; he had a feeling Patterson wouldn’t let the day die without challenging him once again and this time Dave didn’t intend to let it go unanswered.
In spite of the night of prayer and the quiet confidence, an edgy feeling took over as soon as he left the hotel and headed for the rented building on the outskirts of town where he held church services. He recognized the feeling - he’d had it often enough. It was the feeling he got when he knew someone was coming for him. It didn’t happen so much now that he’d put up his gun, but when it did, it made him antsy enough to make him wish he still carried one.
He answered the friendly greetings of the townspeople he passed with a calm smile, hiding the knot in the pit of his stomach as he approached the Blue Belle saloon - Patterson’s stomping ground. He breathed a quick prayer and walked on past it, sighing with relief when Patterson failed to make an appearance.
He was well on his way through his message for the morning and feeling better, the ominous cloud that had hung over him earlier dispelling in the peaceful atmosphere of a church full of worshipers, when the church door banged open and all eyes turned to the back of the church. Dave knew then it had come. Bill Patterson stood there his eyes small in his red face, a cruel smile tightening his lips, several friends lined up behind him.
“All right, Preacher. I warned you,” Patterson said as he started forward down the center aisle of the church and stopped in front of the pulpit. It didn’t take him long - it was a small church - and Dave was eye to eye with him on the short box he used as a platform. “I warned you to git outta town. Now, I’m here to make sure you do.”
A calmness settled over Dave as he stared into the man’s face. Suddenly, he knew what he had to do. “Welcome to our church, Mr. Patterson,” he said with a smile. “If you’d like to be seated, we can finish the service.” He stepped down from the box and moved to the side of the pulpit. “There’s a seat right there in the front for you,” he said pointing.
With a snarl, Patterson grabbed for him, but Dave was ready and he blocked it with his forearm before sending a right hook into Patterson’s extended belly, then a left to his jaw as he doubled over, straightening him up again in time to meet another right that laid him flat and put him out cold.
Dave took a deep breath and shook his fist to take out the sting from that last punch, then looked up at his wide-eyed congregation before motioning to Patterson’s stunned friends to come get him. He straightened his suit and collar, then calmly stepped back behind the pulpit.
He held the people’s eyes for a moment then smiled. “For our closing text, let’s look at Ecclesiastes 3:1.” He swept his congregation with his eyes again, making sure they were with him. The shocked faces of most of them were slowly calming. The peace in his heart along with the wide grins on the faces of several tough old miners and cowboys that he’d been trying to win over with little success gave him a sense that he’d done the right thing. He sent a mental prayer of thanks to the Lord for His guidance then gathering himself he began to recite, “To everything there is a season and a time to every purpose under the heaven.”
**********
The Hazards of the Job
***********
The giggles were coming from the far right, third row back, and as hard as he tried to ignore them and concentrate on his sermon, the constancy of it was making it very difficult. A quick glance that way confirmed his suspicion that it was Maryann Calter and Beth Stewart, and what they were finding so funny in a sermon on the tribulations of Job, Dave had no clue. More than likely it had nothing at all to do with the sermon and everything to do with their age and their rather obvious infatuation with their new minister.
Sure enough, the minute they noticed he was looking their way, the coy grins started and Beth lowered one long-lashed eyelid in a slow wink that almost made Dave lose his place. He quickly turned away and the subdued giggles began again.
He moved his eyes across the church as far away from the two girls as he could, only to be met by the simpering grin of Miss Sheppard, the piano player, sitting in her accustomed place in the far left front row pew.
Miss Sheppard had been very attentive of late, even a little proprietary, and Dave quickly averted his eyes back towards the center. It was a mistake, for sitting dead center half way back were the Misses Thomas and their friend Miss Campbell and he had a feeling their rapt attention wasn’t from the enthralling nature of his sermon either.
There was simply no place in the church for him to rest his eyes without encountering the stare of one young woman or another. As a matter of fact, if he’d realized just how many unattached females there were in this town, he would have seriously considered starting a church in Coleville eighty miles further west. But nobody had warned him that Cranmer had the largest population of single women this side of the Mississippi and he was rather stuck now.
Still there were advantages; he hadn’t had to cook a meal or eat supper at a single restaurant since he'd arrived, having been invited to every home with an eligible female within fifty miles. And there were a lot of them because, though Cranmer had an overabundance of woman, it was sadly lacking in eligible males to go with them and what accounted for the discrepancy he had yet to discover.
It was, of course, one of the hazards of his profession. A minister was simply too great a catch and too easy a target for any mother of a marriageable daughter to resist. Dave had had to become very adept over the years at dodging the arrows of Cupid lobbed at him by determined mommas and their equally determined daughters.
He had occasionally thought about simply marrying some nice woman or other just to remove the problem, but as that came with a whole new set of problems of its own, he had decided it wasn’t worth it. Not that he was averse to marrying if the right woman came along; he was just averse to marrying for marrying’s sake.
So he had to simply put up with the giggles and coquettish glances, try his best to be polite but distant as possible, raising no expectations and keeping out of trouble. It wasn’t an easy task and he had a feeling this town was going to take every trick and maneuver he had available. It was enough to make him seriously consider pulling up and starting over somewhere else. Except he had a stubborn streak in him that just wouldn’t give up.
Then, as his eyes moved over the congregation once again and caught the gaze of Miss Jeffords, who immediately lowered her eyelids half-way and puckered her lips to send a kiss in his direction, he realized this bunch of women just might succeed in doing what even the rowdiest, roughest, meanest bunch of miners and cowboys had been unable to do - make him turn tail and run.
**********
Out of the Past
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He was being followed. He was sure of it. Though he couldn’t see or hear anything, it was a feeling he had and he’d learned over the years to trust his feelings - they’d kept him alive more than once.
