The Glorious Prodigal Page 15

  Warden Armstrong looked as if he had been struck in the face. He considered his words carefully before saying, “I know nothing about this, Mr. Winslow, but hearing this concerns me very much indeed. We have no such policy. Contact with home is a prisoner’s lifeline. We would never discourage that. I’ll look into it at once.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Armstrong.”

  “I’ve written a letter of commendation for Stuart. Here’s a copy of it. Feel free to use it any way you see fit.”

  Tom took the letter and ran his eyes down it. “This is very fine!” he exclaimed. “I’m sure it will help.”

  “Well,” Warden Armstrong said thoughtfully, “Stuart won’t be eligible for parole for another five years.”

  Tom stood up and took a deep breath. “Warden,” he said, “God is able. If He wants Stuart Winslow out of this prison, He’ll open those steel doors.”

  Warden Armstrong had not seen many success stories, but somehow he felt that this tall young man before him would be hard to turn away. “Amen,” he said. He put out his hand and grasped Tom Winslow’s hand. “God bless you, and I’ll pray with you that these doors will swing open for Stuart Winslow.”

  ****

  As soon as Tom Winslow disappeared from the warden’s office, George Armstrong sat back down with a heavy sigh. This news about Stuart not having any contact with home for seven years had shaken him, but a thought was forming in his mind that came clearer with each passing moment.

  Munger! Could it be that the man had found his revenge in this way? When Armstrong had taken Stuart Winslow out of Munger’s hands all those years ago, he should have known that the man wouldn’t have accepted such a humiliation without a fight.

  How could I have been so stupid?

  “Taylor!” The warden called for the guard standing outside his door.

  Taylor quickly opened the door and stuck his head in the warden’s office. “Yes, sir?”

  “Get me Felix Munger. Now!”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Valley of Decision

  Late-afternoon sunshine poured over Lewisville as Tom Winslow arrived and headed down the wide main street. He watched as some buggies and wagons still fought for their place among the automobiles and trucks. He took in the stores and shops—Smith’s Drugs, Sanderson’s General Store, Shultz’s Laundry and Cleaner. The most opulent building was the courthouse, which sat in a square at the end of Main Street. Horses and buggies, wagons, cars, and trucks filled the parking spaces, and the courtyard was busy with people coming and going.

  It was Wednesday, November 12, 1916, and Tom took his time studying the town and the faces of the people. Parking the Hudson, he got out and strolled down the street, impressed with the slow pace he observed in Lewisville. Fort Smith, he understood, was the “big town” where people went for important events. The weather had turned cold, and the women, with their skirts down to their shoes, were bundled up with wool coats, many of which had fake-fur collars. Most of the men were rough farmers and wore overalls and mackinaw jackets with corduroy caps with earflaps. The farm people were easy enough to differentiate from the townspeople, who wore more formal attire.

  Finally Tom approached a man standing out in front of the bank and said, “I’m looking for a gentleman named Richard Winslow.”

  “Well, his office is right down the street, but I think he’s already closed up.”

  “Can you direct me to his house?”

  “Sure.” The man spat an enormous glob of amber tobacco juice in a stream and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You go right down this here street for two blocks. That’s Magnolia. Turn right there and go until you see a big white house with pillars set out back from the road on the right. Got his name on the front by the mailbox. You a friend of his?”

  “Distant relative.”

  “That so! What kin are you?”

  Tom smiled and gave as little information as possible but thanked the man and returned to his car. He pulled out and dodged an overloaded log wagon that threatened to spill all over Main Street, then followed the directions. He spotted the house and pulled into the driveway. He was impressed with the beauty of the place. It reminded him a little bit of Mount Vernon on a much smaller scale. The house was two stories with four white pillars in front. The yard was carefully manicured, and he thought it must have been an impressive sight in the spring, for flower beds were carefully laid out everywhere. Getting out of the car, he walked up the four brick steps and rapped three times with the knocker. He tried to remember all that his parents had told him about Richard and Diane Winslow. When the door opened he said at once, “It’s Mrs. Diane Winslow, isn’t it?”

