Many who prayed for relief from the worst drought gripping the Oklahoma Territory in recent memory were sorely disappointed when October 1, 1889, arrived without a break in the weather. The relentless sunshine baked the land hard, and after months without rainfall, water was at a premium when it could be found.

Homer White was more fortunate than most. The small spread on a plot of land he purchased two years ago from Ralph Murphy, a rancher, bordered Whistle Creek on the west and Canyon Creek on the north. Homer was a thirty-one-year-old man with a receding line of curly black hair. Behind his back, some townsfolk described him as a greenhorn-easterner who "didn't know nothin' 'bout farmin'." His bank-clerk attire, wire-rimmed spectacles, and tall-drink-of-water physique did little to dispel this impression. But he was determined to create a small farm, regardless of what people thought of him.

Homer organized the construction of a farmhouse, a bunkhouse, a barn, a corral, and a couple of outbuildings, planted two acres of crops, and intended to raise some cattle. His goal was to build a home so his fiancée, Mary Donahue, could join him the following spring. When a bull, six cows, and two horses arrived, Homer finally felt like a farmer despite the opinions of the townsfolk. With the help of Theo Robbins, a short and stocky hired hand, they set about cultivating what Homer called his "little patch of Heaven."

October 10 broke as hot and dry as they come. The brilliant sun beat down on Homer's farm with nary a cloud in the sky for protection. The cornfield he and Theo had sowed near the creeks had long withered and died; its leaves turned as brown as the dirt it was planted in. Yet, the farmyard was very much alive with activity. The horses frolicked in the corral, the bull eyed a heifer coming into season, and a small flock of chickens scratched and fed on a cache of seeds.

Out of nowhere, an old hound dog ran across the barnyard, chasing the lone rooster. Homer was hot on its tail, brandishing a willow switch. "Leave that rooster alone, you worthless hound!"

The hound ducked out of reach of Homer's switch, ran, and hid. Theo stepped out of the barn just in time to watch the fracas. "Get 'im, Homer," he said with a chuckle.

"One of these days, I'm gonna get a proper dog, not a flea-bitten mongrel, the likes of him." Homer breathed deeply from his over-exertion in the heat.

"Keeps varmints in check, Homer. You otta give 'im a break."

Homer tossed the switch aside and wiped his brow. "Gets my dander up, chasing after chickens like he does. We'll never get any eggs at this rate."

"You got 'im all wrong, Homer. He only chases that old rooster."

"But he scares the hens out of laying."

"If that old rooster was flogging 'im, he got what he deserved."

"You're probably right," Homer said. "Don't know which of the two is the worse."

Theo turned back into the barn, and Homer went into the farmhouse.

The farmhouse had a great room and kitchen with modest furnishings. A round table and four chairs were arranged with two place settings and two glasses. At noontime, Theo entered and went to a washbasin. "Smells good, Homer. Outdid yourself."

"Just something simple I threw together."

Theo pulled out a chair and sat. Homer served a helping for each of them. "If you ever give up farmin', you could open a restaurant in Silver Rock with your good cookin'."

"Eat up." Homer ignored him, took a seat, and poured a glass of milk for each of them. "What's the water situation?"

"Both creeks are down to a trickle."

"Hope they last."

"They will . . . " Theo nodded. "They'd better."

"Says who?"

"They wouldn't dare dry up."

"Playing the Almighty's hand?" Homer asked.

"Ain't that bold, Homer." Theo shook his head. "Just hopin' and prayin' more than anythin', that's all."

Without further conversation, both men ate their meals.

Sheriff William Duggan, a late-30s, stout, balding man, closed up the Silver Rock City Jail and started his afternoon rounds. He met up with Sam Peterson, a twenty-nine-year-old, gangly man with bushy red hair and freckles.

"Hot enough for ya, Sheriff?"

"You ask me that same question every day, Sam. Don't you ever think of anything else?"

"How can I? This is the longest run of heat I can recollect, ever."

"Well . . . I see your point, Sam, but askin' me every day gets old."

Sam shrugged. "Where we goin' first?"

"Down Main to the end of town. Like we always do. Why you askin'?"

