The Rider of Phantom Canyon

by Don Bendell

  A mile inside the rugged, narrow canyon, Strongheart made camp for the night. A stream ran alongside the narrow road off to his left, and heavy trees surrounded him, with large cliffs jutting up through them. There was plenty of graze for Eagle and clear water running in the creek. He did not anticipate any problems this night, as he was barely into the canyon.

  Joshua had heard of these creatures, but in the Lakota language, the Pahi-zoho was referred to as Iktomi, which translates to “the Trickster.” It was the animal that some whites had been calling a Bigfoot.

  Strongheart, in the short period he had been back, could tell there was a panic going on about the phantom in Phantom Canyon, even among the local sheriff’s deputies and the guards at Old Max. Many believed it was indeed a Bigfoot-type creature, and Strongheart knew and believed that they existed. However, he was certain there were very few around here. Most were in the Northwest, where there were plenty of deer, plenty of rain, lots of streams and rivers, and many large, forested areas with big trees. He had spoken to too many Nez Perce who’d had run-ins with such creatures and had a lot of credibility with Joshua as experienced warriors who knew what they were doing.

  He felt that the semiarid parts, and even the mountainous parts, of southern Colorado would not be an environment suitable for such creatures. He had been out alone often in the mountains and had not seen tracks or sign of one. He also had occasionally heard trees being struck, but always chalked that up to a branch falling or a rock rolling off a cliff and hitting a tree trunk. A few times, he did have branches, or even rocks, land near him on the ground. He had heard of such activities by the Iktomi, but he chalked his experiences up to natural phenomena. Colorado was a land of more rocks than there were grains of sand in the Sahara desert. It seemed only reasonable to him that sometimes rocks would fall or roll for the slightest reason. Tree branches often fall in the forest, as do whole trees, sometimes from the lightest breeze.

  One time, he was talking to his friend from Cotopaxi, old Zachariah Banta, and Zach addressed the horse he had given Joshua being half-Arabian and half-saddlebred. Arabians were known to be very intelligent horses, extremely stable and calm when well broke.

  Zach made the statement, “Wal, Strongheart, I reckon in this here country, we got rocks that sometimes decide ta move. When they do move, ya want a horse unner ya that don’t.”

  Strongheart made camp for the night and slept soundly, knowing his “warrior’s sense” would alert him if trouble started brewing or danger approached. Warriors have a sixth sense more highly developed than that of most people. It is a sense of knowing when danger is approaching. In trying to explain this to Lucky, Joshua asked if he ever got a chill-down-his-spine feeling when someone was looking at him from behind. Lucky responded that he had such an experience when a man he was investigating watched him at night looking into a house through a window behind him. Lucky whirled and saw the man just as he was pulling out a derringer to shoot at the Pinkerton. Strongheart explained that was the “warrior’s sense of knowing,” something that was very developed in men, and women, whose lives depended on always being alert. When hunting, especially with a bow, he explained that he never looked directly at an animal but right behind its tail for that very reason. Prey animals, such as deer and elk, can sometimes sense when they are being watched closely. He further explained that was why some hunters could not understand why they spooked game at the last second when they made no noise and the wind was not blowing.

  Shortly before dawn he came out of a sound sleep, his Colt Peacemaker drawn and his eyes straining against the predawn darkness. He heard a light whinny from Eagle, who was grazing nearby, and he looked at Eagle’s ears and eyes to see where he was focusing. They centered on a small break in the trees, and Joshua saw several mule deer slowly walking between the shadows, headed downhill. Any large predator around probably would have alerted them, so Strongheart immediately went back to sleep.

  He awakened right at dawn and cleaned up in the little creek, then made breakfast and thought about what he would do that day. He soon saddled up after two cups of coffee and some food and headed up the road toward Cripple Creek.

  An hour later, the muscular Pinkerton agent spotted a red scarf tied to a branch on the left side of the road, and he dismounted, going forward slowly and retrieving the scarf. The deputies had wisely placed long branches as a border around the dried tracks in the mud to discourage deer and other grazing animals, or any simply passing through. Joshua, as he approached, could already see that they looked like very large barefoot human tracks with large spaces in between. The stride would fit with a human maybe nine or ten feet tall. A shiver ran down Strongheart’s spine, but he shook that off, knowing it was a normal human reaction to such a sight. He was tracking now and was a warrior trained to track. Not quite as good as his friend Chris Colt, up near Westcliffe, but much better than most any man around, red or white.

  He dropped his reins so Eagle would ground-rein automatically and not move until Strongheart raised the reins again. If he left the reins over the saddle horn, Eagle would follow him, but if they were dropped, he was trained not to move. This was easily accomplished by burying several logs with attached lead lines coming out of the ground. Joshua would stop the paint at each one, dismount, and subtly hook the lead line under the bridle. In that manner, Eagle would try to take a step and could not move. Horses are pattern animals and stick to preset patterns. When Strongheart did this a few times, it became ingrained in the big pinto’s brain not to move if the reins were dropped.

