Coyote Falls

by Colin Bainbridge

  Johnny was sitting at a table in the bare saloon with two of his choice companions, Lorne Royston and Quince Lamarr; they had all ridden with Quantrill and Bloody Bill Anderson during the war.

  ‘I just don’t get this,’ Carver was saying. ‘You’re tellin’ me that a lot o’ the boys are gettin’ jumpy ’cos they seen a ghost?’

  ‘That’s about the size of it,’ Royston replied.

  ‘And these are the same boys who fought their way through a war, a war we’re all determined to carry right on fightin’?’

  ‘This is different, boss. They ain’t afraid of flesh an’ blood. Just look at what happened down in Coyote Falls. They plumb enjoyed themselves there.’

  ‘Coyote Falls was just lettin’ off steam.’

  ‘Yeah, but that ain’t the point.’

  ‘Point is,’ Lamarr intervened, ‘I’m beginnin’ to feel that way myself.’

  ‘You claimin’ to have seen this ghost?’

  ‘Nope. But I’ve heard things.’

  ‘Of course you’ve heard things. This whole place has been deserted for years. You heard a door creak or a rat on the stairs.’

  Lamarr shrugged. ‘Borg says he put his rifle down while he was doin’ somethin’. When he came to pick it up agin it was gone.’

  ‘Don’t you reckon it feels a mite cold in here?’

  ‘We’re thousands o’ feet up in the mountains,’ Carver said. ‘What do you expect?’

  ‘It don’t seem like normal cold. Sometimes I go into a building and the temperature just seems to drop.’

  Carver got to his feet and walked over to the bar where a few bottles were lined up. Reflected in the cracked mirror he could see the worn faces of his fellows over their empty glasses. He poured himself a drink, then returned to the table with the bottle.

  ‘So what are you sayin?’

  ‘I say we move out. I just don’t like this place. Gives me the heebie-jeebies.’

  Carver was thoughtful. He didn’t give much credence to what he was hearing, but he had enough experience of leading men to know the importance of morale.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘If it’s gonna make people any happier, we’ll head over the range and wait things out in an old way station I know. It ain’t so handy as this for the mines, but once Watts arrives with the map we can come back again.’

  ‘You’re puttin’ a lot of faith in this hombre Watts,’ Lamarr said.

  ‘Don’t worry. He’ll come through. In the meantime the boys are gatherin’ together and we’re hittin’ pay dirt. A couple more stage hold-ups should help fill in the time. Once everyone’s together and we know where to look for that buried loot we’ll be ready to ride big time.’

  ‘Those damned Yankees don’t know what’s comin’ to them!’ Royston barked. ‘Man, pay-back time is surely here.’

  ‘You got it right there,’ Lamarr said.

  Talk of their plans for the future seemed to settle them down. A few drinks helped to make things look a lot rosier.

  ‘Call the boys together and I’ll have a word with them, tell them we ride tomorrow,’ Carver said. They finished drinking and got to their feet.

  ‘Hope there ain’t no spooks at this way station,’ Lamarr said. He stopped when he saw Carver’s cold gaze upon him. Next day Carver and the rest of the gang moved out of Elk Creek.

  Calhoun and Bingley had ridden up through the hills and they were now approaching the higher peaks of the Beaver range. They travelled slowly, both because of the steepness of the terrain and because it was unknown to Calhoun. It was certainly spectacular. Ahead of them was a wide panorama of rugged mountains with snow-capped peaks disappearing into low clouds. Off to their left the land fell away to a valley hundreds of feet beneath, clothed with stands of pine, spruce and aspen.

  ‘I never thought it would be like this,’ Bingley said.

  They sat their horses to admire the view.

  ‘What was it you said made you come out West?’ Calhoun asked.

  ‘Figured I’d set up as a lawyer.’

  ‘Yeah? Where’d you learn about the law?’

  ‘Boston.’

  ‘Well, you’re a long ways from Boston now.’

  ‘Boston, Coyote Falls. It’s the same law.’

  ‘Guess so. Different set of folks though. It’s applyin’ it is likely to cause the problem.’

  Bingley seemed thoughtful. ‘Quite a contrast, isn’t it?’ he said. Calhoun gave him a questioning look. ‘I mean between the beauty of this scene and the ways of men.’

