Chapter Eleven
The old priest stood at the window of his quarters at the back of the church, watching as the young man with the dark hair walked slowly through the graveyard.
He had seen the man tie his horse to the hitching rail and stand there for a good five minutes, staring across the rows of graves toward the three recent ones, where grass was just beginning to sprout. It was as though the man was trying to work up the will to go on into the cemetery.
Finally, he did something that drew a good measure of respect from Father James, showing that the young man considered the area he was about to enter to be holy ground. He unbuckled his holster and hung it, with the gun secured in it, across the horn of his saddle. Then he removed his hat and kept it clutched in his hand. He had opened the gate and stepped into the area with a reverence as obvious as his trepidation. Once inside, he again stood still for several minutes, staring in the direction of the three newest graves, before beginning to force his feet very slowly forward.
Father James watched in approval as the young man crossed the cemetery, taking great care to step around every grave rather than upon any of them. The way he moved… the way he was built… the dark wavy hair… He looked familiar, though the priest couldn't quite place him. But when the young man made his way to one particular row of graves and stopped directly in front of one of the markers, the priest suddenly made the connection.
Harper.
The young man had deliberately made his way to the row where the Harpers were buried. He had paused at the first graves, where a husband and wife, and the husband's mother were laid to rest, all having died of an illness before Father James had been sent there. The fourth Harper grave though… he had officiated the service for that precious one, a tiny baby girl, the granddaughter of the couple buried there. It was in front of that grave that the young man lingered. And it was at that moment the priest realized how much the young man resembled the father of that baby, Luke Harper. Luke, his wife Anna, and two of their little children had perished in a fire so terrible it left no remains for interment. Only three children were left, and one of them, the younger boy, had died three years ago. Again, it had been under tragic circumstances that allowed no burial. That meant the one standing there must be the oldest of Luke's boys. Jess.
He had heard a lot about Jess Harper for a year and a half after that fire. There was quite a reputation developing for him as a fast gun. Father James had prayed daily for the boy, who had every reason in the world to be filled with the anger the priest knew he must be carrying after the murder of most of his family. Yet, of everything he heard about Jess Harper, it was all said with respect for the way the boy lived by a code of justice and fairness. Even in the gunfights he was forced into, he had fired only in self-defense, never touching his gun until the challenger drew.
Then, all word of Jess' search for the Bannisters and his exploits with Dixie Howard had stopped. Father James heard later that the boy had gone into the Confederate Army.
One short letter had arrived from him during the war, sent to his sister in early 1864 from Virginia. That was it. There had been no further word about Jess, and it had been assumed that he was either killed or captured. It often took months or even years for Texas families to learn the fates of their sons, if they ever did. There was no telegraph service nearby, and mail delivery to the frontier was especially spotty at best, even in good times. During the war and in the time since, it was a surprise when a letter made it through, particularly if it was sent from some distance away. So it was common for hope to be held that, since the war had ended in April, there might still be some boys returning home. The priest smiled briefly. Jess had made it back. So few of the young men from this area had been as fortunate. And he couldn't help but wonder what further horrors young Harper had survived.
The priest watched as Jess turned to look farther down the row of graves toward the three recent ones. He could actually see the boy take a deep breath, as if steeling himself to move toward those graves. He stopped in front of the first, obviously reading the name on the marker, then moved on to the next, and finally the third.
After reading the name on the last stone, the boy made his way to the small bench nearby and absolutely collapsed onto it, leaning forward with elbows on knees and his head in his hands.