Deep in the West of rural Oregon, there stood a small town of one-hundred fifty people. The town consisted of a single dusty dirt road scattered with rocks and pebbles. At one end of the road rested a small church, which also served as the local school house. The opposite end of the street was bordered by railroad tracks, which connected the town to the nearest outpost located 60 miles to the east. A communal well sat at the center of town, surrounded by several wooden boxes where townspeople frequently gathered and socialized. To the right of the well existed the popular general store, and to the left a tiny post office. The remainder of the street was lined by two rows of single-story wooden townhouses. The townhouses shared common walls, so that everyone could hear their neighbors’ conversations. This was fine, as most everyone knew each other’s business anyways. 

A half mile away on the outskirts of that town lived a couple and their three young children. Mr. Paul Abel and Mrs. Maud Abel lived in a modest, medium sized log house built by Mr. Abel. Like all the other townsmen, Mr. Abel worked every day at the coal mine located ten miles southeast from the railroad. Mr. Abel’s missus, Mrs. Abel, prided herself as a dutiful homemaker. She kept the house neat and clean, performed the household chores, and cared for the couple’s three children. 

And as life had always been for their family, the Abels lived a simple, uneventful life. Every night, after eating a dinner of boiled potatoes, roast carrots, and sun baked bread, the couple would converse about the small perks of their day. However, this routine was occasionally discarded whenever guests or travelers came around, requesting a meal in exchange for gossip from back East. 

One particularly chilly and windy night, slow, heavy hoofbeats vibrated outside the Abel family home. Sprawled on the wooden floor and lost in their game of jacks, the Abel children paid no attention. But Mrs. Abel looked up from her knitting and Mr. Abel drew a long breath from his pipe as the couple listened intently. The hoofbeats grew louder and nearer until suddenly, they stopped. A loud thump hit the ground, then heavy footsteps approached the gravel walkway. Three loud knocks rattled the Abel’s sturdy front door. 

Mr. Abel rose from his armchair and motioned for Mrs. Abel to usher their three children into the back room. Mr. Abel then approached the front door and opened it ajar. As Mr. Abel peered into the dusk and his eyes adjusted to the dark lighting, he saw a tall, thin silhouette. The traveller had a scraggly brown hair and a thin coat of grime on his skin. The visitor’s gaunt face was partially hidden under a wild, unkempt beard, and his black eyes glistened in the light. “Excuse me,” asked the traveller while removing his hat, “but would you mind if I stayed here for a bit while my horse rests? My horse is tired and I have a long journey ahead of me.” 

Mr. Abel surveyed the man’s dusty, threadbare shirt, patched trousers, and worn boots. Sensing no immediate threat, Mr. Abel paused briefly before replying, “Okay. You do look like you need a rest yourself.” Mr. Abel slowly opened the door and the visitor stepped inside. Scarcely through the threshold, the visitor’s expression hardened as he grunted, “Have you any drink?” Somewhat startled, Mr. Abel gasped audibly, but then recovered his composure and replied, “Why, of course.” Mr. Abel scurried into the pantry, found some aged brandy, and returned to the sitting room brandishing an old dusty bottle. Accepting the proffered glass, the visitor muttered a curt thanks before swallowing the amber liquid like a fish gulping down water. After finishing his drink, the stranger set down his glass with a sigh, gave Mr. Abel an appraising stare, and commented, “Good stuff you got there.” As if just remembering his manners, the visitor stuck out his hand and said, “Name’s Robert. Robert Churchin.” “Paul,” replied Mr. Abel as he grasped the bony, calloused hand. “Have you heard any interesting news from back East, or are you just traveling from the other side of Oregon?” queried Mr. Abel. “I hail from the East and am a messenger of the government,” said Churchin, “and unfortunately, I have news all right. The Capitol is about to pass a law that anyone living in the West must leave until the army has driven away all these accursed Indians from the plains.” A small snarl curled on Churchin’s lips as he said the words “accursed Indians.” But then, Churchin’s face softened as he looked Mr. Abel in the eyes. “Also, every settler must go back East to file a land claim before living in this state....” 

Silence in the common room was punctuated by the sound of shattering glass. Amber liquid pooled on the wooden floor, then trickled in several directions, like a long-legged spider. With trembling hands, Mr. Abel stooped to pick up shards of glass that had once been the brandy bottle in his left hand. Mr. Abel’s hands shook so much that he pricked his finger on the edge of a shard. Drops of red began to mix with the amber colored puddle.  

Mrs. Abel reacted first. She clasped a small towel over Mr. Abel’s finger to stop his bleeding. Her white knuckles steadied Mr. Abel’s trembling hand. The couple crouched in silence. Two minutes passed, and Mrs. Abel slowly eased the pressure on Mr. Abel’s hand and helped guide her husband to his chair. 

