Excellent Living Up to God's Call One Man's Calling : One Man's Calling, Ch 2 by Wayne Fowler

So far, Ben Persons, a Missouri Bible College graduate, left a wagon train in Sante Fe to follow God’s lead, which was to Alpine, Colorado where he saved young Livvy from a drunk. As soon as he encouraged the town to build a church, and he arranged for a preacher, he again sensed God’s lead, leaving a nearly heart-broken Livvy. Arville Johnston was sent home to recover from his shrapnel wound on the second day of battle at Gettysburg, a cannon ball exploding with him just at the edge of the killing zone. His limbs healed, and by most accounts he was fit for return to duty. He was spared the heart-wrenching decision whether to ride the train back to General George Meade’s army, or north toward Canada from his home in Moline, Illinois, where all his relatives worked for John Deere. He was torn between battle carnage and what the army would call desertion, a five-minute trial followed by death by hanging. General Lee’s surrender allowed him a western option. His first job offer was a stage line shotgun guard position. It sounded like a god-send, there being no factory work west of Missouri. Arville’s very first ride didn’t turn out as well as he’d imagined. +++ Near Wagon Wheel Gap, along the Rio Grande, Ben felt compelled to make camp, dining on trout caught on one of the hooks he’d packed back in Liberty. Bugs for bait, he feasted on the delicacy three times a day. Nearing noon of the third day of camping, having no idea why he lingered, his fire all but out, Ben heard what he figured to be pistol shots from down the Sanderson stage road. Several small pops without a rifle’s cracking echo, told him that someone was up to no good. He bridled Red and quickly mounted bareback, rifle in one hand, the reins in the other. Red was up to the task, bounding up the rocky embankment. The old weathered Spencer repeating rifle was identical to the one his step father carried from the war to his Arkansas home. It was a gift of the wagon master once they’d reached Santa Fe, payment for helping with stock, as well as for conducting Sunday devotionals. He’d even officiated two funerals on the trip, both old men straining beyond their limits freeing wagon wheels, one out of a mud bog, the other from an ancient rut. From a distance he saw the top of the stage. It wasn’t moving. Gunshots as well as no visible heads above the coach profile told him that the stage was being, or already had been, robbed. Ground tying Red, he quietly stole toward the stage. Four male passengers stood beside the coach in their long-handles, one of the bandits going through the pockets of their clothing. Another outlaw fought with a strongbox lock as a third sat idly horseback, his pistol leaning lazily over the saddle horn. From Ben’s vantage point he could only assume that the driver was bent over the man riding shotgun, obviously injured, probably a headshot by the way the driver was tending him. “I got ‘em, John. Tell Zack to come on up with the horses,” Ben yelled over his shoulder to no one, convincing the robbers that he was not alone by the way they glanced all around. The one on horseback snapped off a shot in Ben’s general direction, missing him by the distance of the side of a barn. His second shot, fired on the run, was closer. The two afoot scrambled to their horses, loosely tied to the back of the stage. One of them, Demone Lovelace, squeezed his finger on the trigger, expertly aimed at the center of Ben’s chest. The hammer fell on an empty chamber, his pistol empty of live rounds, having forgotten that he’d only that day taken someone’s advice to load only five rounds, leaving the one under the hammer empty. Escaping with the stage as cover, the outlaws spurred their horses. Ben didn’t fire a shot, though he held a bead on one bandit until he was out of range. “You didn’t fire a shot!” one of the passengers complained. “And what might be your fate were I to engage in a shootout? They get me, you’d be next. I get one of them and the others might well be bent on revenge somewhere down the line. No Sir. Get’cher clothes and begin counting your blessings. How’s your man?” Ben asked the driver as he approached, one eye peeled for the bandits. “Grazed his skull good. Got some bone, I’m afraid. He live and he might be wishin’ he didn’t. He was gonna go back for his girl, marry her and bring her out here next week. Now, I don’t think he’ll make it back to town.” “Let’s have a look. You tend to the team and your gear.” The driver, old enough to be