A New Beginning Read online

  Nobody had any idea Zack was so fast with a gun!

  I wanted to run up and throw my arms around him for sheer joy. I’d been afraid he was going to get shot. But I stopped myself, all at once seeing him differently, like the rest of the folks I suppose. I realized he wasn’t just my little brother anymore. He was the sheriff, and I couldn’t just go up and hug the sheriff after a gunfight!

  “Who is it?” mumbled some of the onlookers.

  “Don’t know . . . never seen him before.”

  “Where’d he come from?”

  Zack reached the center of the crowd about the same time Doc Shoemaker did. The man on the ground was holding his right shoulder with his other hand. He realized he was bleeding pretty bad, so he gradually quit swearing and let the doctor take a look at him. Doc stooped down and looked the man over.

  “Better get him over to my place,” he said to a few of the men. “Don’t want him to bleed to death out here in the street.”

  “Send somebody over for me when you got him patched up, Doc,” said Zack. “I’ll come over and fetch him.”

  “What you gonna do with him, Zack?” somebody asked.

  “Put him in the jail,” answered Zack. “As far as I know, trying to kill a sheriff’s against the law.”

  He turned and walked back to his office. Doc Shoemaker and a couple of the men lifted the stranger to his feet while the crowd slowly disbursed. Nobody talked about anything else the rest of the day, and by evening news of the incident had spread for miles.

  I guess Miracle Springs really did have a new sheriff!

  Chapter 3

  Zack’s Triumph

  I don’t know how news travels so fast.

  Sometimes I think it gets carried by the wind itself, because people seem to find out things faster than a galloping horse can take someone from one place to another to deliver it.

  I was so jittery right after the shooting I could hardly finish loading the wagon. It wasn’t thirty minutes later before Pa came riding into town with a cloud of dust behind him like he was trying out to be a Pony Express rider like Zack had been.

  How in the world he got news of the shooting so fast, like I said, I can’t imagine. When Pa arrived I was just about ready to leave for home to tell everyone what had happened.

  Pa rode straight to the jail, jumped off his horse, and ran inside. He’d been in there with Zack five or ten minutes when Mr. Saunders came from Doc Shoemaker’s to tell Zack the man who had tried to break Mr. Harris out of jail was bandaged up and ready. Pa and Zack came out of the sheriff’s office together, with Mr. Saunders following along behind. I just couldn’t get over how tall and confident Zack seemed all of a sudden. He looked five years older! He and Pa walked down the street to the doc’s just like two grown men.

  What am I saying? That’s exactly what they were! I reckon what looked so strange was that Zack seemed to be leading the way.

  A few minutes later they returned, this time with Mr. Harris’s partner between them, kind of stumbling along though there was nothing wrong with his legs. His shoulder was bound up in white bandages. I half expected Zack to be holding a gun on him, but I guess it was hardly necessary. He wasn’t going to get away from Zack, especially wounded like he was.

  Pa went back into the jail building with them. I waited a little while, but Pa didn’t come out again, so I figured I might as well go on home.

  Pa got back a couple hours after I did. We were still all in the house talking about it. Then as soon as Pa walked in, the hubbub started all over again.

  Zack came home for supper about six.

  Everybody’d been waiting for him, but he walked in and sat down like nothing had happened. The whole house was silent. Ruth stared at him as if she suddenly didn’t know it was Zack but was looking at somebody more famous than she’d ever seen.

  Zack glanced around. Every eye of the whole family was glued on him.

  “What?” he laughed.

  “Well?” said Almeda expectantly.

  “Well what? What in tarnation’re you all staring at?”

  “Tell us about it, Zack, for heaven’s sake!”

  “Nothing much to tell,” he replied nonchalantly. “I figured Pa and Corrie’d have told you what happened by now. Corrie saw the whole thing.”

  “I did,” I said, “and all I want to know is how you got so fast drawing a gun?”

