Ghost Towns

by Louis L'Amour

  The old man roused enough to gulp at the coffee when Bo held a tin cup to his lips. He had let the strong black brew cool off some first so the old-timer wouldn’t scald himself. When the man had swallowed some of the coffee, Bo spooned beans into his mouth. The old-timer swallowed without even chewing.

  “Whoa there, mister,” Bo said. “Take it easy. I know you’re hungry, but you’re liable to make yourself sick if you keep that up.”

  The old man’s rheumy eyes flickered open. “Who…who are you?” he choked out. His voice was hoarse from the screaming he had done earlier.

  “My name’s Bo Creel. This is my partner, Scratch Morton.”

  Scratch tugged on the brim of his Stetson. “Howdy.”

  The old-timer looked back and forth between them. He was still a little wall-eyed. “Wh-what are you doing here?”

  “Just passing through,” Bo explained. “This is Duster, isn’t it?”

  The man’s head jerked in a nod, bobbing a little on the skinny neck.

  “We figured on buying some supplies here,” Bo went on. “We didn’t know that something had happened to the town.”

  “A deluge,” the old man muttered. “The rainbow was a promise from God that never again would the world be destroyed in a flood, but that night…that terrible night…I began to doubt the word of the Lord.”

  “Came a gully-washer and a toad-strangler, did it?” Scratch asked.

  The old-timer shuddered. “The heavens opened, and a torrent came upon the earth. When the ridge gave way, it was like a wall of water came roaring down on the town. An avalanche, only of liquid rather than stone. I saw it coming.” He lifted his hands and covered his face again. They muffled his voice as he went on, “I tried to get the children out of the orphanage, but it was too late. They fled to the upper floor, thinking it would be safer there, but then…then…”

  Frowning, Bo and Scratch glanced at each other. Bo leaned closer to the distraught old man and said, “That big brick building on the edge of town…it was an orphanage?”

  The man lowered his hands and nodded. “Yes. There were more than thirty children living there.” His voice was hollow with agonizing memories. “I…I was the director. George Ledbetter is my name. The Reverend George Ledbetter, although God has turned His back on me now, and rightfully so.”

  “You shouldn’t ought to feel like that,” Scratch said. “Ain’t no way one man can stop a flood.”

  “No, but I should have died in there with them,” Ledbetter rasped. “The older children hustled the little ones upstairs, trying to save them, but then…the flood washed out the foundation. The men who built it must not have used the proper materials…oh, dear Lord, the sound as the timbers began to creak and then snap, the rumble as the walls began to collapse…but even over those sounds, even over the terrible noise of wind and water, I could hear the screams from inside.”

  The old man began to shake and sob.

  Bo let him get some of it out, then said, “You must not have been in the building when the flood hit.”

  Ledbetter managed to nod. “I went out to make sure no one had been left outside and then couldn’t get back in. I thought the children would be safe on the second floor, that the water wouldn’t reach that high. I actually thought that I was in more danger than they were, and I did come near to drowning as the water swept me away. I…I had no idea that the building would fall….”

  “You couldn’t have known that it would,” Bo told him. “What happened to the rest of the people in town?”

  Ledbetter passed a trembling hand over his face. “Many of them were killed. When the waters receded I performed funeral services for what seemed like days on end. The few who survived didn’t want to stay here any longer, and no one could blame them. They left. But I couldn’t. I had to stay.”

  “How long ago was that?” Bo asked.

  “Six months? Eight?” Ledbetter shook his head. “I don’t really know.”

  “And you been here ever since by yourself?” Scratch asked.

  “Yes…but I’m not really alone. The children are here too.”

  Bo and Scratch looked at each other again, then Bo said, “I thought you said all the children were killed when the orphanage collapsed?”

  Ledbetter nodded. “They were. But they are still here nonetheless. They come to me and torment me with their sad eyes and their drowned faces. I see them, pale and lifeless, accusing me with their pathetic gazes. Their spirits will never leave me alone, because I deserted them in their hour of need. They will never know rest, and neither will I.”

  “You’re talkin’ about ghosts,” Scratch said.

