Angel Train (15 page)

After she finished, many cried out, “Praise God!” and “Amen!,” not all of them from the Pilgrim Way. Some of the soldiers even called out.

Gwilym Morgan rose. “I could speak of no other thing this afternoon than the amazing grace of the Lord Jesus Christ who died to save us from sin. Let me remind you of a story in the Old Testament in the book of Numbers. The Bible says this occurred after God had delivered His people Israel from slavery and bondage. He brought them across the Red Sea on
dry land and worked mighty miracles to deliver them, but the Bible says in Numbers 21 that ‘the soul of the people was much discouraged because of the way. And the people spake against God, and against Moses.’ And because the people sinned and doubted God, the sixth verse says, ‘And the LORD sent fiery serpents among the people, and they bit the people; and much people of Israel died.’

“This is one of those pictures that show us what we are. Then when God is gracious to us, even then we complain about Him, and we do not believe Him.

“If you can picture these people out in the middle of the desert bitten by serpents and dying, you get a picture of our world. We’ve all been bitten by a serpent. We’re all dying. So says the entire Old Testament and the New Testament.” His voice lifted. “But then the people came to Moses and said, ‘We have sinned,’ and Moses prayed for the people. And verse 8 says, ‘And the LORD said unto Moses, Make thee a fiery serpent, and set it upon a pole: and it shall come to pass, that every one that is bitten, when he looketh upon it, shall live.’ And that’s what Moses did. He made a serpent of brass. He put it up on a pole. This was God’s cure for man’s terrible problem. It was life instead of death. Can you see it? A man is out in the field. He feels a fiery pain in his leg and looks down to see a serpent and knows that he’s a dead man, and then he remembers that God said, If any man will look at the brass serpent, he will live. Oh, with what eagerness he turned to look, and there in the sunlight was the brass serpent! Even as he looked, he felt the poison leave him, and he felt health and strength. Then surely he must have cried out, ‘Praise thee to Jehovah who saves His people.’”

Silence had fallen over the congregation, and Gwilym paused. Finally, he said, “I weep every time I read that story
because it is so much my own story. I was bitten by the serpent. I was a sinner until I found the Lord Jesus Christ. Let me read you from the most famous book, perhaps, in the Bible, the most famous chapter, John,
Chapter 3
. Jesus was explaining why He had come to this world to save men. In verse 14 we find these words that Jesus spoke of His own reason for coming to earth: ‘As Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, even so must the Son of man be lifted up: That whosever believeth in him should not perish, but have eternal life.’ And then the most famous verse in the Bible, ‘For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.’”

Gwilym lifted his head, and tears glittered in his eyes and ran down his cheeks. “Do you hear that? Even as Moses lifted up a serpent, so when anyone was bitten by a deadly serpent and looked at it, they did not die but felt the healing touch of God. And that’s what Jesus said of Himself, that He would be lifted up. Lifted up how? On a cross bleeding, His body broken, suffering unimaginable torment, but He said, ‘If I’m lifted up, and a man or a woman or a young person looks to My death and knows that I am the Savior, he or she will not perish but will have everlasting life.’”

As Gwilym said this, Casey Tremayne felt something he had never felt before. It began deep down in his heart, and fear seemed to grip him. He knew he was a man who did not know God, but the story and the verses that Gwilym Morgan had read seemed to run through his veins, and he found that his hands were unsteady, a rare thing indeed for Casey Tremayne! He knew something was happening. Despite his fear, he felt hope, and he continued to listen as Gwilym preached.

“In the story in the Old Testament, it didn’t matter whether a man had just been bitten or whether he had been bitten and
was dying, all he had to do was look. This was God’s way of saying that He would save His people. And that’s what Jesus meant, and God’s great love provided that. The Lord Jesus left heaven and donned human flesh and suffered humiliation and pain and finally death. For God had said, ‘Without shedding of blood [there] is no remission’ of sin, but it had to be innocent blood. An angel’s blood would not do. A man must die, but one who was innocent enough to pay for the sins of the world. No one but Jesus Christ, the Son of God could do that.”

The sermon was not long, and he closed by saying, “I know two things. One, I was a guilty man, a sinner doomed to hell. I was like those bitten by the fiery serpent. My friends, I tried every way I could to change that. I tried being good. I tried going to church. I tried to cut off my bad habits, but I was still a sinner. The other thing I know is that in my grief and despair I looked to Jesus on the cross. I remember to this day, and I will remember it throughout eternity; I was doomed and in despair, but I saw Jesus dying on the cross and then I cried out, ‘Save me, Lord,’ and He did! No man or woman will perish if they look to the Savior, the Lord Jesus Christ.

