DC03 - Though Mountains Fall (30 page)

“But Atlee’s right about one thing—and that little federale captain too, in his way. It causes me great pain and sorrow to say it, Caleb, for I know how you have toiled—and the price you have paid—but none of this would have happened if we weren’t living in Mexico. Life is cheap here, and unforgiving. Our children have been beaten and raped, and murdered, our crops and horses taken, and the men who came to save us from bandits are no better than the bandits themselves.” The bishop shook his head wearily. “I could never bring my family to this land. Mexico is no place for us.”

For Caleb, the words rang like a death knell, the entire future of the Paradise Valley settlement decided, nullified in one brief sentence. Abe Detweiler would not stay without his family, and once he got back to Ohio and spread the word, no other bishop would ever come down. Without church leadership it was only a matter of time until everyone packed up and went back home.

It was over. Just like that.

Chapter 25

T
he following Sunday they held services in Yutzy’s barn, and at the end of the service Bishop Detweiler gave them the bad news.

Caleb noted that Detweiler said nothing about what he had seen and heard that morning in Captain Soto’s quarters, but he did make it clear that he would not be staying.

A great moan went up from the people, and some of the women started crying. They all knew, as surely as Caleb, what this meant. It was the beginning of the end.

“I won’t be leaving right away,” the bishop said, “because three of our youth are taking instruction classes for baptism and I won’t quit on them. But the classes will be done in the middle of August. Come early September we’ll have Communion, and after that I’ll be going back to Ohio.”

———

After lunch the men reconvened in Yutzy’s barn to discuss the situation. They pulled four benches into a square and sat in silence for a bit, heads in hands, saying nothing. Abe Detweiler sat in with them, and it was he who finally broke the silence.

“I want you all to know I’m sorry to have to leave,” he said, “but after what I’ve witnessed here I just can’t make myself bring my wife and children to Mexico. And I guess you’re all thinking no other bishop will come.”

“They won’t,” Caleb said. “Everyone knows it.”

There were nods and murmurs of agreement. Even Abe Detweiler nodded solemnly.

“So what will you do?” the bishop asked. It was up to each individual man to decide what was best for his family.

They all looked to Caleb, waiting.

He sighed. “Well, it’s midsummer and we all got crops in the ground. It don’t make sense to leave before harvest and let it all go to waste. I’m thinking we’ll get the crops in, take the produce to Saltillo and get what we can for it. We can still be back in the States before Christmas, and maybe get settled someplace else in time to plant in the spring.”

Again there were nods of approval, from everyone except Atlee Hostetler, whose eyes burned. He glared at each of them in turn, but none would look at him because they all held him responsible, in some measure, for what had happened. In a close community there were few secrets. The story had spread so that by now everyone knew, more or less, that if Atlee hadn’t gotten drunk, his children wouldn’t have gone looking for him, they wouldn’t have been attacked, those two soldiers would still be alive and the bishop wouldn’t be leaving. Life would have gone on. If it weren’t for Atlee they wouldn’t be losing their homes.

They wouldn’t say it out loud, but they wouldn’t look at him, either. Atlee stood it for as long as he could before their silent censure pushed him over the brink. He jerked himself to his feet and jabbed a finger in Caleb’s direction.

“You can stay here till Christmas if you want, but I won’t,”
he said. “I won’t stay a minute longer than I have to. Me and mine will be on a northbound train within the week. I know the gossip that’s going around, and I won’t stand for it.”

John Hershberger looked up at him and said with a calculated and irritating sweetness, “Where will you go, Atlee?”

“North Carolina,” Atlee spat. “I heard about a place there where some Amish bought a reclaimed swamp. Good black dirt, and cheap. They’re making a pile of money growing peppermint. You can harvest my crops and
keep
the money for all I care. I’m leaving
now
. The sooner the better.”

With one last hard look at Caleb, he jammed his hat on his head and stomped out. No one said a word. They didn’t even watch him go.

There was silence again for a long time. Finally, John Hershberger pulled out his corncob pipe, thumped it against his bootheel, packed it, lit it, took a draw on it and said, “What will we do with our farms, Caleb? You think we can sell them?”

“We can try, but you won’t find a lot of buyers in Mexico. Most people don’t have that kind of money, and the ones who do are selling.”

“What about the haciendado? Is there any chance he’ll buy the land back? We made a lot of improvements.”

Caleb shook his head. “I don’t think so, John. He’s who I meant when I said the people with money are selling.”

John drew on his pipe and blew a smoke ring. “There has to be somebody. We put a lot of work into this valley, and it would be a real bargain for anybody with eyes to see. Trouble is, nobody knows about it. Maybe we can put up posters in Saltillo where lots of people will see it. You never know.”

“That’s a good idea. And if we don’t sell our farms before Christmas maybe one of us could stay on down here to keep trying.”

John shrugged, drew on his pipe. “I could do that for you if you want me to.”

