Lawless Lands: Tales from the Weird Frontier

by Emily Lavin Leverett

  Matilda’s face went white. “Ma said I could come. She told me to go to school.”

  “You git up!”

  As he strode up the aisle between the desks, Matilda appeared to melt into her chair, gripping her desk.

  He was not a tall man, but he was wide, and he was slurring his words. I suspected he was drunk before nine o’clock in the morning. He had the look of a ne’er-do-well to me, and a bully.

  Whoever he was, Matilda was clearly afraid of him, and at present, she was in my charge.

  I had never liked bullies.

  A stout wooden pointer was leaned up against the chalkboard. Grabbing it, I quickly moved between them.

  “You will stop, sir,” I ordered, channeling my grandmother and using her haughtiest tone.

  He stopped, taking me in with bleary-eyed surprise.

  “Matilda is at her lessons,” I said. “Her mother gave her permission to attend at the start of the day. Are you her father?”

  Both my diction and tone had taken him aback, but he was recovering and sneered at me. “Nathan Johnson. Her uncle.”

  All the children sat frozen, watching us. I gripped the pointer tightly. I could certainly ram it into one of his eyes if necessary.

  “Her uncle? I see,” I said. “Well, her mother has sent her to school, and Matilda wishes to stay. Please leave immediately. You are disturbing these students’ lessons.”

  He blinked in surprise at both my words and demeanor, and did not move to leave. By the smell of him—which had now reached me—he was most likely a drunkard who had crossed purposes with the law once or twice.

  I couldn’t be sure of this, but I took a chance. “Sheriff Ward had engaged me to teach these students. I’m sure he would not be pleased to hear of you bursting in here and frightening the entire class. Leave now, or I will make a full report of your actions.”

  The children waited breathlessly, as if wondering who would back down first.

  Nathan Johnson’s eyes widened briefly and then narrowed. Hatred passed through them, and I knew I’d made an enemy of him, but that hardly mattered now.

  Standing my ground, I let the threat sink in. Thankfully, it worked. He began backing toward the door. Glowering at Matilda, he said, “I’ll see you at home.”

  Then he was gone.

  The children looked to me in stunned silence, but I could see relief on their faces. Something had just shifted. I simply wasn’t sure what.

  “Where were we?” I asked. “Ah, yes. Lewis and Clark.”

  At the end of the day, as the students filed out, I asked Matilda to stay a few moments and help me clean the blackboard.

  Once we were alone, I asked her, “Will you be . . . all right when you get home?”

  “You mean from Uncle Nate? Yes. Ma will stand by me.”

  Well, that was good news. I’d been worrying about the girl’s safety.

  As we finished the board, she seemed to want to ask me something else. I waited.

  “Miss Miller,” she began. “Did you know he was coming? You grabbed that pointer right quick.”

  Did I know? How could I?

  Before I could say anything, she rushed onward. “I mean are you like Miss Peabody?”

  She was the second person to ask this since my arrival.

  “In what sense?” I asked.

  “She knew things. She knew what was going to happen. She was a Marlborough County schoolmarm, and they protect their own.”

  A Marlborough County schoolmarm.

  Again . . . Sheriff Ward had used that exact same phrase.

  I sighed. “I’m just a woman who’s come a long way to be your teacher. But I hope I can live up to Miss Peabody’s example, and I do promise I will protect you.”

  She nodded. “Yes, miss.”

  That night, at home, I considered my limited choices for supper and decided I would need to walk into town and do some shopping soon. Winston and I could not live on coffee, beans, and cheese.

  There was flour and a little lard. Perhaps I could make some biscuits.

  I had brought a little tea in my traveling trunk, and I was longing for a cup. I preferred it with milk, but fresh milk would be a luxury here. Still, biscuits, a sliced apple, cheese, and tea would make an adequate meal.

  However, as I walked toward my own trunk, I stopped at Miss Peabody’s. Kneeling, I opened it and drew out the amethyst crystal in the oval of pewter.