Slowing his steps, he glanced back, but there were only shadows. The night was dark and the fingernail moon riding high in the sky lent little light. There was a glow from the Silverado Saloon across the street but it didn’t reach this far. Dave walked in darkness, something he normally didn’t mind, but that nagging feeling of being followed had him on edge. And it wasn’t just tonight either; he’d had it for some time now. The feeling that he was being watched - trailed - seemed to go with him wherever he went these days.
Picking up his pace again, he continued on his way home. But he kept his ears trained behind him, listening for footsteps on the boardwalks. He heard only his own. The night was quiet except for the laughter and the tinny sound of the piano across the street.
He crossed Porter Street and the feeling that someone was behind him grew stronger. It was only a little farther to the small house he was renting and he resisted the urge to run that overwhelmed him. A few steps more and he was at the front gate. He placed his hand on it to open it when a voice spoke beside him.
“Reverend Clayton?”
He turned sharply, his hand automatically reaching for his side, a reflex so ingrained he had given up trying to overcome it, and then let out sigh of relief when he saw it was Clarabelle Best, a saloon girl from the Silverado. “Clarabelle,” he said, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly in an attempt to calm his wildly beating heart and screaming nerves. “You, uh, startled me.” He smiled apologetically at her. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m sorry, Reverend,” she replied. “I saw you pass by a minute ago and I…” She stopped and looked up at him shyly. “I was wondering if I could talk to you for a minute?”
“Of course.” He swung open the gate and gestured for her to proceed him.
Her eyes widened. “Oh, no. I couldn’t come in. I… I wouldn’t want… Well, you know, Reverend.”
He chuckled lightly. “Good point.” He shut the gate again, then folded his hands quietly in front of him and waited for her to proceed.
“Well, you see…” She didn’t get a chance to say anything further as a man stepped out of the shadows behind her.
Dave’s eyes widened at the sight of the man and he instinctively drew Clarabelle towards him and stepped in front of her.
The man smiled at the movement and then looked Dave up and down with a smirk.
“Still as gallant as ever I see, Driscoll, or shall I say Clayton? Reverend Clayton,” he drawled out with an insolent laugh. “I could hardly believe it when I heard. Who woulda ever thought ol' Sam becoming a preacher.”
“What do you want, Parker?” Dave asked coldly. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Clarabelle looking confusedly between him and Parker.
“You know what I want. I been looking for you for a long time, Driscoll. You about had me fooled with all that talk you’d died. Had me depressed for quite awhile, thinking somebody else had gotten to you first. ‘Til I heard that you’d just changed your name and gotten religion.” Parker gave a scornful chuckle. “Pretty good disguise. But not good enough.” His eyes hardened and narrowed. “Because I found you anyway,” he said and his hand drifted to his side to hover inches above his gun. “And that collar ain’t gonna protect you anymore.”
His eyes never leaving those of the man in front of him, Dave reached over and opened the gate and then pushed Clarabelle towards the house. “Go in the house, Clarabelle. It isn’t locked.” He was relieved that the girl didn’t argue with him, merely gave him a frightened glance and scurried toward the house. She only went as far as the front step, but it was far enough and he could turn his attention to Parker.
Slowly, he opened his jacket. “I’m not wearing a gun, Parker,” he said quietly. “And I’m sorry about Jake. If I could do it over I would,” he added regretfully. “I don’t blame you for being angry, but it was a fair fight; he pulled first.”
“Fair,” Parker spat out. “You call gunning down a green kid fair?!”
“He wanted Sam Driscoll,” Dave went on. “There was no talking him out of it; I tried.” In Dave’s mind, he could see again the young kid, so full of himself, so sure of making a big name for himself by gunning down Sam Driscoll, and he felt again the deep sadness the memory always brought. There had been too many just like him over the years.
“Yeah, well, I want him, too. Only I ain’t no wet-behind-the-ears kid.” Parker’s voice was menacing and the fingers of his gun hand twitched; Dave knew he was going to kill him.
“I’m not armed, Parker,” Dave reminded him again, not sure if it would really make a difference.
“That’s easy fixed,” Parker growled. “Get one.”
Dave shook his head at him. “No, I put it away for a reason. My gun fightin’ days are over. If you want to kill me, I can’t stop you. I won’t stop you. But you’ll have to do it in cold blood.”
In the dim light, he could see Parker’s face twist in anger and he reached for his gun. Dave braced himself for the jolt from the bullet as he closed his eyes and began to pray quietly to himself. It seemed an odd way for his life to end, but then it also seemed fitting - gunned down in revenge over a boy he himself had killed.
The seconds ticked by and there was only silence. Dave opened his eyes and looked into the haunted ones of the man only a few paces away from him.
“I’d heard you had changed. But I didn’t believe it,” Parker ground out. “I didn’t want to believe it, ‘cause I wanted to hate you. I still do, but I can’t kill a man who won’t fight and I can’t shoot a man wearing a collar, not as long as he ain’t just hiding behind it.” With that, he holstered his gun, and turning abruptly, walked away.
Dave let out a deep sigh, hardly able to believe that he was still alive. Clarabelle came running down the walk, and stopping beside him, clutched at his jacket. “Oh, Reverend, that man was going to kill you!” she said and burst into tears, burying her face in his coat.
He gave a shaky laugh and patted her gently on the shoulder. “Well, it would appear God isn’t quite finished with me yet,” he said as he lifted grateful eyes towards the sky.
It was later that evening that Dave touched a match to the wick of his lamp. The flare as it lit sent the shadows in the room scattering to the far corners. Dave blew out the match, placed the glass cover over the light and then settled himself wearily into the chair next to the table. It had been a long day - a long week, really, with the feeling of being watched settling over him so often and wanting to constantly look over his shoulder; it had a way of wearing a man down.
