Black Noon (17 page)

“Reverend, the Indians need too damn much land. They're movers and hunters, not settlers. There are going to have to be some adjustments made . . .”

“Mostly by the Indians.”

“There were adjustments made between the North and South. We fought for the Union against slavery. Some of the Indian ways are worse, much worse, than the South. They've got slaves, too. They buy, sell, trade, and steal women and children like horses. They've got to understand that all that has to change. Oh, they talk peace, but as Patrick Henry said, ‘there is no peace.' Look, Reverend, from what I've heard about their chiefs, men like Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse, they're good soldiers and good men. So were some of my best friends at the Point, but they were fighting for a lost cause, like those chiefs. One of the last things that Lincoln said was ‘the West must be made secure.' It can't be so long as settlements and wagon trains are being indiscriminately attacked.”

“I guess that's why they sent for you, General.”

“I'll do what I can.”

“But it almost sounds like you'll enjoy doing it . . . and after all you've seen and done . . .”

“It's
because
of what I've seen and done. I know that sometimes it takes war to make peace. But, Reverend, there are different paths that lead to the same place. In some ways, as of now, war is the engine of my existence—that and Libbie, of course—the paths of Hannibal, Caesar, Napoleon, and as for your path, Reverend—well, a few names come to mind, Jesus, Buddha, Mohammed . . .”

“Just a minute there, Wolverine, you mention yourself and my husband in the same breath as Caesar, Napoleon, Jesus, and Buddha?”

“I did.”

“Well, then, what does that make Libbie and me?”

“Let me see, now . . . oh, Apostles, I guess.”

“Why you shameless . . .”

Libbie threw a tomato at her husband but missed.

“Libbie, I hope those Indians aren't any better marksmen than you.”

“Husband, I
meant
to miss.”

“I know that.”

“But General, the Indians won't . . .
want
to miss, I mean.”

“Neither will I, Jon. Captain. Reverend . . .”

“Yes, sir.”

“I asked you to wear that Wolverine red scarf today not as a reminder of the past, but for another reason.”

“What's that, General?”

“The future. You said you turned to the ministry because of what Reverend Mason did for you and the rest of the soldiers.”

“That's a big part of it.”

“Well, Sport, I've got a feeling that up there in the Dakotas, with what the Seventh Cavalry is going to have to deal with . . . those hostiles, we're going to have need of a man like Reverend Mason . . . . or you.”

“I thought that might be coming, General.”

“Well, it came . . . so, Jon, what's the answer?”

“Lorna and I talked about this . . . and because of our friendship with you and Libbie, it's a hard choice, but . . .”

“But, what?”

“Saguaro, it is. We made a promise. Reverend Mason has nobody else. You'll have your choice of a dozen good men up there.”

“It won't be the same.”

“For us either, but Jon and I think that's the thing to do.”

“George and I will miss you so much, Lorna.”

“That's true, but in every war there's a last battle . . . and after the one in the Dakotas, maybe I
can
quit soldiering.”

“And do what, Autie?”

“Oh, I don't know. But I do know my mission in the military is not over yet. I've been called a glory seeker, and right now the West is where the glory is. Over a hundred years ago a poet wrote, ‘One crowded hour of glory is worth an age without a name.'”

“General, you've already had your hour of glory.”

“I guess that's true, but sometimes
one
hour is not enough . . . and as I said, maybe after that last battle in the Dakotas I
can
quit soldiering.”

“I repeat, and do what?”

“
I
repeat . . . I don't know.”

“There's a phrase that's already being rumored around.”

“What's that?”

“‘Custer for President.'”

“That's a long shot.”

“Long shots sometimes hit the mark. And it's happened to generals before: Washington, Jackson, Harrison, and it looks like Grant'll be next. And if it does happen, I'll vote for you, General.”

“So would Lorna and I . . . if we could vote.”

“Well, Sports, I'll say this for myself, George Custer hasn't talked so much since Sunday school recitation, but it's true, trails do cross, and as long as you have that red scarf... I'll be looking for you. We'll have a lot to tell our grandchildren.”

“I know you still have that red scarf, Jonathon.”

“Right there on the dresser . . . a little the worse for the wear, but then so am I.”

“How do you think the General and Libbie are doing up there?”

“Well, from what I've read in the newspapers along the way, he's already whipped the Seventh into shape and even whipped the Sioux in a couple encounters, to the tune of ‘Garry Owen.'”

