“It’s like the wind just lifted him up and carried him away,” the cowboy said.
“Or maybe he wasn’t nothin’ but a ghost to start with,” a townsman suggested. “Maybe he died when the town died.”
So now Two Forks was officially dead. The last person to have lived there was gone. The tall old courthouse stood as silent testimony to the town that once had been, and to the man who had stubbornly refused to accept that it was gone.
But as Sandy had long predicted, the courthouse did not die. It refused to submit to the wind and the rain and the ravages of time. After many years, some former citizens of Two Forks decided it was time to honor the town’s memory with a big reunion, a barbecue and dance. Where better to have it than in the courthouse? No one knew where to find the keys, if they even existed anymore, so someone had to pick the lock so the committee could go inside and clean up the place for the benefit of the expected crowd.
To their amazement, the courthouse was as clean as if it had just been swept. Tight windows, they reasoned, had not let the dust in. There should have been cobwebs, yet they saw none. Even the windows sparkled as if freshly washed.
The ghost of Sandy Fuller, some said. He had never given up his job.
The state placed a historical marker beside the front door of the old Two Forks courthouse. The reunion and barbecue became an annual affair, and dances were a frequent event. From time to time the old building pulsed with life as it had long ago. Visitors came often in hope of glimpsing the ghost of Two Forks, but none ever saw him. They knew only that occasionally he still swept the courthouse by night and kept it clean. No one ever knew how Sandy Fuller had disappeared.
Well, almost no one. Cap Anderson knew, for he had found Sandy lying dead beside Ardella’s grave. Knowing Sandy’s love for the courthouse, and knowing the law would not allow it if anyone knew, he secretly buried him in the basement.
He kept Sandy’s keys. He also kept Sandy’s broom until he wore it out and had to replace it with a new one.
Kiowa Canyon
James A. Fischer
Shell Green’s breath caught in his throat as he reined in his horse. The realization he’d been in this canyon before hit him like being kicked by a mule. If he remembered right, it was about twenty years before.
Stone Knife, the Kiowa, stopped and turned his horse, waiting for Shell to catch up with him. It looked like he had a smile on his face, but that could be the heat waves coming off the high canyon walls.
The thought that something wasn’t quite right about the direction they had been traveling had been stuck in the back of Shell’s mind for a few days. I didn’t like this damn redskin when we met at the border, and I trust him even less now, he thought to himself.
Shell squeezed his horse lightly with his knees and the animal started walking up the canyon. Past the Kiowa and around a bend in the canyon was where the village should be. Twenty years, was it really that long ago? That’s over and done with, and I’ve got other things that are more important to think about right now.
“Mighty hot today, how much farther to the water?” asked Shell as he stopped beside Stone Knife. “I’m out, and my horse could use some.” Wiping his brow with a bandanna he put his hat back on.
“Just ahead is water.” Stone Knife nodded to his right up the canyon and started his horse in that direction. Shell moved along behind him with butterflies whirling around in his stomach. By resting the right one on the grip of his Colt and holding the reins tight in his left, he kept his hands from shaking.
Shell and his hired hands had brought the herd of mares across the Rio Grande out of Mexico west of the Pecos River. Shell and the cook had ridden into the whiskey trader’s place to pick up supplies and found the Indian waiting for them. He was dressed in white man’s clothes except for moccasins that Shell noticed were Kiowa, and a buckskin vest with some bead work on it. He gave Shell a letter from Quinn McVey, Shell’s boss, turned around and mounted his horse.
The country was in a drought and McVey had hired Stone Knife to find the water holes that hadn’t dried up yet. Water was always a problem, and with two hundred head of horses in the hottest months of the year, McVey wasn’t taking any chances. They were blooded mares from good breeding stock down in Mexico and a lot of money had been paid for them. So Stone Knife was to be the guide for Shell Green and the herd of horses till they reached McVey’s ranch.
Shell looked up from reading the letter to the cook and raised his eyebrows, then turned to the Indian.
He hadn’t said a word till Shell spoke, and then he spoke very plain but correct English, which surprised everyone.
“What’s your name?” Shell looked up at him after reading the letter.
“Stone Knife.” His voice was clear and distinct.
“What tribe?” Shell asked.
“Kiowa,” he answered.
Shell nodded and swung up on his horse.
“What way should we be headed?”
“That way.” The Kiowa pointed a bit west of north. “I’ll leave trail markers for you.” He started his horse moving, “First water is about ten miles. I’ll be there.”
“Nice meeting you.” Shell’s words were heavy with sarcasm but Stone Knife was out of hearing range.
Giving him a guide just sure as hell rubbed Shell the wrong way. “Damn it! I’m a leader not a follower and have been most of my life.” Shell was talking to himself again, just like every day since Stone Knife had become their point man. “Why I remember when…, NO! I don’t want to remember. Enough! Right now I have to get these horses to water, that’s all.” Shell gave a gruff half laugh, shook his head, and kicked his horse into a trot, heading back to the herd. He’d start them north, again, then he’d head up the trail looking for the markers Stone Knife would have left to show the way.