He was thankful, though, that it was finally over. He was still amazed that Bill Parker had simply turned and walked away. But it was merely another example of the ever present Mercy of God towards him. He had seen it more than once since he’d put up his gun and begun preaching the good news. It still amazed him that God would even care considering what he had been.
He stared into the flame of the lamp, but he didn’t see it. Jake Parker’s death was still vivid in his mind, even after all these years, because it had been the start of the weariness with the life he was living that would grow until that day when the fatal bullet hit the Bible tucked in his pocket and changed his life. He let his mind drift back to the day Jake Parker had come out of the saloon, seeking to make a name for himself on the body of Sam Driscoll, seeing it all again almost as if he was observing it from the outside, as if it had happened to somebody else as, in a way, it had.
The town lay drowsing in the heat of the sun, the dust devils swirling in the hot wind that blew so steadily in that part of the country, leaving a thick layer of dust over everything.
The streets were deserted save for a lone horse tied in front of the general store, his ears droopy and his hind leg cocked, the only movement an occasional swish of his tail as he tried to keep the stinging flies at bay.
The only sounds were the whir of the cicadas in the trees, the wail of the wind and the raucous shouts and laughter from a saloon across the way.
The horse gave another swish of his tail and then changed legs. His ears pricked forward suddenly and he raised his head as a man walked from the store with his arms full.
His master had the dark good looks that made women stop and take a second glance when he passed by, until they saw the hardness in the hazel eyes and the gun slung low over his hips and then they gave him a wide berth.
A black hat pulled low shielded his narrowed eyes as he paused just outside the door to examine the street. They darted quickly back and forth, noting each detail and then his gaze swept to the noisy saloon across the street before he stepped down and moved to his horse.
His movements were quick and sure as he placed his purchases in his saddle bag and tied the strings tight, checking twice to make sure they were secure.
He walked to the hitching post and had just reached out to untie the reins when the sound of the saloon door opening and closing came to him.
“Driscoll!”
He stiffened at the sound of his name.
“Driscoll! I’m calling you out!” The voice was young, cocky, and just a little bit nervous and Sam couldn’t help feeling he’d heard it too many times before.
He sighed and turned his head slightly. “I don’t have any quarrel with you, son. Whoever you are,” he said over his shoulder, his voice calm and just loud enough to be heard.
“That don’t bother me none. I’m just aiming to rid the world of a piece of trash.”
Sam waited a minute. “Is that so?” he asked quietly.
“Yeah, that’s so.”
“You got a ma, son?”
“Yeah, what’s that got to do with anything?”
Sam turned just enough to get a look over his shoulder. He had been right; it was only a boy, barely eighteen, if that. Another wet-behind-the-ears kid wanting to make a name for himself by taking out Sam Driscoll. How many had it been now? He didn’t know. Too many to remember and Sam had lost count. It was always the same though - always. Sam sighed, turned forward again and looked up into the sky, so clear and blue above them.
“You really want her crying over your dead body on such a pretty day?” he asked smoothly, knowing it wouldn’t do any good.
He heard the jingle of the boy's spurs and the sound of his footsteps as he stepped off the boardwalk and into the quiet dust of the street. Instinctively, Sam knew when the boy had reached the center and stopped.
“I ain’t aimin’ to make her cry; I’m aimin’ to make her proud by killing me a snake.”
Sam sighed again and tried to decide if it was worth the effort to try one more time. He knew it wasn’t. He could hear the rustle of spectators lining the streets behind him. There was no way the boy could back down now and there was no way he was going to let Sam ride away peaceably. He’d no doubt been bragging that he was going to kill Sam Driscoll and nothing Sam could do would change his mind about it. He shook his head sadly, well he’d tried.
“All right, son, if that’s the way you want it.” He turned slowly and faced the kid. The boy stood in the center of the street feet apart, his right hand curved several inches from his gun.
Sam kept his eyes on the boy as he slowly made his way to the center of the street and stopped several yards away from where he stood. He slowly looked him up and down.
“You got a name, son?”
The boy’s eyes narrowed. “Why you want to know?”
Sam lifted one corner of his mouth in a rueful smile. “I like to know the name of a man before I kill him.”
“I’m not the one dying today, mister! But the name is Jake Parker, just so’s you know who it is who finally put an end to you!”
“I see. Well, thank you anyway, Jake. Shall we get on with this?” Sam knew his calm manner was making the kid nervous and it only added to his advantage, but he hadn’t chosen this fight and he saw no reason to give the kid any breaks.
“Any time you say, mister.” The boy’s voice had gone cold and determined and Sam was a little surprised at the hatred in it. As far as he knew, he’d never even seen the boy. Not that it really mattered. To some people, all it took was his name and his reputation.
The street grew quiet as the man and the boy faced each other. Sam stood calmly, ready, waiting for the other to make his move. The boy's face was tense, twitching, but Sam watched his eyes, the eyes always told you when they were going to draw...
There hadn’t been much more after that. Jake Parker had started to draw and Sam had killed him - the boy’s gun hadn't even cleared leather. Dave heaved a deep sigh and ran a hand over his face, trying to wipe out the memory of the gangly-legged kid sprawled backwards in the dust. Something had broken in him that day; it had been just one too many. He’d felt sick afterwards. The boy had had a mother and she’d sobbed over his body along with his two sisters, both younger than him. They’d seen the whole thing from the general store. The sheriff had come and asked him to move on and he had - again. That day, the weariness and the sadness had set in and it kept up, growing stronger until that day he’d met the faster gun. But even now, Dave sometimes wondered if the other man had been faster or if, perhaps, he’d simply wanted to end it all. He’d never know for sure.
**********
A Day to be Thankful
**********
The sound of laughter rippled around the table and Dave Clayton pushed his chair back a little to lay a hand on his stomach with a groan. “Mrs. Timbers, I don’t know when I’ve eaten so much,” he said, laughing again. “That has to be the best meal I’ve had in a very long time.”
