The snow was silent as it fell. Large puffy flakes floating down in the still air to alight on meadow flower and grass. Most melted as they landed but far more replaced them and soon the colors of the meadow could only wink from beneath the building snow. Within the span of ten minutes, the sky was filled with flakes. The ground took on a cleansing white mantle. Nearby trees were merely dusted right now but the increase of the weather would soon bend boughs and break limbs. Tree dwellers sought their nests. Ground creatures sought out burrows and dens to wait out the storm. All across the wide meadow right down to the meandering creek, a quiet purity fell from the sky, blanketing everyplace. Everyplace except around a single, canvas topped wagon, stopped some fifty yards from the creek.

A cook fire for the evening meal burned in a ring of stones near the wagon. A frying pan of pork was still sizzling on the fire and and burnt coffee pot sat near it. Three men were sitting around the fire eating, using their hands to pull pieces of meat from the pan. A basket of biscuits lay turned over on the ground. One picked up a biscuit out of the dirt, blew on it and took a bite. They drank coffee from tin cups carelessly. Spilling it as they talked and joked. All three were dressed in range clothes. Dusty pants with dustier coats and hats. One had a pair of well wore chaps over his pants and was bundled in a red and white striped coat. Another wore a long grey duster which hung to his feet when he stood. The third one had a colorful serape covering him. His wide Mexican sombrero kept the snow off his face. The other two had to swat their hat from time to time as the flakes built up. All three had pistols at their sides in holsters tied down with rawhide laces.

"Hey Merle," the man in the duster said. "Pass me that bottle you found. Ain't drunk it all have you?"

"Hell no Marty," the serape man said and passed a half filled bottle of whiskey over. "Could use some more  . . .  looks like it's gonna be a cold one." Then he laughed. "But we always got the woman to keep us warm and cozy like."

The other two men joined in his laughter and agreed that the night could be enjoyable even if it was snowing, even if they drank all the whisky, they still had the woman.

Marty took a long pull from the bottle and looked around. The wagon was an old Illinois farm wagon that had been converted to a canvas prairie schooner. A heavy wooden box some ten feet long and around five and a half foot wide. Bit wider than most Marty thought probably started as a hay wagon. The sides had been built up stoutly with thick oak. A dozen wooden bows arched over and carried the canvas, drooping inward with the weight of the snowfall. Inside the wagon, boxes, baskets and bundles were opened and scattered. Four mules, released of their picket ropes had wandered a good distance away seemingly intended to keep going. Three tired saddle mounts stood with reins tied to a wheel. His companions warmed themselves beside the fire, passing the bottle. The figure of a man lay motionless fifteen feet away, slowly being covered with a shroud of white. "Hey," he suddenly called out. "Them two kids tied up?"

"They ain't going nowhere. They's sitting nice and snug up by the front wheel tied back to back." the man in chaps said standing. "Hell, I even threw a blanket over 'em so's they wouldn't catch their death of cold." He laughed. The other two laughed along.

"Well ain't you the compassionate one Bodie," Marty said. "That was real kind of you." He stood closer to the fire and looked at Merle and Bodie. Hard faces with hard eyes. He had rode with them for several months having met up in a Kansas saloon. A saloon where they got too drunk, too loud, too annoying. Some local men took offense at their poor manners. It was far more than poor manners that left three men dead, four others wounded and a Kansas saloon filled with broken tables, chairs, bottles, windows and one very large shattered mirror. Marty, Merle and Bodie had been saddle pals since then. Brothers of the open range. Night riders. Regular, honest work just didn't appeal to any of them and people were just an obstacle, a nuisance to life.

"Getting chilled," Bodie said looking over at a lean-to nestled up to a couple of willows. It was made of a two tree limbs and a blanket. Underneath was a small table and some over turned stools. Kitchen stuff lay tossed about. Another person lay unmoving under the lean-to out of the snow.

"She moved yet?" Merle asked.

"Don't look like it." Bodie replied. "Hell Marty, you dun hit her too hard. Probably killed her  . . .  she looks half dead."

Marty smiled a wicked grin. "Half dead is better than all dead." The whiskey beckoning them on.

Lois Wigans lay motionless even though she was shivering with fear inside. She kept her eyes closed tight even as her tears came. Her hands were clasp together and bound in front of her with own apron. Her dress was ripped, torn down the back. Shoes and stockings cast aside. Purple bruises had grown on her face, her arms, her legs. The pain in her thighs and abdomen were worse than any she had felt with the births of Harry or Dannie. She was bleeding from a cut above a swollen eye. She knew she was bleeding down lower too. She cursed the men then prayed they would just move on. She prayed to God for deliverance. She refused to move. To give those men any more reason to abuse her further. She also heard every word the men were saying.