“You say, ‘I’m a sinner.’ I say, ‘That’s good!’ Jesus is the friend of sinners. He’s the best friend you will ever have. He will be with you in life. He’ll be with you in death. He will be with you when you stand before the Father in judgment, and He will say, ‘This is my own. He’s bought with my blood. He’s free. He has My life in him.’”

Gwilym Morgan closed the service with another hymn, but Tremayne didn’t hear it. He tore himself away, but he didn’t know that Charity was watching him. She saw the movement of his body almost as if he were enduring a wound and the torment in his face as he whirled and left the grounds.

His eyes met hers, and she saw his pain and fear, something she had never thought to see in Casey Tremayne. And she thought,
God has touched him.

MARZINA COLE HAD LIVED most of her life in the mountains of North Carolina, and she missed those mountains, but the Platte Valley had its own fascination for her. She walked steadily, keeping one ear tuned to a cry from six-month-old Benjamin or the call from five-year-old Rose. She was a tall woman, well formed, with dark hair and startling blue eyes. She wore, as did all the other women, a cotton bonnet to keep the hot sun off and a plain, unembroidered brown dress. The trip had turned her skin a summer darkness, and her smooth, beautiful complexion was attractive.

The plains on either side of the river were bare of trees. She missed the trees a great deal, and the short grass and the wide-open spaces made the landscape look like the regions of Africa, or, at least, pictures she had seen. About three miles on both sides of the valley, the land rose in sandstone cliffs, higher and more broken as the trail moved west.

Marzina was delighted with the prairie wildlife. She had seen antelope, coyote, grizzly and black bears, buffalo, and the strange prairie dog villages that covered sometimes five hundred acres. To her right she saw a herd of buffalo and hoped they stayed away. The buffalo sometimes were a nuisance. They
ruined streams that would turn dark and muddy, but Marzina didn’t know what the travelers would do for fires if it were not for the enormous herds that left buffalo chips scattered over the plains. She had learned to make a blaze by drafting a fire pit, and cooking had been a new adventure.

Her attention was caught by a rider, and she saw it was her husband, Nolan. Purely as a reflex action she stiffened herself, for she could see even at this distance his face was flushed from drinking. He had been a drinking man before their marriage, arranged by her father. She had been only sixteen and had had little choice.

As Nolan pulled beside her, Marzina thought how few knew a happy married life. She certainly didn’t! Nolan was a short man, well built and strong, but no taller than Marzina herself. He could be amiable, but drink always turned him vicious, and she had borne the marks of his blows many times.

She had so few happy memories; her past was grim and her future uncertain. Nolan had decided to go to Oregon without consulting her. The first she had known of it was when he had come in drunk and said, “We’re going to Oregon.” At least she had some stability in the cabin and the home she had made since her marriage. But that was all lost, and she keenly remembered her sense of loss when they left the mountains. And now on these flat plains, she felt alien and saw nothing in the future but grim days, hard work, and abuse at the hands of her husband.

Finally the train stopped for the night, and she led the oxen into the circle. Nolan was not there, so she started unyoking the animals. She was interrupted when a voice said, “Let me help you with that, Mrs. Cole.” She turned around to see York Wingate, whose wagon was right behind hers.

“I can do it, Doctor.”

“No trouble.” Wingate at once began unyoking and loosing the oxen. Benjamin began crying, and Marzina went to the wagon and pulled him from the pallet. Rose was waking up.

“I’m hungry, Mama.”

“We’ll have supper soon.” Marzina pulled her dress back and began nursing the baby. When York had finished unyoking the oxen, he started to leave, but she turned to one side and said, “Thank you very much, Doctor.”

“No trouble at all. How’s that fat baby of yours?”

“He’s fine, Dr. Wingate. How’s your wife?” Marzina saw a shadow pass over Wingate’s face.

“She’s not making it too well.”

“Maybe it’ll get cooler up ahead, and she’ll feel better. Could I sit with her awhile?”

“That’s a kind heart speaking, but I know you have plenty to do. Thank you anyway. I’ll tell her you offered. Maybe you could come over after supper and visit with her a little bit. I know she’s lonesome.”

“I’ll do that.”

* * *

TREMAYNE AND CHARTERHOUSE RETURNED to the train. They had looked for game but had killed only a single buffalo. Charterhouse noticed that Tremayne had spoken little for several days. He dated it from the time they had left Fort Laramie, and he was correct.