Once seated, the color in Mr. Abel’s face slowly returned and he regained his voice. Eyeing Churchin, Mr. Abel sputtered, “They’re kicking us out? How? What? When? Tell me!” Churchin had witnessed many similar responses in the past several weeks. He replied somberly but deliberately, “Settlers have a one month deadline before being arrested for violating the government’s new law.” Churchin handed Mr. Abel a crumpled piece of paper, “I am actually only one of many messengers sent out to dispatch this information.” Churchin took a few more swigs of his drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Then as quickly as he had arrived, Churchin abruptly turned towards the door. “I best be going now,” said Churchin. The Abels watched in silence as Churchin stumbled out of the door and rode off into the night. 

The Abels read the government’s proclamation slowly and deliberately. After the fourth read, Mr. and Mrs. Abel solemnly began accepting their fate. “This is terrible,” lamented Mr. Abel, shaking his head. “What on Earth are we going to do? How are we going to travel with the children?” Mrs. Abel rubbed her husband’s back in soothing circles. Then, she spoke calmly and firmly to her husband, “Don’t fret, honey. We will figure something out. I trust that we will find a way. We always do.” Next to his capable partner, Mr. Abel’s shoulders relaxed a bit. But inside her cool exterior, Mrs. Abel’s thoughts whirled in a storm of worry. She worried about the dangerous journey back East. She worried about one of her children getting lost, or worse, her husband. She worried about the shortening days and coming winter. That night, instead of thanking God for everything good in her life, Mrs. Abel prayed for the survival of her family. 

The next day, Mr. and Mrs. Abel steeled themselves to explain their family’s predicament to their children. “But Papa, it isn’t fair! Why do we have to leave? We didn't do anything wrong!” whined the youngest child. “I know, but the government knows what they are doing, and they are the law,” replied Mr. Abel in a slow, steady voice. “Your mother and I are preparing for the journey, so please do not give us any trouble.” In her usual practical manner, Mrs. Abel instructed her children, “You should pack only your most precious belongings, as there won’t be much space in the wagon. Okay?” “Yes, Ma,” replied the obedient children. 

Over the course of two weeks, the Abel family packed their clothing and household items into neat stacks along the floor. Mrs. Abel spent most of her spare time preserving foods and pickling perishables in preparation for the family’s long and potentially dangerous journey. Other families in town were making similar preparations, and the mood was somber and stressful. There was little time to socialize or commiserate. The coal mine had been closed for over one week. Each family suffered in isolation.

One day, Mr. Abel left the house before sunrise. “Where did he go, Ma?” asked the middle child. Mrs. Abel responded, “This town has none of the supplies that we need. Your father is going to the trading outpost to buy more furs, provisions, and a hunting rifle. He should be back in a few days.” The oldest and wisest of the three children queried, “Ma, aren’t there all sorts of dangerous beasts out there? Will Papa be safe?” Sensing her children’s worry, Mrs. Abel hastily retorted, “Don’t you all worry, your father knows this land well. He’ll be fine.” 

At the time, Mrs. Abel was confident that her husband would return within two days. When those two days passed, and then a third and fourth day came and went, however, Mrs. Abel began to worry for her husband’s safety. By the end of two weeks, Mrs. Abel and the children found themselves growing restless. Mrs. Abel kept glancing towards the window while the children repeatedly pressed their faces against the frosty panes, looking into the horizon for any distant figure walking towards the house. 

Finally, Mrs. Abel’s stress became too much for her to bear. “Children,” she said, steadying her quivering voice as best she could, “I’m taking the horse and going out to the trading outpost to ask if anyone has seen your father. I won’t be long. When I leave, lock the door and don’t leave the house. Take care of yourselves and be safe, okay?” “Yes, Ma, we will. Don’t worry about us. Take care!” replied the three dutiful children. They watched mournfully as their mother rode off into the distance. 

In their mother’s absence, the children managed themselves well. They cooked their own meals and completed the daily chores. Time passed slowly, and the household supplies gradually dwindled. Only a few small boxes remained in the food pantry, and the large wood pile shrank to two logs. As the night air became chilly and daylight grew shorter, the children became restless and anxious. They missed their mother and worried about their father. Soon, the children began wondering about their own plight should neither parent return. The oldest child upheld a steady, confident facade in front of her two younger siblings. But inside, she was drowning in a sea of doubt. 

One night, two weeks after their mother had departed, the children finally heard a knock on the door. “Ma is back!” they all cried with joy. “Hopefully Pa is with her!” they added. The children rushed to the doorway, raised the wooden latch, and flung open the door in anticipation and excitement. Before them stood a single tall, bearded figure with gaunt cheeks and a happy smile. He was bundled in a parka. The children gasped and stared at their father in silence. “Honey, I’m back,” said the man, “Sorry I’m late!” Looks of confusion spread across the faces of all three children, who stared and continued to say nothing. The figure slowly scanned each child, then surveyed the bare common room and empty shelves. “Honey?” he called out, slight worry creeping into his voice, “Honey?”