  The attached note caused me a moment of melancholy on two levels. First, this object had been meant for Abigail Swenson and not me. Second, Miss Peabody had lived here for twenty years, and at the end of her life, she’d had no one to whom she could leave her belongings besides the replacement teacher. She’d lived a life of duty and sacrifice, and it seemed she’d died alone.

  Was this to be my future?

  Against my will, the melancholy gave way to mild despair, and for the first time in three weeks, I let my thoughts slip back to the events that had brought me here. I’d lived a privileged life without even knowing it: a large house, servants, fine food, and clothes . . . afternoon teas and dinner parties. My father had owned a silver mine inherited from his own father. My grandfather died before I was born, and my mother died the night I was born, so my father and grandmother raised me. I loved them both and needed them both. Where she was stern and dependable, he liked to laugh. He took nothing too seriously, and he was wonderful company. I thought the world a perfect and safe place until my grandmother died shortly after my twentieth birthday.

  I missed her terribly, but I thought Father and I would do well together. I was so blind to the truth. The first hints came when I heard him arguing at the back door with our butcher. The butcher was demanding payment, and my father promised to pay soon. I’d been confused and embarrassed and not asked him about this. Such scenes continued. Sometimes, my father would suddenly have money, and he’d pay off the people banging on our door.

  A few months later, the banging would start again.

  Our friends stopped inviting us to dinners.

  Then they stopped inviting us to tea.

  Shortly after my twenty-second birthday, my father locked himself in his room and shot himself in the head.

  When our family lawyer read the will to me, I couldn’t believe it. I was too shocked to weep. I had nothing. The house was mortgaged, and he owed money to nearly everyone we knew. Apparently, the silver mine had played out years ago, and he’d not lifted a finger to change our style of living. He’d simply borrowed. I was expected to leave our house by the end of the month. All of its furnishings would be sold to pay debts, but I was allowed to take my clothes and my books.

  I was frightened. I had nowhere to go. I tried writing to a few of our friends, but no one answered—with one exception.

  One family, the Van Horns, did write. They offered me a post as governess to their three daughters. They made it clear that I would eat apart from them and would no longer socialize with any of their guests, but that they “sympathized” with my situation. That was the word they used.

  A governess.

  For the Van Horns.

  The very thought was unbearable. And what would become of Winston? Would they allow me to keep him?

  But then an even worse option presented itself. My second cousin, Oliver, arrived at the house and proposed marriage. He’d always wanted to marry me, but had never dared ask openly before. He was slightly built with pockmarks and thick spectacles. Those things I could have easily overlooked, but he was also overly attached to his mother, prone to imagined illnesses, and he wrote down every penny he spent in a pocket notebook out of frugality. He was not for me.

  I was on the verge of accepting the humiliating offer from the Van Horns (and begging them to allow me to keep Winston) when I visited the post office one afternoon and saw an advertisement for a teacher in Colorado . . .

  Winston whined and brought me out of my unwanted memories. Then he licked my face. I was still kneeling by Miss Peabody’s trunk. After taking
a long breath, I ran my hand down Winston’s back.

  “Of course you’re right,” I said to him. “We could be much worse off than this.”

  I shivered at the thought of having to live with Oliver . . . and his mother.

  Closing the lid to Miss Peabody’s trunk, I set the crystal on top, in plain view. Something about it grounded me to my situation. Going to my own trunk, I dug out the packet of tea. Then I built a fire in the wood stove.

  I was about to set the kettle onto the stove when Winston’s whole body stiffened. He whirled for the door, and a low snarl escaped him.

  “What is it?” I asked in alarm.

  He rarely snarled.

  I waited, but nothing happened, so I set the kettle on the stove. Perhaps there was a coyote or some raccoons outside.

  “Whatever you smell out there,” I said, “I assure you it cannot come inside.”

