Ribbon in the Sky

by Dorothy Garlock

  “That’s what I thought. Goodbye, Letty.” He stepped off the porch and headed for his buggy.

  “Goodbye . . . Wallace.”

  “Oh . . . ah, Letty—” The doctor turned back. “Sheriff Ledbetter thinks someone in the area is supplying whiskey to the bootleggers. A lot of strangers have come through town lately. Be careful. Leave school so you’ll be home before dark.”

  “That’s the second warning I’ve had today. Harry Watkins said the same thing. I’ll be careful. And don’t worry about Helen.”

  CHAPTER

  6

  A long olive-drab, double-breasted overcoat, the kind issued to soldiers during the war, flapped against the man’s legs as he stepped off the train. The collar of his coat was turned up to meet the wide brim of the hat that sat low on his forehead. A growth of black whiskers emphasized his gaunt cheeks, burning black eyes, and grim mouth. Responding to his “keep your distance” attitude, Mike Dolan’s fellow passengers shied away from him.

  He swung a canvas bag over his shoulder, turned his back to the cold, damp wind, and headed for the row of buildings that made up the town. By the time he reached them, he was shivering in the wind and his long legs needed stiffening. Irritated that he was still weak, he plodded on, realizing that gulping cold air into his lungs was not doing them any good. Four months had passed since his release from the hospital in France and six months since he’d been wounded during the battle of the Argonne.

  Although buffeted by the wind, he managed to climb the three steps to the boardwalk that fronted the stores. Piedmont wasn’t much of a town; but since the train stopped here, there had to be a hotel or a rooming house where he could get in out of the cold. Damn! He’d forgotten how cold and damp spring could be on the Nebraska plains. He peered into the glass windows of the general store, pushed open the door, and went inside. The huge round Acme Giant heater stood in the middle of the room radiating heat. The stovepipe went straight up before making a sharp curve to run along the ceiling and out through the side of the building. Dropping the canvas bag on the floor, he held his stiff fingers out to the warmth of the stove. When his eyes became accustomed to the dimness, he scanned the room. Four men were staring at him.

  “Howdy. Pretty damn cold out there.” Mike pushed his hat back, showing the glint of a couple of gray strands among the blue-black clipped hairs at his temple.

  One of the men spat tobacco juice in a can near his feet and grunted a reply. Another sat spraddle-legged on a bench, his stomach hanging between his thighs. Two more lolled on straight-backed chairs, feet stretched out to the stove, hands hidden in the bibs of overalls. One of them had a bottle of lemon extract stuck in his front pocket. This must be dry territory, Mike thought, if all the alcohol they can get is cooking extract.

  “Get off the train, did ya?” The fat man leaned sideways to pick up the can so that he could spit in it.

  “Yeah. Is there a hotel or rooming house nearby?”

  “Larson Hotel. Other side of the street.”

  A few long minutes of silence followed during which Mike noticed the man with the cooking extract in his pocket eyeing his boots and canvas bag. He waited for the question that was sure to come. When it did, it was straight to the point.

  “In the war, was ya?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Had a cousin what fought. He’s got a coat like that. What division you in?”

  “Seventy-seventh.” Mike’s mouth settled into a grim line after he said the word.

  “His is the 45th. Name’s Hugo Phillips. Know ’im?”

  “No.”

  “Heard the 45th did most the fightin’. Did ya get in on any?”

  “Some.”

  Mike opened his overcoat to allow the heat to warm his chest, hoping his short answers would discourage more questions. His eyes wandered over the usual array of store goods. There was everything here from dried apples to push plows.

  “Hugo said you boys had ya a high old time over there with them Frenchy gals. Said they was hotter’n a firecracker. Ain’t that what he said, Arlo?”

  “Yeah ’n’ said he got hisself a god-awful dose of clap off one of ’em.” The fat man clasped his hands beneath his belly and laughed. “Haw! Haw! Haw! Said it warn’t polite-like ta keep it all to hisself, so he passed it ’round ta all the gals. Haw! Haw! Haw!”

  Fat bastard! Mike wondered when the man had last seen his pecker without looking at it in a mirror.

