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About a week or so after the flour incident, Hank woke before the bell with one thought pressing harder on him than his sore back. It was the same every morning. He had told the truth. That should have made the matter finished, and in one way it had. Boone still wagged his tail at him. Jake had forgiven him. Tiny had grumbled less than expected. Old Man Caldwell even smiled when he saw him.
Still, Hank knew confession was not the same as becoming a better man. A man could admit what he had done wrong and still go right back to doing wrong the next time he was tired, hungry, or embarrassed. He sat on the edge of his bunk, pulled on his boots, and looked over at Boone, who had slipped into the bunkhouse as if he had business there. “You comin’ in again to check if I’m telling the truth this morning?” Hank asked. Boone thumped his tail once. “I thought so.”
After breakfast, Tiny stood in the cookhouse doorway with his arms folded. “Hank, since you’re familiar with flour sacks, I need you to ride into town.” The men at the table chuckled. Hank felt his ears warm but kept his smile steady. Tiny handed him a list. “Flour, coffee, salt, dried apples, and two tins of baking powder. I ordered it when Samuel rode in yesterday on his horse that you and Jake found and helped him learn how to ride. He sure loves that horse. He was pickin’ up some knives I’d made for Joslin’s Store, and I gave him my list. Storm clouds are building west of town. Don’t dawdle. Bring it on home.”
Hank looked toward the open door. The sky over the distant hills had turned gray along the edges. “I’ll go now,” he said. Tiny studied him. “No hurry, just get back before supper.” Hank folded the list and put it in his shirt pocket. “There is hurry if you need it.”
Jake, who had been pouring coffee, looked up with quiet approval.
Hank hitched the buckboard and started for Caldwell Crossing. Boone trotted beside him until the gate, then stopped when Jake called him back. “Not this time, partner,” Hank said. “I reckon I ought to manage one flour sack without blaming you.” Boone barked once, as if he agreed that would be a fine improvement.
The road to town was dry at first. The wagon wheels cut through dust, and meadowlarks sang along the fence line. Hank tried to enjoy the quiet, but his mind kept returning to that dreadful night. He saw once again the white cloud, Boone’s drooping ears, and the awful moment when his lie had nearly chained an innocent dog. He had been tired. That was true. But being tired hadn’t made him lie. It had only opened the door. By the time he reached Joslin’s General Store, the wind had shifted. The air smelled of rain. Samuel was sweeping the boardwalk when Hank pulled up. “Morning, Hank. Heard Boone turned into a snowdrift.” Hank climbed down. “Boone was innocent.” Samuel grinned. “So I heard.”
Inside, Joslin had the supplies that Tiny had ordered stacked by the counter. A fresh fifty-pound sack of flour leaned against two crates of coffee and salt. “Tiny’s order,” Joslin said. “And I added that baking powder he asked for. Storm’s coming fast. You headin’ straight back?” “That’s my plan.”
Hank charged the bill to the ranch, and with Samuel’s help they loaded the supplies carefully, and tied a canvas over them. He had just climbed onto the buckboard when a voice called from across the street. “Hank!”
It was Roy Mercer, one of the small ranchers east of town. He hurried over, hat in hand, worry written deep on his face. “You headed toward Roaring Rapids?” “I am.” Roy pointed down the side street. “My wagon’s stuck behind the livery with a broken wheel. I’ve got medicine there for my boy. Fever came on hard last night. Doctor says he needs it before evening.”
Hank looked west. The clouds had thickened, purple and low. “Where’s your place?” “Two miles past the Gibson ranch.” “I’ll take it.” Roy blinked. “You sure?” “Give it here.”
The detour had cost him more time than he liked, but he’d delivered the medicine safely. Rain began before he turned back toward the ranch. Halfway home the road divided. The shortcut would save time. Tiny had said, “ Don’t dawdle. Bring it on home.” Hank looked toward the swollen creek, then back at the wagon. Tiny wanted the supplies home, but he also wanted them home safe. And if Tiny had known about Roy Mercer’s sick boy, Hank was certain he would have told him to take the medicine first. “No,” Hank said aloud. “Not takin’ a short cut today.” He turned the team onto the longer road. He knew Tiny would have done the very same thing. Rain soaked his coat, but the flour stayed dry beneath the canvas. When he reached the ranch, Jake called, “Wondered where you’d got to.” “Medicine for Roy Mercer’s boy.” “You get it there?” “Yes.”
Tiny examined the flour sack. “Dry as a hymnbook in a church pew.” “You took the long road.” “The shortcut looked tempting,” Hank admitted, “but it didn’t look wise.” Jake smiled, “There’s a difference between fast and faithful.” Hank carried the flour into the cookhouse and set it beside the flour bin. Not one puff escaped. Boone sniffed the sack. “Don’t you even think about helping,” Hank laughed.
Tiny handed Hank a dry towel. “You did good.” “I just did what needed doing.”
Jake nodded. “That’s how obedience usually starts. You did the right thing taking that medicine to that sick boy. Helping that boy came before supper. You did what you’ve been learnin’ to do.”
Later that evening Hank sat on the cookhouse step with Boone beside him. He’d come home with a guilty conscience. Tonight he was wet, muddy, and tired. But his heart was at peace. Boone rested his head on Hank’s knee. “I suppose a man can learn before he spills the flour.” Boone sighed.
Tiny called from inside, “Hank, you want one more biscuit?” Hank smiled. “Make it two.”
And under the gentle sound of rain on the porch roof, with flour safely in the bin and peace in his heart, Hank thanked the Lord that doing right before trouble came was even better than cleaning up a mess afterward.