  ‘Never really give it much thought. Always seemed sensible to take people as I find them.’

  ‘You fought in the war?’

  ‘Sure did.’

  ‘You must have seen some terrible things?’

  ‘War changes people. There was bad on both sides. There was no accountin’ for some of it.’ Calhoun looked away across the valley. ‘But there weren’t just bad things,’ he said. ‘It brought out the good in people too.’

  There was a pause before Bingley spoke again. ‘What do you intend to do about this man Carver?’

  ‘It’s not the first time I’ve been asked that question. Still not sure of the answer.’

  They carried on, the cougar still loping along ahead of them.

  ‘This is his kind of country,’ Calhoun remarked.

  They were crossing a high plateau when they caught their first sight of the ghost town.

  ‘I heard some talk of this place,’ Calhoun said. ‘Never sure just what to make of it.’

  ‘Is this where you expect to find Carver?’

  Calhoun nodded. ‘Seems strange, though, we ain’t seen or heard of anyone.’

  He climbed out of the leather and reached into the saddle-bags of the packhorse to draw out a pair of field glasses which he put to his eyes. For a long while he scanned the tumbledown buildings before replacing the glasses.

  ‘The whole place seems deserted.’ He looked about and walked some little distance either side of the trail.

  ‘There are old tracks,’ he said.

  ‘Wouldn’t the cougar know if there were people about?’

  ‘You’re gettin’ the hang of ol’ Cherokee.’ Calhoun grinned. ‘Yeah, you’re right. She’s shown no sign of catchin’ human scent.’

  He took another good look about. ‘We’ll carry on,’ he concluded. ‘But keep your eyes open.’

  As a precaution he took his Winchester out of its scabbard and laid it across his knee as they rode on. The only sound was the wind and the steady drum of their horses’ hoofs. Just outside of town a sign lay in the dust: the words ELK CREEK were barely discernible. The town lay in a sprawl along what had once been the main street. Most of the buildings were in a bad state, their roofs had fallen in and there were great gaping holes where there had once been windows. Some had collapsed completely, but most struggled to retain an upright stance, like old people bent over with age and infirmity. A few sagged and leaned together. Some were like skeletons revealing the twisted wooden bones of their structure.

  ‘It’s kinda creepy,’ Bingley said.

  ‘Just so long as there’s no outlaws hidin’ behind them walls,’ Calhoun responded.

  In fact, as he rode he could see plenty of sign that they had been here. There were tracks in the dirt of the street and horse droppings. His keen eyes saw cigarette butts and at several points the imprint of boots. They came up to the hotel, dismounted and tied their horses to the hitch rail. One of the batwings was missing and the other hung at a crazy angle. They stepped through. There were a few tables and battered chairs with missing legs. In one corner a piano gathered dust. A chandelier still swung from the ceiling and another lay shattered on the floor. At the side of the bar there were stairs, broken in places, leading to an upper floor.

  Carrying his rifle, Calhoun stepped over various items of debris and began to climb the stairs. Bingley had drawn his gun and followed close behind. They came to a corridor at the top of the stairs with a worn carpet full of holes. Th
ere were rooms on either side and stepping into the nearest one, Calhoun advanced to a broken door with shattered windows leading on to a balcony.

  ‘Be careful,’ Bingley called. ‘It’s probably unsafe.’

  Calhoun stood outside where he had a view of the street. Beyond it he could see the stream and, overlooking all, the darkening mountains. Bingley joined him.

  ‘Nobody here,’ Bingley said. ‘Looks like you got it wrong.’

  ‘The outlaws were here recently. And there’s somebody still here.’

  Bingley looked at him in surprise. ‘How can you know that?’ he said.

  ‘Look at Cherokee,’ Calhoun replied. The cougar was down in the street below, pacing about and sniffing the air. ‘Besides, I seen footprints.’

  ‘Footprints?’

  ‘Human footprints. And they were bare.’

  ‘I don’t like this,’ Bingley said.

  ‘Neither do I. But welcome to your quarters for the night.’

  They brought in the stuff they would need from their packs and tended to the horses, leaving them for the night in the rickety livery stables. The horses seemed to catch something of the eerie atmosphere and it took a deal of coaxing to settle them down.

