Lawless Lands: Tales from the Weird Frontier

by Emily Lavin Leverett

  “The sheriff came to our house last night, and I never seen him so mad. He told my uncle he’d lock him up if he ever went near you or the schoolhouse again. When Uncle Nate yelled back, the sheriff shoved him down into a chair right in front of Ma and everybody.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “Did you tell any tales?”

  This was a difficult question. “I did make a report of some difficulties I’ve had with your uncle.”

  She didn’t look accusing, only worried. “Maybe you ought not of done that.”

  Perhaps she was right.

  Near dusk that night, I was home contemplating what to make for supper—now that I had a few more choices. I’d set the crystal on the center of the table. It seemed the right place.

  I was just about to get the fire started when a knock sounded on the door. Winston glanced over but didn’t bark. I opened to the door to find Graham Ward on the other side. At fifteen, he already towered over me. He was going to be a tall man—like his brother.

  But then my eyes dropped to his hands. He carried a covered baking dish, and a delicious scent wafted up.

  “Ma stewed some chickens today,” he said. “She thought you might like one.”

  My mouth watered at the thought of a stewed chicken. And Winston would be so pleased. He and I could eat on that for days.

  “Oh, please do thank her. That was very kind.” As he handed me the dish, I asked, “Would you like to come in? I could make us some tea.”

  “No, miss. I’d better get back, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “Might I borrow Great Expectations for tonight? I’ll bring it with me to school in the morning for class, but I can’t stop wondering what will happen next. I could read more tonight.”

  My face broke into a smile. “Of course you may. I’ll just get it.”

  Quickly, I set the chicken on the table and fetched him the book.

  “Thank you, miss.”

  He headed off, and I called after him, “Be sure to thank your mother for me.”

  After closing the door, I was just walking back toward the table when the crystal began to glow. Again, it was soft at first but growing brighter. Hurrying over, I picked it up.

  The room went dark.

  When I could see again, I found myself in an alley beside the courthouse in town. As opposed to dusk, it was fully dark outside, but I could see well enough via scant illumination from street lamps behind me. I heard the sound of a door close. Then I heard footsteps. Someone was coming toward me.

  It was Sheriff Ward.

  He’d come only halfway down the alley when someone else stepped from a darkened doorway and clubbed him over the head with what appeared to be a short branch. He fell face first to the ground, never having seen his attacker.

  But I saw.

  It was Nathan Johnson.

  Dropping the branch, Nathan reached down and rolled the sheriff over onto his back. Something that glinted appeared in Nathan’s hand. A hunting knife.

  “No!” I shouted, but he did not hear me.

  With great force, he drove the knife into Sheriff Ward’s chest.

  “No!” I cried again.

  The world went black, and then I was standing beside the table of my own house, panting and shaken. I set down the crystal. Whirling, I rushed for the shotgun, which was still loaded, and I dropped three more shells into my pocket. Then I ran out the front door.

  “Winston! Come!”

  He ran beside me. Up ahead, Graham could still be seen on the path. He turned as we reached him, and his eyes searched my face. “You saw something? Fire? Fever coming? What is it?”

  “Your brother,” I answered, gripping the gun. “We have to hurry.”

  I kept up with Graham as best as I could as we ran the mile to town.

  My first thought was to try to make it to the jail before the sheriff left, thereby stopping the tragedy before it happened and hoping he’d believe me.

  But when Graham, Winston, and I reached the jail, the front door was locked.

  I didn’t hesitate and bolted for the alley.

  I almost made it.

  Up ahead, I saw Nathan step from the darkened doorway and club Sheriff Ward from behind. He dropped the branch and drew the knife.

  Raising the shotgun, I shouted. “Stop!”

  Nathan whirled. At the sight of me, his eyes first widened in surprise and then narrowed in rage. He glanced down at the sheriff. This time, I did not wait. Taking three steps forward, I aimed and fired.

  The kick knocked me backward, but not as hard as I expected . . . for the shell had not been projected. The gun had misfired. Perhaps the shell was bad.