The sermon had affected Tremayne tremendously. He had not spoken of it to anyone, but the words of Gwilym Morgan seemed to echo in his mind. He had quoted many Scriptures, and now it seemed to Tremayne that he could remember every bit of that sermon. He slept poorly, and once the startling
thought came to him,
Maybe I’m losing my mind. I can’t get away from that preaching.

Charterhouse slipped off his horse and watched as Tremayne did the same. “What’s the matter with you, Casey? You haven’t said a dozen words all day.”

“Nothing.”

“Must be something. You’ve clammed up for several days now. Are you worried about Indians?”

“No, there won’t be trouble with Indians here. The Platte Valley here is kind of a no-man’s-land. Sioux are up to the north, and the Cheyenne to the south. But they’re not likely to give us any trouble.”

Suddenly Charterhouse was astonished to hear Tremayne ask, “What do you think of God, Elsworth?”

Elsworth stared at his friend. It was the first time Tremayne had voluntarily mentioned such a thing as religion. “Well,” he said, “there is a God. I’m sure of that. All of this”—his gesture took in the river, the skies, the mountains, and the sun falling to the west—“all this didn’t make itself. There’s got to be a world maker.”

“Are you a Christian man then?”

“I’m afraid not. I was reared in the Church of England, but it never touched me, and I don’t see much hope for myself.”

Tremayne unsaddled his horse, as did Charterhouse, and as he put the saddle down, he said, “That sermon by Gwilym Morgan at Fort Laramie, I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“Well, the man’s in earnest. He believes in God. I’m sure of that much. All these people pretty much seem to be that way. That girl, Charity, when she sings, you can see the love of God in her face.”

“Can’t help but envy that. At least, I can’t.”

“So do I. I’ve met a lot of church people I had little confidence in, but I think the Morgans and some others on this train are the real goods.” His curiosity was aroused, and he said, “You never had any religion?”

“Not of the right kind, I’m afraid. I always trusted in myself. Didn’t think I needed God, but Morgan’s sermon was a powerful thing. That man has something.”

Charterhouse wanted to pursue the matter, but when he tried to speak of something new about religion, Tremayne cut him off. “I’m hungry,” he said. “Let’s cook us up some of this buffalo hump. I’m going to cook the tongue and the liver for that old Gypsy woman. It’s hard for anyone her age to digest all this tough antelope we’ve been having.”

* * *

“THANK YOU, MR. TREMAYNE. You’re a kind man.” Lareina spoke to Tremayne who had offered to cook the buffalo liver and tongue. “No,” she said, “I can do that much at least.”

She looked around and asked, “What is that big rock there?”

“They call it Independence Rock, ma’am. Quite a spectacle, isn’t it?”

Zamora was standing beside her grandmother. “It looks impressive. Have you ever climbed it?”

“Once. Lots of people do,” Tremayne said, turning to face her. “They carve their names up on the top of it. Must be hundreds of names up there.”

“Are you going up?”

“I might. Would you like to see it?”

“Yes. I’d like to leave my name there.”

“Let me borrow a chisel. After you cook your grandmother’s liver, I’ll take you.”

“I can cook the liver,” Stefan said. “Nothing much to that. You two go on.”

Zamora and Tremayne left at once, and Stefan began making soup out of the liver and roasting the tongue. He studied his grandmother for a moment: “What are you thinking? About those two?”

“She has something in her eye for that tall man.”

“You’re not thinking anything will come of it. He would never marry a Gypsy.”

“You can never tell about things like that. He’s a good man. Better than some in this train. Now, you let me fix that soup, and you roast this tongue.”

* * *

FROM THE TOP OF Independence Rock, they could see the flat valley. Zamora’s cheeks were brightened by the sun and by the brisk wind.

“This is beautiful, Casey.”

“It is. Let’s see if I can find my name.” He had to hunt for a while. “It’s kind of weathered, but there I am. C. Tremayne.” He studied the name. “I think I’ll dig it out a little bit. Make it last a little longer.”

Zamora watched as he deepened the letters, and then she said, “Put my name there under yours, or let me do it.”

“Let me.” He began banging at the chisel with the hammer he had brought, and soon he had inscribed her name—Zamora Krisova. “I think I’ll put the date between them here. August the thirtieth, 1854.” When he finished, the two looked down on it.

“It’s almost like a grave, isn’t it?” she said.

Startled, Tremayne asked, “What do you mean, Zamora?”

“Well, that’s what happens. We put people in the ground, sometimes we put a stone over it with their name on it and something about them. I saw some very old tombstones in the old country. Some of them three hundred years old.”