"Can we walk on the shaded side? Ya know, I'm kinda sensitive today."

"How's that, Sam?"

"Well . . . I done got sunburned, and even my freckles hurt a might bit."

"All right." Duggan suppressed a chuckle. "We'll keep to the shade, just for you."

The sun beat down on Silver Rock's dusty, nearly empty streets while Duggan and Sam kept to the shade as much as possible. When they reached the end of town, they stopped near the windmill. Its rotor click-clacked in the wind, and its pump dry-scraped up and down. Its trough was bone dry.

Duggan shielded his eyes and looked southward.

Sam watched the windmill's futile attempt to pump water from the dry well. "If we don't get rain soon—"

"Sam! Aren't those clouds on the horizon?"

"Where?" Sam pivoted his head, scanning the horizon.

"There!" Duggan pointed. "South."

Sam shielded his eyes and took a hard, long look in that direction. "Well, I'll be danged if they ain't."

All day long, dark clouds and rain advanced toward Silver Rock City. When the first band of showers came, the townsfolk danced in the muddy streets, and beer was free for the asking. There was plenty of hooting and hollering, but when a second, more intense wave of rain fell by the bucketfuls, all except the foolhardy ran for cover. By evening, the downpour was torrential.

The wee hours brought the severest downpours yet. At first light, Theo awoke to the sound of rushing water, cows mooing, and horses whinnying. He rushed to the bunkhouse door to see the creeks' waters spilling into the barnyard. He ran to the farmhouse and banged on the door.

"Homer! Homer, get up. We're floodin' somethin' fierce."

Homer, in his nightshirt, stood on the porch and watched in horror while the bull and cows were swept away. He felt some relief when the horses escaped to higher ground, but he was so stunned at the sight of the destruction he couldn't move.

The floodwaters kept rising around the farmhouse. Then, when water lapped over the porch, Theo grabbed Homer by his shoulders a shook him.

"Get hold of yerself, Homer, or the water will drown us, too. Climb!"

Homer and Theo scurried to the farmhouse's roof. They sat on its shingles throughout the day while the rain kept falling—hour after hour.

Two days later, Sheriff Duggan was at the Lavender Rose saloon, enjoying a beer and talking with Sally Higgins, a shapely woman in her late 30s, its owner. John "Shorty" Perry was tending bar—he was anything but short, standing six-foot-one, and was a force to reckon with if you caused any trouble. Rusty Thorsten, a thin, mousy man, plunked out a tune on the piano. A couple of customers hung at the bar, two men were playing Black Jack, and Ralph, the rancher, sat at a table in the corner.

"Quiet for a Friday," Sally said.

"For a change," Duggan said.

"Can't keep the lamps burning at this rate."

"You do all right for yourself, Sally. Once the cowpokes get the herds under control, your place will be bursting.

Rusty quit playing and approached Sally. "Sorry ta interrupt, Miss Sally, but there ain't much use ta keep playin' ta nobody. So, if you don't mind, I'd sure like ta check on my cabin."

"All right, Rusty. Help yourself to a beer on your way out."

Rusty nodded and stopped by the bar.

"You were saying?"

Duggan looked around and waved his arm right then left. "This place is a gold mine."

"And just as hard to work: long hours, can't remember when I took a vacation. I need a strong man to help out."

"Have someone in mind?"

Sally slid her hand toward Duggan's. "Got my eye on a man, but he's not ready to settle down yet."

"Well . . . Uh . . . Sally . . .  . . . When he does, be sure to let me know who the lucky fella is."

"You'll be the first to know, Bill."

Homer White pushed open the swinging doors and stepped inside the Rose. Looking around, he caught sight of Ralph and stomped over to his table. He stood looking down on him.

Ralph knocked back a whiskey and looked Homer in the eye. "Homer. Homer White. Fancy seeing you. Have a seat . . . And a drink."

Homer yanked a chair backward and dropped into the seat. He leaned forward. "You swindled me!"

"What?"

"Flash flood took my house, barn . . . everything I had . . . All my livestock's gone too."

"Heard you flooded, but it ain't my fault you greenhorn sodbusters don't know nothin' 'bout land and water."