  “I don’t know—practice, I reckon.”

  “How fast was it, Corrie?” asked Tad. He’d already heard me describe the scene at least three times.

  “Like lightning,” I said. “It was so fast I tell you I didn’t see Zack’s hand actually move. It happened too fast to see.”

  “And the other man drew first?”

  “He did,” I replied. “But his gun had hardly cleared his holster before it went flying out of his hand from Zack’s shot.”

  “Whole town’s talking about it, that’s for sure,” said Pa, now adding his own slightly less than eyewitness account.

  “Show us, Zack,” said Ruth. “Show us how you did it.”

  “Shush, dear,” said Almeda. “Your big brother’s an important man now. Sheriffs don’t go around showing off their draw. It’s just part of their work—a tool, same as a pickax is for a miner. Now, gather round, everyone. Supper’s getting cold.”

  “Well, I reckon you put me in my place,” laughed Pa, getting up from his chair.

  “How so?” asked Zack.

  “I don’t even want to tell you after today,” said Pa. “But the truth is, when Simon came to talk to me about you being sheriff, I admit I didn’t like the idea much at first. I wasn’t sure you were ready. I hate to say it, but it looks like he knew my own son better’n I did! He knew you could handle the job and he told me so.”

  Zack grinned.

  “Tarnation!” Pa exclaimed. “I’m the father of the tough new sheriff of Miracle Springs!”

  “I was a little nervous,” Zack finally admitted.

  “You sure didn’t show it,” I said.

  “It’s because of you, Pa,” said Zack, “that I was able to be so calm.”

  “How’s that?”

  “From watching you standing right out there on our porch talking to Mr. Harris—you know, when he came looking for us.”

  “Who’s watching the two men now, son?” Pa asked as we sat down.

  “Smitty,” replied Zack. “I gotta go back into town. I have to spend the night there till the marshal’s through and decides what to do with Unger.”

  “That’s his name, Unger?”

  Zack nodded. “Mr. Harris calls him Curly.”

  “Hmm . . . Curly Unger—doesn’t mean a thing to me.”

  “From what I can tell listening to them talk,” said Zack, “I don’t think they’ve been riding together too long.”

  “Well, I knew our lives were changing,” said Almeda as she dished out helpings of stew onto everyone’s plates. “Change can be good, but sometimes it brings things we never expect, and I certainly didn’t expect something like this! Zack, you be careful, you hear me.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” laughed Zack. “I always try to be.”

  Christopher had been noticeably silent the whole time. Especially after Almeda’s comment about change, I could tell he was thinking about something. As soon as supper was over, he excused himself and left the house. I got up a minute or two after and went outside.

  I saw Christopher walking alone, heading up the stream into the woods. At first I started to follow him, then some inner sense told me he was probably praying and that I needed to let him go by himself.

  I did not know it at the time, but would find out later, that he was still struggling with the decision he had made. I was struggling with it too, of course, but in my own way, and I had no idea what Christopher was thinking and praying about. As much as we thought we communicated—and we did too—we were learning that there are times when it is very difficult to open up what is in your heart, even to the person you love most in
all the world.

  Chapter 4

  Christopher’s Quandary

  During the second week of February, little Mary Rutledge came over with the message that her father wanted to see Christopher. Christopher and I rode over to the pastor’s house that same afternoon.

  “Thank you for coming, Christopher,” said Rev. Rutledge after Harriet showed us into the sitting room.

  “Is anything wrong?” asked Christopher.

  “Oh no—it’s nothing, really,” he replied. “It’s just that I’m still not feeling altogether back to my old self, and I have a favor to ask of you.”

  “Anything.”

  “A funeral’s come up down at Dutch Flat. I wondered if you’d take care of it for me?”

  “Of course, Avery,” Christopher replied, “but surely they wouldn’t want someone they don’t know.”

