The Promise of Morning (26 page)

Harrison bailed out of the buggy first and ran to her. “Mama!”

Ellie held out her arms and hugged him. “My goodness. You look bright and shiny this morning.” She rested her cheek against his still-damp hair. “Are you minding Uncle Arthur?”

After tying his horse to the rail, Uncle Arthur joined them. “He’s been my good right hand.” He tilted his head and frowned at her disheveled appearance. “Did you forget it’s Sunday, Eleanor?”

Ellie swallowed. Her uncle hadn’t taken that tone with her since she was Harrison’s age. She reached out and clasped both of his hands in hers
.
“No, I didn’t forget.” She gestured toward the clouds that massed overhead. “The four of us have worked all week cutting and raking hay. We need it too much to let it spoil now. I figure if we keep going we should be able to get it under cover before the rain comes.”

Uncle Arthur turned one of her hands over and unwrapped the rag tied around it. Raw open blisters pocked her palm. Gently, he touched the wounds with his fingertips. Pushing his hat back on his head, he looked up at the twins, still sitting on the wagon seat. “Why didn’t you send for me and Harrison?” He drew her to him for a brief hug. “This is too big a job for you.”

She stepped back, brushing at the dust marks her dress left on his black Sunday coat. Placing her hands on her hips, she replied, “We did it, didn’t we? Besides, you’re not up to heavy work yet.”

“I can drive a hay wagon.” He unbuttoned his coat and handed it to Harrison. “Put this on the buggy seat, and go change your clothes. We’ve got to get this feed in the barn.”

Humidity from the approaching rain gathered under the ridge–line of the barn roof, carrying with it manure smells from the stalls below. Ellie bound a kerchief around her head to keep sweat from trickling into her eyes while she and Maria pushed hay toward the back of the loft. The stack grew higher and harder to manage with each wagonload. She’d lost count of the number of times Arthur had driven the wagon into the barn and her sons pitched the hay up to her.

Now Ellie sat at the edge of the loft and dangled her legs, waiting for the next wagonload. She held out a hand to Maria. “Come sit. Let’s rest a moment.” In the silence that ensued when they stopped raking, she noticed a tapping sound on the roof. All her senses prickled. Rain. She hurried to the ladder and climbed down. Dark circles of moisture splattered on the dusty ground outside.

The wagon rumbled toward her, piled high with stacked hay. Arthur stood in front of the seat, urging the horses forward. “Git up! Go!” The haystack swayed, threatening to topple onto the ground.

Ellie ran toward the rail fence separating the barnyard from the fields. “Slow down!” She hoped he’d hear her voice over the noise of wagon wheels and rattling harness. “It won’t do us any good if the hay’s scattered from here to breakfast.” Raindrops peppered her chaff-covered sleeves.

Arthur checked the reins and the horses slowed to a walk. Ellie stepped aside as the wagon rolled past her and through the open barn door, then hurried after it. Once inside, her sons grabbed pitchforks and threw the feed into the loft.

Ellie joined her uncle on the wagon seat. “How much is left on the ground?”

“Little more than half an acre.”

“That’s a terrible amount to waste.”

“If this rain goes by quick enough, we can turn it and dry it again.”

Ellie closed her eyes, remembering the amount of work that had gone into turning it the first time. Her aching muscles protested at the idea of repeating the task. “We’ll have to, won’t we? Matthew counts on using all the hay so we don’t have to buy feed.”

The gentle spatter of rain changed to a steady drum roll.

20

Matthew dismounted and stood next to his horse. The stream that lay between him and the track continuing south had overflowed its banks, and he couldn’t see a safe place to cross. Should he continue, or turn back to the last cabin he’d seen? He pulled his watch from his pocket and clicked open the case. It was still early
.
Everything in him cried out to stop. His right side throbbed. A week had passed since he left home and he hadn’t yet reached Adams Station. He knew he was traveling far more slowly than he did as a young man on the circuit, but by late afternoon the pain in his ribs overwhelmed him. All he could think of was rest.

Holding Samson’s reins, he walked along the water’s edge looking for a spot shallow enough to cross on the horse’s back and avoid getting his gear soaked. As he traveled east, the freshet grew broader and deeper.

He tried the other direction. Although it wasn’t raining, the air carried the scent of recent rainfall and the threat of more to come. Around a bend, Matthew came upon an uprooted cottonwood lying across the stream. Water swirled on both sides of the trunk, foaming as it pushed through dead branches. On the opposite side, he noticed a stand of timber. If he could get there, it would provide shelter for the night. Better yet, he might spot another settler’s cabin nearby.

Matthew studied the fallen tree, then leaned against Samson and removed his boots, tying the laces together and shoving his stockings inside. He stepped out of his trousers and hung the boots and britches around his neck. Wearing only drawers and his linen shirt, he lifted the saddlebags off the horse and draped them over his left shoulder. After tying the animal to a tree root, he climbed onto the trunk and took a few tentative steps toward the opposite bank. Rough bark scraped at the soles of his feet. When he neared the top, with its tangle of dead wood, he reached down and tested a limb. The cottonwood shifted under his weight, but the limb didn’t break.

Matthew paused for a moment to be sure of his footing, then picked his way between boughs until he saw the grassy creek bank below. As he looked for a safe place to descend, his foot slipped. Without thinking, he grabbed for one of the branches with his right hand, then groaned in agony as pain tore through him. He dropped, straddling the trunk, and waited until the spasm passed.

When he clambered down, the spongy ground gave way and he sank over his ankles in the muck. Mud tugged at his feet with each step until he reached a dry cut where he could stow his gear and return for the horse.