  Strongheart got down on his hands and knees and started to closely examine the tracks. No sooner had he started looking than he heard the clicking of three guns behind him. He turned slowly and saw three prospectors or miners who had just come around the bend in the road to his front. One was pointing a Henry rifle at him, while the other two were pointing pistols. All three were on foot.

  “Wal, wal, wal,” said the rifleman. “Lookee here, boys. We caught us a thievin’ red blanket nigger. Where did ya put our horses, redskin?”

  Strongheart said, “There has been a misunderstanding, gentlemen. I am a Pinkerton agent, not a thief.”

  The man just to the rifleman’s left, Foster Shane, said “Naw, you ain’t. Yer a blanket nigger, and thet makes you one a mah favorite targets. Jest shoot him, Blackie. We’ll find the horses.”

  He laughed at his own comment.

  Luke Blackwell, the rifleman, said, “Naw, we’re gonna hang this ole redskin. The only good Injun is a dead Injun.”

  Strongheart bristled. He had heard that quote attributed to both General Philip Sheridan and seventh U.S. president Andrew Jackson; he doubted if either had said it. But, having just finally helped speed the demise of the notorious Indian Ring, Joshua knew that saying was the sentiment among many white men.

  Tactically, he knew he was in trouble and needed an immediate plan. The man on the right who had not spoken, Dane Mathews, had dangerous eyes, and Strongheart noticed the holster was worn at the top from the man practicing quick draw a lot. The rifleman would be the next to go, as he could not move the rifle as quickly, and the one to his left, Foster Shane, would be third. Joshua had to disarm them for a minisecond anyway.

  He said, “Listen, I am a Pinkerton agent and can show you all my badge and credentials.”

  Luke Blackwell, whose family owned a plantation along the Peedee in the Sandhills of North Carolina, said, “I don’t care what lie you wanna yarn. We found yer moccasin tracks outside our mine last night, an dey was leadin’ away our horses. Dane, git a rope.”

  The one to Blackwell’s right started to take a step, and that was exactly what Joshua needed. The half-breed’s hand whipped down to his Colt .45 Peacemaker, brought it out cocked, and fired. Flame stabbed from the barrel, and a big red spot on Dane’s rib cage appeared as he folded like a suitcase. Strongheart’s left hand fanned the hammer, and flame stabbed out again, and a bri
ght red spot appeared in the middle of Luke’s nose and the back of his head literally exploded. Strongheart’s left hand fanned the hammer again, and that shot hit the left one, Foster, in the stomach a split second after he fired the bullet kicking up dirt between Strongheart’s legs. The three bullets had been fired in less than a second, but the third did not hit the man squarely in the stomach, and Joshua fanned the hammer again and shot Foster again, dead center in the chest. He swayed and fell forward on his face, very dead.

  Without thinking, Joshua started ejecting spent cartridges and thumbing new ones into the revolver as he walked forward, watching all three for any signs of life. Shane’s legs were spasming slowly and involuntarily, but he was dead. All three were indeed dead.

  Strongheart just shook his head thinking about what a shame it was that they had to die. He knew it was their choice, and they obviously were terrible racists, but they were men, and he did not want to kill anybody. They simply had given him no choice. He wondered, as he usually did after a gunfight, if he would not be happier running a ranch or a business. Then he smiled to himself, knowing better. Strongheart was a warrior, a man of the West. Adrenaline made him feel alive, and he was a protector.

  Joshua knelt down by the body of Luke and went through his trousers and shirt pockets, looking for any signs of identification, and found a few dollars and nothing more. He set this aside to put in an envelope from his saddlebags; the collected money would probably help to pay the undertaker. The same was repeated, with the second search retrieving only small change. However, in the pocket of the third shooter, Dane, he found a small tintype of a beautiful young woman. With it was a short letter that read:

  Dane, I love you so, my darling betrothed. Why did you forsake me, my love? Why won’t you please forget this terrible quest for gold and return to me? I am heartbroken and miss you desperately. I don’t need riches or treasures. I just need you.

  Love,

  Esmerelda

  When Joshua finished reading this, he noticed he had a tear rolling down each cheek, and he thought again of Belle, the woman he loved so much who had been brutalized and murdered by the seven-foot-tall behemoth We Wiyake, Blood Feather, whom he had in turn hunted down and killed. He had pretty much come to terms now with the guilt he felt over Belle’s death, but he knew he would never forget her totally and would always grieve. However, he did give himself permission to love again and essentially keep on living.

  Within an hour, a rider came by, and Strongheart sent him to fetch the sheriff’s posse and the coroner, or whoever was coming to get the bodies. He would give a full report later, but for now, he prepared the bodies to be transported.

  Then, he got back to his tracking in the immediate area where the footprints had dried in the mud. Strongheart remembered his friend Chris Colt had said to him that tracks always told a story, and you had to figure out what was going on in the person’s mind or what instincts were going on in the animal’s mind you were tracking. This could help you assemble a trail when tracks disappeared or were covered up for a distance.