  When they had picked out a couple of the rooms in the dilapidated hotel they made supper. They could tell that both rooms had been recently used but the knowledge only served to make the atmosphere even more unsettling, at least to Bingley. Calhoun was used to long lonely nights on distant trails and he soon slept.

  Bingley, however, could not relax. The dark shadows seemed filled with menace and there were disturbing and suggestive sounds, as if someone was treading on the stair or walking slowly down the empty street. There were creaks and groans as the wind rattled the empty buildings. Bingley lay watching and listening for a long time till his nervousness drew him from his bed and he walked on to the balcony. The desolate street lay below him, bathed in moonlight. The sky was awash with stars above the backdrop of the mountains.

  He found himself wondering what had happened to the people who once lived here when suddenly he stiffened. Was it an effect of moonlight or had he seen for only the briefest moment a shadowy figure framed in the gaping window of a building on the opposite side of the street? He stared long and hard but could see nothing. He was almost satisfied that he had been mistaken when there came a blood-curdling howl that sent shivers down his spine. He turned and flinched as he saw a figure outlined against the sky standing beside him on the balcony.

  ‘It’s only Cherokee,’ a voice said.

  ‘Is that you, Calhoun?’

  ‘Who else would it be?’

  ‘You gave me a fright.’

  He didn’t like to mention that he thought he had seen something. He was feeling a little foolish anyway.

  ‘Still an’ all,’ Calhoun continued, ‘something seems to have unsettled her.’

  They returned to their rooms and somehow Bingley managed to doze off. It was daylight when he came round to the smell of cooking wafting up the stairs. When he came down Calhoun had breakfast ready and it was only when Bingley had put away a good helping of bacon and beans with a couple of cups of strong black coffee to wash it down that Calhoun spoke.

  ‘Somethin’s goin’ on,’ he said. ‘I bin down to the livery stables. Someone’s been feedin’ the hosses.’

  ‘We fed ’em ourselves,’ Bingley responded.

  ‘Yeah, but not with bread an’ sugar. There’s traces on the floor.’

  ‘Maybe we just didn’t see it.’

  ‘That’s possible, but it wouldn’t account for the fact that some of our things are missin’ from the saddle-bags.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘Not so sure about you, but I’m missin’ a spare comb, some matches an’ a shirt.’

  Bingley was about to mention his previous night’s experience but thought better of it.

  ‘What do you think?’ he said. ‘Outlaws?’

  Calhoun shook his head. ‘It ain’t outlaws. I found footprints. It was someone with bare feet, and female I reckon.’

  Bingley’s nerves had not fully recovered after his night of belated and broken sleep.

  ‘You don’t believe—’

  ‘Nope, I don’t believe in ghosts. This was no spook an’ I mean to get to the bottom of it. After I’ve fed Cherokee we’ll do a search of the buildings.’

  Calhoun went off to attend to the cougar, which he had left in a room behind the counter of what had once been the general store. There were still some rusted tins of food behind the counter, some torn sacks and dusty packets of foodstuffs. As he came through the door he knew where the bread and sugar had come from but he wasn’t prepared for the sight which met his eyes when he entered the back room.

  Lying at full length was the cougar but she was not alone. Kneeling beside her and stroking her head was what Calhoun took to be an old woman. She was dressed in a ragged and faded calico dress. Her feet were bare; her long, bedraggled hair was brown and streaked with grey and tied behind her head with a strand of leather. At Calhoun’s entry she looked up with eyes which were surprisingly bright.

  ‘She’s a nice cat. Is she yours?’

  Calhoun was taken aback and it took a few moments for him to gather his thoughts. While he did so the woman continued to stroke the cougar, which seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the attention.

  ‘Had me a bobcat for a while,’ the woman continued. ‘Well, not really, not like this one. He came and went but he was kind of companionable. What’s her name?’

  ‘She’s called Cherokee,’ Calhoun replied.

  ‘That’s a good name.’

  Suddenly she stopped caressing the cougar and looked at Calhoun with alarm written on her features.

  ‘Say, you ain’t one of them outlaw varmints?’ she said.

  ‘No ma’am, I ain’t. You can put your mind to rest on that score.’

