Killing Halfbreed (25 page)

“I didn’t have any money to travel, but I knew if I stayed in Cottonwood, they’d eventually kill me, so I just took off without having any idea where I was going.  I knew I could never go back.

“After many miles, I came upon an Apache woman sitting on a rock.  She was cradling a sick child in her lap.  I knew something about home remedies and such, so I helped her nurse him to health.  She was so thankful she brought me back to her camp, and when they heard my story they took me in.

“I had no family back east to help me, didn’t even know if you’d ever gotten my letter or not, so I just stayed hidden here with my new Indian family, hoping someday I might run into you and be able to tell you what happened.”

Till this moment, she’d been so quiet I’d only heard a single word out of her, but now, her words left me speechless. What this poor girl had been through.

“Those same people that chased you and Ben off your land, have done the same thing to me.  I tried to stay and fight and build, in case I ever found either of you, but they won.  There’s only so much one man can do.”  Defeat saturated my voice.

I felt broken but didn’t know what else to say.  I’d just admitted my failure to someone else.  That made it all the more real.

“Jessica, if you want, I’ll go back with you, and we can try again.  Or we can go to the governor, or to someone who cares.”  I guess she saw the resignation in my eyes.

“No, Jacob,” she touched my hand, “You’ve done so much already.  I don’t want to fight any more.  I’m happy here.  I just wanted to tell you what happened to your brother so you could be at peace.  You’re free now.”

Her words held such finality.  I could do nothing but nod in understanding and kiss her hand goodbye.  I mounted and rode away from the rising sun.  She’d said I was free.

I certainly didn’t feel it.

“Blood-stained brow, are you dying for nothing?

Flesh and blood, is it so elemental?”

Liquid

               - Jars of Clay

Parched desert spread out flatly on all sides, flanked by distant mountainous shadows.  I hadn't seen a town for miles, much less another dusty traveler.  No trail guided me, I was simply chasing the sun.

And it was merciless.  Sweat rolled down my back in rivulets.  The oppressive heat made it difficult to even breathe.

I found the mesa.  It was as if the vision from the chief’s mind had transported itself to mine.  It was like a giant red table jutting out of the desert floor.  It stood alone like a beacon calling a sojourner to a holy mountain.

Fifteen minutes later, I grasped the rust-colored ridge above my head and pulled myself over it, reaching the top of the bluff.

Something was different up here.

I kneeled in awe before the view which met my eyes.  Up here, there was no heat.  Instead, a strong, cool breeze constantly blew across the mesa’s rocky top.  The desert, in all its afternoon beauty, was breath-taking.

I stood and stumbled a few steps toward the middle of the bluff.  I found myself falling to my knees again, driven there by an unseen hand.  The story of Moses and the burning bush sprang into my mind.

I knew the story just like everyone, heard it over and over again as a child.  Hastily, I removed my boots and socks, baring my feet to the rocks and sand.  For some reason, this felt like holy ground.

I felt God's presence up here like never before in my life.  It seemed His Spirit was in the wind blowing across my face and surrounding me.  The roar of it filled my ears.  The caress of it hugged me.

It was a strange thing to be awed by God's magnificent creation laid out before me and at the same time feel Him so close.  I closed my eyes and let myself be blown by the wind.

Silent prayers bubbled up from my heart, prayers I didn’t even know I had in me, and I was compelled to make them audible.

If I opened my eyes, would I see my Creator standing before me?  Would He wear a loving smile?  Or frown in disapproval?

My hardened heart cracked against my will, and I didn’t like what I saw there.

I knew God was here with me.  He was silent, but His presence pierced my conscious, forcing my guilt and shame to the surface where I had to face it.

My throat constricted, and tears rolled from my eyes.

“Can I make it up to you, Lord?” I whispered.

I understood at last.  You can run from men and hide from their eyes, but no man can hide his heart and soul from Almighty God.

