Rainmaker

Rainmaker


By Nick Wilson

Fairmont, Nebraska. 1886.

The horse drawn wagon pulled into the green, ripe Nebraska town. The driver, Benson was grizzled to the core with days of unshaven stubble, the stink of weeks without a bath and the look of sorrow from a man who had lost all.

He pulled the wagon onto the paved driveway of main street and parked in front of the town drugstore. Not many strangers had come to this town, not since the war ended twenty years ago.

Word traveled quickly in the small Nebraska town, and soon all of the townsfolk had gathered in the town square to see what this stranger was up to.

The town had a small stage in the middle of the park in the center of town. The park was nothing to be proud of, a couple of young, freshly planted trees offered little shade from the sweltering sun. The grass was all brown, but the bushes were a rich green. The wooden benches were each missing at least one plank.

Slowly the stranger moved from his wagon to the stage, a small crowd followed along behind him.

He slowly moved about the stage, setting up a seat and a glass of water. The crowd was murmuring amongst themselves. Who was this man? What was he doing here? Nobody approached him to ask why he was there. Nobody really wanted to, they lived in a small town in the middle of nowhere. Living the life of monotony, the townsfolk could enjoy anything that broke them out of the norm.

Once a sufficient number of people had joined the crowd, Benson stood up. The crowd fell silent. When the man spoke, his voice was clear, yet broken. It was strong, yet it lacked confidence.

“Have you ever seen a miracle? You couldn’t doubt or imitate?” The grizzled man asked all who came to hear his tale. “What’s it really worth to you, to shake the holy hand of fate?”

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Kansas City, 1865.

Benson was sitting atop his delivery wagon, he had a bed full of broken rifles and was selling them to a rebel hothead who couldn’t accept that the war had ended several months ago. Benson was no idiot, he took the money up front before letting the greedy, mustachioed good ol’ boy touch any of the weapons.

“These guns is broken!” the angry customer yelled, his spit reached Benson as he fumed. “The firing action is all messed up!”

“I’m just the runner. I’m not responsible for the quality, just the delivery.” Benson said. “If you want, I can run them back up the road to Columbus and tell them their rebel clients demand a refund.”

The man, still fuming, scratched his shaggy mustache. “No deal. I need real guns and I need them by tomorrow. Now give me my money back or I’m going to introduce your brains to lead.”
A shiver of adrenaline swept through Benson, but he was confident and was sure he could get himself out of anything. “Ok, I’ll give you the money back, but I’m keeping my delivery fee.”

“Like hell you are!”

“Then I’m going to have to keep this wagon full of rifles.”

“Like hell!”

It was time for Benson to get out of there. Before the rebel could blink, Benson had whipped up his horses and was making his break west out of Kansas City.

*************************************************

Fairmont, 1886

The grizzled, older Benson, took a sip of water. The crowd he was speaking to seemed puzzled. One brave teenager shouted up to him. “What does that have to do with tempting fate?”
A glare silenced the young man. Benson continued his story. “Well I did what I could to make ends meet. I was a medicine man, and a gun runner. I took any opportunity I came across.”

*********************************************************

Kansas, 1865

Benson’s wagon flew across the vast Kansas prairie land. He saw a farm here and a farm there, but for the most part the land was empty, nothing but grass.

As day turned to evening Benson came upon a small town. The light was waning fast and there was not much time for him to take note of his surroundings. Fearing an attack by Indians, he wanted to make sure he was within the relative safety of civilization.

The town was dead, there was no movement whatsoever. Benson just pulled his wagon up to town hall. He took his horses off of the wagon and tied them to a post. He then tossed a flimsy mattress over top of his guns and went to bed.

************************************************************

Fairmont, 1886

Benson took another sip of water. “This is where my tale crosses the threshold between believable and unbelievable. I tell you everything I say is true, but whether or not you believe me or not I do not care, but heed my message.”

The story continued.

***********************************************************

Fickle Hills, Kansas. 1865

In the morning Benson awoke early. He made a move to beat the dew off of the canvas wagon cover, but was surprised to find no moisture had accumulated over night. Curious, he poked his head out of the wagon to take a look around.