  Nathan realized this in the same instant as myself, and he rushed me with the knife. I had no time to check the gun or reload, and he was almost upon me with the knife. Gripping the gun, I braced myself, my mind churning in spite of my panic over this turn of events.

  But just as Nathan reached me, Graham came out of nowhere and grabbed the shotgun from my hands. Using it like a club, he swung. Nathan was coming too fast to slow down.

  The stock cracked against the side of his head, and he dropped like a sack of grain. Graham, however, was not done and swung the gun downward, cracking the other side of Nathan’s head as he lay on the ground.

  Never underestimate either the strength or determination of a fifteen-year-old boy.

  Then we both stood panting and staring at each other.

  Down the alley, the sheriff groaned and half pushed himself up. Graham and I both hurried to help him up. I did not have to say much as Graham quickly accounted for the past few moments, but then he pointed to me.

  “She knew,” Graham said. “She’s a Marlborough County schoolmarm.”

  Leaning on his younger brother, Sheriff Ward said to me, “I asked you. I asked plainly. Why didn’t you just say?”

  On instinct, I knew I couldn’t tell them about the crystal. I knew that somehow I was privy to a secret that must be kept.

  Pitching my tone to sound mildly flirtatious, I answered, “Well, a woman likes to keep some secrets.”

  “But you’re one of them?”

  Though I still wasn’t entirely sure what this meant, I was sure of one thing, and I nodded to him. “Yes, I’m a Marlborough County schoolmarm.”

  And apparently . . . I was.

  18

  Rainmaker

  Margaret S. McGraw

  Overnight, the dust had seeped between my eyelids and stung my eyes. I scrubbed at the grit with my knuckles and rolled on my side, burying my face in her long, blond hair. It was foolish to wish for a little more sleep, a little more time.

  She turned toward me, and the whiskey bottle fell off the bed with a loud clatter. Her fingers explored the lines etched into my neck and down my chest, but she didn’t ask me about them. Her hand strayed under the tangled sheet. I pulled it up to kiss her fingertips.

  “Glad you paid to stay the night, mister. Wanna stay a little longer?”

  “I surely would, sweetheart, but I got to get going. Duty calls.”

  She watched me dress, sleepy smile and narrowed eyes tempting me as much as her bare body under the sheet. I pressed two more coins in her palm. She sucked her cheeks in and whistled her appreciation.

  “Who are you, mister? What’s your business in town, anyway?”

  I stood and pulled my hat low over my brow, swinging my pack over my shoulder. “I’m the rainmaker, darlin’. Time to call the rain.”

  She burst out laughing. “Honey, there’s been no rain in the sky for over two years now. You go give it a try if you gotta, then you come back to my bed. Ask Jason downstairs for Sally, okay?”

  I nodded, though I knew I wouldn’t see this room again. Once the rain came, I had to move on.

  I closed the door quietly and headed out of the saloon to find the preacher. I’d need his help to round up the townsfolk for the hard work ahead. Sometimes keeping a frustrated, fearful crowd under control was as mu
ch of a challenge as bringing down the rain.

  I found him in the cemetery behind the church, and I leaned against the shaded wall to wait for his notice. He walked down a row of headstones, placing his hand on each one as he paused before it. Will I have earned my spot when my time comes? Will I ever get that rest?

  A crow cawed a doubtful reply as it flew over, and the preacher saw me. I walked down the dusty aisle to meet him. He shook my hand, meeting my eyes without fear or judgment. He stood a head shorter than me, and his loose gray hair and smile-lined face told the story of a compassionate man, not a fire-and-brimstone Bible-thumper. He eyed the marks on my neck and my wrist and said, “I prayed for help. Has God sent an answer? Can you do it, son?”

  “Yes, sir. I can. I’ll need help.”

  “I’ll call the people in,” he said and led me to the front of the church. While he untied the long bell rope and began to pull, he muttered, “I wish I’d known you were coming. I would have tried to get people ready. Not everyone will be eager to accept your help, I’m afraid.”

