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Love's Compass
Love's Compass Read online
Love’s Compass ©2012 by Carla Gade
Pride’s Fall ©2012 by Darlene Franklin
Print ISBN 978-1-68322-114-2
eBook Editions:
Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-68322-115-9
Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-68322-116-6
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.
All scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
Published by Barbour Books, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683, www.barbourbooks.com
Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.
Printed in the United States of America.
Table of Contents
Love’s Compass
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Pride’s Fall
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 1
May, 1875
Del Norte, Colorado Territory
Imagine having to bear a mark like that for the rest of your life.” Eliana Van Horn thrust the San Juan Prospector into her father’s face as they ambled down the boardwalk of the thriving supply town at the base of the San Juan Mountains. “The tattoo on her chin, how dreadful—and there’s nothing that can be done about it!”
John Van Horn peered at the picture from beneath his spectacles. “Yes, Olive Oatman, the Indian captive.” He drew his mouth into a tight line and stroked his graying beard. “Everyone has some kind of mark.”
Eliana held her head high against the Colorado mountains. “Yes, I know.” All too well.
Her father loosened his tie, which seemed to be constricting his neck, and cleared his throat. “You’ve seen that engraving before. That photograph has been in circulation for nearly a decade. Amazing that she’s still in the public interest after all this time.”
“The article says that the editor of her captivity narrative has died. Apparently, through the years, her husband bought and destroyed every available copy of The Captivity of the Oatman Girls. She no longer lectures and wears a veil to cover her tattoo when in public.”
“Yet, her picture will continue to tell the story even if the books are gone. Photography does create a permanent record, for good or gain,” Papa said.
Eliana pulled the newspaper back and curled it around her chin. Was it right to perpetuate this woman’s shame, wrought by the natives? Photography had its merits, but should it have limits as well? And what about the indelible mark etched on her soul? As for the book, Eliana still possessed her own copy and had been intrigued by the tale for years. Utmost, that despite the atrocities Olive suffered at the hands of her captors, she saw God’s hand of mercy when she was kept from starvation by a kind Indian woman. It was then that Olive learned to chide her hasty judgment against all the Indian race.
Eliana also hoped to keep from making hasty judgments. She knew for some, it was enough to be judged simply for the color of their skin. Dare she liken it to the prejudice she received as a woman? Some people wanted to make their mark on the world, while others could never hide from the marks they received. But at what cost?
What would it be like to be attacked or captured by Indians? A shiver crawled up her spine as Eliana studied the picture while she and her father walked along. As her father’s photography assistant, Eliana was always fascinated by images in print. And she’d much rather discuss photography than Indians. “If I were her, I’d get a new tintype done and have it retouched to make that terrible mark disappear,” she said.
“As for retouching, my photography mentor in Ohio is renowned for that process. You know…” Papa stopped dead in his tracks and caught Eliana by the elbow. “You’re not worried, Sunshine, are you? If you’re hesitant about going on the expedition, now is the time to say so.”
Images whirled around Eliana’s vivid imagination like a zoetrope as she recalled hearing about the attack on the Slack ranch last year. The Utes burned the new resident out and almost started an Indian war right in the San Juans. Eliana peered at the mountain vista and wondered where renegade Indians hid. She and Papa would travel through wild country soon on their assignment for the U.S. General Land Office. She drew in a deep breath of the fresh Colorado air to cleanse her mind from the unwelcome thoughts that had spun into her head.
“I have no reservations whatsoever. We’ve made many preparations for this trip, and I won’t abandon you. It’s too important. This is your big chance.” And mine. “You’ve already assured me that this is one of the safest times to go.” She tilted her head. “Besides, I’m not afraid of—”
“No Injuns allowed!” A voice bellowed from inside the Silver Eagle Saloon. Head over boots, some unfortunate soul tumbled through the swinging doors, whirring past the Van Horns like a windstorm. Eliana’s newspaper flew into the dusty street.
Papa steadied and reached out for her. “Are you all right, dear?”
Eliana gasped as she clung to the porch post and attempted to regain her composure. “I’m fine.” At least she was until an oversized man stepped out onto the planking, nearly knocking her over again.
“’Scuse me, miss.” The stench of saloon and neglected ablutions clung to him. “Just doin’ a little housekeepin’. Don’t want no half breeds stinkin’ up the place. The owner ain’t partial to his kind.” He spit into the road, muttered an oath, and tromped back inside.
Yiska Wilcox sprang to his feet. He brushed the dirt from his pants and the pebbles from his calloused hands. He’d been kicked out of places like this before and swore he’d never go in again. A lungful of exasperation escaped his clenched teeth. Things never changed.
A young woman stared at him like a stunned doe. A middle-aged man stood beside her, a protective grip around her waist. He took in the pair with a furtive scan. The man wore a linen duster over his suit and a bowler hat. Assayer maybe. Surveyor possibly. Or maybe another easterner out to make a fortune. As for his companion, she was a lady if he ever saw one—a rare occurrence in his travels. Even in that pretty dress, she carried no highfalutin airs. A natural beauty.