  Her features relaxed and a smile spread across her mouth, revealing her brown-stained teeth.

  ‘Nope,’ she said. ‘I figured not.’

  Calhoun wasn’t sure how to proceed. ‘Name’s Calhoun,’ he said, reaching out a hand. ‘Pat Calhoun. There’s a friend o’ mine back in the saloon finishing his breakfast. Why don’t you join us for somethin’ to eat and a cup o’ coffee?’

  The woman considered his offer for a moment. ‘That’s mighty kind,’ she said. ‘Ain’t had coffee in a long whiles. I’m Norah, Norah Carney. Seems kinda strange to say it out loud.’

  She got to her feet and as she moved into the light Calhoun could see that she was not old after all – maybe in her thirties – but she looked dirty and like she’d got used to living rough.

  ‘See you later, old girl,’ she said to the cougar.

  ‘You’re not afraid of her?’ Calhoun said.

  The woman cackled. ‘Glory be, why should I be afraid? We’re two of a kind, me an’ her.’ She looked Calhoun up and down. ‘And I ain’t scared o’ you neither.’

  Since coming out West Bingley was getting used to surprises, but when Calhoun came in with the woman he was completely taken aback.

  ‘Let me introduce you,’ Calhoun said. ‘Norah Carney, Hiram Bingley.’ Bingley awkwardly put out his hand.

  ‘Nice to meet you, ma’am,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Lords a’ mercy, I ain’t been called that in a long time,’ she replied. She scrutinized him as she had Calhoun. ‘I got a feelin’ you an’ me’s two of a kind as well,’ she said.

  Calhoun scraped some bacon and grits from the pan and poured her a cup of coffee, to which she proceeded to do full justice.

  ‘I still got me some supplies left over,’ she said. ‘I do a bit o’ fishin’ an’ trappin’ but it’s a long time since I enjoyed chowder like this.’

  ‘Have some more,’ Calhoun said.

  When she had polished off another plate of food and was on her third cup of coffee, she sat back and regarded the both of them.

  ‘S’pose you’re wond’rin what I’m doing a
bout,’ she said.

  ‘It had got me sort of curious.’

  She opened her mouth and let loose one of her hoarse cackles.

  ‘At least you ain’t scared o’ me like the last lot,’ she said. ‘Plumb had those varmints runnin’ like rabbits. Figure they thought I was a ghost.’

  Bingley remembered the face at the window the previous night. ‘Can’t say I exactly blame them,’ he said.

  It was Calhoun’s turn to laugh. ‘I got to hand it to you,’ he said. ‘Last time those gunslingers tried anything, it took a whole town to beat them off. You done it single-handed.’

  ‘Never took to ’em,’ she replied. ‘I knowed they was no good from the moment they started arrivin’ here.’ She eyed up Calhoun. ‘Now if you ain’t one of ’em, what business you got in these parts?’

  ‘Unfinished business with those owlhoots,’ Calhoun said. ‘We’re on the same side.’

  She cackled again. ‘Apart from when those critters started puttin’ in an appearance, I don’t think I seen nobody up here for years.’

  ‘Go on,’ Calhoun encouraged her. ‘What’s your story?’

  ‘Oh, it’s simple enough. I used to live here with my ma and pa. They ran the general store. Then they up and died, the silver ran out and the miners drifted away. A few o’ the townsfolk hung on but they left eventually. Soon there was only me. I’d got kinda used to the place. Didn’t fancy heavin’ up sticks. So I just sorta stuck around. I’ll admit it can get a mite lonesome at times, but I can’t say as I was ever one for the bright lights.’

  ‘Tell me more about the outlaws,’ Calhoun said.

  ‘They started comin’ in dribs an’ drabs but it soon got to be a regular stream.’

  ‘How many of ’em?’

  ‘There must have been more than a couple o’ dozen. One day a lot of ’em rode out; not quite so many came back again.’

  ‘That must have been when they hit the town,’ Bingley commented. ‘Any idea where they are now?’

  ‘Sure.’ She laughed again. ‘Still cain’t get over how they high-tailed it because of one woman. Anyways, I heard them talkin’. They’ve moved on to an old way station down the other side of the mountains.’