Confession at Turner Creek: The Turner Creek Series, #1

By Gary Harding

Bane Barlow left behind a life of guns and business for a Bible and a pair of saddlebags. A wealthy Texas cattleman buys him a train ticket west and Bane rides into more trouble than "he can shake a stick at." With the call of God on his life, he is sent on a wild mission to a fledgling gold mining town in California. Then he suddenly finds himself in the middle of a case of stolen gold and murder! Who can he trust? And where is the mysterious Chad Turner that he was sent to find?

Confession at Turner Creek is the first novel in a series about circuit rider Bane Barlow.  It is a gripping tale of good and evil. Bane is on a quest to find truth in a time when the West was driven by corruption and the lust for gold. Yet, even in despair, he knew, as long as God was with him, he would never ride the trail alone.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WordSong Publishing
• Release date: Sep 10, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386032359

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

THE SUN WAS SETTING low as he pulled his hat brim even lower. The dust-covered Stetson was no longer black. It was more of a dark brown, almost the color of his saddle. A long day on the trail had brought nothing more than tired muscles and an aching back. It was hot. Even for this time of year, it was hot.

He swung down from the Paint, removing the Stetson, and mopped his brow with a large red bandanna. He had been told the new hat maker would someday be famous, but that didn’t keep his hat clean.

Just a few more miles, boy, and we’ll be there, he said. With a twitch of his ears, the horse stomped a hoof in disbelief. Parson Bane Barlow smiled to himself as he stretched his arms up over his head and yawned. Now, you’ve got to believe me boy.  The horse only grunted in retaliation.

As Bane looked out over the valley, he saw one of the most beautiful sights he had ever seen. Few men had ever seen anything prettier. He stood at the edge of a jutted peak and surveyed the view for miles. The steep Sierras gave way to sloping, rolling hills. As far as the eye could see, it gently rolled on. From where Bane stood, he could see where the tall pines and cedar trees gave way to smaller, rounder mesquite. Thanks to recent rains, everything was green. Just a sliver of golden sun was still showing now and the horizon was filled with deep purple and orange streaks that faded into gray. The tallest hills were silently silhouetted against the skylight to proclaim the evening benediction. With his hat still in his hand, he softly whispered a prayer.

Thank you Lord, for such a sight as I ever did see. I reckon no one ever made such a commotion over the day endin’ as you do.

Raising his foot to the stirrup, he climbed back in the saddle and sat staring at the sunset. As dusk settled, Bane could make out the twinkling of lights far away and just to his right. That would be it then. That would be Turner Creek. He spoke to the horse.

Well, Joshua, would you look at that! We gonna have us a home sure as the mane on your neck. ‘Nuff of this roamin’ from town to town. I figure it’s high time we settle down for a spell and do some life changin’ preachin’. Yes sir, it’s the Lord’s will for Turner Creek to have a church and we can do it!

The Paint turned his head and rolled his eyes at Bane as if to say... What do you mean, we? With a nudge from the parson’s boot heels, the big horse swished his tail and swung into a hesitant walk down the hill.

Bane laughed aloud, Come on boy, I’m countin’ on you to bring down the walls of Jericho!

The temperature was dropping fast. The coolness was welcome to Bane. He had spent the last several hours wiping sweat from his eyes. Unusually warm weather had caused the mountains to turn dusty. Even after the late spring rains, it was destined to be a real hot summer.

As darkness settled overhead, the stars began to come on like fireflies on the fourth of July. One by one, they shyly blinked until they built up the courage to appear by the thousands.  Bane did not remember ever seeing such a sky. So far, California was everything and more than he had expected.

Parson Bane Barlow had lived the first three decades of his young life in the South and Midwest. He stood just a tad over six feet tall and was of medium build. His eyes were dark brown and his hair was the same, save for a dusting of silver near the temples.

Having pastored two churches, he had been summoned to Tennessee because of sick relatives, old and beyond their years. While visiting, he began to circulate from town to town and hold revival meetings. Some of these meetings turned into out right revivals. A few of them were held in church buildings proper. But most were just out in the open air. A time or two someone had offered a barn so Bane could preach out of the rain.

After several months of traveling, another pastor suggested he pack up and hit the road as a full-fledged evangelist. The relatives passed away within the next three months and Bane did the funerals himself. While standing over the flower-covered grave of his grandmother, he vowed that he would never stop preaching the gospel. With no real definite plans, he then bought a horse and a new pair of boots. He rode into town, picked out an extra black shirt and pants at the general store and then packed them in his over sized saddlebags. While tying on his bedroll, he had an after thought. Walking back in the store he strolled over to the counter.

Give me two Army Colt .45's and a box of shells, he said. After he had wrapped each gun in a clean cloth and placed them in the other saddlebag next to his black leather-bound Bible, he swung into the saddle and tipped his hat to the clerk.  The jolly, bald storekeeper was now standing on the boardwalk holding out a piece of paper.

Don’t forget you receipt, parson, the elderly man offered.

Thank you much and God bless you, Bane replied. With a quick pull on the reins, he rode down the street headed west.

And that was the day Parson Bane Barlow officially became a circuit rider.

