Snare of the Fowler

Contents

Preface

Chronology

C H A P T E R 1

All is Not Well in the Afternoon Sky

C H A P T E R 2

The Joy and the Curse

C H A P T E R 3

Satan Is Not Easily Defeated at Asoe

C H A P T E R 4

For Want of a Nail

C H A P T E R 5

Of the Here and Hereafter

C H A P T E R 6

La Amaba Hasta Que Murio

C H A P T E R 7

In the Clouds Lies Eternity

C H A P T E R 8

Home Before Dark

C H A P T E R 9

As the Stars Forever

Preface 

SNARE OF THE FOWLER

For missionary pilot Paul Graham the tragic death of his young son in an aircraft accident has led to bitter estrangement from his wife and, worse, from his God. Corrosive doubts have eaten into his courage and his nerve.

Now, high over the Gran Chaco of Paraguay, he must face the reality of what has happened to his faith as he transports a critically injured Indian to the hospital. The flight has been dogged by mechanical and fuel problems. Now a storm front is boiling in the sky across his flight path. Graham must decide if he will risk his plane and passengers by flying through the storm, or should he detour to a safe airfield—and let the Indian die.

But Graham is not in a mental or spiritual condition to make such a decision; and, just when he needs Him most, his God is far away. Whether or not he makes the right decision is left up to you, the reader. But it is sure you will never forget the climax of this gripping novel.

Snare of the Fowler was first published in 1977 by Moody Press of Chicago. This edition has been updated and revised by the author.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This story had its conception in the experiences of various missionaries I’ve been privileged to know. Special thanks must go to Norman and Linda Keefe of New Tribes Mission who have served the Ayore Indians of Paraguay for over thirty years. Norman was one of a group of five missionaries who, in March 1966, made the first successful contact with the Ayores of Paraguay. (Sucessful in that the missionaries survived.) His willingness to share his experiences and knowledge was invaluable in creating the fictional Edigo Indians of this story, which have been patterned largely after the Ayores.

I would also like to thank the several missionary bush pilots who, at various times, have graciously shared their advice and experiences with me. I should emphasize, of those I have interviewed or flown with, none suffered from the spiritual malaise encountered by the pilot in this novel. Several years of flying as a private pilot have given me the experience necessary to write this novel, but many of the flying episodes described herein are those of better and braver men.

Tom Taylor

Chronology 

In the Gran Chaco of Paraguay, around 1969…

C H A P T E R 1

All is Not Well in the Afternoon Sky

In the wilderness of the Gran Chaco, the Quebracho trees rose in-* gaunt defiance of the hot, dry wind. Under the trees in a high tangled maze were the quinee pede bushes, Old Lady’s Skin as the Ayore Indians call them, thick with thorns, lying beneath an aging afternoon sun. High overhead in the hot silence droned the sunlit speck of a light plane through the endless sky. For missionary pilot Paul Graham, alone with the sky and wind, the engine’s droning was security; its noise and vibration his protection against the harsh land below. He did not think about it just so, for at the time he was too busy. In the afternoon air currents his single-engine DeVoss ‘B’ was bouncing like a cork, and his feet waltzed in smooth motion on the rudder pedals in an effort to keep the gyrocompass steady. That’s it. Keep the little white 30 in the compass window. Three hundred degrees north-northwest was the heading that should take him to Asoe, a large village of the Edigo Indians—if he had guessed the wind correctly.

Ordinarily the young, sandy-haired pilot was at home in the air. Soft-spoken and quiet, he did not mind being alone; and his spirit knew a kinship with the wind so playfully tossing his ship. But this flight had not been pleasant. He shifted uneasily in his seat and, for the tenth time, listened warily to the faultless engine. Something was wrong—but not with the engine; something too besides the heat and rough air. He did not believe in premonition, yet a vague uneasiness from far back in his mind warned him that all was not well in the afternoon sky. Perhaps, his subconscious suggested cruelly, it was because the plane he was flying had so recently killed a human being—partly because of Paul’s own stupidity. No! He grimaced. No, that was absolutely not the reason. Would it ever leave him alone?