“What about your family?”

“No. I might have to travel a bit and I wouldn’t want to leave them alone. It would be better if they go stay at my brother’s in Fredericksburg till I get there.”

———

Caleb spent the remainder of the afternoon halfway up the ridge behind his house, sitting on his rock, the little outcropping at the tree line where he went when he wanted to be alone with his thoughts, and with Gott. It was a black day, a day for mourning the impending loss of his farm—all those months and years of toil, wasted. But Caleb Bender understood that toil was a man’s lot in life, that he would always work from dawn to dusk no matter where he was, and deep down he felt a far more disturbing loss.

It was Gott himself. Where was Gott now? In the beginning Caleb felt sure it was Gott who’d led him to Mexico. He was so convinced that he’d persuaded a hundred others to follow him, and now they would suffer for his foolishness. He had paid for his convictions with the life of his son, and now he would lose a daughter as well. Aaron would remain in Mexico, forever separated from his twin, and so would Miriam.

Truth be told, the loss of Miriam now hit Caleb even harder than the death of Aaron because she had
chosen
her path. Gott allowed Aaron’s passing; Miriam left on her own. Now his beloved daughter would face not only shunning but complete exile. She might as well be dead.

I wonder how she will feel about her
choice now?
he thought, and the thought was tinged with bitterness. He tried very hard, but in his anguish he could not banish the anger from his mind.

Sitting alone on his rock with his face in his hands, Caleb
pondered his fate until he could stand it no longer. He raised his head, and his red eyes looked to the heavens.

“Why, Gott? Have I not been your faithful servant? Tell me where I have sinned! Why do you hide your face from me and treat me like an enemy?”

Rachel went home after lunch and waited for Jake alone in the basement of her father’s house. Now that he was married, Jake was considered the head of his household, allowed to sit in on the meeting of the men.

His steps were ponderous on the stairs, as if he carried a great weight. He came down and sat beside Rachel on the edge of the bed, on the double-wedding-ring quilt Emma had given them, put an arm around his wife, and sighed.

“We’re going home,” he said. “It was as your dat feared. Bishop Detweiler says he will stay until September, but then he’s leaving. There won’t be another bishop coming.”

Rachel nodded grimly. “So that will be the end of things.”

“Jah. We’ll leave after harvest.” He shrugged. “I guess it’s not so bad for me and you. We haven’t built a house yet, nor a barn, and if I can sell my corn we’ll leave with a little money in our pocket. We’ll lose less than anyone else.”

She shook her head sadly, staring at the floor. “No, I’m thinking I’ll lose
more
than anyone else. It grieves me to think of leaving Miriam behind.”

Jake sighed deeply. “I hadn’t even thought of that until now, but you’re right. This is indeed a dark day.”

In a little while there came a knock at the head of the stairs. Rachel looked up with eyes red and swollen. “Jah?”

“It’s me—Emma. May I come down?”

“Surely. Come.”

Emma came only partway down the stairs and leaned on the rail. “Rachel, we’re going to visit Miriam. Someone has to tell her what has happened. Do you want to come?”

“Jah. We’ll be right there.”

Levi was helping Emma down from the surrey at Miriam’s house in San Rafael when Domingo and Father Noceda walked over from Kyra’s.

“Why the long faces?” Domingo asked. “Has something happened?”

“Not yet,” Levi said, “but it will. That’s why we came. Miriam’s sisters need to see her, to break the news.”

Domingo stepped aside, pointing vaguely to the back of the house. “She’s in her garden, gathering for supper.”

Rachel and Emma hurried around back while Levi and Jake stayed with the men.

“What’s going on?” Father Noceda asked.

“We’re leaving,” Levi said, his tone nearly as downcast as the women. “All of us. The whole settlement, after harvest.”

“But
why
?” Domingo asked, visibly shaken. He knew what this would mean to his wife.

“We’re losing our bishop,” Levi answered, “and there won’t be another. Our people won’t stay if there can be no church.”

Levi explained to them about the beating of Atlee’s children and the execution of the two soldiers, but left out the part about the girl, so he was caught off guard by Domingo’s first question.

“Will the girl be all right?”

Levi stared. From the depth of concern on Domingo’s face it was clear that he knew.

“Someone told you about the girl?”

“No one had to tell me. Soto would never execute two of
his own men for anything less than murder or rape, and there was no murder.”

Levi nodded. “Rachel was with the girl, right after. She said Saloma will get over the beating, but not the other. It’s a shame. Her family is leaving right away, going back to the States.”

“We will pray for her,” Father Noceda said as he crossed himself.

Levi looked over his shoulder. The three sisters could be seen on the edge of the garden, huddled together, crying.

“I don’t know what they’ll do without each other,” he said.

———

Domingo’s eyes grew hard and cold. “It’s those stinking federales. They make life miserable for all of us.”