His love felt strong and pure, but it was restrained.  In my spirit, I perceived He withheld His love because of my guilt.  I wanted to erase it, but I couldn’t go back and change the things I’d done.  How much good would I have to do to overcome all the evil I’d wrought?

“God, help me!”

His wrath was strong and fierce, boiling over in its fury, but this
also
was restrained.  Like raging waters about to overrun a weakened dam was His wrath toward me.  This vision panicked me more than even the thought of Him not loving me.  What could I do?

Then, a new vision filled my mind.  Another place, another desert, a desert ruled by a skull-shaped hill.  An old city lay behind it, with buildings made of finely-hewn stone.  On that barren hill stood a cross, and on it, the figure of a dying man.  Blood ran down his arms and his legs, down the wood and into the ground below.  I thought it had to be Jesus Christ.

Who else could it be?  He was in pain, more pain than I.

He cried out suddenly and perished.

The image of His body was replaced by Joshua Miller falling through the trap door.  I watched his neck break again.

He swayed in the wind and then that was replaced once more by Jesus on the cross, slumped in death.  Blood flowed from a wound in His side.

Then, Christ disappeared and Josh Miller was swinging in the breeze again, the dirty rope creaking slowly. 
Creeeaaak, creeeaaak, creeeaaaak.

It wasn’t fair.  What was a man supposed to do?  I didn’t ask Miller to die in my place!  Why would God blame me for that?

I would have died that day if Josh Miller hadn’t taken my place.  Was God trying to show me the same thing was true about Jesus?  Growing up, I’d always heard preachers talking about Jesus dying for our sins.  Is this what they meant?

“If Jesus hadn’t died for my sins, I would have?  Is that what you’re saying?” I cried to the sky.

Silence.

“That’s a heck of a way to teach an object lesson, God.  Couldn’t you have done it without taking a man’s life?”  I felt disgusted.

Josh Miller swung slowly in the wind again.  The rhythmic groan of the rope was ominous, overwhelming, intolerable.  It gnawed at me, tore at my mind like a wolverine digging furiously for its prey.

I broke.

I finally broke.

My spirit couldn’t bear the burden any longer.  If it hadn’t been for my sins, He wouldn’t have died.  Neither Joshua, nor Jesus.

What did that mean?  What could I do?  I knew the dreaded answer. 
Nothing.
  How can you bring a man back to life again?

You can’t.  A man was dead because of my crimes.  Actually, two men were dead because of my crimes.

I could kill myself, but wouldn’t that make the sacrifice of their lives worthless?  Was this hell?  Was this how God punished sinners, by showing them their sins had killed another, but they could do nothing about it?

I had no fix.  No way out.  What could I do?

At long last, understanding pierced my cluttered, unlit mind.  Somehow, God’s wrath was appeased by the selfless acts of those two men.

But wasn’t He a God of love? Isn’t that what we’re always taught?  Hadn’t I
felt
His love?  Why would He do these things if He were a loving God?  Why would he kill Miller, a boy who loved Him, in exchange for some rotten, no-good like me?

It was the only way He could show His love and still have me take my sin seriously.  My crimes had caused death.  God had miraculously provided me with a way to have a new life, and not pay the penalty of my sins myself.

I bowed my head in submission.  I finally understood.  Deep in my heart, I accepted His gift.  There is a tremendous warmth which accompanies the knowledge God is smiling at you.

Poor Josh Miller.

He died to teach me this truth, how God had provided a way to return to Him. What respect I held for that young man now.

The visions were whisked from my mind like vapors in the face of the wind.  The breeze flowing across the mesa ceased.  I lifted my face, but I was alone atop the bluff.  My praying was finished.

I felt light and clean, cleaner than I’d felt in a long time, and I wanted to jump up and dance.

Instead, I climbed back down the bluff, made camp, and bedded down for the night.

***

At dawn, I packed my gear and loaded the horse.  I wanted an early start, before the sun grew too hot.

