DC03 - Though Mountains Fall
Read DC03 - Though Mountains Fall Online
Authors: Dale Cramer
Tags: #Christian Fiction, #FIC042000, #FIC042040, #FIC042030, #Amish—Fiction
© 2013 by Dale Cramer
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
Ebook edition created 2013
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
ISBN 978-1-4412-6099-4
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Lookout Design, Inc.
Cover photography by Mike Habermann Photography, LLC
Author is represented by Books & Such Literary Agency
For Ma and Pa
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
The Bender Family
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books by Dale Cramer
Back Ads
Back Cover
T
HE
F
AMILY
OF
C
ALEB
AND
M
ARTHA
B
ENDER
S
PRING
, 1925
| A DA , 30 | Unmarried; mentally challenged |
| M ARY , 27 | Husband, Ezra Raber (children: Samuel, 8; Paul, 7; twins Amanda & Amos, 2) |
| L IZZIE , 26 | In Ohio with husband, Andy Shetler (5 children) |
| A MOS & A ARON | Twins, deceased |
| E MMA , 23 | Husband, Levi Mullet (children: Mose, 3; Clara, 2; Will, 1) |
| M IRIAM , 22 | |
| H ARVEY , 21 | |
| R ACHEL , 19 | |
| L EAH , 17 | |
| B ARBARA , 15 | |
Chapter 1
C
aleb Bender spent the day riding a mule-drawn planter, putting down row after row of seeds, and there was nothing in the world he loved quite the same way. Like any Amish farmer Caleb was deeply attuned to the seasons and found a unique joy in each of them, but springtime was his favorite. It was a time of awakening, a time when he could feel the promise of
Gott
in the earth and a sense of divine purpose in the sinews of his callused hands. A time of hope. Planting a field was a prayer, an act of purest faith.
Stopping at the end of a row Caleb took off his wide-brimmed hat, wiped his bald head with a shirtsleeve and took a moment to survey his valley, a five-thousand-acre oval of prime pasture high up in the Sierra Madres of northeast Mexico. The valley wasn’t entirely his, but he took a kind of proprietary pride in it because he and his family had been the first to come here three years ago, in the spring of 1922.
It was the kind of spectacular day that only happened a few times each spring, a sky so deep blue it was almost painful, a light breeze blowing, a little chilly in the morning yet warming in the
afternoon. The shadow of a hawk passed over him, cruising on the wind, drawing Caleb’s gaze to the western mountains where he’d been standing when he first set eyes on Paradise Valley. He felt it even now, the thrill of hope in that first vision. It really did look like paradise, lush green bottomland bracketed by long, low ridges on the north and south. Caleb and his family were pioneers of sorts—advance scouts for a new settlement. They had dug themselves into the valley, shaping earth and straw into bricks and building houses with their bare hands. Even their barns and buggy sheds were finished by the time the Hershbergers and Shrocks came the following year.
The main group arrived last summer, and a big industrious colony of Amish all pitched in, making adobe, cutting timber, erecting houses and barns. More families arrived, and now there were ten homes scattered along the base of the ridges on both sides of the valley, new tin roofs gleaming in the afternoon sun, smoke trailing peacefully from chimneys as wives and daughters cooked dinner. There were new barns and fences to corral the livestock, and everywhere he looked Caleb saw bearded men in flat-brimmed hats and suspenders working teams of sturdy horses, plowing and planting fields. In the coming weeks the industry of ten Amish families would turn Paradise Valley into a quilt of bright green from one end to the other.
Across his lane, in the field down nearest the main road, his son Harvey and a team of four huge Belgian draft horses pulled a wide harrow, the long row of steel disks shiny from use, smoothing fresh-plowed earth. At nineteen, Harvey was his only son now. There had once been two boys older than Harvey, twins, but Amos fell victim to the flu epidemic of 1918, and Aaron died last August on the road back from Agua Nueva at the hands of the bandit El Pantera. His death was a crippling blow to Caleb, and a pall hung over the entire family still.
Along the far edge of the same field where Harvey was plowing, Domingo Zapara rode behind another corn planter just like the one Caleb was driving. A Mexican native, half mestizo and half Nahua, Domingo was a striking figure, tall and proud. He wore his black hair long and loose, hanging past his shoulders under a wide-brimmed Amish hat that once belonged to Caleb. Even the hat had a heroic story behind it.
More than just a trusted hired hand, Domingo had become almost like a son to him. Reared by his father to be a Nahua warrior, Domingo wouldn’t hesitate to put his own life in danger to protect Caleb’s family from bandits. Late last summer, after the confrontation in which Aaron was killed, it was Domingo who, along with Jake Weaver, tracked El Pantera north to his stronghold at Diablo Canyon and rescued Rachel, Caleb’s nineteen-year-old daughter. It was a debt Caleb knew he could never repay.
Domingo’s planter stopped halfway down a row and he craned his neck. He appeared to be watching something in the road behind Caleb, and when he climbed off the seat of the planter and started trotting across the field toward the driveway Caleb looked over his shoulder to see what was happening.
A solitary rider approached from the west on a painted pony, cantering along in no particular hurry and not looking like much of a threat. His sombrero hung behind his neck and there was a bandolier of bullets bouncing against his chest. A bandit.
As the rider slowed and turned in, Caleb climbed off his planter and met Domingo at the lane. The two of them stood shoulder to shoulder, watching, waiting.
“I know this one,” Domingo said. “Alvarez. He rides with El Pantera, but my father trusted him.”
“I know him, too,” Caleb said. “He has been here before.”
The bandit stopped his horse in front of them and dismounted. He was a dark, leather-faced man with a huge mustache
and a thick head of coal black hair. The butts of two cross-draw pistols peeked out the front of his jacket.
“
Hola
, Domingo!” he said, thumping Domingo’s chest like an old friend. “You have become a
man
since I saw you last! It has been a long time, my young friend.”
“
Sí
, Alvarez.” Domingo nodded. “The last time we met was before my father fell at Zacatecas.” His hand drew the sign of the cross on his chest as he said this, and Caleb made a mental note of it. It was the first time he had ever seen his young friend use any kind of Christian gesture.
“A good man,” the bandit said solemnly. He then looked at Caleb and added, “Perhaps you do not remember,
señor
, but I have been here before.”
“Sí, I thought you looked familiar. You are welcome to water your horse, and if you’re hungry—”
“
Gracias
, but no. I will let the horse drink, and then I must be on my way.”
As the three of them walked up toward the trough by the windmill the bandit said, “It is no accident that I stopped here today. I bring news, and it concerns both of you.”
Domingo eyed him cautiously. “News of El Pantera?” It seemed to Caleb that Domingo always knew what was coming.
Alvarez nodded. “Two days ago I stopped for the night in Diablo Canyon. The men in the bunkhouse were full of talk about a young whelp who turned back El Pantera and five of his best men in the pass at El Ojo.” He grinned at Domingo, and his fingers curled into a fist as he added, “It seems the blood of Ehekatl flows
strong
in his son’s veins.”