  “Why, yes!”

  “I’m Tom Winslow, Zach’s son.”

  “Tom! Why, it’s so good to see you.”

  Diane Winslow came forward, and Tom was surprised at the warmth of her welcome. He embraced her, took her kiss on his cheek, then she drew him into the foyer.

  “I’m so glad you’ve come. Come into the parlor. Let me call Richard from the study.”

  Tom followed Diane into a tastefully decorated parlor. The walls were papered in a light blue-green color on the top half, and the bottom half was done in a solid green separated by a chair rail of dark oak. The pictures on the walls were all of well-dressed people, and by the faces of the subjects, Tom could see that they were Winslows. A large sofa in a dark green and gold damask was situated in front of a large marble and oak fireplace that was flanked on each side by two easy chairs upholstered in light blue and white material. Tables were covered with books and fancy crystal lamps, which caught the light of the day coming through floor-length windows on the east side of the home. It was a warm room, lived in, and Tom moved around, studying the pictures that decorated the bookshelves and the walls. He turned at the sound of footsteps and stepped forward at once. Richard Winslow looked older than he had expected, older than his sixty-four years. His hair was silver, and he had a weary look on his face.

  He greeted Tom, saying, “I’m so glad to see you, my boy. Sit down. Let me poke up the fire. It’s a little chilly in here.”

  Tom took a seat while Richard put another log on the open fire, which blazed up cheerfully. When Richard sat down beside Diane, he said at once, “Tell us about your dad.”

  “I wish I had a better report to give you,” Tom said. “His health hasn’t been good lately.”

  “I was afraid of that from his letters. He never complained, but he always talked about how much he hunted and about his fishing trips.”

  “That’s pretty much behind him now, I’m afraid, Richard. If I may call you that.”

  “Certainly, Tom. Certainly.”

  Tom asked about their family. He learned that Jeff and Hillary had two children and that Liza had married and was expecting a child. Her husband, Dalton Burke, was managing the Winslow store in Twin Oaks. Richard and Diane did not mention Stuart. Tom went on to give the news of his family, and both Richard and Diane were quick to question him. They had kept up with all of Tom’s brothers and sisters, and they were especially proud of Logan Smith.

  “We kept a news clipping about his shooting down his twenty-fifth German,” Richard said, his eyes warm.

  Diane leaned forward and said, “Do you think we’ll get into this war, Tom?”

  “Bound to. President Wilson’s kept us out so far, but the Germans have started their submarine attacks again. I thought surely we’d declare war after they sank the Lusitania with so many of our people on board. We can’t put up with them killing Americans like that. It’s just a matter of time.”

  “It’s a terrible thing. I’ve been reading about the losses over in the Battle of the Somme. It’s hard to imagine a million men dying, isn’t it?” Richard said sadly. “All of them had lives of their own, families that cared for them. Many had wives and children. We can see one tragedy and be sorry for one person, but a million men dying in those trenches—how can a mind even take it in?”

  “Some say thi
s will be the war to end all wars,” Diane said. “I pray it will be.”

  They talked for some time. Diane fixed coffee for Tom and Richard, tea for herself, and finally it was Richard who said, “What brings you to Lewisville, Tom? It’s not on your way to anything, I’m sure.”

  “No. My dad sent me.”

  “He sent you?” Richard asked with a puzzled expression. “Sent you to do what?”

  Knowing that he must be very careful, Tom hesitated, then said directly, “My dad has never forgotten what you two did for him years ago. I didn’t know all of that until he told me just this week. He still feels in your debt.”

  “Why, he paid back every penny that I helped him with, Tom.”

  “It wasn’t just the money. He knows that, but it was the fact that you cared. You and Diane came at a crucial time, and according to what he says, I might have died if you hadn’t been there. My mother feels the same way,” he said.

  “We’ve always felt close to your parents, Tom,” Richard said. “But you didn’t come down here just to tell us that.”

