Notice the way God does things; then fall into line. Don’t fight the ways of God, for who can straighten out what he has made crooked?” –Ecclesiastes 7:13(NLT)
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The man was almost grotesque when he smiled. Somewhere back down the line in his life there had been someone take a knife or hatchet to his face splitting it in half from top to bottom just to the left of his nose. Hence his name, Charlie Two-Face.
“You are disturbed by my appearance, white man?” he questioned while touching the scar where it ended at his chin. “Many years ago, when I was young, a fight with the Ute. He swung at me with his tomahawk, splitting my face in half. He thought he had killed me,” he coughed a laugh, “in fact, I thought he had killed me. Fortunately, the Great Spirit kept the blade from splitting my skull and head in half, just breaking through the skin.”
I didn’t say anything while he told me the story. The pain, both physical and mental he went through must have been tremendous. The large scar came about, he said, because of the blade, but also there were white men, mountain men, in the camp with him. They used horsehair to stitch him up. “Ranger, I wanted to die, it hurt so much.” He became very quiet when the proprietor came with more coffee. He offered some to Charlie who shook his head. “I would not die! I had to find the Ute who did this to me.”
“Pard, I can’t even begin to imagine,” I said, then he cut me off.
“No, you can’t, you can’t imagine. I was no longer the name I cannot mention, but became Charlie Two-Face. A man scorned by all. It was not until I had begun to heal that one of the men who fixed my face told me that the one who did this was not alive, but was killed in the skirmish.”
“Why live?” I asked myself. “Vengeance was taken from me. Blood rite was taken from me. Then I went to a little village in New Mexico. There was a family who needed help. I would hunt and bring them food. It was there that I was introduced to a padre. My heart was black, my mind was sick with hatred and bitterness and remorse, for I was no longer a full man.” He grunted a laugh again. “It was this padre who told me that I was now two men.”
I held the cup in both my hands, sipping from it as I listened to his story. “I was told the story of a Man who was beaten beyond all recognition. One so severe that He was torn apart, yet still living and placed upon what the padre called, a cross. Ranger, I could relate to Him, the pain, the agony, the suffering. What I could not understand with my black heart was how I was told when He was on that cross, He cried to the Great Spirit in the sky, for Him to forgive those who did this to Him.”
Charlie looked up for several seconds then brought his eyes down to meet mine. “I stayed with the padre, helping him around the little village. He showed me the way of helping others, those who had so little.”
Placing the cup on the table I reached out to clasp his hand. “Charlie, I cannot feel your pain, but I also know this Man. This Jesus, and He helped me understand how to walk this path of life.”
His face was solemn, unreadable. No smile, no emotion. Then his eyes flickered, one side of his mouth smiled, the other remained. “Utes, half-breeds,” he spoke, breaking the silence. “They have some kind of vendetta against the Navaho. Maybe it is old, tribal, but I think it is that their hearts were like mine, black and evil.”
“Do you know where these men are?” I asked, releasing his arm.
He was silent, I nodded, understanding. “I will not kill them. I help the families of the ones who are now in eternal rest. But…”