  * * *

  Ben Shaffer was the current sheriff of Fremont County, Colorado, which also included what would become Custer County in just a couple more years. He was very curious about all these reports about the creature of Phantom Canyon, so he accompanied his deputies to the scene of the shooting, arriving at mid-afternoon. By that time, Joshua had solved the mystery of this set of tracks.

  Joshua gave a report about the gunfight to the sheriff and his deputies and handed them the envelope with the contents of his attackers’ pockets. Joshua had proven his word was iron, so he would not be questioned further about the incident. The sheriff also promised Strongheart he would write the young lady, whose address was on her note.

  Strongheart said, “Follow me, Sheriff. I’ll show you what I have come up with.”

  He took the sheriff to the tracks that had been discovered, and the lawman gave out a long, low whistle.

  The sheriff said, “Those strides are way, way too long for any man, even one over seven foot tall. The man who left those footprints had to be nine or ten feet tall at least. Look at the size of those tracks. I could fit both my cowboy boots inside each barefoot track and still have room.”

  Strongheart grinned, saying, “What do you suppose it is?”

  The sheriff said, “I guess that monster people keep talking about.”

  Joshua chuckled and said, “Sheriff, those tracks were made by a snowshoe hare running.”

  “What?” the sheriff replied, astonished.

  Strongheart said, “I have seen them in melting snow before. These were tracks made by a leaping hare. When it hit the soft mud, its whole backside would come down on the ground, and he would leap off his hind legs, which would be a little forward of the rump. After snow starts melting, or in this case when the hare hit on wet mud or clay, it made the front of the track look like it had toes like a giant human that is barefoot. Look at the tracks more closely and you will find where the smaller front feet hit as well. Hitting in soft mud or in snow, then especially when the snow melts a little, a running snowshoe hare will make tracks that, from their fannies and all four feet hitting, look like a giant human barefoot track with strides six or seven feet long.”

  The sheriff literally got down on his hands and knees and studied the tracks and saw exactly what Strongheart suggested.

  He stood, saying, “I’ll be go to the dickens. You are absolutely right, Strongheart. But how did the horses or man get killed?”

  Joshua said, “I didn’t say anybody was wrong about the creature in Phantom Canyon. I was just showing you these tracks. I have only begun to search and I have eliminated one piece of evidence. That does not mean a giant creature does not exist like people are saying.”

  The sheriff said, “Well, you’re right about all that, Strongheart. What is it that your father’s folks call them?”

  Joshua said the Lakota call them by two different names. “One is Iktomi, which means ‘the Trickster.’ The other name is Chiye Tanka, which means ‘Big Elder Brother.’ The Utes have another name, and so do all the other nations.”

  The lawman asked, “Do you believe they exist?”

  Strongheart said, “Absolutely, but I am not certain they live in the Colorado area. More in the Northwest, I think, where there is much more rain, big trees, lots of deer—plus vegetation and lots of water. That seems to be important to these critters.”

  “What kind of critter do you figure they are?”

  Joshua replied, “Very large, gigantic really, very smart apes, almost as smart as humans. From those I have spoken to, they speak to each other in a way. They signal each other by hitting trees with rocks and hitting rocks with rocks, with the number of hits giving a certain message. They have different howls and chatter, too. Two men I know who are Nez Perce in the Washington and Oregon area say they have seen them speaking to each other in a simple sign language and different crude speech patterns.”

  “You sound pretty sure about them?” the sheriff said.

  “Yep,” Joshua replied, “I am positive.”

  “Why so positive?”

  Strongheart said, “In our tribe we have no word for lying or untruth. It is something that would get you banished for life. Many tribes and nations are that way. I have had several red brothers swear to me stories about seeing them. They simply would not lie or be mistaken.”

  Joshua broke a twig off a tree and picked something out of his teeth, then added, “I will keep heading north, looking for sign, and camping out along the way. If it is aggressive, it will come to me.”

  The sheriff said, “Well, after killing a seven-foot mad killer and a giant grizzly, let alone a gang of gunmen, if anybody could take on a ten-foot-tall monster that kills horses and men, it would be you, Strongheart. Be careful.”

  Joshua stuck out his hand and then whistled. Eagle trotted
up to him, and he grabbed the saddle horn with his left hand and easily swung up into the saddle. He winked at the sheriff and rode north. One of the deputies waved at him and Joshua smiled back, nodding his head.

  So many times he had been called “half-breed,” “blanket nigger,” “red nigger,” and other derisive terms by men who could not pronounce or spell half the words in Joshua’s vocabulary. However, the respect he had been shown here by folks from his town—even the simple act of a deputy waving as he left—it made up for a lot.

  5

  THE MONSTER

  The tall Pinkerton agent rode northward at a slow walk, his eyes methodically sweeping back and forth in thirty-foot arcs directly in his path. Every minute or so, he would glance up into the trees and the cliffs that rose above him, his eyes scanning them for any trace of movement. Occasionally, he would look behind him and memorize his backtrail and watch for danger. In the mountains especially, trails do not always look the same going back on them as they do going forward, so Joshua would check to identify landmarks and see the view for when he made the return trip. At ten-minute intervals, he would simply stop and listen, and Eagle would always sense this and listen, too.