The Crossed Sabres (9 page)

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As Faith stepped off the streetcar, she was so lost in thought that the harsh clanging of the bell startled her. She blinked her eyes, then moved along the tree-lined street, which was flanked by rows of large two-story brownstone houses. Dusk was falling and the sunset dropping behind the artificial horizon of expensive homes was a deep scarlet.

The Vandiver house was on the corner, occupying a double lot, so that the structure itself was not crowded, but bordered by a garden with a black iron fence surrounding it. Unconsciously Faith ran her hand across the tips of the blunt spear-like spikes of the uprights, then turned and moved up the walk. She climbed the steps mechanically, gave the heavy brass knocker a series of three raps, then stood back to wait.

For two hours she had walked the streets, not seeing much of the neighborhoods she passed through, for her mind was occupied with what Reverend Thomas had told her. She was a highly imaginative young woman, and sometimes given to letting herself probe at things, going beyond spoken words into possibilities. All the while she had walked the streets, she had pulled up memories of her times with Carl, the times they had talked about going to the Indians with the gospel. And slowly it had come to her that she had always been the instigator of those talks. Carl had been interested in the West, but then most people were. The papers were full of stories about the cavalry and its never-ending battles with the tribes; and novel after novel had flowed from the press, dealing with the “noble savage,” as the Indians were called.

But now she was beginning to realize that all the excitement about going to the Indians, of organizing a mission and sharing Jesus with them, had been carried along by her
enthusiasm. Carl had listened, a smile on his face, calling her his “fiery evangelist,” but he had not shown the same fervor.

He’s just not as vocal as I am about things,
Faith told herself.
When he gets there, it will be different.

The door opened, and Opal, Mrs. Vandiver’s maid, smiled at her. “Why, Miss Jamison! Come in—I didn’t know you were coming here.”

“Hello, Opal,” Faith said, feeling awkward and a little foolish. “Is Mrs. Vandiver at home?”

“Oh, I’m sorry she’s not!” Opal said. “She and Mr. Van-diver went out to dinner. But Mr. Carl is here. You come into the parlor and I’ll get him.”

Faith followed the maid to the parlor, then stood there, her nervousness growing as she waited. When Carl entered the room, a look of surprise on his face, she felt even more foolish. “Why, Faith,” he smiled, coming to take her hands. “Is something wrong?” He was a slight man, below average height and small boned. He had a smooth, pale face, with a mustache over rather thin lips, and his eyes were a flat blue.

“Oh no,” Faith said hurriedly. “I—just wanted to see you.”

He took her hands and raised them to his lips. “Isn’t that supposed to be bad luck or something? I mean, the groom isn’t supposed to see the bride before the ceremony, is he?”

Faith shook her head. “That’s just on the day of the wedding.”

“Good. Do come and sit down. May I get you some tea?”

“No, thank you, Carl.” She sat down and began to speak of some aspect of the ceremony, all the while wondering how to approach the real subject. He was a thoughtful man, not given to outbursts of passionate expression; but many times she had wished that he were more demonstrative. Being a strong woman and perhaps even self-willed, she had longed for a husband who would be strong enough to help her overcome those traits. Though she had never admitted it, Carl had been a disappointment to her in that area, but she had thought that, too, would change when they were married.

Finally, a streak of impatience with her own thoughts rose in her, and she said, “Carl, Reverend Thomas came by to see me this afternoon.”

“Oh? Something about the ceremony?”

“No. He was disturbed about something rather serious.” Faith bit her lower lip nervously, then shook her shoulders. “He implied that the committee isn’t fully convinced you’re qualified for work among the Indians. I told him, of course, that was nonsense.”

Vandiver straightened as she spoke, and she saw that the statement had struck him forcibly. Thinking that he was angry, she ran on quickly, “It’s foolish, isn’t it? But we can go to them—or just to Reverend Thomas. He said we could call on him tonight if we wished. Then you can give him some assurance that we’ll both be fine on the field.”

Faith leaned forward, waiting for him to answer, but he seemed to be silenced by her words. Finally he licked his lips, then said, “Faith, I wish it were that simple.”

“Why, it
is
simple, Carl! You just haven’t been aggressive enough when talking to the committee!”

“No, I’m afraid it’s more than that.” Vandiver lifted his gaze to meet hers. “I’m afraid, my dear, that Thomas is right.” He saw Faith open her mouth to protest and held up his hand, saying quickly, “Hear me out, Faith.” He got up and began to pace back and forth.

Faith noted his face, tense and flushed, and she knew what he was about to say would not be pleasant.

“I love you very much,” he said, coming back to sit beside her. Taking her hand, he shook his head, adding, “Make no mistake about that. I want to marry you. I think you love me, too, so we can have a good marriage. And we can serve God in a great way—”

When Carl broke off, Faith stared at him, then perceived what he was leaving unsaid. “But not among the Indians, is that what you’re trying to tell me, Carl?”

“I—I’m afraid it is,” he said quietly. He was not a man
who could handle bad scenes easily, preferring to let them slide away. But he knew this was one time he couldn’t avoid it, so he went on as steadily as he could.

“You’ve felt the call of God to go to the Indians very strongly. But I’ve not felt it. Oh, I know I’ve gone along with it—but I see now that I was intrigued by the romance of the thing—going west among the cowboys and the soldiers. But if you’ll think back, Faith, you’ll remember that never did I show any real certainty that God was moving in that direction with my life.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you felt that way?”

He avoided her eyes, alarmed by the pain in her voice. “Why, I was certain that God would give me that sort of call. If He’d given you a call, and if we were to be married—it seemed that all I had to do was wait, and I’d know it was right.” He hesitated, then added, “But it hasn’t worked that way, and I believe my other thought was the right one.”