Well, it actually wasn’t official. There was nobody to make it official. In fact, there had been a few days when Bane was quite sure that nobody, but the Lord, even knew that he was alive. But the Lord was enough.

Much of the country had been hit hard by the Civil War. There had been long lonely trails, but he kept his horse pointed west. Then, just outside of Abilene, the buckskin threw a shoe. A kind blacksmith had agreed to repair it free of charge if Bane would stay over for supper and meet the pastor from the community church. It seemed that the blacksmith was a deacon in the congregation and the pastor took a liking to Bane. After the dishes were cleared away, he asked the circuit rider to preach the following Sunday morning. That morning had turned into a two-week meeting.

It had been a rowdy mix of a crowd the first week. When a big cattle drive came up the trail, there must have been nearly three thousand head camped just on the outskirts of town. Off and on, dusty Texas cowhands rode in to quench their thirst. They were expecting a good time, some entertainment, and a little razzle-dazzle for their money. What they were not expecting was to run smack dab into an old fashioned revival meeting with a hell fire and brimstone, Bible thumping preacher.

Some said that the wild and wooly Parson Bane Barlow could be heard above the honky-tonk din of the four saloons on the same street, including the one closest to the church! Well, Bane never argued with that. He just kept on preaching. Every night he preached louder. Every night the crowd grew larger.

On Monday of the second week, the four saloon owners met to form a coalition to close the meeting on account of poor business. But it came to naught. The church had agreed to take the revival outdoors near the edge of the town limits and outside of the law’s jurisdiction. The saloon owners were happy, but only until the next night. It seemed that nearly half the town showed up at the newly constructed brush arbor to hear the circuit riding parson.

The last night of the meeting, a big man with huge hands strolled up to Bane as he stood by the side of the open-air freight wagon that was used for a platform. The man looked quite distinguished and seemed to carry himself in a very diplomatic fashion. Bane decided this man was a gentleman. His attire, Bane concluded, was that of a wealthy Texas cattle rancher.

Hello, Parson! he bellowed as he thrust out his right palm with one of the strongest handshakes Bane had ever felt. My name is Denny Turner. I run a little spread just south of here apiece and I have been listening to your preaching. Can we set and talk a minute?

The man’s accent was formal and hinted at high education. As they sat on two hay bales near the wagon, Bane listened as Mr. Turner spoke of the weather, the cattle business, and the squabble with the saloon owners. Then he got down to business in a hurry.

What I came to talk to you about, parson, is my nephew, he boldly announced. He’s out in California and he needs God. Trouble is, he don’t know he needs God. But he surely does.  He surely does indeed. Well, anyway, his name is Chad. Chad Turner. He used to be here with me up until this gold rush fever hit him and then he was gone like a cat in front of a prairie fire! I declare he always was a handful. His daddy, that was my brother, was killed when Chad was just a little guy, about two. Well, that’s another story. But, nevertheless, I raised Chad. Well, we raised him, did Tess and me.  Good kid too, for the most part. Good with the cattle and horses. He’s got a knack for it, that’s for sure. Then he got all plum fired up over that gold in California. Well, he’s really not there for the gold. Or so he says, anyway. It’s the cows, mind you. He says those miners have to eat! Now he does have a thought there!  That’s a fact. They say a hungry miner can eat a whole cow and drink the milk when he’s through! The rancher laughed loudly. Well, anyway, he’s out there, and frankly, Tess and I are really worried. Haven’t heard a word now for a year or more. I’ve sent telegrams, but never heard back from Chad. They say he started him up a town. Turner Creek it is. Presumably, it is a mining town. I would speculate it is not too far from some of them big gold strikes out there. Parson, if you are heading west, I would be most grateful if you would talk to him. I need you to send greetings from his uncle Denny. And furthermore, I know he truly does need the Lord in a desperate manner.

The conversation went on for just about a half hour. Well, in fact, it really wasn’t much of a conversation. Denny Turner did most all the talking. When he took a long pause for some air, Bane interjected with a slow drawl.

Well now, Mr. Turner, since I am headed west, I’ll be more than happy to look up Chad. ‘Course, I don’t have any idea how long I might be in gettin’ there myself.

Do not alarm yourself about that, parson! Denny stood as he spoke. I shall be praying for your safety. He held out his hand. Now, here’s a little donation to help you get on the way. When you send me a telegram that you made it, I am prepared to appropriate more finance to establish a church there in Turner Creek.

But, I’m not sure, Mr. Turner, if I can...

Nonsense, parson! Turner interrupted. I have just been listening to your preaching and I do declare that I know preaching when I hear it!  You take this here envelope now, and you let me know when you do make it to California. There’s a train ticket and enough for stage fare in there, too! It’ll cover food and decent hotels if you can find them.

Well, I don’t know if...

Nonsense, I say! You don’t need to know anything except what time the train leaves in the morning and that’s it! Turner shifted his feet as he spoke. Turner Creek needs a church, Chad Turner needs the Lord, and you need to start packing your bag tonight. I trust you will not turn into a Jonah and run the other way on me now! He took Bane’s hand and shook it hard, while laughing. I’ll be expecting to hear from you directly. Thank you, parson, and thank the good Lord above...