I swung into the saddle, but stopped short of spurring my mount eastward.

Just as the Apache chief had said, I’d found the mesa in the desert.  I’d found God up there.

I felt renewed, clean even, but what should I do next?  Something strong was pulling me back to the top of that mesa.  I was supposed to learn something more up there.

***

I climbed those rocks again.  This time, I walked all the way to the center of the mesa — I hadn’t made it much past the edge before.  An invisible hand compelled me to kneel once more.  Being in God’s presence made you weak in the knees. 
Who can stand before Him?

The breeze was slight.  It rolled a few of the tiniest pebbles around in unpredictable lines.  I closed my eyes and imagined it was God’s touch I felt across my face.

The wind’s strength grew.  I opened my eyes.

Dark grey clouds were tumbling and rolling in from the mountains very rapidly.  They boiled with the ferocity of a major storm.

I’d never seen anything like it in the desert.  This storm was of God.  My gut said run, find shelter, hide from the tempestuous mass, but my knees stayed glued to the ground.  Lightning flashed brilliantly, one fearsome bolt after another.  Thunder boomed, echoing across the desert floor.  I couldn’t move, and the storm loomed ever closer.

Then, it was right over me with hard, biting rain pelting my skin.  Its cold sting drew deep shivers.  Lightning seared some rocks ahead of me, shattering them into shards.  I was momentarily blinded by the flash as ragged splinters flew in all directions.

My heart fluttered a mile a minute, yet I was helpless.  The blast of lightning had burned large brown spots in my vision, and its thunder pounded so loud, it rattled my chest with power.

I saw Joshua Miller again.

No!  Would I be forever plagued by visions of his limp body swinging from the gallows?  Would I
never
be released from the guilt of this horror? 
I thought I’d been forgiven.
  Wasn’t it over?

Next, I saw Tom Logan’s body laying in dark blood on the saloon floor, onlookers standing over him.  I saw Jinny Logan weeping and clinging to her mother, her heart broken for a father she’d never see again.

I watched her mother’s face which seemed so impassive at first glance, but was really lined with fear and grief.

I saw Marlby O’Connell standing in the street in Cottonwood, facing me, his body slumping, about to fall, my bullet in his chest, deep redness spreading over his shirt where it’d hit.

I saw men broken and bleeding in the box canyon on my ranch.  Would-be rustlers who would not live to steal another day.  I saw men with arms crushed by rocks, legs pinned.  Blood covered the floor of the entrance to the canyon.  Some wounded moaned and cried.  I saw a man whose skull had broken open.

I wanted to vomit.

In the other entrance, I saw men who seemed asleep, except for the blood coming from their ears.  Then, I saw Henry Tadd.  I was surprised to see he’d been among the rustlers, and grieved to see he was dead and horribly disfigured.  The stampeding cows had downed him and his horse, cutting them to ribbons with their sharp hooves.

I saw some men wheeling his body in a wagon up to the Logan ranch and I watched as Jinny Logan understood who was dead.  Grief burst forth in a torrent of tears.  She’d been hurt twice beyond comfort.

I saw Elizabeth.  Beautiful Elizabeth, with her smooth, white cheeks and lively brown eyes.  I saw her dying in the street.  The bullet which had been meant for my heart had struck hers instead, spilling her precious blood into the dust.  I couldn’t reverse that flow.

“But God,” I pled, “Marlby wouldn’t let me alone...those men were rustling me...and I...I was going to lose everything.  I didn’t know Henry Tadd was there...Logan should have known better...I didn’t have time to stop Elizabeth….”

Tom, Joshua, Jinny, Marlby, Henry, Elizabeth.  Tom, Joshua, Jinny, Marlby, Henry, Elizabeth.

“But what about the criminal behind all of this?  Somebody’s directing all the rustling, somebody else shot Elizabeth, not me.  What about them?  Aren’t they more guilty?  Why is it my fault?”