  Ledbetter waved a shaking, bony hand at their devastated surroundings. “What better place for them?” he asked, unknowingly echoing what Bo had said earlier.

  Neither of the drifters had an answer for the old man’s question. Bo said, “Drink some more coffee, Reverend, and then have some more of these beans. You need to get your strength back.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Creel. This is more than I’ve talked for quite some time. My throat is rather dry.”

  Ledbetter slurped down more coffee, and Bo helped him put away a good serving of beans. By then Scratch had fried up the last of their bacon, and the reverend ate some of it ravenously too. Then he leaned his head against the wall of the building and moaned. He closed his eyes and seemed to fall asleep almost immediately.

  Bo and Scratch moved off far enough so that their low-voiced conversation wouldn’t be overheard in case Ledbetter was really still awake. “What in tarnation are we gonna do with the old pelican?” Scratch asked.

  “We can’t leave him here,” Bo declared. “He’ll starve to death if we do.”

  “But he don’t want to go. He could’ve left with the other folks who lived through the flood, if there was anywhere else he wanted to go.”

  “That’s only because he feels guilty about what happened to the children in the orphanage.”

  “You can sling him on a horse and tote him away from here,” Scratch said, “but that won’t make him feel any less guilty.”

  “I know,” Bo admitted. “But I can’t just ride away and leave him here to die, either.” He glanced at the sky. “It’s too late in the day to decide anything. We’ll camp here tonight and try to figure it out in the morning.”

  Scratch nodded. “Bueno.”

  Ledbetter was still asleep, snoring softly. Bo and Scratch tended to their horses, unsaddling the animals and giving them a good rubdown. The settlement’s public well, at the far end of the street, had water in it and the crank that lowered and raised a bucket still worked, so Scratch filled a trough that hadn’t washed away in the flood and Bo gave the horses a little of the grain they had left.

  Taking Ledbetter along with them meant that they would have to stretch their meager provisions even further, but as Scratch had pointed out, jackrabbits were abundant in this part of the country. Surely they would come to a settlement sooner or later.

  Dusk didn’t amount to much around here. Once the sun dipped below the western horizon, full darkness came quickly, along with a wind that whipped around the ruined buildings. But during that brief half-light, something stirred inside Bo, a warning prickle that maybe something wasn’t quite right.

  He and Scratch hunkered beside the fire, sipping coffee and eating the last of the beans and bacon that Ledbetter had left. Bo set his plate aside and came to his feet. “I think I’m going to take a look around town,” he said.

  Scratch glanced up at him. “Something wrong?”

  “Probably not,” Bo said with a shake of his head. “I just want to make sure we’re really alone here.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re worried about ghosts.”

  “Of course not. But we’re close enough to the border that there could be a few Apaches skulking around.”

  “Yeah, you’re right.” Scratch reached for his Winchester, which lay on the ground beside him. “Want me to come with you?”

  “No,
stay here and keep an eye on the horses and the old man,” Bo said. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  Taking his rifle with him, he walked along the street. Thick shadows had begun to gather around the wrecked buildings. Movement seen from the corner of his eye caught his attention. He swung his rifle in that direction, then relaxed as he spotted a coyote slinking off into the dusk. Bo chuckled at this uncharacteristic display of nerves on his part. He started walking again and looked in front of him.

  Two children stood there.

  Bo stopped like he’d been punched in the chest. The kids, a boy and a girl around ten or twelve years old, were about forty feet away from him, standing in front of a building that leaned over at a severe angle. Bo couldn’t see them that well because of the uncertain light. He started toward them and said, “Hey. Hey, you kids—”

  They disappeared.

  With the thickening shadows it was hard to tell, but it seemed to Bo that the children were there one second and gone the next. But that was impossible, of course. He was too hardheaded to believe in ghosts. He loped forward, looking on both sides of the street for them.

  But they were gone.

  Bo wasn’t the sort of hombre who cussed very often. If he had been, he would have let out a few choice words right then. Instead he tucked the Winchester under his arm, fished a lucifer out of his pocket, and snapped it into life with his thumbnail. The glare from the match lit up the dirt as Bo lowered the flame toward the street. He was looking for footprints, proof that the two children he’d seen had really been there.

