Lawless Lands: Tales from the Weird Frontier

by Emily Lavin Leverett

  “Yeah, but papa turned manhunter. It was only a matter of time before some hiker or camper ended up out here and became lizard food. This way they’ve got a safe place, and we don’t have to kill ‘em,” I said.

  “What are we gonna do with that?” Ty asked, pointing to the dead lizard.

  I looked at it for a long minute, then grinned up at him from my spot on the ground. “Well, son, I’ve heard fried lizard tastes like chicken. Be a shame to let all that meat go to waste.”

  “I’ll call Vanessa, tell her to break out the big skillet.” He helped me to my feet, and we started back to the truck.

  We got about twenty feet when something hit me. I looked over at Ty and said, “You know the rule she’s gonna enforce, right?”

  “What’s that?”

  “We killed it. We gotta clean it.”

  17

  The Time Traveling Schoolmarms of Marlborough County

  Barb Hendee

  As I listened to the rolling wheels of the coach and watched the barren landscape slip past outside the window, I couldn’t help remembering an image of my grandmother, with her back straight and her head drawn high, looking down me.

  “Decisions made in haste are always regretted.”

  This was a motto by which she lived—and one she had tried to impress upon me. Clearly, her advice had not taken. As those words turned over and over in my mind, the coach began to slow, approaching my final destination, and I wished that I’d listened to her.

  But she was gone, in a grave, as was my father, and in truth, the overly hurried decision I’d made three weeks past had been the best of several options.

  The coach stopped. A moment later, the door opened.

  I was the only passenger remaining. The journey from Philadelphia that had seemed endless had finally ended. I’d used nearly the last of my money for the initial train fare to Denver and then the coach ride into Marlborough County, Colorado.

  But I was here. I’d reached my new home, and my life was about to change dramatically.

  “Winston,” I said. “We’re here.”

  Beside me, on the bench, my dog jumped to his feet. I fully believed he understood everything I said. Winston was a fox terrier. He’d been a gift from my father for my fifteenth birthday, but over the years, he’d become my closest friend.

  Outside the coach door, the driver reached in for me. I picked up my parasol, took his hand, and allowed him to help me down. My back ached, but I tried my best not to show my discomfort.

  As my small boots touched the ground, I took in my surroundings. Winston jumped down beside me. The town itself was called Spruce, apparently named for the variety of scattered blue spruce trees that dominated an otherwise sparse and rocky landscape.

  Not having any idea what to expect—and fearing the worst—I must say I was pleasantly surprised. For all knew, the place could have constituted four dilapidated buildings and a watering trough. But Spruce appeared to be a thriving small town. From where I stood I could see down the main street and to the side streets. There was a red brick bank, two saloons—both brightly painted—and what appeared to be a courthouse. Squinting a little, I could see a dry goods store just up the street.

  The driver climbed up on top of the coach to get my trunk. Everything I now owned was inside that trunk—including my books.

  “Miss Miller?” someone said.

  Half turning, I found myself looking up at a tall man with a silver star pinned to a leather vest. He looked to be perhaps thirty years old. His close-trimmed beard was a shade of light brown, and a wide-brimmed hat covered his hair.

  “Sheriff Ward?” I responded.

  When I’d first answered the advertisement for a teacher, a Sheriff Ward had written back to me with details and instructions—though I must admit the details were scant.

  Staring at me, his mouth hung partway open, as if we’d both made a mistake. I’d expected to come as somewhat of a surprise. For one, I was a little younger than I’d represented myself to be, but at twenty-two, I was well educated enough to teach a schoolhouse full of children in a place like this.

  I knew well that I was considered quite pretty by society men in Philadelphia. Though I was of small stature, with a trim figure, my chestnut hair was abundant and piled on top of my head with a few curled strands hanging down. Even when staying at hotels and traveling by coach, I was careful with my appearance. Grandmother always impressed upon me the value of a good first impression. With this advice, I had at least tried to listen.