“Well, thank you, Reverend; we’re glad you could join us for Thanksgiving.” Mrs. Timbers smiled at him. “A man shouldn’t be alone on a day like today and we had no other family to enjoy it with.”
“Thank you, it was kind of you to invite me.”
“So Reverend, how are you liking Flowing Wells?” Mr. Timbers asked.
“It seems a nice, peaceable town; I think I’m going to like it very much.”
“We’re so glad you’ve decided to start a church here, Reverend.” Mrs. Timbers smiled across the table at her husband. “Andy and I have been praying for that very thing for a very long time.”
“We can certainly use one. It seems like all we been getting lately are saloons and more saloons and all the riffraff that comes with it,” Mr. Timbers added with disgust.
“It’s becoming to where a lady can’t even walk down the street without some drunk accosting her,” Mrs. Timbers said sadly. She smiled at Dave. “I always feel so sorry for them, Reverend. They seem so lost and alone and as if the only way out of their misery is to drown it in that bottle. I always want to tell them there’s hope.” She turned a gentle smile on her husband who smiled back at her.
“We know all about that, don’t we, Mother?” Mr. Timbers said and Mrs. Timbers nodded.
As Dave looked from one to the other, he couldn’t help thinking there was a story there and he smiled questioningly at Mrs. Timbers.
“Our son, Reverend. When he was a teenager, he got into the wrong crowd. He wanted to be a big man, I guess. Started hanging around with some real rough boys. Took to drinking.” She stopped and Mr. Timbers reached forward to lay a hand on hers. “It was a hard time for us,” she went on, her voice breaking a little. “There was nothing we could do to stop him. The drink took aholt and he just went all to pieces. Then one day he just up and left. Didn’t even say goodbye.” Mrs. Timbers reached up and furtively wiped a tear from her eye.
“We didn’t hear from him for the longest time,” Mr. Timbers went on “Then one day we got a letter from him, saying he was fine, that he’d met a man who’d showed him there was more to life than being a bum and drinking himself to death. That he was reading the Good Book and finding out all sorts of things that finally made it all make sense.” Mr. Timbers smiled, his own eyes misty. “Found himself a job and a pretty wife. We visited them in Carver’s Junction not long ago. Saw our new grandson.” Mr. Timbers' smile widened with pride and Mrs. Timbers' eyes shown.
“Wait.” Dave cocked his head at him. “Did you say Carver’s Junction?”
“Yep, that’s where Anthony and his family are now.”
“Anthony Turner?”
“Why yes, how did you know he’d changed his name?” Mrs. Timbers smiled at him puzzled.
Dave chuckled quietly. “Did Anthony ever tell you the name of the man he met?”
Mrs. Timbers looked at Mr. Timbers who shook his head. “No, I can’t recall he ever did. Some minister, he said. Just stayed a week or so, did some preaching there in Carver’s Junction and then moved on. Said he went around starting churches…” Mr. Timbers' words slowed and stopped as he looked up wide-eyed at a now grinning Dave.
“Oh my! Oh my!” Mrs. Timbers exclaimed softly as she held her hands to her mouth, her eyes brimming with tears now. “It was you.”
Dave nodded. “Guilty as charged, I’m afraid,” he laughed.
“Nothing to be guilty about!” Mr. Timbers' voice was husky. “We owe you a great debt of gratitude.
“We do,” Mrs. Timbers agreed and reached out to lay a hand on her husband’s arm, smiling at him through her tears.
“Well,” Dave said, a little embarrassed, but pleased also. Traveling as he did, he didn’t often get to see the results of his labors like this. “I really didn’t do anything much. Like Paul said, ‘I have planted, Apollos watered, but it’s God that giveth the increase.’ If you thank anybody, it should be Him.”
“We do, Reverend, we do every single day for giving us our son back,” Mrs. Timbers said fervently.
“And today we have even more reason to be thankful; we finally got to meet the man who God used to work the miracle.” Mr. Timbers held Dave’s eyes. “And we get to pay you back just a little for being so willing to do the job.” It was all he said, but Dave understood and he smiled gently, nodding at him in acknowledgment. It was indeed a day to be thankful.
**********
Thou Shalt not Lie, Except When Mrs. Kettle Comes to Call
**********
Jimmie Tolsen sat in the dust beneath the old oak tree, his knees up to his chin and his arms wrapped tight around them. His expression was such a humorous mingling of dejection and disgust that Dave had to bite back the chuckle that rose to his lips as he approached him.
Jimmie threw an angry glare his way as Dave crouched down next to him. “I ain’t got nothin’ ta say to you, Pastor,” he announced.
Dave swallowed another smile. “I noticed you were looking a little put out with me during service.”
Another glare was Jimmie’s only response. Dave waited quietly. Behind him, he could hear the happy voices and laughter of his congregation as they set out the tables and food for a picnic lunch. Everyone seemed to be enjoying the fresh air and warm spring breezes after the long winter. Everyone but the small boy in front of him. It was why Dave had sought him out as he sat so angry and still beneath the oak.
Jimmie stared fixedly out into the horizon, his small face set sternly, his lips tight shut.
“We’ve been friends for quite awhile, Jimmie. Sure you don’t want to tell me what’s bothering you?” Dave asked quietly.
Jimmie’s face flushed and his eyes snapped as he turned to Dave. “You said I should never tell a lie, that it was a sin, that I should always tell the absolute truth and I’d always be glad of it, ‘cause then I’d never have to remember what I said. That a man’s word was the only thing he had to rely on, and if another man couldn’t trust yer word, then you weren’t anything.”
“Yes, Jimmie, I did. Because it’s true. Why?”
“’Cause it’s not true! All it brung me was a bunch of trouble!”
“I’m not sure what you mean, Jimmie.” Dave was genuinely confused; he remembered the conversation he and Jimmie had had. He had taken Jimmie fishing and Jimmie had told him about some trouble he’d gotten into at home when he’d lied to his mother about taking some cookies. Jimmie hadn’t seen the harm in it and Dave had taken the opportunity to explain about honesty and how important it was. He thought Jimmie had understood but now…
“I did what you said. I was absolutely honest and I never lied, even little lies, just like we talked about, and all it got me was inta trouble!”
“Maybe you better tell me what happened.”
“I’m grounded that’s what happened! Fer two weeks fer bein’ impolite to Mrs. Kettle!”
“Ah.” Dave found himself struggling to keep a straight face; he had a feeling he knew what had happened. “How were you impolite to Mrs. Kettle?”
“You know Ma was feeling poorly on account of the new baby and Mrs. Kettle brung us over some of that meatloaf she’s so proud of. Pastor, I can’t stand that stuff!” Jimmie wailed. “But Ma was gushing all over the place about it and then she up and turns to me and asks me if I ain’t so glad Mrs. Kettle brought us some supper.”
Jimmie’s earnest blue eyes turned to Dave. “Well, what could I say? You told me ta always tell the truth and I been trying real hard to do that, ‘cause I want to be a real man whose word means something. I didn’t mean ta be rude, Pastor, honest I didn’t. And all I said was ‘no, ma’am’; I didn’t tell her the meatloaf was the nastiest stuff I ever tasted. But Ma got all red and sent me to my room, and later she told me she’d never been so ashamed and she didn’t give me a chance ta explain. She just grounded me and said iffen I ever embarrassed her like that again, she’d tan me good.”
Jimmie sunk his head back onto his knees and he sighed deeply. “I just don’t understand it, Pastor, I just told the truth. I wasn’t glad. ‘Cause I knew I’d have to eat the stuff. But the other thing I don’t understand is Ma being so happy about it, ‘cause I know Ma doesn’t really care for it either. So didn’t she lie? But Ma’s always tellin’ me the same thing you did. That I shouldn’t never tell a lie, even little ones. I just don’t get it!”
Dave sat back on his heels and sent a quick prayer heavenward. If he ever needed the wisdom of Solomon, it was now with Jimmie’s eyes fixed so intently on his face, his confusion and hurt so evident that Dave’s heart broke for the boy. He understood how painful it could be to do what was right and then be punished for it.
As for Jimmie’s absolute honesty, he could understand why Mrs. Tolsen had been upset about it, even as he understood Jimmie’s confusion. It was a difficult dilemma and one he’d struggled with himself. It was hard to know where the line between politeness and honesty should be drawn, when to tell the whole truth and when to reserve some of it in order to spare the feelings of others. He knew there were those who felt these “little white lies” were acceptable for politeness’ sake and he knew he’d been caught in them himself, more often than he cared to admit, but he never felt easy about it and had spent many a long night on his knees asking for forgiveness and help in that area. So how was he supposed to explain it to an eight year old?
“Jimmie, I know it’s hard to understand. It’s hard for me to, as well. But we do know the Bible tells us not to lie, remember we talked about that?”
Jimmie nodded. “The Ten Commandments.”
“Yes, it’s one of the Ten Commandments. It’s also a matter of trust, as I told you. If a person can’t trust you to tell him the truth, even in the little things, then he really can’t trust you at all, can he?”
Jimmie shook his head solemnly. “But Ma…”
“I’m getting to that. Now, we also know it’s not right to hurt people’s feelings unnecessarily, right?”
It took Jimmie a little longer to think that one over, but he finally nodded in agreement.
“So it seems we have a dilemma. In your case, you had what you saw as only two choices. You could either tell a lie and make your ma and Mrs. Kettle happy or you could tell the truth and hurt Mrs. Kettle’s feelings. Now, I’m proud of you that you chose to tell the truth, because that is always the right thing to do, no matter if it means you’ll get in trouble. Doing right is never wrong, regardless of the consequences, because it keeps your conscience clear between you and God. Does that make sense?”
“I… I guess so. But Ma seemed to think I did wrong.”
“Well, she probably just didn’t understand in the heat of the moment. To her, you were merely being rude to Mrs. Kettle. So let’s think about it. Was there a way you could have told the truth and still made Mrs. Kettle happy?”
“Well, Ma asked me and I told her the truth.”
“True, but let's take a look at your ma. Now, I’ve never known a more truthful woman than your ma. What exactly did she say to Mrs. Kettle?”
“She said how nice it was for Mrs. Kettle ta bring us some supper and what a kind neighbor she was and…” Suddenly Jimmie’s eyes widened as if a light had been lit in them. “But she never did say she liked the meatloaf.”
Dave couldn’t help himself; he let out a chuckle. “That’s kind of what I thought. You see she found a way to thank Mrs. Kettle for being so kind as to think of her, and it was very kind of Mrs. Kettle. She never lied about that; she just refrained from telling Mrs. Kettle that she didn’t care for meatloaf. Your mother kept her integrity and Mrs. Kettle went home pleased.”
“So we can make people think we like something when we don’t?”
“Nooo…” Dave sighed; this was getting stickier by the minute. “No, we should never let somebody believe a lie, even if we don’t outright say it.”
“Then I don’t understand. Didn’t Ma let Mrs. Kettle believe she liked the meatloaf?”
“Well, I suppose she might have. I really couldn’t say, Jimmie. I wasn’t there. It’s a fine line and I’m not going to tell you I know the answer to this one, because it isn’t easy to walk. This area of “white lies” as they’re called is one of the hardest questions there is out there, I think, because they seem so harmless and yet we know we are commanded not to lie. And God doesn’t see the difference between a white lie and a black one. And it’s hard to know if a man who will lie in the small things might not also lie in the big ones.” There was furrow between Jimmie’s brow and Dave could tell he was losing him, not surprising since he was losing himself; it was time to beat a retreat before he sunk himself deeper.