  He didn’t find any.

  Duster lived up to its name; the dust in the street was thick, and Bo didn’t see how anybody could have walked through it without leaving some sign. He grimaced as the flame reached his fingers. He dropped the match and ground it out with his boot heel.

  “You kids come out,” he called softly. “Nobody’s going to hurt you, I promise.”

  There was no sound except the soft whistling of the wind that had sprung up.

  That was the explanation, he thought. The wind had wiped out any tracks the kids left. Sure, that had to be it. The children were small and wouldn’t leave deep prints in the dust. It wouldn’t take long for a stiff breeze like the one blowing now to blur them beyond recognition.

  Bo wasn’t sure if he believed that or not, but it made a lot more sense than thinking those two youngsters were ghosts from the collapsed orphanage.

  And yet, Reverend Ledbetter had insisted that the spirits of dead children came to him and tormented him. He seemed to believe it wholeheartedly. Bo had chalked that up to the guilt the old man felt, but what if—

  No, he told himself. No what if. There were ghost towns scattered across the West, and Duster certainly qualified. But that didn’t mean they were populated by real ghosts, because there weren’t any such things.

  Bo finished looking around the town, and by the time he got back to where he’d left Scratch and Ledbetter, night had settled down completely. “Find anything?” Scratch asked.

  “Not a blessed thing,” Bo replied. He didn’t like lying to his partner, but he didn’t want Scratch to think he was losing his mind.

  Ledbetter still slept. Bo and Scratch sat beside the fire and talked quietly for a while. The night was quiet except for the wind, which made the flames flicker and dance. Then a rumble sounded in the distance. Bo and Scratch both looked up, and Scratch said, “Thunder?”

  “Sounded like it. Might come a little shower up in the mountains. But that doesn’t mean it’s going to flood down here again.”

  Scratch looked around as the horses shifted nervously where they were tied with picket ropes to an old hitch rack about twenty feet away. “Somethin’s spooked those cayuses,” he said as he got to his feet with his Winchester. “I’ll take a look.”

  “I saw a coyote earlier,” Bo said. “That’s probably what’s got them nervous. They must smell him.”

  “Yeah.” Scratch walked toward the animals.

  Before he got there he let out a startled yell and flung the rifle to his shoulder. He didn’t fire, though. Bo uncoiled from where he sat on the ground, drawing his Colt as he did so. “What is it?” he asked.

  “I…I thought I saw somethin’,” Scratch said. “Over by the horses.”

  “That coyote?”

  “No.” Scratch hesitated. “It looked like…a couple of kids.”

  Scratch’s shout had roused Ledbetter from sleep. The old man heard what Scratch said, and he shrieked, “They’re back! Oh, dear Lord, the children are back!”

  There was no point in keeping anything from Scratch now. Bo told him what he’d seen earlier. “Yeah, a boy and a gal,” Scratch agreed. “No more’n twelve years old, either of ’em.”

  Ledbetter moaned. “Those are the spirits that always appear to me. The girl’s name is Ruthie. The boy is Caleb. They died when the orphanage collapsed.”

  “That don’t hardly seem possible,” Scratch insisted. “Folks don’t just get up and walk around when they’re dead. It ain’t natural.”

  “Nothing is natural about this accursed town, my friend.” Ledbetter shuddered. “Nothing.”

  A distant flicker of lightning to the north made Bo glance in that direction. Ledbetter noticed it too and whimpered, probably at the memories that sight must arouse. No doubt those were the first warning signs the inhabitants of Duster had had on that night months earlier: the rumble of thunder like the sound of distant drums, and fingers of light clawing their way across the ebony skies.

  “God is about to visit His final judgment on Duster,” Ledbetter went on. His voice rose on a note of hysteria. “You should leave, my friends. Leave while you can still save your immortal souls!”