It was already seventy degrees at sunup and the two hundred Mexican horses started to mill around in the meadow. As the sun broke over the low foothills, the night guard came in to eat and change horses for today’s move up the trail.
As they rode up to the wagon where the rest of the wranglers were finishing their coffee, Green asked the night guard. “Any sign of that no good redskin?”
“Nope,” said the lead man swinging down. He dropped his reins and walked to the fire, shaking his head as he picked up a cup and filled it from the coffeepot. “I think yer Buck scooted back to the rez to impress the squaws with his newfound wealth.”
“Soon as you eat, I want to get movin’.” Shell spoke over his shoulder while walking to his horse. “Next water’s about five miles I think. Next after is ’bout twelve.” Shell swung up into his saddle. “Damn long day if we have to go twelve, so eat quick.”
“Everything with you is quick,” the lead man replied. “Eat quick, piss quick, ride quick. Hell, Shell, slow down, you’re an old man.”
“Just talked yerself out a eating, Mister. Dump out the coffee, Cookie, and pack it up, we’re moving, now!” Shell spun his horse around and loped off to the herd and started to yell at the cowboys to move out. The ones by the fire just shook their heads and cussed at the lead man for losing them what little breakfast they were going to get. Not so much as a cup of bad coffee. It was going to be a long day.
Shell rode ahead of the horses and wranglers looking for signs from the Kiowa showing him which direction to take the herd for water. Today he rode quite a few miles before he found the sign and then it was not what he had hoped for. The main trail through another canyon to the next water was blocked by a rock slide, so Stone Knife pointed them through this side canyon. The only other route would have been around the foothills region, and ten extra miles of travel. Shell took off his hat and wiped his forehead with the shirt sleeve of his right arm.
No use going back and telling the men we’re going farther. They’ll read the sign just like I did and keep moving, Shell thought as he headed his horse in the direction the rock sign pointed. Why does that damn Indian make me so nervous? There’s something about
him and this trip since he’s hooked up with us that keeps me on edge all the time. I want to keep looking over my shoulder, behind every thicket, and jump at any loud sound. Sorry I didn’t get some whiskey back at the trader’s because I sure could use a shot or two to keep the thoughts of calamity from running around in my head.
Coming into the foothills from this direction hadn’t registered with Shell until he reached this point and saw the landmarks on the walls of the canyon. Shell recognized the petroglyphs, or ancient drawings carved into the stone, that were on the canyon walls. People had been coming to this spring for centuries and had left their mark with the stone carvings.
This had been the site of one of Shell’s early Indian fights after he returned from the Civil War, and his first against a village. He’d been nervous that day, and he was just as nervous today, rounding the bend in the canyon.
On the ground he had to look closely to see that a village had once been here. Only by carefully peering through the grass did you finally see the stone tipi rings. These were the stones that held down the outside edge of the tipi, and in the middle of them he then could make out, in a few places, the fire rings. An occasional piece of charred wood, looking like part of a tipi pole, was scattered around the area, but nothing else was visible to show that this place was once home to men, women, and children.
Shell stopped, but Stone Knife continued riding into what had been the village. In his mind Shell heard the sounds from twenty years ago and a sweat broke out on his forehead and under his arms. The children and women were screaming as Shell and the militia he was with rode through the village, firing at anything that moved and riding down anything that ran. They had been told “No Prisoners!” The Kiowa of fighting age were all away, raiding in Mexico or somewhere with the Comanche. Old people, children, and women didn’t offer much resistance, and were soon killed or had escaped into the many small canyons and washes that made up this country.
Riding back through the burning village, Shell saw the men laughing and setting fire to the tipis after taking anything they wanted out of them. Others were scalping the dead, even the babies, because a reward was paid for scalps regardless of size.
As Shell stopped to look over the scene he could hear occasional shots in the canyons around the village that meant some of the villagers had been tracked down. More scalps. Turning to ride back the way he and the other Indian fighters had come, he realized he hadn’t fired the pistol in his hand. Quickly holstering the pistol Shell kicked his horse into a lope hoping no one had seen him, but had to rein his horse quickly out of the way. Coming toward him was Louis, an old Indian fighter who had taken him under his wing.
“Damn, Shell. I was just bring’n you a special present. No call to run me down!” Louis was holding something bloody in his outstretched hand.
“Whatever it is, I’m not interested! Now get out of my way or I will run you down.” Shell was afraid his stomach was going to come up any minute. He wanted to be out of sight of these men if it did.
“That’s all right, Shell. I’ll fix it up for ya. I’ve made these many times,” Louis called after Shell.
Shell was brought back to the present by his horse stamping his hooves and tossing its head up and down. The horse then began to dance around, snorting, twitching its ears, and swishing his tail. Stone Knife had ridden through the village site and was waiting for Shell about a hundred feet away.
Reining his horse’s head around, Shell tapped him with his spurs and they started along the tracks left by Stone Knife. When they reached the edge of where the village had been, his horse spooked and shied to the left. Shell barely stayed in the saddle. After getting his horse turned around he started to look over the area to see what had caused the horse to act like that.