“Beg your pardon, sir, miss. I hope you aren’t harmed.”
“Not at all.” The man surveyed Yiska head to toe. “Are we, dear?”
“We’re quite fine, thank you,” the young lady said, her bright eyes scrutinizing him.
“Are you all right, young man? You’re the one who was tossed out on his ear.” The gentleman stooped to pick up the pipe he had dropped.
“Now, if you’d be so kind as to hand me my newspaper, I’d appreciate it very much,” the lady said.
Yiska grasped the paper and spotted the image of the famous Indian captive, Olive Oatman—the chin tattoo the telling sign. Seemed folks never grew weary of recounting the tale. They even wrote dime novels about her. But the sad truth was that the southwest tribe, Apache they claimed, had abducted her and her sister in their youth from a westbound wagon in Arizona and later sold them to the Mohave. He didn’t claim to understand such things, though something akin to regret twinged his heart. At least she was eventually ransomed.
The young woman extended her ivory hand, cuffed in a ruffle of lace that poked out from her jacket sleeve. Her eyes met his directly—the color of sagebrush, with a mixture of mystery and curiosity. He handed her the newspaper. When their fingertips touched, she quickly drew the paper into her protective custody. She acknowledged Yiska with a nod and stepped back. Had she felt the tremor, too? Probably just scared—of him.
Yiska tried not to stare at the marks on the young lady’s chin. Must be newspaper ink. The man tapped his forefinger against his own chin, handed her a handkerchief, and said in a low voice, “Dear, you’ve some ink on your chin.” Her eyes darted toward Yiska and back again in alarm. And then her face became as red as a Colorado sunset. Obviously mortified, she turned her pretty head, facing the saloon. Men leered from the uncurtained windows, and she spun back around. Yiska scowled at the scoundrels. What was this woman doing out in front of a saloon in the first place?
After her discreet attempt to wipe her face, she glanced up from beneath her dark lashes with a smirk. “I guess you can’t take me anywhere, can you, Papa?” Yiska noticed the slight dimple in her adorable chin.
Her father chuckled then sobered. “I certainly never should’ve let you cross the street with me.” The gentleman’s eyes shot toward Yiska. He rocked up on his toes, hands deep in his pockets. “Why don’t you tell me what happened in there?”
“I went in to get my wages. Wasn’t planning to stay. I’m not overly welcome in such fine establishments.” Yiska knew there was a defensive edge to his voice. Did it matter anymore?
“Haven’t seen you around here before,” the man said, “but then we’re fairly new to these parts.” Yiska hadn’t seen them either. The mining supply town had folks coming and going all the time, especially now that the snow was gone.
“I just rode in.” Yiska glanced at his borrowed mount tied to the hitching post. “I came to claim my pay from my boss. I was told I’d find him here.”
“Looks like you’ll have to wait until he comes out.”
“He ain’t coming out. Not before my silver’s all gone.” Yiska kicked the dirt.
The man’s eyes narrowed. “What’s your boss’s name?”
“Trask Whiley, the outfitter. I’m one of his guides. Been out on the trail.”
“I know him. He’s been helping us get settled in the region.” The man glanced at the saloon door. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll go in and talk to him for you. I’ve some business of my own to discuss with him. You’ll have to stay out here, Eliana.”
“Surely, Papa. You didn’t think I wanted to go in there with you?”
“They might toss you out on your ear, too,” Yiska said.
“Ah, the life of a second-rate citizen.”
At that, Yiska cocked his head and raised an eyebrow.
Her cheeks reddened. “I was referring to myself, a female. I didn’t mean to imply…”
Her father cleared his throat. “What’s your name, son?”
“Yiska. Yiska Wilcox.” He held out his hand. The man shook it with a firm grip.
“John Van Horn. And this is my lovely daughter, Eliana Van Horn.”
“Mr. Van Horn.” Yiska nodded. “Miss Van Horn.”
“Mr. Wilcox, I’d be obliged if you would see my daughter safely across Main Street and wait for me right there in front of Gray’s Mercantile. I’ll be out in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”
The man was confident. His daughter—endearing.
“That’s mighty generous of you, Mr. Van Horn.” Yiska nodded. “And I’d be happy to see to your daughter’s safety.”
“How much pay do you have coming to you?” Van Horn asked.
“Twenty-six dollars, sir…and a new hat.”
“I’ll see what I can do. You said your name’s Wilcox?”
“Yes, sir. Yiska Wilcox. He knows me well.”
“Wilcox…” Van Horn shook his head and chuckled. “That’s a good old English name.”
“Miss Van Horn, shall we?”