In the twilight of dawn and from the elevation of his wagon Benson found that the earth was parched as far as his eyes could see. Dust swirled between the few buildings that made up the town. The town was a lot smaller in the daylight as well. There couldn’t have been more than two dozen buildings.

Benson hopped out of his wagon and walked past the town hall and into the nearest field. The soil resembled a burnt cookie, hard and crumbly. The land was tilled, some effort was made to seed the field for crops, but without any moisture the seeds lay just beneath the surface waiting for their chance to grow.

His mind always looking for new ways to make money, Benson was struck with a sinister, awful, brilliant idea.

Before any of the townsfolk were to wake up, Benson rushed back to his wagon and searched around for his signboard. Across one side were the words “Medicine Man”. Rummaging around a little bit he found his small tin of black paint. All he needed now was a piece of cloth, and it didn’t take him long to find it.

Flipping the board over, Benson scrawled the word Rainmaker across the grain. There was a niche on the side of his wagon where the board fit perfectly and soon he was advertising to the townsfolk that he was a rainmaker.

The first person to arrive was the mayor, an old cowboy who likely hadn’t ridden a horse in over a decade.

“Howdy, stranger, what brings you around here?” He asked in a friendly voice.

Benson smiled and shook the man’s hand heartily. “The name is Benson. What brings me around here? Well I just go where the Lord tells me to go and he brought me here.”

“What do you do exactly?” the man asked, genuinely curious.

“Why, you didn’t see the sign?” Benson motioned to the sign he finished not fifteen minutes earlier. “I’m a rainmaker.”

“You don’t look like an Indian.”

“There is no rule that says you have to be an Indian to be a rainmaker.”

The mayor thought for a moment; he wasn‘t a smart man, but he was genuine. “How do you make it rain then? Don’t you have to do some tribal dance?”

Benson let out a hearty laugh. “Of course I dance, it’s a symbolic thing as I ask the Lord for assistance in the form of rain.”

The man seemed to be genuinely impressed. Benson was so sure of himself, so confident, it had to be God‘s honest truth. “And you just do this for free?”

Another laugh from Benson. “I would if I could, but traveling to where I’m needed is expensive business. I need to replace parts on my wagon, pay for hotels, feed my horses. I even have to feed myself.”

The mayor scratched his head as he thought hard. “Well, we’ll hold a town meeting this afternoon. Obviously we are in need of your services, but it’s really up to the town as to whether or not we should go through with it.”

“No problem, sir. Can I get a glass of water? I am parched.”

A few hours later, around lunch time, the entire town had gathered at the town hall. It was quite literally a one-horse town, as the only person who still had a horse was the sheriff. The rest had all either died or been sold during the drought.

The townsfolk and Benson were in the town hall’s main room, a massive and poorly ventilated heat trap. They were discussing Benson and his service.

“How do we know if he is for real?” One townsperson asked. Immediately a couple of other voices backed him up.

“Have you heard of Trinity Texas?” Benson prepared an elaborate lie. “I just got up here from there. It maybe wasn’t as dry there as it is here, but they desperately needed rain just the same. After I did a little dance for them God Almighty opened the heavens and gave them four days of intermittent rain. They loved me so much they paid me a little extra as I was on my way out of town.”

The crowd talked amongst themselves for a moment before one man stood up. “I believe him. My brother is from Baker, Texas. He said the drought had finally ended for them a couple of weeks ago. Baker isn’t more than 15 miles away from Trinity, I think.”

Benson breathed a sigh of relief. It was all the proof that the people needed.

A woman rose from her seat. “Rainmaker! Rainmaker, save this one-horse town!”

A man rose to his feet after her. “Rainmaker, rainmaker, pray to for us to Heaven!”

The mayor quieted everyone down. He turned to Benson and asked. “How much money do you charge to perform this little miracle of yours?”

“It isn’t my miracle, it is God’s. Normally I take $100. But seeing as how you people are such lovely folks, I’ll only charge $75.”

Seventy-five dollars was an outrageous sum for a poor Kansas town, but it was a lot less than $100.

“Well, folks, is it a deal?” the mayor asked the assembly.

“Yes!” The crowd cried nearly in unison.

The mayor turned back to Benson, “What do you need to perform? When do we pay you?”