  The ragged old preacher leaped to his feet and began dashing back and forth, howling like a madman. Scratch said, “Dadgummit!” and tried to grab him, but Ledbetter was too fast. Scratch missed. Bo moved to get in the old man’s way, but Ledbetter darted past him too—then tried to stop as a dark shape loomed around the corner of the building, blocking his path. Ledbetter bounced off of whatever it was, stumbled, shrieked, and fell to his knees.

  This was no apparition, Bo knew. Ledbetter had run into something—or someone—solid. Bo reached for his gun, but the metallic ratcheting of a revolver being cocked made him freeze.

  “Hold it, both of you hombres,” a deep, gravelly voice rasped. “Keep your hands away from them hoglegs.”

  Several more men came around the building. Starlight glinted on the barrels of the guns they held. Bo couldn’t make out many details about them, but he felt the menacing undercurrent in the air.

  “No need to go waving guns around,” Bo said in a calm, level voice. “We’re not looking for any trouble.”

  Ledbetter lay huddled on the ground, whimpering. The first gunman jerked his Colt toward the preacher and asked, “What the hell’s wrong with this old coot?”

  “He’s just scared,” Scratch said. “There ain’t no need to hurt him.”

  “Scared o’ what?”

  Ledbetter looked up and sobbed, “The Lord’s vengeance! Save yourselves! Flee while you can!”

  One of the other armed men said, “He’s loco, Tarver. You’d be doin’ him a favor if you put a bullet in his head.”

  The leader turned sharply toward the man who had just spoken. “You’re the one who’s loco, you damn fool! You know better’n to go spoutin’ my name all over the place.”

  “Sorry,” the man muttered.

  But the damage was done, and they all knew it—all except Ledbetter, who didn’t seem to know anything except his fear. Sam Tarver was the leader of a gang of outlaws that had been plaguing West Texas for months. Posses hadn’t been able to run him and his men to ground, so now the army was giving it a try. Bo had seen a newspaper article about Tarver in El Paso, before he and Scratch left in a hurry.

  Tarver turned toward Bo and Scratch again and came close enough for them to see that he was a big man with a craggy face
and several days’ worth of beard. “You fellas got horses,” the boss owlhoot said. “We want ’em.”

  “We only have two horses,” Bo pointed out, “and there are…” He made a quick head count. “Five of you.”

  “Yeah, well, that’ll still let us rest two of our mounts,” Tarver said. “Anything that helps us move a little faster and stay ahead o’ that cavalry patrol.”

  So the army was catching up to the gang, Bo thought. In fact, he seemed to recall reading that Tarver’s gang was larger than five men. He wondered if the outlaws had already fought a skirmish or two and lost some of their members.

  “We’ll want any supplies you got too,” Tarver went on. “And hell, you might as well go ahead and hand over any dinero in your pockets. We’ll make it a clean sweep.”

  Lightning flashed as he spoke, and a crash of thunder followed his words like punctuation. Reverend Ledbetter howled like a kicked dog and curled up on the ground again.

  “Maybe you’re right, Harry,” Tarver added. “Puttin’ a bullet in this crazy varmint’s head would be a blessin’.”

  “I thought you said we wasn’t supposed to use each other’s names.”

  Tarver shrugged. “Well…it don’t hardly matter now, does it?”

  Bo and Scratch both knew what that meant. The outlaws didn’t intend to leave anyone alive in Duster. They didn’t want anybody telling the cavalry patrol which way they had gone. Five to two odds were pretty heavy, especially when the five already had their guns drawn, but the drifters had faced worse in their adventuresome career. And since they still had their guns, they’d be damned if they would die without a fight.

  But before Bo and Scratch could hook and draw, one of the outlaws who hadn’t spoken before suddenly said, “Look yonder, Tarver! It’s a couple o’ kids!”

  “What?” Tarver exclaimed. “Where?”

  “Right over there,” the owlhoot said, pointing. “I…I…Where the hell’d they go?”

  “Spirits!” Ledbetter screeched. “Spirits of the dead!”

  “Shut up!” Tarver roared. “I’m gettin’ mighty tired o’ you, old man—”

  “Hey, mister….”