Homer pointed his finger in Ralph's face. "See here, Ralph."

"Should've built on the higher ground, but you didn't. Reckon you wanted to hear the creek bubblin' past your window while you slept."

Homer dropped his hand to the table.

"Well, la-di-da. Now you're payin' for your ignorance." Ralph pointed his finger in Homer's face. "Besides, our deal was a fair one."

Homer coiled his hand into a tight fist and slammed the table. "You knew that land would flood when you sold it. I want my money back."

"There weren't no swindlin' in the deal! You got the land. I got the money. Fair and square." Ralph rocked his chair back on two legs. He had a smug smile on his face. "Ain't my fault this once-in-a-lifetime rain came and wiped you out. I ain't responsible for the weather no more than you are."

"But—"

Ralph slammed his chair forward hard. "Give it up, Homer. The courts will back me."

"This ain't over."

"Yes, it is, Homer. Drink up. It's on me."

"Take your drink and drown in it for all I care. But mark my words, this . . . Ain't . . . Over." Homer shoved his chair aside, tipping it over. Then, he stormed out into the rain.

Duggan gulped the last of his beer and slid his chair back. "Later, Sally."

Sally chuckled. "Don't drown."

"Right . . . Not if I can help it." Duggan stood and went to the bar.

"Hi, Sheriff. Beer?"

"No thanks . . . What was that between Ralph and Homer?"

"Seems the land Ralph sold Homer flooded, and Homer wants his money back, thinks he was cheated. But Ralph won't budge."

"And not likely to." Duggan shrugged. "I never expected Ralph to sell any of his lands, especially there."

"Story is Homer paid top dollar for it, and you know Ralph, he'd never pass up a chance to squirrel away another dollar."

They chuckled.

"Ever hear of it flooding before?" Duggan asked.

"Most places never flooded before now. Figure Ralph will relent?"

"Doubt it." Duggan shook his head. "Ralph's as hardnose and crotchety as ever, but I never heard of Homer raising his voice to no one."

"He could pass for a bank teller or a school teacher or even a preacher man before a farmer."

"Heard he's trying, though, and making a go of it," Duggan said. "Then the floods . . . They set back a lot of folks.

"Since Homer can't change the weather, maybe he can change Ralph."

"Knowing Ralph the way I do," Duggan said, "Homer will do better with the weather."

Later that evening, Sam ran up to Sheriff Duggan just as he left the Rose's dining room. "Sheriff, you'd better come quick. Homer White and Ralph Murphy are fixin' to have a gunfight at the Nugget."

"What happened?"

"Ralph wasn't armed, so Homer told a cowpoke to put his gun on the bar."

"What happened then?"

"Don't know. I come to get ya."

When Sam and Duggan stepped through the swinging saloon doors, the atmosphere of the saloon was tense yet quiet, too quiet. Three cowpokes stood frozen at one end of the bar while the barkeep stood rigid behind the other end. Men sat quietly at tables. All eyes were fixed on Ralph standing in the middle of the bar and Homer pointing his rifle at Ralph. A six-gun was on top of the bar nearby.

Homer waved his rifle toward the six-gun. "Pick it up."

Ralph shook his head. "No, I won't."

"You're yellow-bellied and a cheat."

Ralph extended an open hand to Homer. "Not gonna gunfight over a piece of land I sold fair and square." Ralph took hold of a crucifix that hung around his neck. "I swear by this. I'm no cheat."

Homer shouldered his rifle and aimed at Ralph. "I said pick it up, you yella-bellied land-cheater, or I'll drop you where you stand, with or without no gun."

Duggan stepped to one side and drew his weapon. "Put the rifle down, Homer."

Homer turned his head toward Duggan's voice. "How's that?"

"You heard me, Homer. Lower your rifle, or I'll end this my way."

Homer slowly lowered his rifle and pleaded. "Can't the law do something about my land, Sheriff?"

"Listen to me, Homer. Did you shake hands on it and get a signed deed?"

Homer nodded.

Duggan eased off on his weapon but kept it ready. "Can't you see Ralph had no part in the weather being this bad?"