  “Hugo said them French women was wild for a piece a doughboy ass.”

  “I heard that all a feller had to do was crook his finger ’n’ one of ’em would lay down ’n’ spread her legs. Goddamn! I ort ta a joined up ’n’ got me some a that!”

  An eerie quiet followed. A look of pure rage hardened Mike’s mouth and turned his dark eyes as cold as the bottom of a well, but when he spoke, his voice was low-pitched and smooth.

  “I agree wholeheartedly. You could have screwed the Germans to death, and the boys in Flanders’ fields would be coming home.”

  Silence.

  Four pairs of eyes stared at him. He stared back with a sneer of contempt twisting his mouth. Slowly, while looking each man in the eye, he pulled his overcoat together and buttoned it. He stood by the stove for another long, silent minute before he picked up his canvas bag and crossed the room to the counter. The clerk was scooping sugar from a barrel into paper sacks, weighing each one and marking the weight on the sack.

  “I’ll have some lemon drops.”

  The clerk looked at him, glanced at the men beside the stove, then removed the wooden lid from the big glass jar on the counter.

  “Five cents a scoop is ’bout what it weighs out to be.”

  “Couple of scoops.”

  “Soldier boys get extra in my store,” the clerk said, adding another scoop.

  “Obliged to you.”

  Mike had developed a fondness for the candy since he’d had to stop smoking and was seldom without it. While the clerk sacked the lemon drops, he thought about asking the location of the Fletcher farm but changed his mind when he realized that four pairs of ears were straining to hear every word he said. Bastards. He’d like to plant his fist in that fat man’s face and his foot in the rear of the cocky bumpkin.

  “Ten cents.”

  Mike placed a dime on the counter, stuffed the sack in his pocket, and left the store.

  “Touchy bastard, warn’t he?” Oscar Phillips curled his lips in a sneer, took the cooking extract out of his pocket, and uncorked the bottle. He glanced at the clerk, saw him shake his head, and slammed the cork back in the bottle.

  “Betcha he was one of them officers Hugo told about what sat on his ass behind the lines and let the foot soldiers do all the fightin’ .”

  “That was one mean son-of-a-bitch.” The fat man reached for the can and spit.

  “His eyes was colder’n a well digger’s ass.”

  “I never did trust a cold-eyed man that stared right at ya.”

  * * *

  It was hard to believe that two days could make such a difference in the weather. The sun shone warm, a light wind blew out of the south, and the sky was blue above white fluffy clouds.

  Spring had arrived.

  Mike sat on the porch of the hotel with a good breakfast of eggs, sausage, and hot biscuits in his belly and read the Boley newspaper the boy had brought from the train station this morning. One particular headline caught his attention:

  SISTER CORA PRINGLE TO HOLD REVIVAL MEETING

  The highly successful evangelist known as “Sister Cora” will bring her special brand of gospel to Boley June 6 through June 30. The grandstand at the fairgrounds is being readied for the services that are expected to draw hundreds of her faithful followers from all over the state of Nebraska.

  Sister Cora turned to full-time evangelism and healing four years ago. Since that time she has held meetings in such cities as Omaha, Denver and Kansas City and has become famous for conducting her revival service in a theatrical style
.

  The evangelist comes to Boley after four weeks in Oklahoma City where she claims to have “laid hands” on the lame and they walked and on the blind and they could see.

  Frankly this reporter is skeptical about that but admits to the fact that the lady puts on a good show.

  Mike muttered a curse word. Sister Cora! The bitch had made Letty’s life miserable with her spying and tattling. Now she was “laying hands” on the sick and filling her pockets with money from poor stupid fools. Old man Pringle and Letty’s weak-minded mother were in Oklahoma doing the same thing according to what he’d heard in Dunlap. It was a puzzle to him how his sweet Letty could have come from such a family of frauds. At times, Mike thought, the stupidity of the masses was unbelievable.

  Mike rolled up the newspaper and stuck it in his hip pocket. He had spent the last two days in the hotel room resting and reading, going out only for meals, while he waited for the rain to stop. Before going to breakfast, he had asked the desk clerk for the directions to the Fletcher farm and where he might rent a horse. There were a few automobiles in town, and he was sure he could hire one, but he wanted to be alone when he visited Letty’s grave.