  “I never know where I’m headed next, Preacher. I have faith you’ll convince them.” He lifted an eyebrow as the bell began to swing.

  When the chimes rang out, a young boy ran up the steps and took the rope from the preacher, jumping up and down as the bell swung from side to side. Soon people were trickling in, greeting the preacher and eying me curiously. He welcomed everyone by name and sent them to get settled in the pews.

  I stood to the side and watched them all. Hard was the word that came to mind. Hard bodies, hard lives. Towns like this were filled with folks who had come out in homesteading caravans when the government was handing out property titles like religious tracts. They were worn down and dried like the hard clay that stretched to all horizons.

  When the townsfolk were all gathered, talking among themselves, the preacher stood at the front and waited for their silence. “The drought has been long and hard on all of us,” he said, and people muttered agreement. “But God has sent help, if we take it.”

  The people looked around in confusion. Questions and comments rang out.

  “What do you mean, Preacher?”

  “Why wouldn’t we take it?”

  “It’s not raining,” someone cracked, and a few people chuckled.

  The preacher nodded to me, and I walked to join him. A voice from the back said, “He don’t look like much help to me.” A few snickers sounded, and more whispered questions as people eyed me warily.

  The preacher held up my arm and pulled down my sleeve so they could see the marks. A couple of ladies gasped. A man in back said, “Hell no. Pardon me, Preacher, but I got no use for charlatans or fools.” He stomped down the aisle and out the doors, his spurs jangling angrily with every step.

  The preacher held up his other hand and waited for the crowd to quiet once more. “My first ministry was thirty years ago, down in Nacogdoches.”

  I understood his ready belief then.

  He continued. “I was there two years when the drought came. Crops died, cattle died. People left or they’d die too. Until the rainmaker came. I was there. I saw what he did. I saw these same marks on him. He made it rain, and this young man can do it, too. Can’t you, son?”

  Without waiting for my answer, he continued, “You know who that was, don’t you?”

  “Yessir. That was my father.”

  The crowd erupted with noise. After a long moment, an old lady sitting in the front row pulled herself standing and turned around to face the rest. The preacher held up his hands and waited for silence, then asked, “Ms. Alma, what would you like to say?”

  In a reedy voice, Ms. Alma said, “The Lord sent this man to us.” Her voice strengthened as she continued. “If we don’t show the Lord we accept His gift, He might think we don’t want it. Don’t deserve it.” She turned around and nodded to me, then sat down. I bowed my head to her in silent thanks.

  There were more angry murmurs, but no one else left the church. By lunchtime, we had an agreement and a plan.

  The preacher invited me to join him for lunch in his study in back of the church. We sat at his table and ate thick slices of old smoked ham with a little dried cheese rind on crusty, stale bread. I was surprised when he pulled out a water skin full of cold well water to wash it down. He smiled ruefully. “There’s no rain from above, but our wells run deep. They can’t save the crops, but they’ve been enough to keep us alive, long as we’re careful. Now you’re here, the rain will come again.”

  He apologized for the poor fare, and I had to laugh. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d enjoyed such a fine meal.

  I pulled out a small pouch of dried cherries, and his eyes lit up. “Son, you could trade those for just about anything you want in Abe’s store. Not that there’s much left there, I’m afraid.”

  I shook my head and slid the pouch across the table. “I don’t need much, Preacher, and you’ve been mighty kind to me so far. Please take these.” He carefully counted out three for each of us and stowed away the rest.

  We chewed on the cherries while we studied the map he unrolled on the table. I said, “I’m glad you saw my father’s work, Preacher. It helps that you know what’s going to happen. I understand folks being doubtful, even suspicious. I’m glad you’re willing to help me convince your townsfolk to have faith.” He simply nodded, so I continued. “It’s best if I’m up on high ground and out of town. You already know from before that the townsfolk have to be there, too. Maybe Ms. Alma’s right. Maybe the Lord does want to see they want it.”