"But, Sheriff—"

"The Law's on his side, Homer."

Homer left his rifle hanging on his arm. "Nothing left for me here."

Duggan holstered his gun and approached Homer. "There's good folk around these parts that'll help you rebuild."

Homer shook his head. "Had my fill . . . Back east is where I belong."

"You sure, Homer."

In tears, Homer shuffled out into the rain.

Ralph took off his hat and wiped his brow. "Thanks, Sheriff. I didn't think that sodbuster would back down so easy."

Duggan watched Homer leave. "Maybe, too easy."

"How's that, Sheriff?"

Duggan turned to face Ralph. "Oh, never mind."

"Drink's on me, Sheriff."

Duggan shook his head. "No, thanks, Ralph. Maybe some other time."

"Suit yourself . . . Barkeep. Make mine a whiskey. A double whiskey."

Throughout the night, rain fell with a vengeance. But the following morning, the downpour turned to a drizzle, so Ralph mounted his horse for the long ride back to his ranch. When he reached Stoney Creek, it was now a small river and rising. Ralph cautiously crossed the surging waters.

Ralph rode up the bank on the other side. He then felt the sharp pain in his shoulder just as the sound of a rifle shot reached his ears. The impact knocked him off his horse, and he fell, hitting his head.

When Ralph came to, Homer stood over him with a rifle pointing in his face. Ralph's arms and legs were tied to stakes sunk in the ground at the water's edge.

"No use struggling."

"What you doin', Homer?"

"I'm no more responsible for the weather than you are."

"Listen here, Homer. We can work this out."

Homer's face contorted. He shook his head. "No! We'll let the Court of the Almighty decide this."

"Homer, listen to me . . . You seem reasonable. We . . . We can talk and . . . And come to an agreement of some kind. Can't we?"

Homer looked skyward. Rain fell in buckets, beating on his face. "Saw my prize bull struggling. Then he went under. My whole herd got swept away. Didn't have a chance."

"I . . . I'll give you a bigger herd and two prize bulls. So just turn me loose, Homer, and we'll talk this through."

Homer ignored him. "My Mary was coming next spring. Now I got nothing . . . Nothing to offer her. Your greed swindled me out of everything I had."

Ralph trashed about to free his hands, but his struggling only tightened his constraints that much more. "No, Homer. No, I didn't."

"You did, plain and simple."

"Believe me. I had no idea that land would flood. It never did before."

Homer pointed the tip of the rifle between Ralph's eyes. "Liar!"

"Oh, my God, I didn't know. I didn't, Homer. Swear to God."

Homer turned away. "Try to convince God when you see him face to face." He mounted up and led Ralph's horse through the torrential rain to higher ground.

Ralph squirmed and struggled. "Don't leave me this way! I'll give the money back . . . I'll buy the land back . . . Double the price you paid . . . Homer . . . ! Homer!"

Homer disappeared over the crest of the hill.

The downpour continued for most of the day and evening. Stoney Creek rose three and a half feet by the following morning. In time, the surging current loosened the stakes and swept away Ralph's body until it snagged on tree roots downstream.

After two more days of rain, the clouds finally gave way to sunshine and drier air. Flooded creeks and rivers began to recede, and folks surveyed the damage left by the floods and tried to resume their everyday activities.

The Rose was as busy as ever. Cowpokes crowded the bar drinking, swapping flood stories, and laughing it up. Tables were packed with men playing cards and cussing each other. Rusty plunked out the dozen or so tunes he knew on the upright piano.

Duggan and Sally sat at her private table, enjoying each other's company and a beer.

"I told you your place would be hopping once the herds were under control."

Sally sighed. "I did enjoy the quiet, though."

"There ain't no satisfying you, is there?"

Sam rushed up to them. "Better come quick, Sheriff."

"What's up, Sam?"

"Theo Robbins just rode into town—"

"Nothing unusual about that, Sam."

"I'm trying to tell ya that he's got Homer White's body strapped to a horse."

Duggan jumped up, knocking his chair over. "Why didn't you say so?"

"I-I tried."

"Never mind, Sam. Where's Theo?"