  This morning he felt a sudden sense of urgency that he didn’t understand. He had lived with his loss for five years, and this pilgrimage to the grave of his lost love wouldn’t change anything. What he did hope to find out from Jacob Fletcher was why Letty had come out here in the first place. It was hard for him to believe that her father had sent her because her grandma was sick. It was more likely that Cora had found out Letty had been meeting him and that she had been removed from the “evil clutches” of a Catholic.

  The horse Mike rented was a big buckskin with a long stride. He folded his overcoat, tied it behind the saddle, and mounted. He had learned to ride almost as soon as he had learned to walk. The buckskin reminded him of the horse he had bought with the money he earned at the dairy the year the Pringles moved to town. When he was young, his dream had been to live someplace where he could raise horses, a few cows, and farm a little. Now he had no dreams.

  It was a hell of a note when a man had no dreams.

  A mile out of town Mike came to the fork in the road and turned to the left as he had been instructed. He had passed several farms, some well-kept and prosperous, others rundown and dirt poor. Had soft, sweet Letty spent her last days in one of those places where the chickens wandered in and out of the house and the hogs lay panting under the porch?

  On a long stretch of road that ran parallel to a narrow creek, his horse shied when a wild turkey flew out of the bushes.

  “Whoa, boy. We scared that gobbler more than he scared us.”

  Mike spoke reassuringly to the horse, and when the animal calmed, turned him toward the creek and splashed into it. The buckskin thrust his nose into the clear running water. Minnows darted away from them; a carp rose from a muddy hole along the bank and slid beneath a rock. Below the ripples a bass shot like an arrow into the deep water. Beside the stream, beech, poplar, and water maple grew. The banks were thick with wild berry and honeysuckle bushes. In such a beautiful place it was hard for Mike to remember that not many miles away there was a town, and closer yet railroad tracks snaked through the land.

  There was no place in the world like America. No place like Nebraska in the spring. For the first time since he had disembarked from the boat in New York Harbor, Mike felt as if he had come home.

  When he was on the road once again, his mind went back to the directions he had received from the clerk.

  “It’s easy to find. The Fletcher farm is the third farm past the Lutheran church.”

  Mike rounded a bend in the road and saw the church ahead, its spire rising above the treetops. As he drew nearer, he could see an acre of gravestones to the side of the white building. An ornamental iron gate stood open between the cemetery and the churchyard.

  Letty might be buried here.

  It was the logical place, close to her grandparents’ farm. An emotion like panic swept over him. Did he really want to find the place where his beloved, beautiful, trusting Letty lay sleeping in a cold, lonely grave?

  Ashes to ashes, dust to dust—Oh, God!

  He ached with emptiness.

  With jaws clenched, he dismounted, tied the horse to the rail outside the churchyard, and went into the cemetery. At first glance his mind recorded a dozen or more new graves, the bare soil banked over them.

  The quiet here was absolute. He stood for a moment, hat in hand, the slight breeze stirring his hair. After drawing a few shallow breaths, he reached into his pocket for the ribbon he planned to tie over Letty’s grave. He looked at it, blinked the tears from his eyes, and moved slowly down through the rows of gravestones, searching for his sweetheart’s name. McDermott, Herrick, Parker, then . . . Fletcher. He stopped and read the words on the gray granite marker:

  LEONA GRAHAM FLETCHER

  beloved wife of

  Jacob Fletcher

  Born June 10, 1850

  Died March 4, 1914

  This must be Letty’s grandmother who had died a few weeks before Letty. Mike stood there for a long while. Mrs. Fletcher’s grave was the only one in the plot. There was space, so why hadn’t Letty been buried here? Had her father refused to allow her body be placed in a Lutheran cemetery? He ground his teeth in frustration as he did each time he thought of the man.

  Mike walked the lanes in the cemetery and read the names on every gravestone. He was headed for the church to ask to see the church records when he saw the door open and a man come out. He came slowly across the yard toward the cemetery. Mike went to meet him. He was an old man with a kindly wrinkled face and a mane of thick white hair. His gnarled hand clutched the curved head of a cane as he walked carefully over the uneven ground.