Benson was running on full improvisation. “I need to go out into the fields and pray for several hours, in complete solitude. If I am interrupted even once the rite has to be pushed back to tomorrow. When I return I will accept payment and begin the ceremony. Once we have all gone to bed, the Lord will pull moisture from the Gulf of Mexico and bring it here to water your fields. By morning the soil will be damp and rich again.”

Benson gave a small wave to the crowd and left the town hall. It was nice to get out of the stuffy town hall, but it was extremely hot outdoors. He needed to find a shady place to sit in for a couple of hours while the townspeople gathered their money. His plan was simple. Light a fire, pray, dance around, convince everyone to go to bed and make a break out of town with the money.

Halfway through his “meditation”, while looking out over the dilapidated town, and the dusty fields, Benson’s conscience began to bother him. It was one thing to dupe hotheaded rebels. It was entirely different duping these good-hearted farmers. They were, after all, just people down on their luck.

“What are you doing, Benson?” he convinced himself. “Your moral compass doesn’t point north. You take these people’s money and run. They are just dumb farmers after all.”

Dusk couldn’t come soon enough for the young Benson. He was ready to put on a show, he had nothing scripted, yet he was confident in his own acting ability. He rose from his seat and walked into town.

Right there in the middle of Main street were the townspeople. They had a massive pile of old wooden planks ready to burn.

Benson didn’t speak directly to anyone, but rather he made an announcement. “Please someone light the fire, and someone else bring me my compensation.”

Three young men got to work starting the bonfire while the mayor brought Benson his seventy-five dollars, in cash. Benson took the money and stuffed it in his pocket. The fire kicked up quickly to a mighty roar.

“Once the rite is finished we should all go to bed.” Benson announced as he fell to his knees. Under his breath he prayed to God. “Please Lord, let this work.”

He rose to his knees, lifted on foot high in the air and held it there. He built up the suspense and as he did so he felt a shiver run down his spine, a light breeze was kicking up. With a mighty grunt Benson slammed his foot into the ground and started his dance. His limbs flailed crazily in all directions, he made circles around the fire as the people watched on. Head flying, hips thrusting, arms flailing, legs sliding, Benson gave the dance his all.

He decided it was time for a breather, he was building up quite a sweat. The dance was so physically consuming that he didn’t even notice the sky grew black from horizon to horizon. Ominous thunder clouds had gathered over the town.

A wind whipped up. Some rain drops began to fall from the heavens. The people started cheering, Benson didn’t.

The cheering stopped as the wind picked up again, it was blowing dust into everyone’s eyes. A gust blasted the town, then another and a third. The fourth gust of wind took the roof right off of the town hall.

“Take cover!” The mayor yelled. There was a ditch just outside of town where the townsfolk could take cover. Everyone made a mad dash for cover except Benson.

The wind picked up again. His shouts of “What have I done?” were drowned by the howls.
Another gust grabbed hold of his wagon and flung it across the countryside. A mighty roar was now blasting from behind and Benson turned to see what it was.

A tornado had touched down. The cyclone moved around where the townspeople were hiding, leaving them untouched, and came straight for town. “Oh, I’ve summoned down the Holy Ghost!?” Benson’s cries were once again drowned by the wind.

The twister reached the town and immediately started to tear it to shreds. Starting with the outer houses and working it’s way towards the town hall. Large pieces of woods were flying around in all directions, Benson fell to his knees and held his arms up to the heavens.
The twister got closer to Benson and a gust picked him up and threw him across the plains.

*****************************************

Fairmont, 1886

Older Benson took a large sigh. He looked around at the captivated faces of his audience.

“What came out of me, and the powers that be, was the last of that one horse town. The voices of those Kansas townspeople still haunt me to this day.”

The audience was slack jawed. “What brings you here?” One man asked.

“It is a tale of warning, do not tempt God. He will destroy you and everything around you.” Benson paused. Looked around at the audience and suppressed a smile. “I’ve been wandering the plains for the last twenty-years. Telling my tale to all who would listen. Now, I am a weary, poor old man with nothing to live for. I’ve got no family, no home, no money and no belongings save for that wagon and horse.”

The people of Fairmont Nebraska, a tiny cattle farming town with ample river water to irrigate their fields, choked up.

Benson looked to the sky. “If you would please, oh please just offer me your spare change. I may be able to travel a little further and tell my tale to others.”