“Easy boy,” Orson spoke in a soothing voice to his horse. Orson was anxious to get to his friend’s home in Emory Canyon. He had been traveling for days between small towns and homesteads selling eggs, butter, cheese, and vegetables from his farm in Mexico. He had sold his load of goods and was now on his way home.
Orson smiled as he thought of his wife, Rachel, and their children on the ranch at home. He thought of how Rachel and the girls would be milking the cows on their prosperous farm, then churning the cream into butter and cheese that he would then sell. Freighting wasn’t an easy job and not one for the faint of heart. He covered miles of desolate Apache Indian country, over many different mountains, rarely seeing any other travelers on the road.
Orson licked his cracked lips and reflected on the number of times he had sighted the Apaches on his travels. A month ago, a band of seven Indians had stopped his wagon. Calmly, he had allowed them to search his wagon. Ransack was more like it, but he always let them take whatever they wanted. He knew it was best to be friendly with the Indians and had watched his own father on a number of occasions give to the Indians, and so he had learned to do the same. The Indians had taken their share of his goods, sitting astride their horses watching with a menacing grin.
Orson had clucked at his team to spur them into motion and they had driven on down the road. Orson could still feel their eyes on his back as they followed behind him on horseback for miles. He suppressed the urge to turn around and look at them, forcing himself instead to continue on down the road. Silently he prayed that his life would be spared and he could return home to his families, a prayer that he always carried in his heart.
The sound of the war-whoops made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, but Orson stayed calm. He had endured this ordeal a number of times, and prayed that he would face a similar outcome. The Apaches turned their horses and waved good-bye, riding off in the direction they had come from. Orson let out a sigh of relief, thanking the Lord for protecting him once again.
The faltering steps of his horse brought Orson back to the present. Nellie, one of his team’s horses was acting lame. “C’mon ol’ boy, we’re almost to Old Bill’s.” Orson looked ahead of him, knowing he was only a few miles away from his friend’s one room adobe house. Old Bill lived at the entrance of Emory Canyon. A small spring ran near Old Bill’s house and would make a perfect place to rest the horses and sleep by a warm fire. Old Bill was a prospector and lived alone and over the years, Orson had become good friends with him. He always made a point of stopping in to visit Old Bill on his freighting trips.
Orson clucked at his team, trying to push them onward toward Old Bill’s home. It would be getting dark soon, and he looked forward to sleeping with a roof over his head tonight. Nellie was only getting worse, and reluctantly, Orson pulled back on the reins. Jumping down from the wagon, he spoke soothingly to Nellie, running his hand across her back and withers. Orson could find no apparent reason for her lameness, but she was dragging behind.
Looking in the distance toward his friend’s home, he debated whether he should continue on the last couple miles. Water for his horses and a hot meal and a warm fire beckoned him, and he determined to continue on to his friend’s home.
“Camp for the night,” a still, small voice whispered. Orson was alone, so he knew that he had heard the Spirit speak to him. Obediently, he pulled the team off the main road, into the deep sage brush and juniper trees, knowing they would help hide him from the road.
Orson hobbled the horses and made camp for the night. He pulled provisions from his pack and ate a cold dinner, uneasy to build a fire. He lay there for a long time, wondering why he was directed to camp there for the night. Before dawn, Orson was awake and ready to begin his journey, thinking he could easily be at his friend’s house for breakfast. He patted Nellie down, checking for anything out of the ordinary, but she appeared to be fine. There was no sign of the lameness that had beset her only last night. Hitching the horses, he got on his way toward Old Bill’s.
He had only gone a short distance, when he heard the Apache war cry. “Aye-iiiiiiii!” The war whoops and yelling put Orson on edge, a blade of fear in his gut. He prayed once again for his safety and continued on his way toward Old Bill’s.
Approaching the house, he could smell meat cooking. Orson smiled to himself, eager for a hearty meal. He tied up the horses and entered the house. Expecting to see his old friend, he was startled to find that the Apache had been there, and Old Bill was dead. The Indians had placed his body on the wood stove to burn.
Orson grabbed his friend’s body off the stove and hauled him to the yard. He dug a shallow grave for his friend, afraid to dig a deeper grave for the time it would take to do so and the fear that the Indians might return. He quickly buried his friend and resumed his journey home. “Father in Heaven,” he prayed, “Thank thee once again for preserving my life. Help me return to my family in safety.”
Orson knew that his horse had gone lame and the still small voice he heard had prompted him to stop the team last night. The Lord had once again answered his prayers to protect him from danger.
“Daddy, you’re home.” Four-year-old Goldie ran to the wagon as it entered the yard. Orson jumped down and held out his arms as his daughter rushed into them. “We’ve prayed every night for you, Daddy.” Orson wiped a tear from his eye, knowing that those prayers had been desperately needed the week before, and the Lord had answered them.