“Would you like to go back over there?”

“No, there’s nothing for me there.”

Finally Tremayne shook his head almost sadly, “There should be more to a man than a few scratches on a rock.”

“There is more.”

She moved closer to him so that her arm was brushing his. Startled, he turned and looked down at her. She was dark and exotic, unlike any woman Tremayne had seen before. Her lips were full at the center. Her hair was dark as the night itself. She wore a crimson kerchief, as she usually did, and from her ears two pearl pendants gracefully dangled. A blend of qualities in this woman attracted Casey almost each time he saw her—pride, honesty, and her deep, mysterious grace of heart and body. And he realized these elements stirred his hunger for the things a woman brought to a man. Her eyes were on his.

He said huskily, “A man wants something out of life, and I’m not sure what it is.”

Zamora whispered, “We have to take what pleasure we can from life.”

Her words seemed to echo his thoughts. He possessed all the hungers a strong individual can have, and suddenly she was there, and he read the invitation in her eyes. He reached forward, pulled her to him, and kissed her, and as he did, he felt her response and knew that Zamora’s loneliness equaled his own. He released her and started to speak, but he heard a
sound and turned to see Charity Morgan who had followed the same path up the rock. Awkwardly, Tremayne stepped back, for there was something in Charity’s face like contempt, and he knew she had seen him embracing Zamora.

“Helen Wingate is having her baby,” Charity said. “Her husband says she’s not doing well. You might go see if there’s anything you can do.”

“You’re right. I’ll go now.”

He turned to Zamora, who shrugged and said, “Go on, Casey. I can get back.”

He left at once, and Zamora turned to Charity. She saw distaste in the other woman’s eyes and something else she couldn’t identify. “You didn’t like what you saw?” she demanded.

“It’s not my affair.”

“I think it might be. You have eyes for him. I’m not blind.”

“You’re wrong, Zamora.”

“He’s not for you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He’s a man of flesh and blood.”

“Of course he is. What do you mean by that?” Charity demanded.

“You want a holy man.”

Charity was startled by her words. “Well, I want a man who knows God. I wouldn’t have any other kind.”

The two women stared at each other, and then Zamora smiled a bitter, cynical smile. There was triumph in it though. “You’ll never have him, Charity. You’re not woman enough for him.”

“And you are?”

Zamora didn’t answer. She merely laughed and started down the trail. Charity watched her go and then saw the letters carved in the stone—“C. Tremayne and Zamora Krisova.”
Something about the names carved into the rock disturbed her, but she couldn’t think why. Slowly she turned and made her way down the mountainside.

* * *

“HOW IS SHE?” TREMAYNE demanded when Gwilym met him.

“Her husband says she’s not doing well.”

Neither of them knew what to say. Finally Tremayne muttered, “It’s bad to be helpless, isn’t it, Gwilym?”

Gwilym Morgan didn’t answer for a moment, then he lifted his head. “God’s not helpless,” he said finally. “I’ll get the men to pray.”

The train’s attention was centered on the one wagon where Wingate was trying to help his wife. The cries of the woman seemed to go through Tremayne. He had heard cries of agony before, but these cries were weak and feeble, and Tremayne had a dark picture in his mind of what was happening. Marzina Cole appeared with her husband, Nolan. Nolan was half drunk, as usual, and he gave one look at the wagon, snorted, and walked away. Nolan’s callousness always incensed Tremayne.
The woman is too good for him
, he always thought.

“I hope Helen makes it,” he said quietly.

Marzina Cole was holding her baby, a healthy, rosy-cheeked boy with the long name of Benjamin. “It frightens me, Tremayne.”

“It’s awful being helpless. If we could only do something.”

But there was nothing to do, and finally Marzina said, “My husband has no sympathy for weakness. You know what he said when he heard Helen Wingate was having trouble? He said, ‘If it’s her time, she’ll die.’”

Tremayne bristled. He had never heard the woman speak against her husband, although everyone on the train knew she had just cause. Everyone was aware he abused her. Tremayne had seen the marks on her face where Cole had struck her. It infuriated him, but he had had to suppress his anger, knowing their relationship was not his business. He couldn’t think of any response, and then he asked, “How did you happen to marry him, Marzina?”

“My father arranged it.”

That was not uncommon, Tremayne knew, but something in the weariness of her voice pulled at Tremayne’s sympathy.
She’s left so much unsaid.
He reached out and touched the silky hair of the baby, who had dark hair like his mother. “You’ve got two fine children.”