The Rough Rider (37 page)

****

Stars lit up the sky overhead, and sparks from the campfire rose, fiery and temporal, dying even as Aaron and Jeb watched. They had come some five miles through the woods, then set up camp in a clearing beside a small stream.

Jeb had talked much at first, but sensing the tense mood of the man, he had lapsed into silence. They had eaten the food they had brought, and now sat silently staring into the
campfire. Aaron stole a glance at the boy’s face, and saw that the happiness that had been there as they left the cabin was gone. A stab of pity came to Aaron as his eyes traced the thin face, and he wondered,
How did I get so fond of this boy? I’ve never been much for kids.
He had no answer, but suddenly it came to him:
Why, he reminds me of Jubal!

Startled, he shook his head in denial, for it was not a thought he welcomed. He’d buried Jubal far away in the Klondike and needed no reminders of that bitter loss.
I’m imagining things!
he told himself.
He doesn’t look anything like Jubal.
He studied the boy’s face to assure himself, yet discovered that though the features were different, there was
something!
He suddenly realized that Jeb reminded him of Jubal because of what he
was
—young, vulnerable, and hungry for love.

A stick broke and fell into the fire with a hissing, and Aaron was brought back to the present moment. He knew that Jeb was sick with fear and worry, and though he had no answers for the troubled boy, he had to try to help Jeb.

“You know, Jeb, I’ve been afraid of some things in my life.”

“When you were going up San Juan Hill?”

“No, not so much then. Some things are worse than getting hurt physically.”

Jeb moved closer to Aaron, coming close enough to touch him. It was an unconscious gesture, but one that told Aaron of the boy’s need for a man to lean on. “I don’t see why that would be,” Jeb said finally. “What could be worse than dying?”

“I can think of one or two things,” Aaron said quietly. “Having a long, painful sickness, that would be worse. Losing your family—or living in fear all the time—just to name a few.”

Jeb huddled in front of the fire, staring at the flames as they danced. The wind was sharp and he’d worn only a light shirt despite Aaron’s warning. He looked forlorn as he clutched his legs and shivered slightly. “I guess so.” He was silent for
a time, then said in such a low tone that Aaron had to strain to catch his words, “I’m afraid, Aaron. I . . . I’m so scared of being sent to reform school I feel sick to my stomach.”

A few times in his life Aaron Winslow had been faced with a difficult decision—and had known without a shadow of doubt what to do. And as he sat in the dark hills beside the trembling boy, he suddenly had that same inner knowing of what he must do. He moved closer to Jeb and put his arm around the thin shoulders. Jeb was taken by surprise and looked up startled, but Aaron only increased the pressure of his embrace. He began to speak quietly and almost without emotion. So certain was he of what he had to do, he moved to it as man would approach a job that must be done—with distaste and not a little fear.

“I had a cousin named Jubal. . . .”

Jeb was very much aware of the pressure of Aaron’s arm on his shoulder. He had never been embraced by anyone except his mother and sister. He didn’t remember his own father, and the only touch he had experienced from his stepfather had been when Harry Lawson had boxed his ears or given him a brutal beating with his belt. Now as he watched Aaron’s face, he was astonished at the pain he saw in the man’s face. As Aaron’s story unfolded, Jeb saw that it was hurting Aaron to speak. His face grew stiff and strained, and when he got to the part where his cousin died, his voice grew thin and broke.

As for Aaron, he had tried to bury the details of Jubal’s tragic death. Now he searched his memory for all the particulars of what happened at Chilkoot Pass. Instantly, they came flooding back into his mind and burned like fire as he spoke them aloud. He had to stop when he told of the final words of Jubal—but cleared his throat and forced himself to speak of the dead youth—of his courage, his wit, his love of God and man.

“He was all a man should be, Jeb—the finest I’ve ever known,” Aaron said as he stared into the crackling fire.

When Aaron stopped short, Jeb asked almost timidly,
“Aaron—why are you telling me all this? It hurts you to talk about him—I can see that.”

“I had to tell you, Jeb, because it’s what I’ve been running from. I haven’t been able to face up to what happened. It was
my
fault he died—and I can’t bear the thought of it—!”