Looking at Stone Knife, Shell saw that he still sat waiting for him, as if nothing had happened. Shaking his head Shell brought his horse around and began to follow Stone Knife’s tracks again. This time Shell was paying more attention. At just about the same place his horse tried again to turn away from the village site, but Shell was ready this time and stopped him. For the next ten minutes, Shell tried every trick he could think of to get him to walk through the village site. All this time Stone Knife sat on his horse and watched, not saying a word.
Shell was damned if he was going to dismount and lead his horse in front of an Indian.
“Go check the spring.” Shell yelled, “I’ll be back with the herd.”
Shell spun his horse around. Mad because the horse was not obeying him, he gave him both spurs full force and yelled,
“Get-up, get-up!”
Whipping him with the ends of his reins as they raced back to the herd.
Shell had ridden out to check the first of the night guards and was now off by himself building a smoke. He’d licked the paper, twisted the ends, and was about to strike a match when the Indian’s voice floated out of the near darkness.
“Water at the spring is good.” The voice was calm and clear.
“Good.” Shell answered, hoping the Indian didn’t see him jump at his voice. Maybe he’ll think I always strike a match that quick, Shell hoped.
Stone Knife rode up beside Shell and took out a small pipe from his vest pocket, filled it, lit it, and sat smoking with Shell. As they looked over the herd in the dying light Shell finished his cigarette and turned to Stone Knife.
“How were you able to ride through that village today and I wasn’t?”
Stone Knife was quiet for a few moments, then he reached inside his shirt and drew out a small leather bag on a braided leather thong that went around his neck.
“My medicine keeps me safe from many things.”
“Does it protect your horse too?” Shell asked quietly.
Stone Knife pointed to a small leather bag hanging from the brow band of the bridle on the Kiowa’s horse.
“He also has medicine,” Stone Knife answered.
“Could you make medicine for me, my men, and our horses? I don’t know how the hell I’ll get this herd to the water unless we have something like that.” Stone Knife could hear the desperation in Shell’s voice.
“Maybe.” The Indian turned his horse and started to ride away. He quickly became part of the night, but his voice came back to Shell.
“I’ll be back tomorrow.”
Dawn was a ways off when Shell rode out the next morning. He didn’t want the men to find out about the medicine bags ’til he had a chance to ask some more questions about them. Shell just couldn’t figure out why his horse refused to go into the village site. No one was there and no animals were in sight. He hadn’t seen anything that should have spooked a horse or made it afraid to enter the place. It was all a mystery to Shell and he hoped the Indian would answer some of his questions.
Taking out his bag of tobacco and folding a paper, Shell started to build a smoke. Just as he was about to strike a match to light it, Stone Knife appeared beside him.
“I have your medicine bags,” Stone Knife spoke.
“Will you explain what they are to the men so they know why they are wearing them and help put the ones for the horses on the men’s bridles?” Shell asked.
“I only have two and they’re for horses, not men,” Stone Knife said.
“How am I going to get the herd to water with only two medicine bags?” Shell’s voice started to climb. “I’ll be here a month if I can only take one horse at a time to the water!”
“I’ll be at the spring.” Stone knife tossed Shell something as he turned his horse to leave.
Shell caught the wad of leather that the Indian had thrown. The two medicine bags had been tied together with their drawstrings. Looking at them he tried to think how they were going to help him. He was so mad that his mind wouldn’t work.
Jamming the bags inside his shirt, he rode back to the cook’s fire.
After a couple cups of coffee Shell’s mind started to clear enough that he could start putting a plan together. With only two medicine bags all
the work was going to fall on him. He would have to take the herd across the village site without the help of the hired hands.
Shell mounted his horse and rode out to where the herd had been held for the night. It was just getting light and the day riders were relieving the last of the night guard. He rode up to one of the day riders and stopped to look over the herd.
“I’m looking for the Bell Mare,” Shell told the rider.
“She’s lying down on the other side where that buckskin is standing.” The rider was pointing across the herd to a couple horses along the outer edge.
Shell rode around the herd to the Bell Mare’s location. By the time he got there she had gotten up and was pacing around with some of the other horses, looking for water or graze. The herd, or most of it, would have to be moved today because the grass in the area was about used up.
Taking down his rope, Shell tossed a loop over the Bell Mare’s head and led her out of the herd a ways to a cedar thicket. Dismounting, he tied her to one of the cedars and pulled the medicine bags out of his shirt. Untangling one, he tied it to the bell strap that went around the mare’s neck. Turning around he tied the other bag to his horse’s bridle. Leaving the Bell Mare tied he rode to the village site. Shell stopped before he got to the place where his horse had acted up yesterday, dismounting as he dropped his reins. He picked up a couple rocks and laid them on both sides of the tracks the Indian had made going into the village site. Stepping back to make sure the rocks could be seen from a distance, Shell mounted his horse and headed back to the fire.
Getting a cup of coffee, Shell called the men not watching the herd over to the cook fire to listen to him.
“Yesterday, I tried to follow the Kiowa to the spring up ahead, but my horse wouldn’t go through where an old Indian village was. Damn spirits, or ghosts, or, hell, I don’t know.” Shell looked around at the men’s expressions to see if any were doubting his word.
Ghost Towns Page 26