Ben’s father and ordinarily one to give orders, rather than take them from a young whippersnapper, did as bid, shaking his head as to why he was. “His name’s Arville,” the driver said. “I’m Hector.” Leaning over the injured man, Ben prayed for healing, something that came to him out of the blue, and never before. A moment later he spoke toward the passengers. “Bring me a couple shirts. The ones you just put on if you have to.” The two nearest immediately removed the shirts they’d just donned. With one Ben cleaned the bleeding wound that the driver hadn’t quenched with his neckerchief. With the other he fashioned a bandage tied more tightly using the sleeves. “Make him a pallet on the coach floor,” Ben directed to immediate obedience. Between them, they managed to get Arville, the injured man, onboard and the party on their way. Ben casually enjoyed his last day of camping on the river, letting Hector drive on. “How’s Arville?” Ben asked at the stage office in Creede the next day. “He was awake and talkin’. ‘Bout as soon as you left,” Hector, said. “He’s over at the Doc’s office. They’re makin’ him lie still for twenty-four hours. You’d think that layin’ there was worse than bein’ headshot, you ask him. What’d you do for ‘im, anyway? I saw cracked bone. Not sure the bullet even came out.” “Prayed for him,” Ben answered, his eyes peering into Hector’s soul. Hector’s mouth opened as if to speak, closing as quickly, saying nothing. After a moment Ben turned to leave. By the time he reached the doorknob, Hector had regained his faculties. “Hey!” he started, loud enough to be heard across town. “Sorry. Didn’t want you to get away. You’re a bit younger than they usually hire, but I’ll back you if you want work. At least until Arville’s ready to come back.” Without hesitation, Ben agreed, knowing God’s lead when he saw it. +++ “Train’s comin’ through. Maybe early as next year, year after, sure,” Hector shouted over the din of the horses, the steel-bound wheels and the clatter and creaking of the stagecoach. Ben was working as shotgun, vigilant for robbers. He nodded agreement. “Where’s your family?” Ben asked, waiting for Hector to get one of the horses to better match stride. “Kansas. ‘At’s where we lived when we married, Nellie and I. Flatter land I’ve never seen. Grow corn, wheat, barley, nearly anything. Almost makes you hate to waste that good ground on hay, bad as you need it, though. We started out poor. Got a farm on shares. Then the old man died and left it to us. Reason we got it, his whole family Indian kilt. I hired on with Barlow and Sanderson. ‘Posed ta been four day a week – two out, two back. Then to keep the job I hadda change routes, keepin’ ahead of the railroad. Now it’s six days a week, for not much more money, and I only get back to Kansas twice a year. Kids, near grown now, do the farmin’ with the wife. Soon’s I save up enough for mules to replace the geezers we got, I’m goin’ back.” With that, Hector snapped the reigns, urging the four-horse team to a slightly faster pace. The relatively flat bottom land between mountain ranges seemed to be as rich as any row crop land Ben had seen anywhere. The next quiet piece of road, away from likely danger, Ben pierced Hector’s very being with an intense, uncomfortable gaze. “Go now, Hector. Before the next route change. The next one will be far more dangerous. You’ll not see your family again. The roads will be treacherous, and the bandits more bold. Go now. Don’t wait.” Ben had never told anyone what to do with their lives with such vigor. Serious suggestions maybe, but this delivery was different, as if the words spoken were not even his own. He clapped Hector’s thigh as he offered him the canteen. Neither spoke again until they reached the next way station where the team of horses was replaced with another in less than four minutes. “Gonna do it,” Hector said as he reigned the team to action. “Get back to South Fork, I’ll tell ‘em they got one more out‘n-back. Find somebody quick ‘cause I’m goin’ home. Yes Sir.” With that, he gave Ben a contented smile. Ben felt the same satisfied feeling as when he’d prayed for Arville, sensing God’s hand of protection. Author Notes This is the third post of One Man's Calling, but only chapter 2. Ch 1A and 1B have now been combined into Ch 1. Ben Persons: A young man with a calling from God Arville Johnston: stagecoach shotgun guard Hector: stagecoach driver Demone Lovelace: stagecoach robber John and Zack: made up names that Ben used to trick stage robbers

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