  Unfortunately, Sheriff Ward appeared more uncomfortable than impressed.

  “Miss Miller?” he repeated, as if uncertain.

  Behind him, a few people going about their daily business had stopped in their tracks, watching us.

  “Yes, sir,” I answered. “I am pleased to meet you. I do thank you for your kind letter.”

  His letter had been quite matter-of-fact, but I wasn’t certain what else to say. Several more people stopped to stare at me.

  It was then that I realized how out-of-place I must appear. The women wore drab dresses of tan or faded brown. Most of them wore their hair under some kind of equally drab scarf. While I wore a simple traveling dress, it was a lovely shade of royal blue—with white buttons—and a ruffled hem. My parasol matched the dress.

  The glances directed my way were not admiring.

  Indeed, I felt like a bluebird standing amidst a flock of rather judgmental sparrows.

  Sheriff Ward suddenly seemed to remember his manners. “You must be tired. Let me load your trunk. I’ll drive you out to your house.”

  Your house.

  Again, I could only imagine what this meant.

  “Thank you,” I answered. “That would be so kind.”

  He hefted the trunk from the driver and began walking up the street. With little choice, I followed after, with Winston trotting at my heels. I didn’t look back at the small, gathered crowd.

  A wagon with two harnessed horses waited about thirty feet away.

  Sheriff Ward loaded my trunk into the wagon. Turning back, he held out his hand to help me up, and as I reached for it, I saw that his discomfort had only grown.

  “You’re not what I expected,” he said.

  Though unaccustomed to such a blunt statement, I couldn’t help asking, “And what did you expect?”

  “Not you.”

  I had no response to that. Where I was raised, men did not speak their thoughts so openly to a lady.

  Grasping his hand, I pulled myself up to the wagon’s bench. Winston jumped after me.

  Perhaps I was not what Sheriff Ward had expected, but that was irrelevant. He’d offered the post, and I had accepted. He was stuck with me now.

  Or . . . at least I hoped he was.

  I had nowhere else to go.

  After that, we rode in silence for the most part. Occasionally, the sheriff offered bits of information.

  “The teacher’s house is about a mile east of town,” he said, “but it’s not far from the schoolhouse.”

  “Why is the school located so far from town?” I asked.

  “Because most of the children don’t live in town. They live east.”

  As the wagon rolled on, I had to admit the landscape possessed a unique beauty, varying between open spaces and blue spruce trees. The sky was clear, and the mountains loomed in the distance.

  I’d never seen anything like it before.

  “There,” he said, pointing.

  Up ahead, I saw a small, clapboard house. It had once been white, but was badly in need of paint. There was no yard, but I could see what might be the remnants of a kitchen garden. The outside of the house did not bode well. Still, beggars could not be choosers. Winston and I must do our best to keep up brave faces.

  Sheriff Ward pulled up the horses and helped me down. Then he hefted my trunk.

  “I doubt the door’s locked,” he said. “Nobody would ever bother Miss Peabody’s things.”

  “Why is that?”
/>
  He shrugged. “She was Miss Peabody. She’d been our town’s teacher for twenty years.”

  This was the first news I’d heard of my predecessor, and it daunted me somewhat considering the town could not have been founded much longer than twenty years ago. From what I’d read, people out here didn’t care much for change. Was I replacing the only teacher these people had known?

  Rather a tall order.

  Hurrying over, I opened the door for Sheriff Ward, so he could bring my trunk inside. Winston ran through the open door to begin exploring our new home, but after setting down the trunk, the sheriff went back to the wagon and returned with a large burlap sack.

  “I figured you might be too tired to shop for supplies,” he said. “So I put some things together for you—some coffee, flour, beans, jerky, cheese, and a few apples.”

  “Oh, that was kind of you.”

  This time I meant it. I was grateful, and it gave me a graceful path toward a delicate question. “Um . . . when will I be receiving my first . . . my first . . .”