  “You seem to be searching for someone. I wonder if I may help you.”

  “I’d be obliged. I’m looking for the . . . grave of Letty Pringle.” Mike had to battle with himself to get out the words. Aloud they seemed so . . . final.

  “Pringle.” The old man spread his legs and balanced himself by leaning with both hands on the cane. “I don’t believe there’s a Pringle in the cemetery. I’ve been through the church records many times and I don’t recall the name.”

  “She died five years ago.”

  The old man shook his head. “The Reverend that was here at that time has passed on. So many have gone to their reward including the men of God. I came here a year ago to hold the church together until a younger man could be found.”

  “She was Jacob Fletcher’s granddaughter,” Mike persisted. “Her grandmother is buried here.”

  “I know Jacob. His farm is down the road. He and his great-grandson come to church every Sunday. The boy’s mother, Mrs. Graham, never comes with them. I asked Jacob about it, but he got huffy and told me it was none of my business.” The old man laughed. “Jacob Fletcher is a good man, but cantankerous at times.”

  “Is this the only cemetery in the area?”

  “The Methodists and the Catholics both have burial places. Piedmont has a public cemetery.”

  Mike looked back at the small neat burial plot. “I was sure she’d be here. Thank you for your trouble.”

  “I hope you find her.”

  Mike’s jaws were clenched so tightly they hurt. Sweet Holy Mother of God. Why was he putting himself through this torture? It was worse than what he’d suffered in the trenches in France. He mounted his horse and turned down the road toward Jacob Fletcher’s farm.

  You fool, he told the voice in his head, once you stand beside her grave and the ribbon is tied to a bush again, you’ll have nothing to hold onto. That’s the reason for putting himself through this torture, the voice of logic shouted back. I’ve got to find her, so I can let go, or I’ll go out of my mind.

  Deep in thought, Mike let the horse meander on at its own speed. He passed a farm with a thick grove on the north side. A dog ran out, followed along behind, and barked. When he reached the end
of the grove, the dog turned back.

  Ahead and to the right, set back from the road, was a one-room, unpainted schoolhouse with two privies behind it. A horse and light topless buggy stood in front. Two children sat in the buggy and a woman, after locking the schoolhouse door, climbed in beside them. Mike paid scant attention until he noticed that the buggy was coming down the lane and would reach the road at about the same time he was passing. Mike pulled up on the reins, stopped, politely tipped his hat, and waited for the buggy to pass.

  In the few seconds it took for the woman to turn the horse onto the road ahead of him, his eyes flicked across her face. Then it was turned and he saw only a smooth cheek and a rope of thick auburn hair hanging down her back. She stung the horse’s rump with the end of the reins and the animal took off in a fast trot.

  Mike sat his horse, feeling as if he had been kicked in the stomach with a lead boot. The beginnings of panic fluttered in his chest and his skin felt as if it were being pricked by a thousand needles. Good God! Was he losing his mind? That woman had looked amazingly like Letty! Could she be a cousin, the other granddaughter the preacher back at the church spoke of? Mike kicked the horse into a run to catch up with the buggy before it turned into the next farm.

  He had to see her again.

  The woman glanced over her shoulder. Mike saw only a blur of white face before she turned and lashed the horse with the whip, sending the light buggy careening down the narrow road.

  What the hell! Why was she trying to outrun him? Why was she afraid?

  Mike pulled up on the reins and slowed his horse to a walk. Before the buggy reached the lane leading to the next farmhouse, the woman looked back again. He had fallen farther and farther behind. Surely she didn’t feel threatened now. Mike’s heart was pumping in his chest.

  Somehow he wasn’t surprised when she turned in at the Fletcher farm. He debated with himself as to what to do and decided that he would go on by and wait until she had turned the horse over to her menfolk and gone into the house. Did these people see strangers as someone to fear? The preacher hadn’t been afraid of him. Then it occurred to him that her man could be running a still, that she thought he was a lawman, or that they’d had trouble with whiskey runners.