Still mumbling and without giving Bane a chance to say another word, Denny Turner spun around and then disappeared in the after church crowd.

The conversation was over.

At eight o’clock the next morning, Parson Bane Barlow boarded the westbound train.  When he reached the end of the line, he bought fare for the stagecoach. It was a miserable way to travel. The dust digested poorly as the miles flew by. The flat lands turned into high plain desert.  Growing accustomed to stage stop grub by day and the usual bedroll on the ground by night kept him busier than he had expected. The ride was so long and uneventful that the grind was wearing him down. He had heard wild stories about this part of the country for years. Considering all he had been told, it was a blessing that things had been so dull. After three weeks, he was tired of the travel.

When the stage pulled into Carson City, Bane stepped down with a groan. He looked a wreck. His black shirt and pants were dingy and desperately needed replacement. His face was coated with dirt that helped hide several days growth of beard. About the only things that had survived the trip decently were his hat and boots.

Pulling his bedroll and saddlebags out of the back of the stage, he slung them over his shoulder. He missed his horse. She had been a mighty fine buckskin. Sure was a shame to sell her before he left Abilene. She was worth fifty bucks any day of the week. But, not having the time to wait, Bane had let her go to the friendly blacksmith for thirty-five dollars and a few homemade biscuits before he boarded the train. Well, the blacksmith would get good use out of the mare.

A lazy hound dog nudged his knee and scurried under the wooden spoke wheel as Bane stepped away from the coach. He didn’t care if he ever rode a stage again. He was tired. He was hungry. He still had some miles to go before he reached Turner Creek. In his mind, he began to form a plan. He needed to buy a horse and saddle. He needed to buy some new clothes. He needed a bath. And so, being the logical and reasonable man that he was, he walked straight toward the big sign that read, GOOD FOOD, in large red letters and opened the door.

After a good meal, a good bath, and a good nights sleep in a real bed, he felt like facing the world again. He awoke with one word on his mind... breakfast. He reached in his saddlebags and took out his Bible. The leather was well worn, but none the worse for the wear. Of all his possessions, it was by far the most valuable. He treasured it more than gold or silver and guarded it with his life. Many a message had been extracted from its pages, yet Bane was sure he had not yet tapped its best thoughts. A gold rush there might be, but he had found a mine of a different kind.

He opened up the well-soiled pages to the Psalms and, as was his custom, began the day with David’s song to the Lord.

After checking out of the hotel, he was a determined man. Determined, that is, to eat breakfast. He stepped out on the boardwalk and took two steps when he stood face to face with the finest looking Paint horse he had ever seen in his life. Beside the horse stood a young boy all of ten.

Are you Parson Barlow, sir? the little lad enquired.

That I am, my boy. And why might you ask? Bane replied.

Well, sir, beggin’ your pardon, but my boss told me to bring this Paint down to the hotel and ask for you, Mr. Barlow, the boy continued.  He said, tell you this is your horse all bought and paid for.

Now, boy, that can’t be cause I...

But, it is, Mr. Parson, sir, interrupting with excitement, the boy went on.  "A telegram came and in a while I got my instructions from my boss, Ben. He’s the hostler at the livery stable and he said to do just as I told you, sir.  And he said to make sure that you personally received the telegram and this paper receipt for

yourself. He held out the reins to Bane. His name is Joshua, Mr. Parson, and the saddle goes with him. He’s our best horse in the stable. I got to go now, sir!"

Bane took the reins as the boy turned on his heels and ran down the dirt street, leaping over the same lazy hound dog that had been under the stage the day before. In his other hand, he held the receipt for the horse and a telegram.

So you’re Joshua, huh? Bane spoke more to himself than to the horse. He first stared at the bridle and then the saddle, admiring their quality. 

Well, Joshua, you and I are more than likely to be friends for a long time.

Carson City was bustling with morning activity. The year was 1866 and Nevada was enjoying the Comstock Lode mining boom.  Even though it was still early, there were dozens of people milling about. Bane noticed a group of miners gathered under the shade of the hotel awning watching him.  No doubt, he was a spectacle and the horse was an attraction all his own.  He turned to face the men.

Good morning, gentlemen! he offered with a tip of his Stetson. With that, they quickly wheeled about and disbanded as though they had not been staring at all. Bane chuckled to himself, Can’t a body have any privacy at all around this town?

As he slung the reins over the hitching rail, he inhaled the strong aroma of bacon and eggs frying and remembered he still wanted his breakfast. Only then did he think to look at the telegram. Unfolding the creased paper, he read the words...

The horse and saddle are for you,

Mr. Turner

Bane carefully folded the paper and put it in his pocket. Now ain’t this a mighty fine howdy-do? he whistled softly. Reckon Mr. Turner had more connections than I figured!

Leaving the Paint standing three-legged with it’s nose nestled in the edge of the water trough, he started to step up on the porch when the loud click of shotgun hammers being cocked froze him in his tracks.

CHAPTER 2

VERY SLOWLY, BANE RAISED his hands about shoulder high without turning his head at all.

"I’d