Jeb was shocked to see the tears run down the face of the man who held him. He stared at them and felt the choking sobs that stirred the strong chest he leaned against. “I didn’t . . . think you ever cried, Aaron,” Jeb said quietly. He dropped his head and looked away, whispering, “I cry sometimes—when it’s dark and nobody’s looking.”

Aaron said, “It’s okay to cry, Jeb. All of us have something to cry about.”

Jeb started at the words. Aaron felt the small form stiffen—then begin to shake convulsively. Putting his other arm around the boy, he held him as the sobs began to come more quickly. There was something almost frantic in the heart-wrenching sobs that choked out of Jeb—as though the tears had been bottled up for years, and now that they were loose, they couldn’t seem to come quickly enough.

Overhead the glittering points of light blinked and did their old dance. Aaron had heard that some of them were giants, a million times larger than earth—but he thought as he held the shaking boy,
Not all of them together are worth this boy I hold!

Finally the sobs ceased, and then with an embarrassed motion Jeb pulled away. But he stopped and looked up at Aaron, and his tear-stained face grew strangely content. He took a deep breath, and held on to Aaron’s arm as he said, “I’m glad it’s all right to cry. . . .”

Aaron felt cleaned out, somehow. Telling what had happened on a cold mountain pass far away in the Yukon, and shedding the tears over Jubal’s death had finally released something inside of him that had kept him chained in anger and bitterness for months. “Me too, Jeb,” he said, smiling slightly. “Some things are harder than going up San Juan
Hill—and I guess for us men, telling what’s eating us on the inside is one of the worst!”

Jeb’s voice was shaky, but his eyes were steady as he said quietly, “I got to go back to New York, Aaron.”

“I guess you do, Jeb.”

“I’m plenty scared—but I know now that I’ve got to do it!”

Aaron stood up and looked up at the skies, standing still for a moment as though he heard something that the boy could not hear. Then he looked at Jeb, his face filled with love. “Let’s put the fire out—then we’ll go tell Gail. . . .”

As they walked back up through the woods toward the cabin, Aaron thought about what had just happened. The trip back seemed short to Aaron. After having opened his heart to the boy about Jubal, he was amazed at the peace that had settled on him. He’d heard his mother say once that the only way to get rid of a guilt is to speak it out to somebody—and now he knew she had spoken the truth.

I should have done this a long time ago,
he thought as they were finally approaching the cabin. A soft light burned in one of the windows when they broke into the clearing, and he said, “Looks like she’s still up, Jeb.” Aaron opened the door, and as he stepped inside, followed by Jeb, he saw Gail rise from the table. She’d let her hair down and it hung to her waist. Her eyes were enormous and her lips formed his name.

“Jeb’s got something to tell you, Gail,” Aaron said. He paused, then added, “I’ll leave you two alone. I’ve got some thinking to do.” Before she could say anything, he turned and left the cabin, plunging at once onto the path that led back down to the pond. He had not intended to do anything like this—but an insistence rose in him, and his heart began to beat faster. He was afraid—yet there was a powerful stirring of emotion beginning to swell inside him that he could not quench.

He walked as fast as he could for two miles, skirting the pond, until he came to a clearing illuminated by the moonlight. Finally, he stopped and looked up into the starlit sky,
his heart beating hard. Then he moved to the huge trunk of a fallen tree, where he slumped to the ground, leaning his back against it. For five minutes he sat there in silence, then he whispered, “God—I’ve got to have you—!” That honest plea from the depths of his tortured soul broke something deep inside him. It was like the ear-splitting crack that starts to break up an ice floe on a frozen river—a river of hurt and bitterness and anger that had brought so much pain and despair to his life. Soon a torrent of heartfelt praying for help and forgiveness poured from out of Aaron’s heart. He prayed as if his very life hung in the balance—aloud and with a wild intensity that he’d never thought lay within him. Then suddenly it happened, just like Jubal had said it would that night they had all sat around a fire listening to him. He knew that God had made him His own, and a deep sense of love and forgiveness flooded him.

****

Gail had not slept all night. She’d listened to Jeb tell how he and Aaron had wept together, and tears had run down her cheeks as he spoke. Then when he’d said, “I’m scared, sis—but we got to go back!” she knew a wild surge of joy such as she’d never experienced. She’d hugged Jeb, and the two of them had clung to each other.