  “I’m not acquainted with the family either—new to the area. The request came to the church yesterday. Little girl died—only eight years old—and they want a minister to say some words at the grave site. They’ll be just as happy with you as me.”

  “Well . . . certainly, if you think it would be appropriate.”

  “It will be, I assure you.”

  “Then I would be happy to.”

  “Good, I appreciate it,” sighed Rev. Rutledge tiredly. “I just was not up to that ride.”

  He handed Christopher a sheet of paper.

  “Here is everything I was told about the girl. It’s not much.”

  “It will be fine,” said Christopher, glancing over the information. “I’ll talk to the parents beforehand.”

  Two mornings later, Christopher set out early for Dutch Flat. Zack went with him, both to show him the way and because he had someone down near there he needed to see on some sheriff matter. On the way the two had a long conversation, which Christopher told me about a couple of months later.

  “So you finally got the Unger fellow out of your hair?” said Christopher.

  “Yep—he’s on his way to Sacramento,” replied Zack. “But I tell you, he got an earful before he went.”

  “How do you mean?” asked Christopher.

  “Jesse told him all about the Lord and doing what the Bible says and about praying. They talked for hours, till there were times when Unger had to tell Jesse to just shut up.”

  Christopher laughed. “A church service right there in the jail.”

  “That’s what it was. Jesse kept trying to get Unger to pray like he had, but Unger would have none of it. He thought Jesse’d gone loco.”

  “Know any more yet about what will happen to Jesse?”

  Zack shook his head. “The marshal’s looking into the old warrants. He may have to follow his pal Unger down to the capital. Doesn’t seem likely we’re gonna just be able to let him go.”

  “They wouldn’t—you don’t think . . .”

  Christopher couldn’t say it, but Zack knew what he was thinking.

  “You mean hang him? I don’t know—not unless there’s a warrant for murder on him. Nothing much we can do but wait and see.”

  They rode on without saying anything further for a mile or so.

  “Mind if I ask you a question, Zack?” said Christopher after they had ridden along awhile in silence.

  “’Course not—fire away.”

  “That’s a good way of saying it, coming from you,” laughed Christopher. “But I suppose it’s fitting too, because I wanted to ask you about your becoming sheriff.”

  Christopher paused a moment.

  “How did you know,” he went on, “whether you were supposed to take the job or not?”

  “How do you mean?” replied Zack. “I thought about it a lot, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “But how did you know if you were supposed to say yes? How did you . . . know?”

  “You mean, if God wanted me to?”

  “Exactly—whether it was the right thing to do.”

  “I don’t know as a body’s ever sure completely about that. But shoot, Christopher—what’re you asking me for?” laughed Zack. “You’re the preacher.”

  “Ex-preacher,” corrected Christopher.

  “I thought that’s why you was going back to the East, because you thought God was telling you your preaching days weren’t over after all.”

  “Yeah,” sighed Christopher, “I guess you’re right at that.”

  “So why are you asking me?” said Zack again. “I thought preachers knew all about that kind of thing.”

  “Preachers haven’t got any more an open road to God’s ear than anyone else. Takes just as much practice for us to hear God’s voice—just like you said about learning to draw your gun fast. All good things take practice to learn how to do.”

  “I don’t suppose I ever thought about praying taking practice,” said Zack.

  “It sure does, especially the most important part of praying—the listening half. That’s the hardest part, the aspect of prayer most people aren’t too skilled at. It requires a lot of practice, and I’m still just learning myself.”

  Christopher paused. “To answer your question, Zack,” he went on after a moment, “the reason I’m asking is because I’m really struggling with my own decision.”

  “You mean about leaving Miracle Springs?”

  Christopher nodded.

  “I thought it was all decided.”

  “I did too, but I find myself still asking the Lord if it really is his will or not. Then I think to myself that maybe I just want to please Corrie and that is why I am trying to talk myself out of it. You know she really doesn’t want to go?”

  Zack nodded.

