Blood of My Birth: The Story of Rainy Mills, Part I by Anthony Wood

“Pick it up, Ratliff!”

Ratliff reached for the torn black vest with one hand, sneaking the other up his hip for a hidden knife.

Rainy snarled, “Stick it in your mouth.”

Ratliff sneered, “I ain’t doin’ it.”

“Taste my blood or taste yours. You decide.”

Born at noon on a day so dark you’d think it was midnight, his mother had nothing more to wrap his tiny shivering body in except the borrowed black dress she wore to her husband’s funeral. Thomas Mills died the day his murderer violated her. Nine months later, she stood in a storm at an orphanage door, mustering up the courage to do the right thing.

Thunder clapped as the wind whipped her frail body. She peeled back the cloth for one last look. Lightning webbed across the sky. For a moment, her son’s face glowed like an angel’s.

She whimpered, “Lord forgive me,” as she gently placed the basket on the doorstep with the cooing infant wrapped in bloody black lace. She hammered her fist against the door. With a last kiss blown, she turned to leave.

The old preacher who ran the place snatched the door open before she could escape into the torrents of rain that pelted her pale cheeks.

“What’s this?”

“I can’t take care of him. Please take him in.”

“I’ve got more mouths than I can feed now.”

She thrust out a gold locket, a gift from her husband on their wedding day. “It’s all I’ve got.” In a few words, she shared her story.

The old preacher’s mouth cornered a sad smile. He couldn’t turn her down. “I’ll take the child. He’ll get the locket and his story when he decides to leave.”

She pulled her drenched blanket tighter. “Thank you, kind suh.”

“What’s this child’s name?”

“He ain’t got a first name, but my husband’s last name was Mills.”

The old preacher picked up the basket. “You choose a name for him. It’s not for me to do.”

His mother gazed into the swaying trees and then up into the pouring rain that washed away her tears. “Rainy. That’s it. His name is Rainy Mills.”

Without another word, she slipped away into the darkness. The blood trail told the old preacher she wasn’t long for this world. He sent for the sheriff.

When the sun peeked through the clouds the next morning, the sheriff found Rainy’s mother at the bottom of a gully where she had tried to climb her way back up the muddy bank. When he brought the body to the old preacher, he couldn’t help but hang his head and kick at the mud.

“Poor girl. She was clawin’ at the last bit of life she had left. It just wasn’t enough.”

The old preacher buried her in the graveyard with the other paupers.

As Rainy grew into a young man, the old preacher never spoke of his family or the circumstances of his birth. That time would come soon enough. Rainy clung to hope that one day his mother might return. On his darkest days, he sat beside an unmarked grave for hours, not knowing why he was drawn there.

In Rainy’s eighteenth year, the old preacher called to him, “Rainy, my son, I can hear the angels coming for me. I’ll soon cross the Jordan River. There are things you need to know before they take me to glory. I cannot go to my grave with you not knowing about your folks.”

Rainy shivered like he did in the cold rainstorm the day of his birth.

“That grave you sit by? That’s where I laid your mother to rest.”

Rainy had no words.

The old preacher propped himself up on one elbow and told Rainy a story that made him smile, cry, and seethe with anger. Finished, the old preacher asked, “Hand me that box over there. Will you, son?”

Rainy took the tattered box with faded, painted-on flowers from the shelf and blew dust off the lid. The preacher removed the top and pulled out a black dress trimmed with lace and a gold locket on a chain.

“This is all I have that says anything about who you are. You were wrapped in this dress when your mother brought you here.”

Rainy held it close to his cheek. He laid it on his lap and noticed brown flecks on his hands.

“What’s this?”

“The blood of your birth. I couldn’t bring myself to wash the garment.”

Rainy trembled as he opened the locket and read the inscription.

Love you always, Epsie

Thomas Mills August 7, 1830

“Epsie was my mother’s name?”

The old preacher nodded but said nothing.

“And Thomas was my father’s name?”

Rainy looked up, hoping for more information.

The old preacher sighed. “Beside the fact you were born that same year, that’s all I know.”

Rainy studied the old preacher’s face. “Not true. You do know more.”

The old preacher closed his eyes. “I won’t lie to you son. I do, but—”

“Then tell me. Who murdered the man who should’ve been my father?”

“Some things are best left in the past. You’ve got the best classical education, a fine trade as a gunsmith, and lots of good living ahead of you. Don’t spoil it hating a man who’s probably dead, anyway. Don’t let it poison your soul.”