“What about it, Jonathon?”

“What about what?”

“Do you think we made the right choice?”

“Well, the first choice was my being a minister; that was my choice, and it was the right one for me.”

“I know it was.”

“But the second choice was Saguaro and neither of us knows what that will be like. At Lincoln there will be other officers' wives, parties, dances, parades . . .”

“. . . and the killing of Indians. Do you think you could be a part of all that?”

“I don't think, Lorna, I don't think I could bear watching Indians being killed over land that belongs to them.”

“And in a way, it takes more mettle to stand alone and do what you're doing than . . .”

“. . . Fight a war?”

“There are different kinds of wars.”

“Sure there are Lorna, George Armstrong Custer would point to Caesar and Napoleon . . . and then to Jesus and Buddha . . . I . . . I . . .”

Keyes stopped as he saw the abrupt change that came over his wife.

Lorna gasped, struggled for breath. All color was drained from her face. Her eyelids squeezed nearly shut in pain. Her pale lips trembled. Her shoulders shuddered. Her head fell back against the pillow.

It was uncertain if she were still conscious.

Keyes hurried to the bedside and hovered close to her.

“Lorna, honey . . . can you hear me?”

As suddenly as it had come, at least some of the pain and its effects seemed to subside, but only some. Her breathing became less labored, her face, less pallid, her eyes, more focused.

“Oh, Jonathon . . . I . . . I . . .”

“Lorna, don't talk. Just lie back and rest.”

“I will, but oh, Jonathon, I can't help feeling . . . we're in one of those wars . . . right here and now.”

Against the azure sky the drifting cloud that had obscured the moon curled slowly into a patternless mist, then vanished into the night so that the outline of the shed was more clearly defined against the darkness of the yard.

Inside, Bethia stood with a clement smile on her face, watching.

The cat on the candlelit table purred as Deliverance's fingers withdrew from the wax figure.

It was the image of Lorna . . . but less recognizable.

Instead of the night's rest and sleep helping, it seemed to have cast Lorna adrift in a sea of listlessness and apathy . . . indifferent to everything and everyone.

Keyes stayed at her bedside and did his best to induce a reaction, touching her shoulder, her face, asking a question or speaking of anything he thought might spark a response.

But her response more often than not was to turn her face away and murmur something unintelligible.

“Lorna, let me get you something to eat, something to drink.”

“Don't . . . bother,” she finally groaned.

“Lorna . . .”

“Go away!”

“All right.”

“No, it's not all right, but go away.”

 

 

“How's the missus this morning, Reverend?”

“Not as well as expected, I'm afraid, Bethia.”

“Oh, so sorry to hear that. I'll go upstairs presently and see if there's anything I can do to be of help.”

“That's very kind of you, but Bethia . . .”

“Yes, sir?”

“If she seems, well, a little . . . abrupt, please be patient. Last night she had a . . . well, a sort of spell, and this morning she's just not herself.”

“I understand, sir, I understand completely, and would you like me to fix you some breakfast? Eggs and . . .”

“No thanks, Bethia, I'll just have some coffee at the church site. That's where they all are, isn't it?”

“It is indeed, sir.”

It was as if they had all been working through the night. That's how much further along the construction had advanced.

After the usual salutations as Keyes passed by the congregation, he reached Caleb Hobbs sitting in his usual shady spot. Just as he arrived so did Deliverance carrying a tray with a mug of coffee and a plate of biscuits.

“Morning, m'boy.”

“Morning, Caleb, Deliverance.”

“Hot biscuits and hotter coffee, Jonathon.”

“Just coffee for now.”

“Very good. Let me know if you want anything else later.” She turned and glided away toward the serving table.

“Any improvement in Lorna's condition, Reverend?”

“Not much, if any at all, I'm sorry to say,” Keyes looked toward the construction. “But there's quite a bit of improvement around here.”

“Dedication, m'boy. Dedication, and stalwart shepherding of the flock.”

“Yes, well, I'll just finish this coffee and . . . join the flock.”

The desert sun, though not yet nearing its daily high point in the sky, still generated heat enough so that about half of the men working had already removed their shirts and were toiling in their undershirts or no shirts at all.

This included Keyes, who wanted to keep his nice fresh shirt nice and fresh. He threw the shirt over a chair and moved toward the building activity.

