The Holy Warrior Read Online Free PDF Page A

my life—maybe not as wild as you, but bad enough. And now that the play’s about over, I’ve been thinking how I’d do it differently. But there’s no way to turn the page back...”
    For a moment there was a tragic air about the old man; then he smiled and went on, a touch of irony in his voice. “I’ve had some powerful men of God praying for me—and women, too. Adam—and Molly, before she died. Your own people—even Paul here, who was about as bad as his father. But I’ve seen something in these Christians. Now that I’ve come to the end, I think all their prayers are catching up with me.”
    He turned to leave, and as he walked out the door, Paul hurried after him. Christmas remained silent, watching the retreating figures. Then closing his eyes, he said wearily, “Take me me to Kentucky, Knox. I want to feel the sun.”
    “Sure, Christmas. We’ll be there in no time.”

    Actually it was three weeks before Knox pulled the carriage up and pointed down at the small village nestling in a valley between two low-lying ranges. “That’s the place, I reckon. Think you can make it, Chris? Won’t take more than a couple of hours to get to the house.”
    “If I don’t make it, bury me!”
    “All right.”
    The trip had been slow, for the unexpected thaw made muddy rivers out of the roads, and time after time the wheels had mired down. The men stayed at inns, but those were few and far between on this route. Chris had done well for the first few days until he had come down with a fever that rose so high it frightened Knox. The doctor he had found at a little town called Brantly advised putting the sick man in the hospital, but Chris adamantly insisted, “Knox, don’t stop! If I go into a coma, haul me on, you hear?”
    Knox had lost the argument, and for many days he traveled only a few miles, spending most of the time trying to get food down Chris. But then, as quickly as it had come, the fever left, and Chris was sitting up to eat—pale as death and thin as a stick, but alive.
    It was three o’clock when they pulled into the village and asked directions to the Greenes’ place. The little house had a high pitched roof, and sat back off the road in a big meadow at the edge of the village. Cows grazed in the warm sun, and chickens clucked and scattered as Knox got down and went to the door. At his knock, the voices he heard inside stopped, the door opened, and a small woman with reddish hair, flanked by two small children, framed the doorway. “Knox Winslow?” she asked.
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “I’m Anne Greene. Is Christmas able to walk?”
    “Just barely. He’s been real bad, Aunt Anne.”
    “Bring him in. We’ve made a place in the small bedroom. When he gets stronger you two can sleep in the loft.”
    “Yes, ma’am. I’ll get him.”
    He went back to find that Chris had gotten out of the buggy and fallen flat in the mud.
    “You fool!” Knox cried. “Why didn’t you wait for me?” He was struggling to get the man to his feet when a voice came from behind him.
    “Let me help you.” A big hand reached across, and Chris’s body seemed to rise into the air. Knox turned to see a muscularman with a brown face and very white teeth. He was dressed in brown knee britches and a white linen shirt. “I’m Brother Greene, Knox. I remember you well.”
    Knox got on the other side of Chris, saying, “I don’t remember you, Brother Greene, but my mother’s told me all about you.”
    “Well, I tried hard enough to marry her, Knox—but she favored your father, and that was that. Come now, Christmas, let’s get you inside.” The strength of the preacher was tremendous, for he practically carried the tall man inside and put him on the bed in the small room.
    “Thanks... Parson.” Chris’s face was wet with perspiration, and it was difficult for him to speak. “Try—not to be a bother—too long.”
    “God is a great healer, Christmas.”
    There was a moment of silence; then Chris answered