Rainy clenched the black dress and held up the locket. “My soul was poisoned the day of my birth. Look at me. I have no memory of my father or mother. All I have is a locket with their names and a funeral dress stained with the blood of my birth.” Heat rose in his face like a steamy summer sunrise. “Was there no justice for my folks?”

“No, there wasn’t.” The old preacher coughed and spit. “The murdering rapist and the judge were friends. It seems the judge liked other men’s wives as much as your father’s killer did.”

“What’s his name?”

“Leave it alone.”

“I’ve got to know.”

“What you’re thinking could get you killed.”

“That’s on me.”

“He’s a dangerous man.”

“Enough! Tell me. Who murdered my father and raped my mother?”

“John Ratliff.”

“How did my father die?”

The old preacher winced. “Ratliff was good with a throwing knife.”

“And the judge?”

“Son, you don’t want to go there.”

“His name?”

The old preacher shook his head.

“Now!”

“Judge Jeremiah Waters. He’s retired now.”

“Where?”

“Shreveport, Louisiana, I believe. Ratliff went to Fort Smith some years back.”

“Arkansas?”

The old preacher nodded.

Rainy ran his thumb across the engraving on the locket and gripped the tattered black dress like he was trying to squeeze blood from it.

“Don’t do this, Rainy. Let it go.”

Rainy gritted his teeth. “How can I? I hold in my hands the only two things left of my family and my life. Ratliff and Waters took the rest. I mean to take theirs.”

“Son, revenge isn’t the way.”

Rainy chuckled. “Oh no, preacher, this is not revenge. You taught me better than that. No sir. This is balancing things out, making them even again. It’s the reckoning.”

“That’s the Lord’s work.”

“Yes, sir. And He’s gonna use me to get it done.”

“God has His own avenging angels.”

Rainy squinted with a glare. “Yes,, and I’m happy to be one.”

The next day, Rainy buried the old preacher beside his mother’s grave with the sheriff’s help. He whispered as he tapped a wooden cross into the ground, “The law didn’t help my folks back then, and I sure as hell don’t need the law to help me find Ratliff and Waters now. Avenging angel? That has a nice ring to it.”

Rainy gathered his belongings and tools of the gunsmith trade he’d acquired and watched Natchez disappear around the bend from a steamer northbound for Vicksburg. Before he left, he laid a single rose upon his mother’s grave.

For the next ten years, Rainy worked as a gunsmith in Vicksburg, trying to forget about John Ratliff and Judge Jeremiah Waters. Drinking, wearing fine clothes—always black—visiting houses of ill repute, and gambling could only medicate the sickness in his soul. Healing wasn’t to be had. Practicing with a pistol soothed his nerves a little. He figured a man who sold guns ought to know how to use them—and well. He got good with a six-shooter, but the wound in his soul continued to fester.

Often, he sat by the big river, staring over into Louisiana, trying to forgive his father’s murderer and mother’s rapist. Though peace never came, Rainy finally decided to put it all behind him until a gun customer on his way to Fort Smith bragged about a friend who’d violated over twenty-five women.

The braggart snickered. “Even left a bastard son behind in the children’s home down Natchez way.”

John Ratliff. Had to be.

Over time, Rainy had saved enough money to buy a few guns to peddle and still have a bit of jingle in his pockets. He gathered his things and thanked the gun shop owner who’d helped him make his way. He bought a horse, then walked him onto a ferry to cross the Mississippi River. Repairing guns and selling a few to ne’er-do-wells along the way would get him into the right places with the wrong kind of people to find Ratliff.

Rainy edged his mount next to the braggart’s. He made him an offer as they crossed the river. “It’ll be safer if we travel together.”

The braggart squinted. “You headin’ to Fort Smith, too?”

“Yeah, I’ve got business there. I’ll provide the whiskey, if you agree.”

The braggart spit. “I got no problem with it. I like rye whiskey though.”

Rainy purchased several bottles when the ferry landed in Louisiana. After making camp the first night, the braggart turned up a bottle and boasted of his exploits. Then he spoke of Rainy’s blood father with a sickening pleasure in his voice.

“Yeah, ole Ratliff ought to run a damn cathouse the way he loves the ladies.”

Traveling west, Rainy’s companion told story after story confirming the rumors of lawlessness across the Arkansas River in the Indian Territory. Men like his father’s killer could hide just beyond the law’s reach there. It’d be the perfect place to end Ratliff’s worthless life. They stopped for a drink in Fort Smith.

