By Paul L Gaus
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34 P. L. GAUS “David Hawkins will not have murdered anyone,” Cal as serted softly. “I’d stake my life on that. David Hawkins is a changed man. ” “Not even you, Mike,” Cal said. He sat back and closed his eyes against the sun and the stress. A silent moment passed with Cal on his back, eyes shut, thinking. Branden sat on the bank and ﬁddled with his line. The sun broke low under Branden’s cap. Barn swallows and martins dropped out of the afternoon sky and made their straﬁng runs over the surface of the pond, snatching bugs.
But eventually it wasn’t enough. He couldn’t settle in. Couldn’t handle retirement. He worked for us as a janitor at the church and for me, building houses, and refused to accept a salary. He was working off a burden that had smothered his conscience—laboring as an act of contrition. It was something in his past, I can’t tell you the whole story, but a quiet life in town wasn’t going to be enough for him. “Gradually, he took an interest in the Amish. He’d been fas cinated with them since he moved to Millersburg, anyway.
Branden introduced Abigail to Caroline, then turned and strolled with Abigail several dozen yards through the winter wheat, until they reached the southern precipice. Her black and plum outﬁt swayed against the tender green hues of the new wheat. As they approached an old fence line, a dozen or so quail bolted out of the rough and thundered on wing into the sky. They stood together at the fence line, perched high over a long and distant view, and she spoke to him softly of David Hawkins. She told of his fervor to study the Amish ways.