As he walked past the serving table, Deliverance paused at what she was doing, and took an obviously admiring look at the passerby. Keyes couldn't help but notice; however, he did his best to just look straight ahead and keep on walking.

“Morning, Reverend.”

“Good morning, Joseph.”

“‘Thou shalt exalt in the labor of thy hands.'”

“I am ready to start exalting,” Keyes smiled.

Joseph held out a pair of tools.

“Would you prefer exalting with a saw or hammer?”

“A saw will do nicely, Brother Joseph.”

“Saw it shall be.”

And so it was as Keyes proceeded to take part in the construction of a church in which he would serve only once, then leave behind.

But his mind, his thoughts were not on his work as he sawed, hammered, carried, and fitted beams and wedges into place.

In the mirror of his mind he was sawing through the forlorn image of his peaked wife—and as the saw ripped through the board it was tearing into Lorna's tortured brain—and as he looked up he couldn't help but gaze at the smiling, beguiling, inviting face and figure of Deliverance, who, in spite of the blistering midday heat of the sun, seemed fluent and sangfroid.

Standing, walking, and serving in the sultry desert day among the sweating workers, she seemed fresh as an autumn night wind.

Keyes recalled the conversation with Lorna and Lorna's words about Deliverance.

“Even in the desert she always seems so . . . cool, calm, and composed, so . . . decorous.”

Lorna's descriptive words were themselves gracious and flattering, but the tone in her voice, mordant and spiteful, a tone so unlike Lorna.

And yet whenever she spoke of these people of San Melas there seemed to be an underlying tone of uncertainty, even suspicion, in her aspect . . . particularly when it came to Deliverance.

Once again Keyes paused to reach into his pocket, retract a handkerchief, and wipe the perspiration from his face, but in fact the pause was to allow him a better look at the graceful flow of body and beautiful features of Deliverance as she moved toward him.

“Jon, is there anything you'd like now? Lemonade? Tea? Water?”

“No, thanks, Deliverance. I'm fine for now.”

“All right, Jon. Well, I'll try again . . . later.”

She smiled, turned smoothly, and walked away.

Keyes took a moment to glance around at the other citizens who were working with such enthusiasm and dedication. His glance paused just a little longer at those he had gotten to know better than the rest.

First Caleb Hobbs, their leader and his predominant benefactor, who besides saving his life, had extended hospitality and who obviously wanted them to stay, yet had done everything he could to make it possible for them to continue their journey.

And Joseph, who quoted and practiced the Bible as well as any person Keyes had ever met. A man his age who worked as hard as any man half his years.

The Bryants, William, Pricilla, and of course Ethan, as carefree and brave a lad as Keyes had ever met. Keyes himself would be pleased to have a son like him.

Sam Hawkins, who worked ceaselessly to repair the Conestoga without which they would be marooned in San Melas.

And all the rest.

Hardworking, clean-living, decent, ordinary, God-fearing folk.

And still, there was Lorna, who Keyes in all those years he'd known her, had never heard her express a negative opinion about any man or woman. If she had nothing good to say, she said nothing.

And yet, even in the short time they had been in San Melas, a certain undercurrent of incertitude, doubt, yes, even more than suspicion, surfaced in her spoken, and even unspoken, reaction to this place and people.

Was it the desert sun?

The isolation?

The open idolatry they heaped on him?

Their costumes and customs?

Or was it only one other reason that accounted for Lorna's attitude?

Was that reason Deliverance?

And was she in any way justified?

Keyes hoped not.

He had done nothing and wanted to do nothing that would justify any doubt in Lorna's mind.

Keyes had never loved, or even as much as thought about, any other woman since he first espied the teenage Lorna Benton.

It was a toss-up as to who was the more beautiful young lady in Monroe, Lorna Benton or Libbie Bacon.

Lorna was the more reserved, Libbie the saucier.

Even when she was a pert, dimpled, and beautiful eight-year-old girl swinging on the front gate, as the blond curly haired lad dashed along, it was Libbie who made the first signal—“Hey you, Custer Boy,” she blurted and ran into the house leaving him dead in his tracks, but intrigued.

Lorna, at that, or any age, would never be so saucy—or bold.

There was always a certain reserve and dignity about her, although a flash of humor did sparkle through, especially when she and Keyes were together by themselves.

Those occasions were less, much less frequent since San Melas . . . since Deliverance.

Keyes took one more stolen look at Deliverance, then went back to work.

Deliverance made no effort to conceal the fact that she was looking at him.