His drunk traveling companion asked, “Where you goin’ now?”

Rainy peered over his shot glass pretending to sip. “To sell a few guns before moving on, I reckon. You?”

“I’m headin’ across the river to meet up with my friends in Skullyville. That’s Injun land, you know. They come to the agency in town to get their government dollars. The Choctaws say it means ‘Moneytown’ because it sounds like their word for money. There ain’t hardly a cent to be had there, ’cept what we take from ’em.” He chuckled. “The Injuns don’t say nothin’, and the law’s too scared to come after us.” With that, he passed out and slid from his chair onto the floor.

The barkeep yelled as Rainy left, “What about your friend? You can’t leave him like that.”

Rainy turned and glared with his hand on his pistol. “He’s not my friend.”

At dusk the next day, Rainy tied his mount to a post in front of a run-down shack that posed as the only saloon in Skullyville. He eased through the batwings like a copperhead on the scent of a barn mouse. The dimly lit room smelled of unemptied spittoons and stale beer—a place where men didn’t want to be known.

Rainy tossed a quarter on the bar. “Whiskey, please.” He tipped the barkeep another quarter. He needed all the friends he could buy in this place.

Three men sat in a corner, cards in hand. A man with gray whiskers blew a smoke ring that traveled half-way across the room. He sat up to get a better look at the young stranger.

“That’s a fancy vest you’ve got on there, sonny.”

Rainy knew it was Ratliff the moment he opened his mouth. He gritted his teeth but didn’t look up from his shot glass. “It is.”

“Don’t think I’ve seen you around here before.”

“You haven’t.”

The man with gray whiskers tipped back his hat. “You seem familiar. Do I know you?”

He looked familiar to Rainy as well. Too familiar—like looking into a mirror.

“You don’t know me at all and never will.”

“A mite testy, ain’t you, boy? Guess I would be too, wearin’ a vest with all that sissy lace.” He elbowed his friend, laughing. “Makes you look prettier than the lady sittin’ on them quarters you tossed on the bar.” Ratliff leaned back in his chair, dropping his hand next to his pistol. “Where’d you get the cloth? I might want to get one made just like it.”

“You should know. My mother wore it to the funeral after you raped her and murdered my father.”

“Well, boys, looky here. Chasin’ the ladies finally paid off. My son’s come to find me after all these years. How’s that fine lookin’ momma of yours?” Ratliff cupped his hand on the side of his mouth and whispered, “She had the best lookin’ backside you ever saw, let me tell you.”

Rainy slammed his fist on the bar. “You couldn’t be so lucky as to call me son, Ratliff!”

“Cool down ’fore you burst into flames, boy. Come on over and take a chair. Let your old pa buy you a drink. It’s been what, twenty-five, twenty-six years?”

Rainy tightened the grip on his shot glass. “Twenty-eight to be exact, you no good violator of women. Only a gutless yellow cur could do such a thing.”

Ratliff pulled his pistol, but Rainy wheeled around and hit him square in the forehead with his whiskey glass. “Drop the gun, or I drop you.”

Ratliff blinked in disbelief, wiping blood from his wounded brow.

“Do it now. Slow as honey dripping from a beehive in a black locust tree.”

Ratliff eased his pistol from its holster and let it drop.

“Kick it to me and get down on your knees.”

Ratliff kicked the gun and shook his head. Rainy cocked his pistol.

Ratliff grinned, his yellow-stained teeth catching the dim light. “You want me down on the floor like I had your mother?”

Rainy could take no more and squeezed the trigger. Ratliff went to his knees howling like a bit dog.

“You shot my knee!”

“That could’ve gone easier for you.” Rainy ripped off the black lacy vest and threw it to the floor. “Pick it up, Ratliff!”

Ratliff never broke eye contact, snatching the dress as he snaked his other hand up his hip.

“Stick it in your mouth.”

“I ain’t doin’ it.”

“Taste my blood or taste yours. You decide.”

Ratliff spat and slung the lacy vest across the greasy dirt floor.

When Rainy reached for the vest, Ratliff saw his chance. Snatching a throwing knife hidden in his belt, he buried the blade in Rainy’s thigh quick as a rattler strike. Rainy grimaced but made no sound. He hesitated at the shock of the wound, and Ratliff lunged for his knees, toppling him over. Rainy yanked the knife from his hip just as Ratliff knocked the pistol from his hand. Ratliff pounded the knife wound like a pugilist, sending Rainy into agony like he’d never felt before.