His troubled thoughts were interrupted as, about five miles ahead, the hazy outlines of a small hill emerged through the yellow sun glare. This should be Roundtop, a small knoll penciled on his aerial chart as one of the few landmarks available in the area. Soon he distinguished around the knoll’s base a dry creek bed which, in the rainy season, was a tributary of the Rio Paraguai far to the east. OK, got it made. This was Roundtop all right. Now sure of his location, he knew that the village with its grass airstrip lay only fifteen miles westward on a track of 280 degrees. Thus must Paul find his way, without any radio navigation aids, through the faceless blend of scrub jungle where every square mile looked just like the one before. But even though now sure of his location, the haunting malaise clung to the back of his mind like a lizard in the dark.

Paul irritably grasped the microphone for his routine position call. Eighty-six Zulu calling Interior Evangelism Base. Over.

From two hundred miles south at the headquarters of Interior Evangelism in Colonia Mennonita, the answer came as a husky voice rumbled over the speaker. This is Colonia base, Paulo. Over.

A tight smile wrinkled the crows feet around Paul’s sun-tired eyes. His friend, Alfredo Savillas, spoke Guarani by preference; and his stilted radio Spanish was always good for a grin. Paul was glad to hear it—glad the radio was functioning—for lately it had been giving trouble. Alfredo! he answered. Hasn’t Nancy come in yet? Over.

She must still be asleep, Paulo. The whole of last night she has been awake. She tended Ijomejene at the clinic all night. Over.

Oh, very well. I’m fifteen miles from Asoe right now, on 280 degrees inbound. I’m going to pick up the Chief’s son first; and then maybe stop for gas at Bahia. How’s the gas at Bahia, Alfredo? Over.

I have been calling Bahia, Alfredo said, but there has been no answer. Perhaps no one is tending the radio just now. But I will keep on trying. How much fuel have you now, Paulo? Over.

I’m down to about twelve gallons in each wing. That should be enough to get us back to Colonia when I leave here, but. Paul typically left the sentence unfinished. The wise pilot doesn’t let his fuel supply drain too low over an area like this, little changed since the explorer Ayolas disappeared in its depths centuries before.

Savillas, also a pilot, understood. Very well, Paulo. Perhaps I can learn if there is any fuel available at Bahia before you leave Asoe. Also I should tell you there are heavy cumulus buildups south of here. It appears to be possible thunderstorms. Over.

Paul grimaced. Great! That was all he needed to really foul things up: being forced to detour around thunderstorms on the trip back, consuming even more of his marginal fuel. Thanks for that, Alfredo, he said finally. Keep after Bahia for me, and I’ll call you as soon as I’m airborne from Asoe. If they have any gas on hand I’ll detour over there for sure.

They signed off then. The engine rumble softened as Paul throttled back to let the plane bleed off altitude and slowly slide down from the sky during these last ten miles. Even with the slower airspeed, his plane continued to buck and roll. With the afternoon air this turbulent, it was not surprising that thunderstorms were building somewhere.

His mind drifted again to the vague alarm bell ringing in his subconscious. OK, Graham, he muttered to himself, what is it? He had to pinpoint whatever was causing this subtle twisting of his entrails for, in the air, forgetting something can kill you. This flight was for a medical emergency; and the patient he was to transport was a son of Jocai, the greatest council chief of the Edigo. No, Graham muttered again. That’s not it. After all, he had flown more critically ill or injured patients than he could remember. Maybe it was because his fuel was getting uncomfortably low for the two-hundred-mile trip back to Colonia Mennonita; and he was unsure of any being available at Bahia. No, it was not that either. The fuel problem was tangible and easily seen. Whatever was bothering him was not.

Oh blast this flight anyway! he muttered. It has started out all wrong. He would be fat with