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LAST CALL TO HONOR A cry in the night snatched Abe from his restless slumber. A shrill combination of yodel and scream, it raced up his spine, pivoting the hair on his neck to full attention. “Look alive!” His traveling companion was crouched beside the seat, his pistol drawn and cocked. Sporadic gunfire could be heard echoing ahead, woven with the cries of men in combat and the continued shrill banshee-like trill. “Jo-fired rebel yell!” His companion seethed, squinting through the window into the darkness. “I’ve heard it a hundred times, and it skeers me every time. Sounds like Hell is run over and comin’ our way.” Abe was now aware of horsemen rushing past, their faces illuminated for an instant by flashes of gunfire. “Look at the flag,” the soldier muttered. One of the riders was holding it on a standard, allowing it to be seen in the flickering light of the train’s ignited lanterns. Black. Pitch black with a white “Q” emblazoned in one corner. “It is Hell openin’ up,” the soldier said. “Opened up and the Devil hisself has come to call.” A union soldier behind them fell, blood gushing from a deadly wound in his forehead. Another fired, crawling along the narrow corridor, pausing to reload the rifle clutched in his shaking hands. More gunfire. No longer sporadic, it now rumbled from all sides, splintering wood and piercing the bodies of screaming victims. The door at the end of the car crashed open, allowing entrance to three men, dressed in grey, wide-brimmed hats pulled deftly over their cold eyes. Another shot, and Abe’s companion fell to the floor, shaking for a moment before growing silent. The nearest assailant stepped forward, cocking his pistol and drawing a bead on the thin bridge of Abe’s nose. “This one ain’t in uniform,” he growled. “Maybe a spy that needs to be hung up on a tree.” He grabbed Abe by the neck, swinging him upright and onto the bullet-ripped seat. “Tell me who you are before I kill you,” the ruffian growled. “I want to know the name of someone that I kilt here tonight. It’s better when I know their name.” Another figure stepped past him, drawing his medical bag from the floor. “Is this yorn?” The inquisitor demanded. “Yes,” Abe answered. He settled himself onto the seat, releasing the tension that was rapidly cutting away the circulation in his neck. “You a doc?” “Yes,” Abe responded. “Doctor Abraham Manford.” He felt the vice-like grip release from his collar. They dug through the contents of the bag for a long moment, reassuring themselves that it was what it appeared to be. “You jest won another hour or two,” the assassin begrudgingly promised. “Someone go and tell the Captain that we found ourselves a sawbones. Tell him that we’re loadin’ him up and we’ll have him there soon enough.” Abe realized that never would be too soon for him. This excerpt is from Pastor Dale's new book which will be published and available in March. It is the final volume in his "Oregon Pioneer Trilogy." |
Copyright ©2001 Dale Freeman. All rights reserved.