“Tell you what; I’ll talk to your ma about this and explain about our conversation and why you answered Mrs. Kettle as you did. I think she’ll understand and then she can help you learn the difference between being polite and polite untruths. It’s something that takes practice.” Dave smiled wryly, thinking of the times he’d tried and failed at walking that narrow line.
“Would you really?” Jimmie asked excitedly a wide smile spreading over his face. “I know iffen you’d talk to her she’d understand.”
“Yes, really.” Dave reached out and ruffled the boy's hair. He glanced around at the food laden tables behind them. “But it looks like dinner is about ready. How ‘bout we get us some fried chicken?” he asked as he stood and brushed down his trousers.
“Okay.” Jimmie bounced to his feet. “But no meatloaf!” he said emphatically.
Dave laughed and laid a hand on the boy's shoulder.
“I promise, no meatloaf.” Dave grinned down at Jimmie who grinned up at him as together the two sauntered away.
**********
In Mysterious Ways
**********
Dave sank down into the steaming water and gave a long sigh as the heat soaked deep into muscles tense and tired and sore from a long day on the trail and the encounter in the stable. He closed his eyes and relaxed against the high bronze back of the tub. This bath had cost him a pretty penny and he intended to enjoy it to its fullest. Of course, the hotel clerk had been very annoyed at the request for a tub of hot water in his room, but the five dollar gold piece Dave had plunked down on the counter soon changed his tune. As Dave sank deeper into the soothing warmth, he decided it was money very well spent.
He lay immersed and thought about the town he was headed for, pushing aside thoughts of the events in the stable earlier. From what he had heard, Silver Flats was a rough mining town with plenty of saloons and not much interest in anything else beyond having a good time. He'd been a bit surprised at the nudge he'd gotten the first time he'd heard the name mentioned, but he'd learned to trust it. He'd said goodbye to the congregation in Sweet Water, coming nearly to tears when they presented him with a fine Arabian gelding as a goodbye present, and following the leading of the nudge, headed for Silver Flats.
From the sounds coming through his hotel room window, it sounded like this town was a pretty wild one as well and his mind drifted to the other reason he'd ordered the bath.
He had been giving his horse some extra attention at the livery before heading to a restaurant for something to eat when the group of five young men and boys had entered the stable. The leader of the group, a large, course youth of about twenty that they called "Pole", had hollered for the attendant, who came slinking nervously out of a back room. He obviously knew these boys. Dave had waited quietly in his horse's stall while the young man demanded horses for him and his friends. The attendant scurried out, leaving the boys behind. Dave waited, instinct telling him these boys were up to no good. He could hear the boys milling around the stable, talking and laughing with each other.
All would have been well if Dave's horse hadn't snorted. There was instant silence and then Dave heard footsteps approaching the stall and Pole's head peeked over the top of the door. His eyes rested on Dave and the collar of his suit and a smile spread across his face.
"Well, well, well. Look what we got here boys!" Pole called over his shoulder, and then he opened the stall door. Soon there were five pairs of eyes staring at Dave over the sides of the stall.
"Hey, it's a preacher!" A sandy-haired boy in bad need of a haircut laughed.
"Shut up, Clint. I'll do the talkin' here," Pole snapped.
He grinned at Dave, but there was nothing friendly about it and Dave had a feeling he was in serious trouble. These boys had it written all over them. He glanced around the group, holding each of their eyes in turn for a moment, before finally resting on Pole. He squared himself with the young man and waited quietly his hands clasped loosely together.
Pole returned the stare for a minute and then Dave could see the restlessness start in them all and he smiled to himself. It worked every time; bullies never could handle a quiet opponent. He let them squirm a minute longer and then spoke.
"Well? What can I do for you boys?" he asked with an easy smile.
Pole smirked and glanced around at his gang. "You a minister?"
"That's right."
"Don't care much for ministers."
There was snigger from someone in the group and Pole glared their way. The smiles they had been wearing faded and they ducked their heads. Pole obviously had the members of his gang cowed as much as he had the livery attendant. Dave turned his attention back to Pole and waited.
Pole stared Dave up and down with a look Dave knew was meant to be intimidating and then he turned his attention to Dave's horse. "Nice horse."
Dave glanced at the fine sorrel next to him. "Thank you."
"Could use me a horse like that."
One corner of Dave's mouth lifted. "Most people could."
Pole's face turned ugly. "You getting smart with me preacher?"
"No, just stating a fact."
"Don't like smart-alecky preachers."
"Seems to me you don't like much." The sudden opening of the back door and the entrance of the livery attendant, who took one look inside and left again, diverted their attention and Dave took his chance. "Now if you'll excuse me," Dave said suddenly moving forward and brushing past Pole into the open.
It didn't help his situation much and Dave knew that; these boys weren't going to let him leave this stable peaceably. But he'd have a better chance out in the open where he had more room to maneuver even though it also left him more open to a gang attack. It had been a toss-up, but there was also the horse to think about. He didn't want to be fighting in such close quarters with an unpredictable animal adding to the mix.
He'd been right; the four outside the stall closed in around him before he'd taken many steps and Dave had to stop. He gazed around the half circle they made, debating his chances.
"Where you think you're goin', preach?" Pole's voice was smug behind him and Dave turned. He smiled at Pole, calmly, though his heart was racing. It was five to one, bad odds for anybody, and Pole alone was enough to worry him. Dave had done a fair amount of street fighting at one time and he was good at it, but Pole was both heavier and taller than he and his reach was longer. It'd be a close thing any way he looked at it, assuming of course, they let him fight it out with Pole alone. From the look in Pole's eyes, that wasn't the idea.