Jeb had finally gone to bed, but Gail had gone to sit on the front porch, and now as the sun was rising, she wondered about Aaron.
He wouldn’t leave without saying something!
No, she knew he would be back, and even as the red orb of the sun fired the tops of the distant pines, she saw him emerge from the woods and come striding quickly toward the cabin. She rose at once and went to meet him.

“Aaron—what is it?” she whispered, for there was a strange smile on his face. He came and reached out his hands, and she took them, confused but not afraid. “Tell me!” she said, her eyes fixed on his beaming face.

Aaron squeezed her hands tightly, and he seemed very tired.
There were lines of strain about the corners of his lips, but his voice was clear. “I’ve found God,” he said quietly, and then he smiled. “Gail—I’ve given my life to Jesus!”

“Oh, Aaron!” Tears filled Gail’s eyes and his face was blurred. She could not speak, so tight was her throat, and she suddenly fell against him, burying her face against his chest.

Aaron looked down at her, holding her lightly. He was stunned by what had taken place in his heart. He had to tell someone, and pulling her from his chest, he said, “Come and sit down—I want to tell you about it . . . !”

Gail listened as he told how God had seemed to call him out to a private place, then how he’d wrestled with his sins for a long time. “I knew
how
to be saved,” he said finally. “I’ve heard the Gospel all my life, but it was how to turn loose of myself that was hard.”

“For a man like you, it must have been,” Gail answered. “I was saved when I was only ten years old. It was simple for me.”

“I guess we collect a lot of baggage as we get older,” Aaron nodded. He leaned back and thought of what had transpired. “I spent a lot of time arguing with God. Finally, though, I had to give up.” He smiled at her, saying wryly, “I ran out of arguments, and God seemed to say, ‘Well, now that that’s out of the way—what about
you?
Will you serve me all your life?’ ”

“You’re different—I can see it,” Gail nodded. “There’s a peace about you. I always thought you were like . . . like a watch that was wound too tight.”

“Not a bad description,” Aaron said, smiling at her. “Now I’m all out of springs. Got no energy at all! But God’s inside me—I know that! I always wondered what Mother meant when she said she knew Jesus was
in
her. Well, now I know!”

“Your parents will be so happy for you, Aaron! And so will Lewis and Deborah.”

They spoke quietly for some time, and finally Aaron asked, “What did Jeb say to you?” He listened as she recounted the story, then nodded, “He’s a fine boy, Gail! He’s got some toughness in him. He’s scared—but he’s going back anyway.”

Gail looked around the clearing wistfully, saying, “I’ll never forget this place!”

“Nor will I,” Aaron said. He hesitated, then added, “When we get everything cleared up, I’d like to come back.”

“That would be wonderful, Aaron!” A moment of doubt clouded her face, and she asked, “Do you think it will go well—about Jeb?”

Aaron stood to his feet and pulled her up. “What was that scripture you read last night? ‘With God all things are possible.’ Well, I’m going to hang on to that with both hands!”

After a last breakfast and loading the wagon, they left the cabin at ten. They left most of the food, and Aaron said as he turned to give the place a last look, “We’ll come back to this place—the three of us.”

“Can we really, Aaron?” Jeb was sobered by the thought of what awaited him when he got back to New York, and his hands were clenched tightly together.

Aaron pulled the horses to a halt, then turned to put his arm around the boy. “Jeb, I think God is going to save you out of your trouble. I believe that—but I want you to remember this—” He squeezed the boy’s shoulder, and his voice was warm and strong and steady as he said, “No matter what happens, I’m your friend. If things go well, we’ll get to do a lot of things right away. If they don’t, I’ll still be your friend. If you have to go to reform school for a time, the first person you’ll see every visiting day will be me. And the first person you’ll see when you walk out the gate will be me!”

Gail was watching her brother’s face as Aaron spoke. She saw that his words were like balm to his troubled heart. Jeb stared at Aaron for a long time, then his face relaxed and he smiled with an expression of love and complete trust.

“All right, Aaron, I’m ready now.”

Aaron looked at Gail with victory in his fine eyes, and then he said, “Git going hosses—we’ve got things to do . . . !”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR