Prophecy's Trail

By Jeff Holland

It was 1917, and the world was in the most destructive war it had ever experienced. Many believed that it was a sign that the end-times were upon them. Indeed, prophetic events were happening, but not as the world thought. Fifteen-year-old Philo Sadler didn't know a thing about prophecy. For him, religion was just a vague memory of happier days. That was about to change.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 22, 2017
• ISBN: 9781635752267

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Prophecy’s Trail

Jeff Holland

ISBN 978-1-63575-225-0 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-63575-226-7 (Digital)

Copyright © 2017 by Jeff Holland

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.

296 Chestnut Street

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

Chapter One

I saw the rolling puffs of black smoke above the trees across the wide valley. The locomotive was really burning the coal to make that rising grade. I judged it would slow down before crossing over to the other side. I was counting on it. I was also hoping it was pulling freight and not passengers. The fewer pairs of eyes looking out, the better I’d feel.

From the pine sapling thicket I had a clear view for nearly two miles down the track. It curved long and graceful. It was a good spot. Probably the best there was for what I was about to do. It had taken me all the night before and much of the previous day to get there. Near the middle of the swooping bend, they wouldn’t be able to see me from either end of the train as the twenty-yard rush to the rails was made.

The big four-six-four emerged from the far tree line. Perhaps it was the same one I saw the other day hauling crates of brand-new Model T Fords from back East. Four leading, six that were driving, and four more wheels under the cab, the engines’ dark-green paint glimmered in the morning sun. The first cars to follow were boxed in, and the doors were shut. The next few were flatbeds with all manner of wooden crates and equipment lashed down to them. These were followed by more boxcars with their doors closed as well. I couldn’t open those doors while the train was moving. The weather was too cool to ride on top.

I set my sights on a flatbed, figuring I could crawl in among the freight. As the locomotive neared, I watched for the engineer. When he came abreast of me, it looked like he was fussing at the man stoking the boiler. Evidently he hadn’t been shoveling coal fast enough.

Just as soon as the engine turned out of view, I bolted out of my hiding spot like a flushed rabbit. The gunnysack full of quart jars didn’t slow me down in the least as it bounced and clinked on my back. Hard living and missed meals had made me lean. A bit tall for my fifteen years, the blast of energy that pushed me was like none I had ever felt. When a car I reckoned was good enough came along, I tried not to bust any of the blue Ball canning jars full of food when the sack was flopped down on the wooden deck.

The locomotive was almost at the top of the rise and would soon begin its descent on the other side. With one great lunge, I grabbed the handrail and put a foot on the bottom step. Then there was a sensation of success and heaving of chest that comes with winning a race. Climbing on quickly, the sack was snatched up while looking for an opening among the cargo. On one end was a giant Best steam tractor from California. The partially enclosed cab would offer some cover. Getting inside of it, I still felt exposed. Crouching down, a fold in my ragged trousers got caught on the handle of the firebox.

With inspiration, I looked inside. Given the circumstances, it was a near-perfect hideout. A full grown man with any kind of a gut might not have been able to do it, but with little effort, I managed to crawl in with the provisions. Stretching out was out of the question. It wasn’t filthy as one would expect, it being a brand-new tractor, although that didn’t matter. I hadn’t got regular baths in quite a while.

Lying still, I took stock of the situation. East was a good direction, especially since I gave the impression of going West. If they came after me, they’d be heading one way and I the other, increasing the distance by the minute. What little I could, I calculated the potential progress. I remembered hearing that depending on the load, the average freight train could do over thirty-five miles an hour. I reckoned that if I stayed on for at least a day or more, I would have traveled several hundred miles. It was difficult for me to do the math. I was removed from the third grade to work on my uncle’s farm while my cousins stayed in school. Many treated orphans as vermin or cheap labor. I got the full effects of both and from my own kin.

A backhand from my uncle would send me reeling. I learned to deal with that. Often he used what was handy like a stick of firewood or a two-by-four across my back. Nothing, however, stung like a bullwhip. He used it for the first time about a week ago. It would forever leave its mark on my body. I had no doubt that he would try and use it again.

The exhilaration of freedom and making my getaway had kept me wide-awake for nearly two days. Lying motionless, the steady ka-klunk of steel wheels on rails made a rhythm that eased my senses. Although a little cramped in that dark cave, I felt I was in the safest place I could be. I was sure no one would think to look for me in there. I could hardly believe my good fortune. Relaxing, sleep came suddenly.

When I awoke, it was so dark I was afraid I had gone blind. Night had fallen. Groping for the backside of the latch, I gave it a twist and opened the door to my makeshift berth. Like a mouse from his hole, I poked my head out and judged it safe enough to get a good stretch.

We were in flat country, far from the foothills of the Rocky Mountains and Indigo Springs from where the journey began. Even though it was night, a person could see for miles no matter which way they looked. The moonless clear sky brought out the stars in vivid glory. Far off in the distance, a speck of light from a lone coal oil lamp glowed softly from a farmer’s house. By leaning out, I could see another lamp burning in the caboose’s window. I was confident that the men who were in it were completely unaware that they had taken on a passenger.

Hungry, I fetched out a quart jar of tomatoes, canned last summer, along with a tin of peaches and quickly finished them off. I had grabbed several items from the pantry and rolled them up in a quilt before stuffing it all down in the gunnysack. I didn’t consider it as stealing, but looked at it as back pay from all those meals that I was cheated out of. I wanted to do much damage yet didn’t for good reason. I was in a powerful hurry to begin my flight, and if history repeated itself, they wouldn’t be back that day until well past midnight. When they returned, it had to look like everything was normal. They’d go straight to bed and give yet more time to put a bigger gap between me and them. It was spring festival time in Indigo Springs, and the family of rattlers, as I had come to call them under my breath, had left by midmorning. They were still in sight when I cut the leather hinges off the shed’s door where I had been locked up. From behind a pile of wood, I watched their mule-drawn wagon disappear over the last rise. It would take them over four hours to get to town. I’d be long gone by the time they got back. Slipping in an unlocked window to the house, I had took keen interest on grabbing the food, the best quilt, and a tin of black pepper in case I had to cover my scent, but special care was taken in going through a trunk full of keepsakes. There had been a piece of paper in it that I hoped hadn’t been lost. It turned up after some digging. Folding it neatly, it was pushed down in my only good pocket. It occurred to me how strange a long forgotten piece of paper could mean so much to someone and absolutely nothing to the rest of the world. During the train ride, I would pull it out and look at it every now and then, fondly reading a couple of names on it.

I didn’t leave the cover of the steam tractor’s cab unless out of necessity. Sitting on the bare metal seat, there was a feeling of safety, much of the cool night’s wind was blocked, and it offered a decent vantage point to keep a tab on the surroundings. With plenty of room to flex, there was no need in tempting fate and risk being seen. Occasionally the ends of the train would arch into view while going into curves, but the occupants of both never showed themselves. I could picture the men in the caboose playing cards, drinking coffee, or sleeping. Maybe they just peered out of the window from time to time merely to break the monotony. As long as they stayed where they were, everything would be just fine.

The train would stop periodically to take on water and grease the moving parts of the locomotive. There was one built-up area I took to be Kansas City. It was hard to tell from the vent holes in the door. It was daylight, and the fear of being caught by my uncle was replaced by that of getting apprehended by the yardmen. Some of these rough necks were hired by the railroad just to keep tramps from getting a free ride. Many vagrants were beaten to death with no repercussion to the killers. They would simply say that they had to defend themselves from a dangerous man. Powerful people ran the railroad, and their word just about trumped everybody else’s. If I had to run during the day, it would have to be of great importance. Here the cars were constantly going back and forth, being switched, as men yelled instructions to one another. At one point, I heard two yardmen talking about the war and how the European soldiers couldn’t seem to get out of the trenches. They speculated about how well America would fare now that we were dragged into it and weren’t prepared. They said the army would have to borrow guns, cannons, and everything else. It was all gloom and doom talk.

In a few hours, we were back on the move. I wondered if it was the same four-six-four that carried me across the plains. That was of little concern. The packing slip on the tractor had the destination of St. Louis. That’s where I reckoned I’d be getting off.

The vast stretches of open land had given way to forests and hills. It felt odd not having the presence of the Rocky Mountains. They had always been part of my Western horizons. It made me wonder if I would ever see them again. They would be the only things I would miss, except for the Fergusons. I had worked for them when Uncle Hugo farmed me out on occasion. This elderly couple treated me with kindness that I hadn’t been accustomed to. They were my happiest times since before my parents fell sick. I’m not sure what money was paid for my services, but it was for sure I wouldn’t see the first penny. Old Man Ferguson knew this, and it troubled him. For me, those three big meals a day and not being cussed was pay enough. He had seen me eye one of his many guns. It wasn’t much, just a .22-caliber single-shot rifle. He gave it to me at the end of my last short stay with him. At first I was overjoyed, then reality set in. That bunch I had to live with would for sure find some way to take it from me, and I pointed that out to him. He said, Just keep it out of sight, and everything would be all right.

It didn’t do any good. Not long after returning to Hugo’s farm, I had to chop wood for the stove. During this chore, I heard the first distinctive pop. Knowing almost immediately what it was, I ran to the shed where I slept. A quick search revealed my worst fear. Then another pop echoed from behind the barn. Wasting no time, I headed that way swelling up in anger.

Rounding the corner of the barn, there was my cousin Nestor with my rifle. He was in the process of putting another bullet in the chamber when he became aware of my presence. With a smirk, he stuck out his chin.

Didn’t think I knew you snuck it in, did you?

Years of backing down suddenly erupted. He yelped out a desperate Pa! as we both went down in a flurry of fists. He was a little older, taller, and heavier and managed to place a couple blows, but I was faster. All those beatings I suffered because of him and his siblings had made me hard in more ways than one.

By the time Hugo came to his rescue, Nestor’s face was a screaming, bloody mess. Straddling him, I was pounding him with everything I was worth. Hugo charged up and kicked me in the ribs. Flipping sideways, there wasn’t any air in my lungs. Before I could collect myself, he stomped me square in the stomach. I curled up on the ground unable to move.

He quickly looked for something to beat me with. Hanging in the barn, the whip was the closest thing handy. Cursing with every stroke, he did not care where the leather sliced and stung.

When it was finally over, he went to his son and helped him to his feet. Looking down, he saw the rifle and recognized it as belonging to Sol Ferguson. Realizing that it must have been given to me, he picked it up and took it and his sobbing boy into the house.

I crawled and staggered to my small lean-to shack. My bed was a tick of rags and old clothes lying across the dirt floor. Settling slowly down, the pain wouldn’t go away. Neither would the tears. Shortly Hugo came back still cursing. Grabbing a pole, he jammed it against the door locking me in. Amid the filthy slurs, he said I was going to stay in there until he got tired of it.

The escape planning began at that moment. I wondered why I hadn’t done it long ago. That day I had become a wild and unpredictable animal to them, but it wasn’t the first time they had locked me up. The current record was two days. This time was going to be different. Hugo had at one time been a prison guard and had enjoyed throwing inmates into a thing they called a cooler. The greatest consolation for me was that I wouldn’t have to interact with them face-to-face and had plenty of time to think. In my mind, I tried to picture something that would bring freedom and how I could go about to get it. Near the Fergusons’ farm ran the railroad. I remembered telling them and some of their hired hands how I’d like to follow them all the way to California. If they came after me, I was sure that would be the way they’d go.

That last night on the train, I saw the shine of a large city reflecting up into the sky. I reckoned it had to be St. Louis. For me, it was the end of the line.

The rail yard we came into was enormous. As soon as the motion stopped, I hunkered down, ready to go. The gunnysack was much lighter, and I was well rested and primed for flight. Sliding off between cars, I projected my senses out as far as they could go trying to pick up on anything that might be coming my way. The deepest shadows would be my best route. Getting down on hands and knees, I was dismayed at how well the electric lights shined upon the row upon row of cars. I never knew night could be lit up so much. Selecting a direction that seemed less lit and looking both ways, I shot over to the next track and scrambled under a boxcar. Making sure I didn’t arouse any unwanted curiosity, I did it again twice. Getting set for another dash for the next row, a deep voice boomed close by.

Did you see where he went?

I thought he ran toward you, answered another man farther down the track. Holding my breath from shock, I thought for sure my heart was going to give me away.

I know he’s around here somewhere. He won’t get far.

Work your way toward me and see if we can’t flush him out.

I could hear them get closer. Preparing for the sprint of my life, a tramp abruptly jumped from the boxcar I was under.

There he is! said the first yardman.

Get him! Quick! Don’t let him get away!

The hapless vagrant ran a few yards and tripped. In an instant, they were on him. Each of the yard dicks had a club of some kind. The sickening thuds and the pleading for mercy were all too familiar. Another man came up laughing as he was running.

Hey! Save some for me!

I took this diversion as an opportunity, but this time I didn’t stop at every track as before. Three more tracks over, I was at an eight-foot-high plank fence. Running away from the excitement, I found a hole where the wood had rotted. Forcefully cramming through it, I plunged headlong into bushes almost as high as the fence.

Still spooked, I fought my way through them to the edge of someone’s backyard. The house was dark. It was past midnight, and most people were in bed. Softly running around to the front, I came upon dozens of homes packed in close to each other along a dimly lit street. Not wanting to look suspicious, I slowed to a quick walk. I’m sure I didn’t appear innocent—a stranger in a hurry in the middle of the night with a sack on his back. Never having been in a place where there were so many houses, I was overwhelmed about which way to go.

Sidestepping across one street, I was startled. On a front porch a few houses down, a small orange ember got bright then dimmed. Someone was smoking a cigarette. Perhaps he couldn’t sleep or maybe the dogs I got all stirred up woke him. I didn’t want to chance a confrontation. Promptly turning around, I backtracked and went down another road.

I didn’t know how long I could keep up that pace. The sun would be up in a few hours, and I had to find some sort of shelter or a place to hide before somebody noticed me as an outsider. A shed here and a garage there looked promising, but these were too close to someone’s home. The houses thinned out when I came upon a country lane. At least now, if I had to, I could hide in the woods. Relaxing my stride, the morning’s activity was beginning to take its toll.

The sun had risen when I came upon a lone two-and-a-half-story house. Many of the windows were busted out, and the front door was halfway open. Most of the paint was weathered off. The tint of dull gray on the siding was the main color. The house was empty. Perfect.

Wandering in, anybody could tell that it had at one time been a really grand house. The staircase majestically swooped up to the second floor. I could picture a lovely woman in a beautiful ball gown floating down its steps. Maybe one did grace it at one time. Dust and cobwebs frilled it and everything else now. Going up, the boards complained loudly with squeaks and groans, making small furry things run and hide.

No doubt a family of notoriety had lived, and died out, under its roof. Who they were and what they did was probably fading into memory much as the old mansion was. These things went through my mind as I explored the empty bedrooms. The normally friendly morning sunlight was somber as it poured in. I knew what it was like to have a family die on you.

Choosing one of the smaller bedrooms at the end of the hall, I set up camp. It had windows facing in two different directions, which could be used if I had to leave in a hurry. I was an outsider here and didn’t know how people would take to me. The place wasn’t much, but it was far better than that miserable shed I had left. I felt that I should not stay there for very long. The food would be out soon, maybe in four or five days if I paced myself. I was averaging about a quart and a half worth a day, only eating a tin can of fruit every couple of days. When the last bite was gone, I had no idea when I’d get the next. Too early in the year to raid orchards or gardens, I would have to think of something. At that time, I was so glad to be free I didn’t worry about it. I had it in my mind that I would try and find a job once I got settled into an area that showed promise. If not, I reckoned I would move on along somewhere else. But St. Louis was a big city with no telling what to offer. Many folks all over the country made as much as thirty or an amazing forty dollars and even more a month. That kind of pay was Jim Dandy. I knew I was a good worker. Old Man Ferguson bragged on me more than once about that, even saying I made most of his regular hands look bad. He said I was his two-legged mule. I just knew from the depths of my heart that all I had to do was prove myself whenever I got the chance. My spirit was completely charged up with that belief.

Curling up in the quilt, I wondered how that battle-axe of an aunt had reacted when she discovered it missing. It was the best one they had and was highly favored, thinking it was going to become a family heirloom. They wouldn’t think so now if they took a look at it. Dirty and snagged in a couple of places, it still provided warmth and comfort. No doubt that bunch really got torn up when they saw that their food stores had been raided and nearly wiped out. I had been eating almost as well as they were for a change. No more watching their dogs getting fed better than me. I laughed a little knowing that all those chores I had to do would have to be done by my chubby, lazy cousins. I was going to have a spring festival all my own.

Yet I didn’t feel particularly jubilant or satisfied like I thought I would after inflicting a measure of retaliation. What I did was more out of survival than anything else. Oh, how I wanted to do much damage. The thought did occur to me that maybe one day I would go back and even things up a bit, but I knew my folks wouldn’t have wanted that. It would only lead to more trouble, and I had had enough of that. The sensation of freedom and the sweet absence of oppression overrode everything. I couldn’t see how anybody would be able to find me now. Even though I had been hiding and running the last several days, there was a genuine, soulful peace. There is so much to be said for that.

Chapter Two

As the bigger