Eliana thought Mr. Wilcox was about to offer her his arm, but he kept a respectful distance. They walked across Del Norte’s main street—she in her new dress and reticule, and he in a buckskin vest with a tomahawk strapped to his hip. Tumbleweeds rolled in her stomach. What was her father thinking? She had never met an Indian before, never mind walked across the street with one. To her surprise he was relatively polite, though a little rough around the edges. Certainly not what she expected. She did have expectations, after all.
“How long do you suppose two shakes of a lamb’s tail takes, Miss Van Horn?” His grin revealed a nice smile, which added to his rather handsome facial features–high cheekbones, broad forehead, strong jaw, dark almond eyes. Not that she noticed.
Eliana laughed. So, he had a sense of humor. “I don’t know, probably about the same as two crows of a rooster. Or three moos of a cow.”
“Or four screams of a hawk,” he chimed in.
“Good one!” Oh, dear. She hoped he wouldn’t misconstrue her amusement for flirting. Eliana hastened her stride.
The ground beneath them rumbled. A wagon barreled around the corner, drawn by a team of wild-eyed horses. Dust kicked up in a cloud. Mr. Wilcox shoved Eliana to one side and almost landed on top of her. Their fall nearly knocked the wind from her lungs. She swiped the dust from her lips and groaned.
“Miss Van Horn?” Mr. Wilcox spoke in a concerned tone and gently placed his hand upon her back. “Miss Van Horn, are you all right?”
“Yes, I believe so….”
Some men gathered round, and one yanked Mr. Wilcox up by the shirt. Another punched him in the stomach. Mr. Wilcox doubled over.
Another man pulled Eliana up by both arms, right into his chest. She jumped back. She didn’t know whether to thank the man or slap him.
Two men dragged Yiska Wilcox down the dirt street, though he put up quite a struggle. He looked back at Eliana, his eyes dark and wild.
“Wait!” she yelled. “He saved me from that wagon!”
“I didn’t see no wagon. Did anyone see a wagon?”
“No, all I saw was that stinkin’ half blood attack this pretty young lady here.” The man grabbed a lock of her hair. Eliana swatted his hand and stomped on his foot, sending him whimpering away like a wounded coyote.
“What is the meaning of this?” Her father shouted. The men backed away from Eliana. Others peered out from storefronts.
“Papa!” Eliana ran to her father’s side.
“Daughter, what happened?” Eliana clung to him. “What’s going on here?” he called over her. Eliana shifted behind her father, still holding his arm.
“Don’t worry, mister. We hauled that half-breed varmint off to the jail.”
“I wasn’t aware this town had a jail,” Papa said.
One of the men in the crowd smiled at Eliana, exposing several missing teeth. “We’re always looking out for the ladies in this town. Yes, siree.”
“Ladies?” Someone snickered beneath his breath.
Eliana tugged on his sleeve, “Papa, we must do something!”
“What’s all the commotion about, Van Horn?” A familiar voice penetrated the crowd. Trask While
y. Mr. Whiley held a certain measure of respect from most of the town folk, and he didn’t appear to be inebriated. “Get outta here! Git!”
The men went off in various directions, but most of them disappeared inside the Silver Eagle Saloon.
“Now, Eliana, why don’t you tell us exactly what happened?” her father asked.
“Mr. Wilcox was escorting me across the street to the mercantile, as you requested, when a wagon came tearing around the corner. If it hadn’t been for Mr. Wilcox…He saved my life!”
“Where’d they take him, John?”
“To the jail, they said.”
Mr. Whiley seemed to note the question in her father’s eyes.
“They mean Thatcher’s Sawmill.”
A dreadful foreboding gripped Eliana. “What will they do to him?”
“We’d better get right over there.” Whiley said. “It’s their word against his. And I’m afraid it doesn’t take much of an excuse to hang an Injun.”
Chapter 2
There are only two reasons a wagon would drive that fast through this little town—one is Indians, and the other is gold,” Trask Whiley explained as he drove Eliana and her father toward Thatcher’s Sawmill.
Eliana gripped the edge of the seat. Would they get there in time to rescue Yiska Wilcox from certain execution?
“I thought silver was the main commodity in the San Juans,” Papa said. “And what of the Indians? There haven’t been reports of danger around here lately.” He remained calm and collected, but Eliana could tell he was agitated by the way he gnawed on the end of his unlit pipe.
“Precisely,” Whiley said. “Silver’s aplenty, so when someone finds gold there’s a big hullabaloo. As for Indians, the townsfolk think they’ve got themselves one now.”
“He’s not full-blooded,” Eliana said.
“No matter. His blood’s considered tainted by most.”
“That’s barbaric!” Eliana wrung her hands and frowned. How could the kind act of a stranger turn into such a fiasco? Dear Lord, please let us get to him in time. Oh, please!
“It’s what some call Western justice, Miss Van Horn.” Whiley snapped the reins.