"Doc's"

Duggan hurried toward the door with Sam on his heels.

Doc Wilbur Cook was a fifty-seven-year-old grandfather-like figure that everyone loved and respected, considering he had doctored or delivered just about every soul within a four-day ride of Silver Rock City. He took a quick peek at the body draped over the saddle while Theo held the reins of the horse.

"Help me get Homer into my office, Theo."

Doc and Theo slid Homer off the saddle, carried him inside, and put him on the examining table. Doc opened the curtains to let as much light as possible in.

Duggan and Sam entered the examining room. Doc looked up. "Sheriff. Sam."

"Doc. Theo. What happened to Homer?"

"Just started my examination, but I reckon he—"

"I found him." Theo took a deep breath. "Found him swinging from a tree. Near . . . Near the farmhouse."

"As I was sayin'," Doc said, "He has several strands of baling twine around his neck."

"Suicide?" Duggan asked.

Doc checked Homer's neck, face, head, hands, and clothes. "No signs he struggled or was jumped."

Duggan scratched his head. "Homer was downtrodden, but this don't figure."

Doc cut through the baling twine with scissors and removed it from Homer's neck.

"Lemme have that, Doc," Duggan said. He examined the twine and then handed it to Theo. "Use this on the farm?"

Theo nodded. "Had two coils. Reckon one's still in the barn. Found the other under the tree where Homer—"

"You suppose losing the farm would drive him to this?" Doc asked.

"That's all Homer had." Theo nodded. "His hopes and dreams were on that farm, but he never struck me as a man who'd do this. Not over a piece of land."

"He and Ralph have been going tooth and nail of late," Duggan said. "Seen any of his hands snooping around the farm? Tracks?"

Theo shook his head. "Ain't seen nobody or any tracks."

"For now, the evidence points to suicide, Theo."

"Thanks, Sheriff. Suppose I can bury Homer on his land?" Theo asked.

Duggan nodded.

Two days later, Duggan stuck his head in the Rose. "Shorty!"

"What ya want, Sheriff?"

"Has Ralph Murphy been in here lately?"

"No. He frequents the Nugget. Maybe they've seen him."

"Nobody's seen him going on a week. You up for a search party?"

"Sure, Sheriff. Just say where and when."

Duggan organized a search party to locate Ralph. At noon a group of twelve gathered at the trail to Ralph's ranch, crossing Stony Creek. Half the group went upstream while the others went downstream, searching both banks. Stoney Creek's waters were still very high, making the search a slow and dangerous process. But at 5:15 PM, the sun was about to set, and the search was called off. They agreed to meet at noon the following day.

Overnight, the waters of Stoney Creek had finally receded, and the search for Ralph was making better progress. Then, about three-quarters of a mile downstream, a townsperson shouted, "A body. Somebody, get Sheriff Duggan. I found a body over here."

The waters of Stoney Creek had entangled Ralph Murphy's body in a tree's roots. His legs were dangling and flopping in the current.

"It's already decaying, so it must be nearly a week old," another townsperson said.

The search party crowded in for a closer look.

Sheriff Duggan and Sam arrived on the grim scene. "Where's the body?" Duggan asked.

"Over here," Henry Barnes, the wainwright, said.

"Stand back, everyone. Give us some room."

"Ya reckon that's Ralph?" Sam asked. "His face is messed up, mighty bad."

"Yeah, it is. The crucifix. Ralph had one like it."

"Didn't do him much good," Sam said.

"And someone bound his hands and feet with baling twine," Henry said.

"Lemme see," Duggan said. "Well, if that don't beat all."

"'Tain't that the same twine Homer White hung'd hisself with?" Sam asked.

Duggan nodded. "Yep, it is."

"Reckon Homer ended his dispute with Ralph the only way he knowed how."

Duggan removed his hat and scratched his head. "Sometimes, I don't understand what drives a man. Ralph valued money and land above everything else . . . But, in the end, look at what they brung him."

"Reckon the least we can do is bury Ralph on his land," Sam said.

Duggan put on his hat and got up to leave. "Two lives wasted over a piece of land that's not worth a hill of beans to neither of them now." Duggan turned and walked away.