  His body remained tense, and he did not take his eyes off the door.

  Just then . . . the amethyst crystal began to glow, softly at first, and then brighter than the candle lantern on the table. Without thinking, I hurried over and picked up the crystal.

  Instantly, the entire world went dark, but only for a few seconds. Then, I found myself standing across the room from where I had been standing . . . and I was looking at myself. The self I saw seemed unaware there were two of us. She did not see me. Neither did Winston, though he still maintained his vigil near the door. The kettle that I’d just placed on the stove was now belching steam, and the other me reached for it.

  With no warning, the front door burst open. Nathan Johnson stood in the doorway. His eyes were bloodshot.

  The other me stepped back, looking wildly toward the shotgun leaning against the cupboard. It was too far away.

  I tried to run for it myself, but I couldn’t move.

  Nathan rushed for her, grabbing her by the throat and holding her against the wall. Winston barked savagely and attacked his leg, but Nathan somehow half-turned and kicked the dog across the room.

  I gasped, but no one heard me.

  Nathan leaned close to the other me. “You come here and think you can start telling men what to do,” he hissed into her face. “You got another thing comin’.”

  She shoved at him wildly, still looking toward the gun, but used his body to pin her—me—more tightly against the wall. He seemed to be enjoying himself now.

  “Another thing comin’,” he repeated.

  Everything around me went black again, and suddenly I was standing by the stove with the crystal in my hand. Nathan was nowhere to be seen. There was only one of me now, and the teakettle was just beginning to boil. Winston still stared at the door.

  Setting the crystal on the floor, I ran to the cupboard, grabbed up the shotgun, and dropped the barrel to see if it was loaded.

  It was not.

  But I’d seen a box of shells in the cupboard earlier, and I hastened to load the weapon. It was a single barrel that took only one shell, but that was good enough at close range.

  Then I aimed it at the door.

  Two breaths later, the door slammed open, and Nathan Johnson stood on the other side. I pointed the gun at his chest. Winston began to bark, but held his ground.

  “If you take a step inside that door,” I said, “you will not leave until someone drags out your body.”

  Nathan’s eyes widened in shock.

  “Are you one of them?” he asked. “You can’t be . . . Tildy said you hailed from Philadelphia.”

  I had no idea what he meant, and I didn’t care. Gripping the shotgun tighter, I said, “You have to the count of three.”

  With his eyes still wide, he turned and ran into the night.

  Hurrying over, I closed the door. Then I locked it.

  What had just happened? Had I just glimpsed in the future . . . and then changed it?

  Walking slowly over to the crystal, I looked down, and Matilda’s words about Miss Peabody echoed in my ears.

  She knew things.

  The next day, after only a brief hesitation, I dropped the crystal into my book satchel before leaving the house. Although I’d not completely accepted my own interpretation of the events of the night before, the note—still tied around the crystal—was beginning to make more sense.

  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.

  Did the crystal begin to glow when something was about to happen? Had Miss Peabody used it to see into the future and then alter events?

  As a logical-minded person, I could hardly believe it, and yet . . . the crystal had saved me last night.

  That morning, in the schoolhouse, I did begin with a math lesson. Then we worked with letters and sentences, and I moved about, looking at the students’ desk-sized chalkboards, to get a sense of their various levels. Then we continued our discussion of Lewis and Clark. After lunch, I began reading Great Expectations aloud, and we discussed the characters. The children seemed to enjoy this even more than acting out the Lewis and Clark expedition. I was pleased by their interest in learning.

  However, I’d made a firm decision about the events of the previous night, and once school was finished for the day, Winston and I walked the mile into town.

  Upon reaching Spruce, I found myself wishing it was feasible for me to live here—as I was accustomed to people and buildings and shops—but come winter, I would not enjoy walking a mile to the school and back.

  Several people on the street glanced at me, and I realized I had no idea where to go.