  He glanced up from the map with raised eyebrows, but said nothing as he tapped against his chin. He put his finger down on the map. “We’re here,” he said, and slid his finger about a hand’s span along the map. “Here. They call it Outlook Rise. It ain’t much, but I reckon it’s the best we can do. You think that's far enough from town for what you got to do?” It was my turn to nod agreement, and he said, “Let’s ride out so you can see for yourself if it will do.”

  After lunch, we walked over to the saloon. The preacher recruited two men to ride with us. If Outlook Rise would meet our needs, they’d come back and let the townsfolk know to join us out there. They went to saddle the horses and collect gear, and we returned to the church.

  While he packed a small bag, the boy who’d rung the bell ran in and skidded to a stop at the door. Without looking up, the preacher said calmly, “Yes, Peter?”

  “Preacher, take me with you,” the boy said breathlessly. His eyes darted to me, then back to the preacher. “I can help you with the horses, and camp, and whatever you need.”

  “Does your mother approve?”

  The boy had the grace to blush. The preacher clearly knew his flock.

  “You know she don’t care. She ain’t even woke up through all the excitement.”

  “Nonetheless, you will ask her,” the preacher said with a stern voice. “When she says yes, you may meet us at the stables.” The boy ducked his head and sprinted away.

  I raised my eyebrows to the preacher.

  “Peter’s a good boy. His mother works in the saloon. She does love him, but she lets him run wild. He has a passion for books and learning, though, so he’s as likely to be here or in school as getting into any trouble.”

  The boy looked nine or ten. Our stories had started similar, but by his age, I had already left home.

  The preacher read my mind as he stopped in front of me at the door and put a hand on my shoulder. “It’s a hard hand you’ve been dealt, son. No doubt about it. But I’m glad you’re here now.”

  The five of us rode to Outlook Rise. It was hardly worthy of the name, little more than a bump in the dusty, red, barren landscape. No one spoke while I shaded my eyes and peered horizon to horizon. When I nodded, the preacher turned to the other men. “You two go back and tell everyone they got to come in the morning. We’ll camp here tonight and get started at dawn.”

  They turned to leave, and he stopped them. “You remind anyone wh
o’s thinking of staying behind that it’s on their head if the rain don’t come.”

  The two men left, and the preacher, the boy, and I set up camp for the night. There was no shade and no water, of course, so we just put down where we had stopped. We hobbled the horses and fed them the hay we’d brought out from town. Peter’s horse was loaded with full skins of well water, and he’d brought a shallow wooden kneading bowl to serve as a trough for the horses. I spilled a little water on the ground and watched it disappear into the desperate earth.

  Dusk brought a winter chill, so we lit a fire and spread our camprolls around it. The preacher had brought more ham and bread, and Peter had wheedled a stewpot of rice and beans from the saloon cook. His eyes lit up when he got his first taste of dried cherry.

  The preacher had a fiddle, and Peter pulled out a finger whistle. They played a dozen tunes or more, and then Peter settled down and fell asleep hard and fast, the way children do. I felt a rare sense of…family. I never stayed any place long enough for that.

  Poking the fire and watching embers drift up into the night sky, the preacher asked me, “Is it the same for you as your father?”

  I shrugged. “Can’t say for sure. You saw him work more than me.” I drank from a lukewarm canteen.

  “He came through town about twice a year. He’d bring presents for Mama and me. We’d stay up all night in Mama’s room over the saloon, listening to his stories about how he brought the rains.” I emptied the canteen.

  “He said he’d take me on the road with him when I turned ten. It didn’t work out that way.”

  The preacher asked quietly, “He died?”

  “Yessir. In Portland, Oregon. In ‘61.”

  He sucked in his breath. “Your father caused the Great Flood?”

  I glanced at him, then up to the stars. “Yessir. He brought the rain with him. He’d been traveling along the Columbia. They say he was fighting pneumonia when he rode into Portland. They didn’t know any better, and I guess he was too sick to keep moving on his own by then.”

  The preacher stared at me with a sadness in his eyes. “How old were you, son?”