Climbing back through the branches added more scratches to his bare calves. Travel hadn’t seemed this tough when he was eighteen. He shook his head at his own folly. If only he hadn’t tied Samson, perhaps he could’ve called and the horse would have come over on his own. Teetering on the rough surface, Matthew returned to the other side of the stream.

After untying the animal, he mounted and rode him downstream past the fallen cottonwood. Matthew had to kick his heels into Samson’s side to urge him into the swift-moving water. The horse floundered as the bottom dropped away, then steadied himself and swam toward the southern edge. The sun had moved toward the horizon, washing the prairie in golden light.

When Matthew had dressed and secured the saddlebags to the horse, he remounted and turned toward the grove of trees. He’d never make it before nightfall. A slight breeze blew from the west, carrying with it the fragrance of burning wood. He scanned the prairie, hoping to see a trail of smoke that might indicate a cabin hidden in a swale of grass. Nothing showed against the rain clouds boiling overhead. Matthew continued south, resigned to having to spend a night in the open.

Halfway toward the trees, he topped a rise and spotted a squat shanty crouched beyond a bend in the trail. A wispy string of gray smoke rose from the chimney. Matthew’s heart quickened at the prospect of spending the night out of the weather.

When he’d ridden close enough to see an open door and paper-covered window, he drew Samson to a halt. “Halloo the cabin! Anyone home?”

A scrawny man wearing buckskin clothing appeared in the doorway. He shaded his eyes with one hand and peered up at Matthew. “What’re you wanting?”

“A meal and a place to lay my head, if you’ve got such to spare.”

The fellow left the cabin and approached Matthew. His spot in the doorway was immediately filled by a weary-looking woman with two small children hanging onto her faded homespun skirts. From the look of her, she’d soon add another child to their family.

“Come in, and welcome,” she called.

Her husband wiped his hand on his pants leg, then extended it toward Matthew. “I’m Billy Sikes. That there’s my wife Melinda, and our two boys, Jacob and Richmond.”

“Matthew Craig.”

Billy held Samson’s reins while Matthew dismounted, then led the animal around the side of the cabin where a rough corral had been formed by anchoring stacks of tree limbs between posts. He called over his shoulder, “Your horse’ll be safe in here.” Two spavined mules lifted their heads when Samson joined them, then went back to chewing the sparse grass that grew at their feet.

When Matthew entered the cabin, the youngsters scurried back into the shadows, watching him with eyes too big for their small faces. Melinda bent over the hearth, stirring something in a blackened pot.

She darted a shy glance at Matthew. “What brings you clean out here? We don’t never see a soul from one week to the next.”

Matthew looked around for someplace to sit, and finally settled on a crooked chair with worn-out caning in the seat. “I’m a preacher, ma’am. I’m headed for Adams Station to hold a meeting there.”

Her husband came inside, dropping Matthew’s saddlebags next to the wall. “A preacher, eh? We don’t hold with such truck. You’re welcome to stay, but keep your praying to yourself.”

Melinda’s shoulders tensed. “Billy.”

“You hush.” He looked at Matthew, and then gestured around the room at the puncheon table and the cross-pole bed. “You can see we ain’t got extra space, but you can spread your blanket in front of the hearth when it’s time to sleep.”

Matthew’s mind slid back to previous nights on the trail, where he’d been greeted warmly by settlers. Somehow he’d expected the same reception wherever he went. After all, wasn’t he bringing the gospel to people who were perishing?
You didn’t have to come
all this way to find people who need the gospel.
The voice in his ear sounded as clear as though it were spoken aloud.
I sent you
to Beldon Grove and I have not changed my mind.

He remembered Zilphah Beldon’s words, uttered as he left his church building for the last time. “You’re making a mistake . . . don’t go.” He felt a flush rise from under his collar and cover his face. Bowing his head, he stared at the dirt floor. What else could he have done?

In Adams Station, Matthew stood in the back of a wagon that had been pressed into use as a speaking platform and looked out at the assembled congregation. Since none of the cabins in the settlement were large enough to hold a gathering, people sat outdoors on benches, chairs, and blankets brought from their homes. Grateful for the shade offered by a grove of red oak trees, Matthew gazed over the tops of heads and focused on a square log building near the end of the single road that ran through the community. Several young men loitered around the doorway passing a jug back and forth. One of them pointed in his direction and said something to the others. They all guffawed.

Nothing ever changed. Trouble waited wherever a meeting was to be held. Matthew turned his attention back to the sixty or so people gathered below the wagon. “We’re going to have preaching here today.”

“Amen, brother!” shouted an elderly man near the front.

“Those rowdies out there aren’t going to stop us, are they?”

“No!” cried several voices.

Matthew knelt in the wagon bed and waited until the assembly before him went to their knees. “Lord, give me the words thou wantest me to say this afternoon. Grant thy hearers open ears and hearts.” He lifted his head and stared straight at the disruptive group in front of the groggery. “And please keep thy hand of protection over this meeting.”

He used his left arm to lever himself to his feet, opening his Bible after he stood. “It seems fitting to take my text from the Acts of the Apostles, chapter seventeen. Those of you who know the Word know that this is the recounting of the apostle Paul’s declaration to the idolaters in Athens.” He held the book open in the palm of one hand, and lifted it so that even the louts standing at the end of the street could see. Raising his voice, Matthew continued, “Paul preached to people who worshiped at an altar named ‘To The Unknown God.’ It would seem that the fear of the God who made the world and all things therein is also missing among some of you.”