  A thin woman with a pinched face stopped in front of me. She carried a burlap sack, as if shopping. “You the new teacher?” Her voice was guarded but not unfriendly.

  “I am,” I answered. “Miss Miller. I am pleased to meet you.”

  She nodded. “My George is the youngest in the school. He thinks well of you. Last night, he came home talking about Meriwether Lewis.”

  As this was most gratifying, I smiled. “Thank you. He is a fine student.” Thinking perhaps I could use our pleasant exchange to my benefit, I said, “I came to see Sheriff Ward. Do you where he might be found?”

  “Sheriff Ward? He’d most likely be at the jail this time of day.” She pointed down the street. “Backside of the courthouse.”

  I smiled again. “Thank you.”

  With Winston trotting beside me, I managed to round to the backside of the courthouse and enter a small brick building. Inside, Sheriff Ward sat behind a desk. He appeared to be working in an accounts book.

  As he looked up and saw me, a moment of blank surprise crossed his features. In a way, he was a handsome man, and the close-trimmed beard suited him.

  “Miss Miller?” he said, standing up. “It’s a pleasure to see you. Graham came home last night already looking forward to going back to school today. He says you’re a good teacher.”

  I then remembered they shared a last name. But the sheriff hardly looked old enough to be father to a fifteen-year-old.

  He must have read my expression. “Oh, Graham’s my brother.”

  That seemed an equal stretch. “Your brother?”

  “Yes. My ma died when I was ten.”

  “Oh, I am sorry.”

  “Thank you. My pa remarried later, and Graham came along.”

  For some reason, I could not help asking, “But you . . . are you married?”

  His steady gaze met mine. “No, miss. I never married.”

  Why had I asked that? This conversation had taken an awkward turn, but he rescued me from further embarrassing myself.

  “This don’t seem like a social call,” he said. “Is anything wrong?”

  “Yes.” Now that I was here, I wanted to put this carefully. I had no intention of stirring up trouble, but I also wanted the sheriff informed of the situation—should it grow worse. “Yesterday, a Nathan Johnson burst into the schoolhouse. I believe he was intoxicated, and he verbally accosted his niece, Matilda,
and tried to make her leave her lessons.”

  “I’m sorry that happened, but it doesn’t surprise me. Nate likes his whiskey, and he likes to throw his weight around. I’ll check on Matilda.”

  “I believe she is fine. I ordered him to leave.”

  Taken aback, he said, “You got Nate Johnson to leave without her?”

  “Yes, of course. He’s a bully. Bullies are always cowards. But that incident is not my main concern. Last night, he broke into my home and tried to attack me.”

  A moment of silence followed, and his body went rigid. “He what?”

  “He broke into my home to attack me.”

  “Did he hurt you? Did he put his hands on you?” Now his voice was growing quietly angry, much angrier than I’d expected.

  “No. I managed to get the shotgun loaded quickly, and I was able to run him off.”

  He sighed in relief. His eyes moved over my face, up to my hair, and down to my face again. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure he never bothers you again.”

  For goodness sake. I’d not meant to instigate some manly feud. “Please don’t do anything. I simply wanted you know what took place.”

  His eyes were dark. “I’ll take care of it.”

  Perhaps I should not have made my report, but there was little else to say, and I had some supply shopping to do.

  “Good day, Sheriff,” I said in mild concern.

  His eyes were still dark, but he nodded.

  The following morning, I decided to stop fretting over the sheriff. What was done was done. Hopefully, once he’d thought it over, he’d allow his cooler head to prevail.

  The morning at school passed swiftly, and the mathematical level of my students impressed me. Miss Peabody had been an excellent math teacher. But I—though I do flatter myself—appeared to be better with history and literature.

  At the lunch break outside, Matilda approached me shyly. “Miss Miller?”

  “Yes?”

  “Did you . . . did you go to the sheriff telling tales on Uncle Nate?”

  The wording of her question alarmed me, but I was more concerned about why she was asking. “Why?”