"Back to my hotel. I don't want any trouble and I'm just passing through, so if you'd kindly ask your friends to move aside. I'll be on my way." Dave said, trying one last time to sidestep a fight.
Pole leaned back on one leg and crossed his arms. "'Fraid I can't do that."
"Oh?"
"Nope." The right hook he sent Dave's way was quick but not quick enough, Dave had been expecting it and dodged under it, swinging toward Pole's gut. Pole jumped back and Dave swished air. Then Pole connected with a left that spun Dave around and into the waiting arms of the kid, Clint, who sent a jab to his stomach that knocked the wind out of him and Dave knew he was lost. They ganged up on him then and even though he defended himself as best he could, landing more than a few hard punches and blacking some eyes, they soon had him down on all fours gasping for breath. A swift kick to the middle knocked him over and Dave curled up hoping to protect his head and any other vital parts as the five pounced on him.
A sudden yell and a gunshot startled them all and broke up the attack. The gang rushed out the back door, leaving Dave rolling and grimacing on the ground behind them.
Gentle hands turned him over and he winced
"Well, now. Looks like they did a number on you. Good thing I got here when I did."
Dave peeled an eye open. A silver star shone on a black vest and he raised his eyes. A kindly face smiled back at him. "Those boys 'cause more trouble around here than they're worth, that's for sure," the sheriff said as he helped Dave sit up. "But it doesn't look like they did much damage," he added, giving Dave a quick once over.
Dave gave a humorless laugh. "Thanks to you." He touched a sore spot on his cheek where Pole's left had landed and gave himself a mental going over. The sheriff was right; he was going to be sore and no doubt end up with more than a couple bruises, but there didn't seem to be much actual damage.
"Well, Avery came runnin' in saying Pole's gang had a man cornered down at the livery. Got here as fast as I could. Sorry it wasn't quicker," the Sheriff said helping Dave to his feet. "You all right?"
"Yeah, I think so. Thank you. My name's Dave Clayton. I was just passing through on my way to Silver Flats."
"Sheriff Thompson. Hearda Silver Flats. Bit of a rough place."
"Rougher than here?" Dave tried to grin and grimaced instead.
The sheriff laughed. "Got a point there. By the way, it looked to me like you gave them a few bruises yourself before they got you down. Thought it might help."
"Thanks." And surprisingly it did.
The sheriff had helped him back to the hotel, promising to send a man to the livery to keep an eye on Dave's horse for him, though he didn't think Pole's gang would try anything more. They were just a gang of bullies who liked throwing their weight around. They'd crow over roughing Dave up awhile and the sheriff figured that would be that. Dave had thanked him again and went to check into the hotel, ordering the hot bath that had become even more necessary than before.
Dave closed his eyes and let the heat soak into the bruises. He had a fine one starting along his rib cage and he realized it was only by God's good grace he didn't have a broken rib or two.
He didn't know how long he'd lain there when an urgent rapping on his door startled him.
"Preacher! Preacher!" The voice was young, frightened and insistent.
"Who is it?" Dave called.
"It's, it's... Please, sir. Open the door!"
Dave sighed. "All right, give me a minute."
Dave rose and toweled himself off as quickly as he could, but it wasn't quick enough for whoever was outside, there was more banging.
"Please, Sir. You gotta hurry. Pole needs you!" The voice was almost in tears now.
Dave, who was shrugging into his robe, stopped abruptly. "Who?"
"Pole. He's hurt bad, mister, and he needs you."
Dave finished tying the robe around himself and walked to the door. "You mean the Pole I met earlier?" he called through the door.
There was a minute of silence. "Yes, Sir. We're real sorry about that." Another pause. "But he's askin' for you. He's dyin'"
Dave stood silently, leaning against the door for several long minutes, emotions raging through him, with anger by far the uppermost. Then the irony of the situation hit him and he chuckled. "Lord, you sure do have ways of teaching me to live by the good Book, don't you," he whispered. He knew what he had to do, though every fiber of his being shouted out against it. That boy and his cronies had just beat the stuffing out of him for no other reason than that they could and now... Dave took a deep breath and tried to control the surge of anger that swept over him. He stood for some time wrestling with himself and his God. It was only by the barest thread that God won - Dave was, after all, still very human.
"All right. Give me a minute to get dressed," he finally called through the door.
There was a muffled gasp that might have been a sob. "Thank you, Mister. Thank you, so much."
"This isn't going to be easy, Father," Dave prayed as he hurried into a clean shirt and trousers and shrugged into his suit coat. "You know the anger I have in my heart over what this boy and his friends did to me. Help me to put that aside and do what I can to help him." He paused to push back another onslaught of anger, taking several deep breaths before continuing. "I'm going, Lord, but under protest." He stopped again. "Help me," he whispered and then went to join Clint.
As they ran down the darkened back street of the town, Clint filled him in on what had happened to Pole. The gang had hired some horses, the reason behind their visit to the livery, and were racing each other. Somehow or other, Pole's horse had gone down, rolling over him. Pole had been crushed, and though still alive, the doctor gave him little hope, saying it was only a matter of time.
Dave prayed hard as he entered the small house on the edge of town behind Clint. The living room seemed filled with people. In one corner, a gray headed woman was weeping in the arms of a man Dave took to be her son. Several women stood behind her, their faces sober. Several more men sat silently around a table to one side. The boys from the livery stable, teary eyed and silent, stood uncertainly next to the door. They averted their eyes when they saw Dave walk in the door. Clint threw a glance at them and then headed to the corner where the old woman sat.
"Mrs. Jackson, I brung the minister," he said laying a hand on the woman's shoulder.
The woman raised her head and looked at Dave. She gave a gasp and raised her hands to her mouth when she saw his face. Dave could imagine what he must look like, his face was tender in more than one spot and no doubt starting to sport some colorful bruises.