“What other thought?”

“That you—and I—were not hearing God correctly.” He allowed a pleading note to touch his voice, and spoke more quickly. “We can serve God in many ways, Faith. If I became a leader in our denomination, with you beside me, we could do so much! Why, we could raise enough money to send a hundred missionaries to the West! Don’t you see that?”

But if he had thought to win her by this strategy, he was not successful, for her voice was brittle as she said, “God didn’t call me to raise money, Carl. He’s calling me to give my life to those who don’t know Jesus.”

Carl tried for a long time to reason with her, protesting that he loved her and they would be happy. But Faith said almost nothing, except when she rose to leave.

She faced him squarely and asked, “Carl, are you saying that you are not going to the mission?”

He swallowed, but nodded. “It would be a tragedy, Faith. I want to serve God, but I’m convinced that I can do more by staying here.”

She took off her engagement ring and extended it. He gasped, “But, Faith—we can’t call the wedding off! I love you—and it’s all arranged!”

Faith smiled wryly. “Goodbye, Carl. I wish you well. But I must obey God.”

She turned and walked out into the dusky night. Only a thin scarlet line of the sun’s last light remained. As she headed down the street, the line faded, leaving the streets dark, with only the orange dots of the streetlamps to give illumination.

She felt totally empty and spent, the future blank—a dark pathway without even a glimmer of light. The click of her heels against the pavement sent dull echoes through the air as she made her way along the row of brownstones. Then the hot tears began to stream down her cheeks. Almost fiercely, she wiped them away with the back of her hand, pulled her shoulders back, and looked up into the ebony sky. “I’ll go wherever you want me to go, God,” she whispered, “but please don’t ever leave me!”

She waited. The heavens seemed silent. Then something inside her began to grow, driving out the pain and fear that had engulfed her. All hesitancy was gone. And as she continued on toward home, the cloud of heaviness lifted and Faith
knew
she would never be alone again.

CHAPTER SIX

Trip to Fort Lincoln

The wood-burning train with its five passenger coaches made its way steadily across the desert’s empty horizon, a gusty wind boiling against the car sides. The air scouring down the aisle laid its raw edge on the passengers. The locomotive was cracking at forty miles an hour through a condensed night. The tracks beneath the car chattered a little, and Faith felt the sudden bite of a curve. She stared out into the blackness until the sky broke with the faint light of dawn. The train paused briefly at an obscure station, the lights inside the small building making a yellow reflection on the handful of passengers, their faces obscure as they stumbled off the train.

Later as the morning light filled the car, Faith’s eyes turned to trace the faces of her fellow passengers. Several were soldiers, all privates except one—a tall lieutenant, who kept himself aloof from the rough banter of the others. He gave Faith a careful look, then turned his attention to the horizon. The other travelers were women—one of them obviously the wife of a thickset man wearing overalls and the mother of the three small children she tried to restrain from running up and down the aisle. The other woman was about Faith’s age, she judged. Her face was hard and her manners forward, smiling boldly at the soldiers, one of them responding by sitting beside her. The conductor came down the aisle, gazed disapprovingly at the couple, but said nothing.

One man dressed in buckskin caught Faith’s eye. He sat alone, his face hidden behind a bushy beard, and once when
a band of antelope rushed up from a coulee, he threw open his window, yanked a rifle from the rack over his head and pumped seven quick shots toward the herd, then slammed the window down again.

Faith expected the conductor to protest, but he only grinned at the man. “You’d better shoot straighter than that, Buck, or the Piutes will lift your hair!” He moved on down the aisle to the next car, and when he opened the door, the wind, now losing its chill, and the loud, rhythmic sound of the wheels clacking over the joints of the rails swept through the car.

Later the sun rose higher, and as the car warmed up, men popped the windows open, allowing not only a rush of air but a constant haze of fine cinders to settle on everything, including the passengers. Faith struggled with her window, but it was jammed. The lieutenant uncoiled his long body and came to her aid. “Allow me to help you, miss,” he said, taking a firm hold on the window handles and yanking it with such force that it struck the top with a thud.

“Thank you,” Faith murmured, then asked, “Are you going to Fort Lincoln?”

“Not this trip,” he answered. “Is that where you’re headed?”

“Yes. To work in a mission for the Indians.”

He seemed to find that amusing and drawled, “Well, I hope you convert the whole Sioux nation.” His lips curved in a sardonic grin, and he moved back to his seat.

Later the conductor started a fire in the iron stove at one end of the car and made a huge pot of black coffee. The car grew thick with cigarette smoke.
Good thing some of this will be sucked out the open windows,
Faith thought. She got to her feet and made her way to the small toilet, timidly aware of the eyes following her. When she emerged, she got a cup from the stack provided. The bottom was ringed with a dark brown stain, so she rinsed the cup with some water from the water can, then held it out to the conductor for the coffee. When she was again seated, she took a sip and grimaced at the strong brew—strong enough to float a track bolt, she
decided. But she sipped it slowly as she watched the country unroll across the prairie.

Throughout the long day, she got off only once, when the train made a short stop at a small town. She bought a sack lunch sold by a one-legged man in a Civil War uniform, then walked around until boarding the train again. The ride was monotonous, and she found herself dozing from time to time.

She read a little from the small Bible she carried in her purse, but the motion of the train made that difficult. From time to time her thoughts returned to her last days in St. Louis—which had been quite unpleasant.

Carl had been gentle—at first—but finally had grown bitter. “You’re not being sensible, Faith!” he had said, his cheeks flushed with irritation. “If you loved me, you’d stay here. A wife is supposed to be with her husband.”

“I’m not your wife,” she’d replied, “and I must do what God has called me to do.”