  “Your first pay?” he finished.

  I nodded curtly.

  “Come see me at the end of the month. I handle paying anyone who works for the town, always at the end of the month.”

  I nearly sighed with relief. That was only two weeks away. I had enough money to support us for that long.

  “Thank you.”

  He turned away. “Well, I’ll let you get settled.” He stopped, and when he glanced back, his expression had gone even more serious—if that was possible. “Are you like her?”

  “Like who?”

  “Miss Peabody.”

  How could I possibly know that? My confusion must have shown because he rushed on.

  “I mean . . . you must have exchanged letters . . . known each other. Or else why would you have applied for the post?”

  “No.” I hesitated. “I found myself in need of a position, and I saw your advertisement at the post office.”

  His expression shifted to concern. “So, you’ve no connection to the Marlborough County schoolmarms?”

  “Forgive me. I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “I mean the league of county schoolmarms. Miss Peabody had been preparing her replacement for a few years, a Miss Abigail Swenson over in Central City. Then Miss Peabody . . . she died suddenly from a stroke.”

  “Oh, I am sorry.”

  He nodded. “Thank you, but when I went to contact Miss Swenson, I learned she’d died of a fever in the same week. So I rode to Central City, and I paid the post office to place the advertisement. I had no idea it would be seen as far as Philadelphia, but when you answered, I just assumed . . . I assumed you were one of them.”

  As he spoke, I realized the situation was even worse than I’d first thought. Not only was Miss Peabody considered a beloved institution, she had been grooming a replacement who’d also died. I was now the unwelcome substitute.

  “I am sorry,” I answered, “but I belong to no teaching organizations. I saw the advertisement in the post office, and I answered it. Out of curiosity, why did you hire me?”

  “You were the only one who applied.”

  I tried not to wince. “How flattering.”

  “Miss Peabody,” he said. “She was special.”

  “I shall do my best to fill her shoes,” I assured him.

  My promise did not appear to make him feel better, and I had the strangest feeling that he and I were discussing two entirely separate things. But he gave up interrogating me.

  “When you plan to start teaching?” he asked.

  I saw no reason to put things off. “Tomorrow, if that’s agreeable.”

  “Fine. I’ll spread the word.” With that, he left, closing the door behind him.

  I was nonplussed. I would certainly need to learn a bit more about this Miss Peabody.

  But at that point, I had my first opportunity to survey my new home. It was one room. There was a bed and a trunk on one side. There was a table with a single chair, a wood cook stove, and a cupboard for dishes and pots on the other side.

  Was this to be my home? I thought on my father’s beautiful three-story house in Philadelphia. I thought on my four-poster bed and silk comforter and the servants who had always changed my sheets.

  Standing beside me, Winston looked up. His expression was dubious.

  I stood straight. “There’s nothing for it, Winston. We must make the best of things.”

  Then I noticed the shotgun leaning up against the cupboard. A note had been tied to the trigger guard. After walking over, I read the note:

  Use this if necessary.

  My confidence in my decision to come here did not rise.

  Yet, I saw no other path but to continue investigating the contents of this new abode. Upon opening the cupboard, I found myself well set for cooking.

  After a brief hesitation, I walked over and lifted the lid of the trunk at the foot of the bed, exposing three wool dresses, spare sheets, and several school books (including one math text and one for geography). At the bottom, I saw something that surprised me. At first I thought it might be jewelry. Then I realized it was too large.

  Pulling back a sheet, I uncovered a large amethyst crystal in a setting of oval pewter. The crystal glittered by sunlight coming through the window. This object too had a note attached to it:

  Abigail, as we discussed, you’ll know what to do when the stone begins to glow. Be sure to keep it with you always. After all . . . you never know.

  I gripped the crystal and re-read the note. It was written for the woman meant to replace Miss Peabody. But what did it mean?