Ratliff wrestled himself on top of Rainy, forcing the knife from his hand. He grabbed the blade’s handle and inched the edge toward Rainy’s face. Ratliff snickered as he drew a thin red line above Rainy’s ear. Rainy screamed. Ratliff yanked the knife up to strike a death blow.

Rainy threw a knee into Ratliff’s ribs, knocking him across the floor. He scrambled to his feet and head-butted Ratliff. Rainy picked up the other man, lifting him up over his head before slamming him down on the floor—hard. Rainy pinned Ratliff’s shoulders with his knees. He took a deep breath and reached for the tattered black vest. He held it close to his cheek, exhaling the foul air of the room.

“You murdered the man who should’ve been my father. Then you violated my mother. You have put me in a most uncompromising position. I now must end the life that began mine.”

“Don’t kill me. Your pa wasn’t supposed to be home. I didn’t want to hurt your ma. I just wanted to…. It all went wrong when—”

Rainy backhanded Ratliff’s jaw, splattering blood and spit across the floor. “It all went wrong when my father caught you attacking my mother. I knew you’d be a coward, even now.”

Ratliff grabbed for the knife, but Rainy knocked it away. One of Ratliff’s friends picked it up and stepped toward Rainy.

The barkeep leveled a double-barrel shotgun at him. “Take another step and I’ll decorate that wall with your guts. This man needs to finish what he started. I’m makin’ sure he does.” Ratliff’s friend dropped the knife and backed away.

Ratliff whimpered, “What are you gonna do?”

“Leave you like you left my folks, without a breath between ’em.”

Rainy crammed the black vest made from his mother’s funeral dress into Ratliff’s mouth.

“This is the last thing you’ll taste in this world.” Rainy shoved the vest deep into Ratliff’s throat, then covered his nose until he could breathe no more.

“Taste the blood of my birth as yours grows cold.”

Rainy sat on Ratliff’s chest until the light in his eyes went out. He stood, surveyed the room, then gathered up his pistol and Ratliff’s knife. No one rose to challenge him. The deed was done, and he was exhausted.

The barkeep brought him a glass of whiskey with the scattergun in the crook of his arm.

Rainy held the glass high, then slowly poured the whiskey on the floor. “For Thomas and Epsie Mills. May they rest in peace.”

The barkeep cocked the rabbit ears on the shotgun and turned to Ratliff’s friends. “This man’s had enough. He’s evened a score you men had no part in. You’ll be stayin’ here at least an hour after he leaves. Drop your guns and belly up. First drink’s on me.”

Rainy downed a second drink the barkeep offered. “Thank you, kind sir. I’ll go now. I apologize for the trouble and the mess.”

Rainy yanked his mother’s blood-stained funeral dress from Ratliff’s lifeless throat. He held it close to his cheek for the last time then dropped it on Ratliff’s face.

Limping toward the batwings, Rainy whispered as he stuck Ratliff’s knife in his belt, “Even avenging angels get wounded sometimes, I reckon.”

He flipped the barkeep a double eagle. “Make sure the blood of my birth covers his face when they lay him in the dirt.”

The barkeep nodded and followed Rainy to the door with the shotgun trained on Ratliff’s former friends. “Good luck, son.”

Rainy slipped away into the same darkness from which he was taken by the preacher that day so many years ago. He patted his horse as he mounted. “Let’s go see us a judge in Louisiana.”

WATCH FOR THE EXCITING CONCLUSION, COMING ONLY IN OUR WINTER 2023 ISSUE!

Anthony Wood, a native of Mississippi and a new writer on the scene, resides with his wife, Lisa, in North Little Rock, Arkansas. He ministered many years in inner city neighborhoods among the poor and homeless, inspiring him to co-author Up Close and Personal: Embracing the Poor about his work in Memphis, Tennessee. Anthony is a member of White County Creative Writers, Turner’s Battery, a Civil War re-enactment company, and Civil War Roundtable of Arkansas. When not writing, he enjoys roaming historical sites, camping, kayaking, and being with family. He also serves as Managing Editor for Saddlebag Dispatches. The Storm That Carries Me Home, the fourth novel in Anthony’s epic historical fiction series, A Tale of Two Colors, about life during the Civil War, was released in Spring 2023. Anthony’s short story “Not So Long in the Tooth,” which appeared in the Winter 2020 issue of Saddlebag Dispatches, won a Will Rogers Medallion Copper Medal for Western Short Fiction in 2021.