She jumped at the mention of her two kids and hoped it wasn't noticed. They were still alive! Thank you God they had been spared. Her life would be totally empty without them. Then she thought of Rollie, her husband who in his ever neighborly way welcomed the three strangers into their camp. Always looking for the good in people, Rollie Wigans was just too open, too friendly. After five weeks of traveling west from Independence, Missouri the Wigans found themselves on the south side of the Arkansas River, some 300 miles from Santa Fe and a bit over 100 miles from Bents Fort in the far west of the Kansas Territory. They had started out in August which was late in the season but they had been told that the Santa Fe route would be better as they weren't trying to cross the Rockies in winter. It would be easy traveling. It was until today.

Lois had been baking biscuits, frying ham and preparing the evening dinner. Her two children, Harry and Dannie were gathering wood for the fire. A small family table was set under the lean-to. Rollie was tethering the mules to a picket line. The three men hailed the camp in a friendly way and Rollie invited them in. They rode in slowly on tired mounts.

"Hello neighbor," a man who wore a long duster said. "Ain't seen another soul for two days now. You folks are a welcome sight."

The Wigans had met up with other people along the way. Most were like them, plodding westward with a dream. For some, the wreck and ruin of the war drove them west. There were very few settlements west of the Mississippi in 1866 and those were spread a good distance from each other. In between was a vast land with few white folk, a lot of Indians and unknown dangers and difficulties. Several bands of Pawnee had watched the wagon inch along. They watched all the wagons that crossed their land but kept their distance. The greatest difficulty and danger they had incurred so far had been the weather, cantankerous mules and a very wet and exciting fording of the Arkansas. Rollie should have been a bit more reserved and cautious with the strangers.

"Santa Fe?" One of the riders asked.

"That's where we're headed for. Looking to set up a mercantile there."

"Mercantile huh? Well you'll probably do okay. Santa Fe is a growing town. Ain't that right Merle?"

The man with the sombrero said, "Sí . . . it grow very fast."

"I'd guess you have some wares you're hauling to help set you up . . . get you going? A little stock? Some resources?" the one in the duster asked.

That question caught Rollie off guard. Most folk they met up with talked about where they were from and where they were going, not what was in their wagons. Harry, 12 and precious little Dannie, 8 stopped with armloads of wood and just looked at the three mounted men. Lois stood wiping flour from her hands on a towel. Rollie stopped with the mules and looked at the man in the duster. "Well," he started in a guarded tone, "We have some . . . "

He didn't get the chance to finish. The man in the duster pulled his pistol and changed the Wigans family forever. The bullet caught Rollie high in his chest and with a look of utter disbelief fell to his knees and then down as the light of life fled from his eyes. The mules bolted at the gunshot. Lois screamed and started towards Rollie. The man in chaps leapt off his horse and threw strong arms around Lois, holding her as she fought against him. Harry and Dannie were stunned and stood staring until the sombrero man snapped a riding quirt across Harry's face and told them through yellow, chipped teeth to sit down and keep quiet.

"Damn Marty, that didn't take long at all. And look, they's fixed dinner for us," Merle said.

Marty holstered his pistol and stepped off his horse. "Tie them kids up," he ordered. Then let's see what we got here."

Lois was screaming at the top of her lungs as tears for Rollie and Harry and Dannie flowed. She fought. She kicked. She tried to turn and claw her captor but his grip was too strong.

"Let her go," he ordered Bodie. "Go deal with them kids like I told you."

Bodie released his grip on Lois and she immediately spun around and beat his face with her fists. Marty stepped in. "No, no, no now. None of that from you. That's my job." With a wicked grin he hit Lois hard on her face with his hand and then backhanded her. She stumbled back and fell as Marty advanced. "It has been a long time . . . " he said. The other two gathered around the fallen woman and agreed with the man in the duster. After tying up Harry and Dannie, the men bound Lois' hands and tore at her clothes abusing her one at a time as she screamed in pain . . . in rage. While each waited his turn, they tore apart the wagon looking for money and valuables. Then it began to snow.

Lois lay there with her hands bound trying not to move. The last horrible hour replaying in her mind. She wanted to pray for death but the faces of her children drove that prayer away. She prayed for deliverance, a miracle. She prayed another group . . . someone would come along and put an end to this nightmare. She got no answers.

Bodie walked over to her and nudged her with his boot. "Hey! Woman. You get yourself back to life or this is gonna be a long cold night. I know you're awake."