  “No. As you know, I’m an attorney specializing in criminal cases. The Lord blessed me in my practice, and Dad asked me to come down and look into Stuart’s trial.”

  Instantly something changed in Richard Winslow. Tom could not identify it at once. A tenseness seemed to stiffen the older man’s body, and his eyes grew guarded.

  “What good would that do?” he asked.

  Diane Winslow said instantly, “It’s an answer to prayer. I didn’t expect this, Tom. I hope your father didn’t take my letter as a plea for help.”

  “No, he didn’t. As a matter of fact, I read the letter, but this is what he wants to do.” Quickly he said, “Now, it may be that I can do nothing. We have to be prepared for that.”

  “I don’t think you can. He was convicted,” Richard said heavily, “and that’s all there is to it. He’ll have to serve out his sentence. Until then, nothing can be done.”

  “I’m not sure that’s true,” Tom said. “Most trials are not as open and shut as this one seems to be. What I’m going to do is dig into all the court records and read all the stories in the papers. I suppose they’ve kept them all at the local newspaper office.”

  “Yes, they’d be there,” Richard said grimly. “And people still talk about it.”

  Seeing that it was disturbing for Richard to talk about it all, Tom said, “It may be a little trouble for you, and I apologize for that. I’m going to have to go back and talk to all the witnesses, to the arresting officer, everybody.”

  “But what good will it do?” Richard asked, pain etched into his features. “He was guilty and he was sentenced.”

  “Well, there are different interpretations. I’ve seen too many cases where one man went to jail because a certain judge sat on the bench, whereas another man would have gone free. In any case, Dad hasn’t asked me to do many things for him, but he wants me to do this. I want to help, sir.”

  “Thank God!” Diane said. “I know that He has sent you.”

  “Well, I think it’s foolish,” Richard said. “It can’t do anything but cause more talk.”

  Instantly Tom knew that Richard had not forgiven his son for the shame he had brought to the family. Carefully he said, “There’s no quiet way to handle this, I’m afraid, Uncle Richard. I’ll be as circumspect as I can, but I’m going to push up some rocks to see what crawls out.”

  “And you’ll stay with us while you’re working on the case,” Diane said. “We have plenty of room in this old house. Richard and I just rattle around. Go get your suitcase, and we’ll get you settled in.”

  ****

  Leah pulled the mare up firmly and then reached down and patted the glistening neck. “That’s a good girl,” she said warmly. She stepped out of the saddle and handed the lines to Merle.

  “Yes, ma’am. She sure is. Really the best of the line. I remember it was Wash that talked about breedin’ Princess to Thunder, and he sure was right. This is a fine, fine mare. She’s gonna give us some mighty fine colts.”

  “Walk her for a little bit. I gave her a pretty hard run, Merle.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I sure will.”

  Turning, Leah walked toward the house. She wore a pair of men’s jeans, a short leather jacket with a wool lining, and a pair of black leather half-boots. The ride had brightened her cheeks and her eyes, and now as she moved toward the house, she heard voices. Skirting the house, she found Raimey swinging Merry in the tire swing that Wash had fixed for them in the huge walnut tree.

  “Don’t swing her so high, Raimey!”

  “Oh, Mom, she likes it!”

  Raimey turned and gave her a quick smile. For one moment a memory flashed over her. This son of hers was so much like Stuart that it was almost frightening. He was an exact copy of what Stuart must have been when he was nearly twelve: black hair, dark eyes, lean and strong. He was Stuart’s son in more than looks, for he was also musically inclined. He could already play the harmonica and guitar by ear.

  “Mama, it’s fun,” Merry said. Her name was Marianne, but the nickname had begun when she was in her cradle. At the age of six, she was a beautiful child with light blond hair and large clear blue eyes. She was cheerful, happy, loved dolls and animals, and had learned to read almost overnight, so it seemed. She was a creative youngster, making up stories and songs almost at will.