"Oh, my. Did my boy do that?" she asked her voice catching.
"It's nothing much," Dave said, his heart going out to her. Now that he was here, his anger began to subside, leaving only sorrow for the young man who would so soon meet his Maker and from the sounds of things wasn't ready for it. It was a miracle he'd experienced often and still held him in awe. How seemingly out of nowhere feelings of care and compassion and even love could so suddenly take a hold of him for people he barely knew and had no reason to care for and, occasionally, every reason to hate.
He knelt next to Mrs. Jackson and laid a hand on her knee. "Clint says your son was asking for me," he prompted gently.
"He's in there." She nodded to a door at the back of the room. "Doc's with him, but he says..." She couldn't continue and hurriedly put a handkerchief to her eyes.
"Thank you." Dave glanced at the man beside her.
"Go in, Reverend." He jerked his head toward the door. "I'll take care of Ma."
The woman stopped him with a hand on his arm as Dave started to rise. "Pole was always a good boy, Reverend," she said her blue eyes wide and pleading. "It was after his pa died that he started gettin' into trouble. Now he's so scared. You'll help him?"
The last was more a question than a statement. Dave smiled and patted the hand on his arm. "I'll do my best." He clasped the hand briefly and she let go.
Pole was conscious when Dave entered the room, but obviously in extreme pain. The doctor, who stood next to him talking quietly, looked up as Dave entered and walked to him. "You the minister Pole's been asking for?" he whispered.
"Yes."
The doctor took a good long look at Dave's face, scanning the multi-colored bruises beginning to well on his chin and cheeks, and then stared into his eyes. "The boy's dying, Reverend, and scared half out of his mind. I hope you haven't come bent on revenge."
Dave returned the doctor's frank gaze. "No, I've not come for revenge. I'm a minister. I've been asked for. I'm here to do my job."
The doctor searched Dave's face again. "You're a better man than I am then, Reverend."
"Not really." He smiled ruefully. "I almost didn't come."
The doctor smiled at that and nodded. "Now I believe you. I've given him something for the pain; it should be taking effect soon. I'll leave you alone. Let me know if you need me."
"There's no hope then?"
"Outside of a miracle, no."
Dave nodded. "Thank You," he said and then moved past the doctor toward the bed where Pole lay groaning.
**********
It was some time later that David re-entered the living room, his heart somewhat lighter. Pole had listened intently to what he had to say and seemed to accept it, his fear easing. Now he rested as comfortably as was expected. Nothing much had changed outside except the doctor now sat next to Mrs. Jackson. She rose when she caught sight of him, holding out her hands to him, and he went to her clasping her hands firmly in his own.
"He wants you." Dave told her.
She nodded and then scanned his face. He smiled gently at her. "I think all will be well with him."
She didn't say anything but her face broke into a wide smile, and she shook their clasped hands in a way that told him all he needed to know before she hurried towards the door and her son.
He watched her go and then turned toward the doctor. "He's calm and I think as ready as any of us ever are," Dave said simply. The doctor nodded and followed Mrs. Jackson into the back room.
Dave sighed and then sat down in the chair Mrs. Jackson had vacated. He plunged his face into his hands and rubbed it hard. He longed for his bed back at the hotel -- the hot bath was now nothing but a distant memory -- but knew he should stay until it was over. Mrs. Jackson might need him. He kept his head down and silently prayed for the woman as she said goodbye to her son.
The sound of someone shuffling in front of him brought him back to the present and he looked up into the red and embarrassed face of Clint. The boy dropped his eyes and shuffled uncomfortably. "Can I talk to you, Reverend?"
Dave nodded and motioned to the seat beside him.
"Me and the others," Clint began. "We just wanted ta tell you how sorry we are for what we did." He paused and looked at the floor. "We was pretty shocked when Pole started askin' for you. And most of us never figured you'd actually come."
Dave watched the boy silently, letting him talk.
"Well, we been talking about it and we was wondering." Clint gulped. "Well, why did you? After what Pole did to you, I'd think the last thing you'd want to do is help him."
He didn't answer immediately. The truth was he didn't know exactly what to say. He hadn't wanted to come, had fought against it, but in the end, he'd simply known he had to, for his own sake as much as for Pole's. He wasn't sure he could make Clint understand that - he knew he had to try.
"Well, I suppose it was a matter of doing what I knew was right, Clint. I'm a minister and with that comes certain responsibilities. Responsibilities that I take very seriously." He reached into his suit pocket and pulled out the tiny Bible he always carried and handed it to Clint. "That Book tells me to love my enemies and to do good to those who do wrong to me. I try to live by that." He smiled. "Not that I do a very good job of it," he admitted, "but I try."
"So that's why you came?"
"That's why I came."
Clint looked down at the Book in his hands, a look almost of awe on his face.
"You have one of those?" Dave asked.
"My ma does; she reads it regular."
Dave reached out and took the Bible, placing it back in his pocket. "Why don't you try reading it yourself?" He nodded his head toward the door. "You never know when it might be you back there. It might be good to know what you need to before it gets here in case there isn't a minister around."
He saw Clint glance at the door his eyes wide. "Yeah," Clint said softly and Dave knew he'd gotten through to him.
**********
He thought of that moment several hours later as he finally lay in bed back at the hotel. His life was filled with such moments and he contemplated that fact with an awe of his own. He'd wasted so much of his life, headed down a road that led only to misery and taking quite a few men down that road with him. Now each time he had an opportunity to rectify that by helping to change the life of someone else as his had been changed, it left him with a deep sense of satisfaction. He clasped his hands behind his head, thinking about it. Who would have thought getting a trouncing would bring him another such opportunity? "You do work in mysterious ways, Lord," he whispered into the night and smiled to himself. "You surely do."
*****End*****
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