Lois rolled her head over and looked Bodie in his eyes. "Go to hell!" She screamed. Bodie didn't like that response and took another step towards her. He never reached her. As he was bending down towards Lois, he was suddenly flung backwards grunting with pain. The rifle shot brought Marty and Merle to their feet, swinging around hands filling with pistols. "What the . . . " Merle started as the rife cracked again. Merle clutched his side spinning around, blood dripping through his fingers. Marty was crouching his pistol extended trying to see where the rife shot came from. The snow increased and visibility closed in.

"I can't see a thing!" Marty hollered. "You okay Merle?"

"Hell no I'm not alright! I been shot!"

I small tinge of fear rose in Marty. Most of the time he was fearless. Wading into anything he could see. This was different. The camp, the wagon, the men were shadowed in a curtain of falling snow. Merle grimaced holding his side but still had his pistol out searching for a target. Marty attempted to see something but the snow was a wall he could not see past. A noise over at the rear of the wagon drew both men's attention and they unleashed several shots in that direction. When the echo of their gunshots died away, they heard nothing for several moments. Lois screamed and both men spun towards her. She was still bound and laying under the lean-to. Turning back, Marty saw a shape, a dark figure standing just past the front of the wagon. "There!" Marty yelled and emptied his pistol at the shape. Aiming at something you can't see is always an iffy situation and Marty's shots went wild.

Merle turned with his own pistol. "Where?" He asked. He never found out. The dark shape fired two quick rounds from a rifle and Merle fell dying with three holes in his body. Marty popped open his pistol's loading gate, ejecting spent cartridges. He was reaching for more in his shell belt when the rifle fired again two more times. Marty never finished loading his gun. A shocked look crossed his face as the two bullets slammed into his chest and then he slipped to the ground. The shadow, the shape came forward and stood over him. Questions Marty would have liked to ask were never voiced.

Echos around the little meadow died away. Lois was still whimpering and crying. The snow storm which had come upon them so quickly, now lessened just as quickly. The silence and peace that followed could have been a scene from a winter wonderland if not for the bodies lying on the ground, blood pooling beneath them and the tears and sobbing of Lois Wigans.

"Momma!" She heard and from around the wagon Dannie and Harry rushed to their mother's side. Harry was bleeding from a slash across his cheek from the quirt. He fumbled with the knotted apron and freed his mother's hands. All three of them hugging and holding onto each other. Tears of relief flowed from all their eyes. "Papa?" Harry asked. Lois burst into more tears and wrapped her arms around her children tighter. "No," was all she could utter.

As battered and bruised as Lois was, she could not sit well let alone stand. Her children supported her as the shadow, the shape that had saved their lives resolved into a man. Though the lessening snowfall made clarity difficult, she saw the man limping towards them in a long coat carrying a rifle. Snow dusted his shoulders and wide brimmed hat. She thought she saw a smile and caring eyes beyond his dark beard but the other men had been smiling also. He stopped in front of her, pinched the brim of his hat and said, "Ma'am." He extended his hand to help her up. "You folks okay now?" he asked. His voice was pleasant and soft. No anger. No danger.

Lois nodded her thanks, took his offered hand and tried to stand. Pain stopped her and she fell back, bright red blood soaking her dress.

The man, with some air of experience, stood and made decisions. He looked at Harry and asked, "Think you can round up them mules right quick?" The four mules were a good distance away and not looking like they wanted to return. Harry shook his head. "No sir . . . I don't think I can."

"Son, your Mama is hurt pretty bad. You all need to get going. There's a small town about twelve miles further along." He looked up at Harry and told him. "Strip saddles off two of them horses and hitch them up. They'll do just as well as mules."

Harry looked at his mother and she nodded. He got up and led two horses to the front of the wagon. Dannie looked up at the stranger. He smiled and said, "You stay right here darling. Hold on to your Mama."

"But Papa," Dannie cried.

"Your Papa is being looked after. You gotta look after your Ma right now. You can do that, can't you?" The man's smile caused Dannie to smile and shake her head yes.

While Harry was hitching the horses up and Dannie clung to Lois, the stranger stood and took note of the last few minutes. Bodie lay on his back. The blood leaking from his chest making new patterns on his red and white striped coat. Merle lay curled up like a baby. A pistol in his lifeless hand. Marty lay with his dead eyes wide open in disbelief. An empty pistol in one hand and a few cartridges in the other. The stranger shook his head and picked a blanket off the ground. He carried it over to where Rollie Wigans lay and carefully covered the man's remains. He stood there for a moment looking down at the fallen man. Lois thought he looked like he was praying.