  “You’ll fall out and break your arm,” Leah scolded. “Not so high.”

  “Aw, Mom, she’ll be all right,” Raimey said. He stopped the swing, and Merry popped out of it. Both were wearing warm coats, and their faces were red with the cold November breeze. “Mom, can we go to the movie tonight in town?” Raimey asked quickly. “Charlie Chaplin’s on.”

  “Yes. I like him,” Merry put in. “He’s so funny with his little cane and his funny hat. And he walks so funny.”

  “No. Mott’s coming over to supper tonight.”

  “Aw, Mom, couldn’t we all go?”

  “It’ll be too late. Maybe I’ll take you later in the week. Now, you can play for another hour, and then you’ll have to come in and get ready for supper.”

  Leah turned and walked into the house. She stepped inside, took off her coat, and hung it on the hall tree, then went at once to the kitchen, where she found Annie getting supper ready.

  “What’s for supper tonight, Annie?”

  Annie Waters had grown heavy with the years but was still strong. Her hair was graying now, but she was as outspoken as ever. “We’re gonna have catfish. Raimey caught ’em on the trotline. They just about the right size. About two pounds apiece.”

  “That sounds good. I’ll come in and help you as soon as I do my bookwork.”

  “I ain’t needin’ no help! I take care of supper just like I always do. Ain’t nothin’ to it but bakin’ some hush puppies and fried ’tatos, and we got some poke sallet. You go on and lie down now ’til suppertime.”

  “Can’t do that. I have to work.”

  Annie watched as Leah left the room, and she picked up part of the corn-bread mixture and made a ball about two inches thick and plopped it down in a pan. “Always workin’. She don’t look good. She gonna work herself to death,” she fussed. She was a quick-minded woman and shook her head. Thoughts ran quickly through her, and she remembered what she had said to Merle. “She ought to marry Mr. Castleton. He’s a state senator now and got lots of money. He’d take care of her and be a daddy to them kids.”

  Now as she thought of it, the memory of Stuart and all the heartache he had caused came into her mind, and she shook her head. “He done lost his chance. Miss Leah’s a young woman. She needs a man, and them kids need a daddy. That’s all there is to it.”

  Leah was well aware of Annie’s viewpoint. She herself was troubled about Mott, and as she entered the study, she sat down at the desk and tried to put it out of her mind. For a while she worked on the books, which were becoming more difficult. Times were changing. The farm had been created mostly to breed
mules and horses, but the automobile and the tractor had taken away much of that market and would take more. She knew something would have to change, but she did not know how to change it.

  Finally she put the pen down, placed her hands flat on the desk, and pressed her forehead against it. She could not help thinking of Mott then, for he presented a challenge to her.

  Mott had married, but his wife had died two years ago of influenza. He had deeply mourned her for a year and a half, but then he had begun seeing Leah at church and taking her home. Their relationship had suddenly changed, until finally Mott had shocked her two months earlier by asking her to marry him.

  As she sat there, the conversation played itself again, as it had often, in her thoughts.

  “Why, I can’t do that, Mott! I’m already married.”

  “Stuart’s in jail for twenty years. He’ll be an old man when he gets out. Prison does that. He was no good for you, Leah, anyway. The kids need a dad and I need you. I was in love with you once, and now I am again.”

  “But I’m married.”

  “Get a divorce.”

  “I don’t believe in divorce.”

  “I don’t either ordinarily, but your situation is different. You’ll have to bend your principles a little bit. You need a life, and we could have a good marriage and maybe even have our own children.”

  Mott had been persistent. He had changed over the years, mellowing somewhat, but he was convinced that Leah’s marrying Stuart had been a grave mistake. Mott loved Raimey and Merry and would make a good father, which was a big factor.

  Abruptly the sound of an automobile approaching came to Leah, and she straightened up and then rose to go to the window. She expected Mott, but she saw it was not his car. A tall man wearing a navy blue suit got out and came up toward the steps. She waited until Annie finally came to announce the visitor.