  “And by then I am more confused than when I started!” Christopher added, laughing. “I tell you, Zack—this is the toughest decision I’ve ever faced.”

  “Why, do you think?” asked Zack.

  “I don’t know. Sometimes the signals from God just aren’t so clear as at other times. He uses circumstances so often to lead us, and I haven’t really had much along that line to go on.”

  “I suppose that’s one of the reasons I felt that the sheriff’s job was right,” said Zack, “now that you mention it. I’d actually found myself thinking about the possibility someday—on account of the fact that Mr. Rafferty was getting on in years. When he and the mayor came to talk to me and offered me the job, I reckon I took that as a sign that I might be supposed to do it.”

  “I agree that circumstances like that ought to be listened to. It doesn’t mean something is God’s will, only that it might be. Circumstances don’t always indicate the direction God wants us to take, but they do always indicate that God is at work. They remind us to perk up our ears and listen intently.”

  “A good way of putting it,” smiled Zack.

  “But as much as I perk up my ears in this particular case, I just don’t seem to be hearing much!” laughed Christopher. “Only the sense that a change is coming and that somehow ministry is to be more a part of my life again.”

  “Like doing this funeral you’re headed to?”

  “I suppose so, except that I have the feeling it will be more involved than that—although perhaps this is one of those circumstances that has something to say to me . . . if only I knew what it was!”

  They rode along for some time in silence. As they did, Christopher’s thoughts turned toward prayer and he found himself quietly talking to the Lord in his heart.

  Lord, I need to hear your voice, he prayed. I feel you calling me back into the ministry. I know you have a place where you want me involved in men’s and women’s lives. I know you are trustworthy and that I can count on you to do your work. But I also know that perhaps I need to step out and do something—but what? Honor Corrie, Lord, for her support during this difficult decision and this difficult move. Please provide some further sign that I am doing the right thing, or else bring circumstances to bear upon me that will stay my hand and speak otherwise to me. I am trying to listen, Lord . . . help me to hear.

&nbs
p; Chapter 5

  Funeral at Dutch Flat

  “ . . . would like in closing to offer this brief quotation,” said Christopher, then paused, took up a small volume from the stand in front of him, and flipped through its pages to find the passage.

  Ten feet in front of him sat a plain wooden casket at the edge of the grave where it would soon be laid to rest. Gathered around and behind it were ten or twelve of the residents of the Dutch Flat area. Beside the casket, dressed in black, stood the father and mother and older brother of the departed girl, mother weeping occasionally, father standing stoically as he considered his duty.

  “I realize,” said Christopher after a moment, “that the one thing a minister attempts to do in a situation such as this—bring comfort—is the one thing which is in a sense an impossibility under the circumstances. Yet I believe there is comfort to be gained if we can only lift our eyes a moment, raise them from the grave here in the ground, a hole which seems cold and uninviting, and raise our sight instead up to the horizon. Perhaps there are rays of sunlight streaming down from behind the clouds. Can we not try, my friends, even in our grief, to envision these rays not as coming down but as going up, as a grand stairway up from this grave to the heavens?

  “Cast your gaze up and imagine if you can a faint image of your daughter ascending that stairway to her new home. I say imagine it, for our mortal eyes cannot see it. Yet I tell you such is indeed the reality of this moment. This grave is not the future home of young Jessica Porter. Neither does this casket before us anymore hold her. It holds her earthly clothes . . . but not her. Gaze up, not down, for even now she ascends that heavenly stairway. And look, there are the angels coming down to meet her, taking her hand that they might lead her up to her new home.”

  Christopher paused. The girl’s mother wept, more noticeably now.

  “What I would like to read, then,” he went on, “are words written for just such an occasion as this. They were penned by one seeking to comfort a friend who, like you here today, had lost a child—in this particular case, a son. The author reminds his friend that God loves our loved ones even more than we, and reminds him further that death must not break the bonds of love, but rather should strengthen them. Let me read.”