The quick snow had stopped and left about three inches in accumulation. Harry had the team harnessed and came back around to help the stranger and Dannie get his mother into the wagon bed. When she was inside and somewhat comfortable, Harry started to gather their scattered gear. "No time for that son. Your ma's bleeding and you gotta get her to some help. I told you. Twelve miles further you'll come to a town called Haven. There ain't no doctor there but there are folk there that will help you. Go on. Get along. It's getting dark."

Harry nodded and climbed up on the box and took the reins. Dannie sat in the back crying and holding Lois for dear life."

"My husband  . . . ?" Lois asked.

The stranger plucked a shovel from the wagon side and said, "I'll tend to him ma'am."

"Who are you?"

"Lock," was all he answered as Harry snapped reins on the horses rumps and the wagon jolted and then moved off slowly. It was just under four hours later that Harry saw lights. "There's the town Mama," he cried and lashed the horses some more.

Haven was a cobbled together settlement on the banks of the Cimarron River made up of a few dozen wood sided shops and houses. It was a water stop for travelers but it had hope for growth. Harry guided the wagon along the dark streets. Most of the buildings were dark, a few showing weakly lit windows. At the end of the street was a large building. A church with a tall steeple and windows lit bright with light. Harry urged the horses on stopping in front of the church. He ran up the steps and pounded on the door. "Help!" he called. "We need help! Anybody?!" A few moments later the door squeaked open. A white haired man with big sideburns stood looking into the night and then at Harry. "What's all this now?" he asked.

"My Ma's hurt real bad," Harry explained running back to the wagon. The white haired man followed and when he saw Lois in the back with Dannie crying, he called out. "Martha! Martha! Get some blankets and help me get this poor woman inside."

The following morning under a bright, blue sky the tiny hamlet of Haven on the banks of the Cimarron came alive. Of the sixty some odd people in Haven, only a couple had not heard about the incident of wagon parked in front of the Haven Presbyterian Church. Some shook their heads at the lawlessness of the country. Others talked about the crime and why the government wasn't protecting citizens and travelers. Still others could have cared less and went on about their business.

Inside the church in small clutch of rooms at the back where Martha and the Reverend Micah Stiffson made their home, Lois Wigans lay in a bed covered in blankets with Harry and Dannie just a arms length away. Her tears had dried but threatened to flow again when she thought of Rollie. Martha and another woman tended to Lois's injuries and bleeding. Reverend Stiffson understood cuts, bruises, broken bones and even bullet holes but women's issues were beyond him. He was thankful Martha knew what to do.

"Those men used her badly," she said and the added, "but I think she'll be just fine with a bit of rest."

The Reverend breathed a sigh of relief and turned towards Tom Nutly who stood hat in hand by the open bedroom door. Tom owned the livery stable at the other end of town. He was also the unofficial mayor of Haven and the one folk came to with problems. Outlaws and brigands were an unfortunate norm for the frontier. Let alone Indian problems, Tom didn't understand the violence perpetrated by man against their own. It was also why nearly every man in Haven . . . every man in the west, wore a pistol or carried a rifle.

"She say anymore about what happened?" Tom asked the Reverend.

"No more than what you heard her say Tom. She's still a bit confused but I think her memory will clear up given some time."

Tom shook his head in understanding. Shortly after hearing from the Reverend about the family, he had saddled a horse and rode east to find the small meadow. He found the site without a problem. The lean-to had been taken down and piled carefully with the Wigans' other goods. A rock covered grave with a cross made of two sturdy sticks lay close by a stand of willows. The bodies of the three outlaws had been rolled into a small ditch where they sprawled in death. Tom didn't feel any remorse. Coyotes gotta eat too.

When he got back to Haven just before noon, he called again on Lois Wigans and her children. She was sitting up in bed sipping some broth that Martha Stiffson had brought her.

"You feeling a bit better now ma'am?" He asked.

She nodded and said yes.

"You were very fortunate that someone came along and helped you. Could have been a lot worse . . . " Then he remembered the grave and hung his head. "My apologies ma'am. Too bad he couldn't have gotten there a might quicker."

Lois teared up again.

Proper decorum should have made Tom leave at that moment but there was still a mystery that nagged at him, so he asked as politely as he could if she knew anything about the man who came to their aid.

"No," she said. "It was difficult to see anything through the snow. Just glimpses. But,"she added in remembrance, "he said his name was Lock."

Tom, Micah and Martha looked at each other. "Did you say 'Lock,' ma'am?" Tom asked.

"I'm pretty sure that's what he said his name was. Why?"

"What did this fella look like?" Tom asked.