  The following morning, I arrived at the schoolhouse precisely at eight o’clock. I carried several books with me, and Winston trotted at my side. I had no intention of leaving him home alone all day.

  The schoolhouse itself was of fair size, built from pine boards. A large bell hung over the door. I was concerned to see no children playing out front. I’d expected to find some of my students here by now, waiting for me to ring the bell and call them inside.

  Upon opening the schoolhouse door, I braced myself for what I would find, and I was surprised to see about twenty children already seated at their desks.

  Heads turned.

  Children stared.

  Right away, I felt at a disadvantage, as if I were late. But Winston trotted in ahead of me, and all attention turned to him.

  “She has a dog,” one child said.

  “He’s so small,” said another.

  Quickly, I entered and strode to the front of the room. Before saying anything, I wrote my name on the chalkboard. “I am Miss Miller,” I announced, “and this is Winston. He will be accompanying me every day. I assure you he is well behaved.”

  Attention turned back to me. Today, I wore a simple wool gown—though it was bright purple. I didn’t own any dresses in drab colors. My chestnut hair was piled on top of my head as usual, with a few strands around my face.

  Sheriff Ward had promised there would be a piano here, and I was gratified to see a sturdy “upright” against one wall.

  My eyes scanned the room. The youngest child appeared to be about seven years old, a boy. But there was another boy in the front row who appeared to be at least fifteen years old. He was tall, with clearly developing muscles, on the brink of manhood. Looking at me, he’d gone pale in what appeared to be shock.

  The rest were a mix of boys and girls of ages in between. Most of the girls wore braids. For the first time, I imagined how this situation must feel to them. Many of them had spent their days with the same woman for years, and now here I was, walking in as her replacement.

  “I’ve heard you were all fond of Miss Peabody,” I began. “But I promise to teach you as best I can. I’d like to begin by learning your names.” Turning to the tall boy, I asked, “You are?”

  It took him a few seconds to find his voice. “Graham Ward, miss.”

  Ward? That was the sheriff’s last name. I wondered if they
were related. But for now, I was focused on meeting the rest of my students and looked to a girl sitting beside him. She appeared to be about twelve, with a shy demeanor.

  “Matilda, miss,” she said quietly. “Matilda Johnson.”

  I smiled at her, and she dropped her eyes to her desk. But I pressed on, trying to remember all their names as they introduced themselves. The youngest boy was called George.

  It seemed best to launch right into a lesson. In my youth, I’d been tutored, but my various tutors all planned a lesson schedule. I’d given this a good deal of thought over the past three weeks. To me, it seemed best to begin with mathematics, while minds were fresh and breakfast was not far behind. Then, I would switch to letters or a writing lesson. By then the children might be growing tired or getting hungry for lunch, so a history or geography exercise would keep their minds active. After lunch, and a short rest, we could switch to literature and then finish the day with music. School ended at 2:00, so the children could get home to help with chores.

  But . . . this being my first day, I decided not to begin with mathematics. Something of a more interactive nature was in order.

  Turning to the blackboard, I wrote: The Lewis & Clark Expedition.

  “How many of you are familiar with the adventures of Meriwether Lewis and William Clark?”

  At first no one responded, and then Graham said, “They traveled west . . . after the Louisiana Purchase.”

  “Very good,” I said. I wrote the dates 1804-1806 on the blackboard.

  Looking back to the students, I said, “George, will you come and play Meriwether Lewis for us? Matilda, you can play William Clark. I’ll be Thomas Jefferson and give you the commission.”

  George seemed pleased to be called up to take part, but Matilda’s eyes widened. “But I’m a girl, miss. I can’t play Clark.”

  “Nonsense,” I said. “Of course you can.”

  She hesitated, but just as she was beginning to rise, the door to the schoolhouse slammed open, and a stocky man stood in the doorway, glaring inside.

  “Tildy!” he shouted. “I told you to gather the eggs and clean up our breakfast afore you went to school! Now you git up or I’ll whip you all the way home.”