"It was difficult to see much and I wasn't very alert. He was very considerate to all of us. I suppose he was average with a dark beard." She thought for a moment. "He limped a bit and carried a rifle . . . a repeating rifle I believe."

"It was a Henry." Harry stated.

"A Henry you say," Tom said surprised that the boy was so positive about the weapon. "Not many out this way. Only been a half dozen years since it came out. US Army had quite a few during the war . . . " He recalled the last four years as being the most violent time this country ever lived through. Brother against brother . . . neighbors driven to kill their neighbors. Thousands dead and many more maimed for life over the immoral right to own another human being. Such a waste. "You're sure that's what you saw, son?"

"Yes sir. My Pa and me seen one in Missouri before we left."

"Is that important?" Lois asked.

Tom cleared his throat. "Ma'am, I'm sure glad you and your children are safe now and I'm real sorry about your husband, but the man you are describing just can't be." Seeing the confusion in Lois' eye, he sat on a stool and told her a story.

"There used to be a fella in Haven by that name, Lock . . . Robert Lock. He, his wife and two boys lived here in town. He was the doctor . . . the only one around for a hundred miles. Quiet, happy family. Church going and generous. Always friendly, always caring . . . he never walked away from a patient without trying to help them. Even the stupid ones that got themselves shot.

"Haven is a small town. We don't have a lot of money and people work hard for the money they do have. We live quiet and try to make Haven a place for families. There's a bit of trouble time to time . . . nothing real serious. All towns have 'em. Well, some four years ago, some rowdies rode into town. They drank Ben Mortenson's saloon dry and then decided to bust it up. We don't have a sheriff here and it was Lock who stepped up to appeal to those men that Haven wasn't their town and they should be moving along. The men weren't of a mood to do that and decided that taking on the town and busting a few heads would improve their mood. They waded into Lock and a few others with arms flailing away. Them boys had been drinking so much they couldn't get organized and it weren't long before all six of them lay moaning in the dirt. Townsmen loaded them on their horses and shooed them out of town. Figured that would be the last we saw of them."

"But it wasn't?" Lois asked.

"No ma'am it was not. Not a night latter that same bunch rode back into town, right up to the doctor's house whooping and a hollering. Lock came out onto his porch with all the racket and one of them no-goods put a bullet in his leg. Angie, his wife rushed out to him along with his two boys. Without an ounce of remorse but with a ton of hate, they shot Angie and the two boys to death and rode out of town."

"Robert Lock was a good man," Reverend Stiffson said. "A good caring Christian who knew God was sovereign and God would avenge. But, I fear, he felt that God was taking a bit too long with His retribution, so when he was able to ride, he rode out of town with a Henry rifle lying across his saddle. He was a healer. A doctor who saved men's lives. A man who prayed for the souls of men and women. But he'd changed seeing how his entire family had been ripped away from him. I guess he figured he'd help out and hurry a few souls along to The Almighty."

"Yeah, some three weeks later we heard news that a that a fella with a Henry had walked into a saloon over in Fort Kearney and shot six men dead. Federal marshal helped him. Those six men all had wanted papers on them so it wasn't a great loss to society. Turns out, it was the same bunch that killed Lock's wife and boys here in Haven."

"I'm sorry to hear that. I would so love to meet the man who saved my family. To thank him."

"That would be a real fine thing if you could Mrs. Wigans, but you can't," Tom Nutly said. "Robert Lock was killed himself in that shoot out. The marshals thought kindly and sent him back here to be buried with his family." He paused. "That was four years ago ma'am."

Silence filled the room as Lois tried to comprehend what she was hearing. "Then who . . . ?" she asked.

Tom Nutly stood and gave Lois, Harry and Dannie his best genuine smile. "I truly can't answer that question. We might never know Mrs. Wigans. But we do know you and your young'ins are safe now. I am truly sorry for what has happened to you folks but am overjoyed that The Lord had his hand on you three." He turned and left leaving the Reverend, Martha and the Wigans in deep thought.

The Reverend Micah Stiffson wasn't one to always take advantage of a situation and turn it into a sermon, but he did recognize minor miracles when they happened. The attack on the family, the wanton killing of Rollie Wigans and the brutal treatment of Lois was from the devil, no doubt about it, but their salvation was through the hands of gracious God who worked in the most mysterious ways at times. Times like this.

"Angels," Martha Stiffson said smiling, picking up a tray. "His Angels were watching over you . . . they are all around us, you know." She left with the Reverend close behind.

"Angels," he whispered in the peaceful knowledge of grace, of truth, "Avenging angels."