by Tim Westover
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That evening, as supper was being set, Annie apologized to Joe for doubting his word that morning, and she told him of her visit with ol’ Miz Lucy.
“Ol’ Miz Lucy say them lights been seen many times by many a fine, upstanding citizen and Injuns too since b’fore the Jayhawker wars.”
As Joe waited for Annie to be seated to say grace, he thought, It ain’t often Annie admits she was wrong. I’d best stay quiet and let her run down.
“She say there’s a tale o’ two Quapaw Indian lovers bein’ chased by their tribe’s warrior braves ’n’ an angry father.” Annie set a bowl on the table and settled into her chair. “Bertie ’n’ me picked them greens comin’ away from Miz Lucy’s.”
Joe clasped Annie’s hand, lowered his eyes, and said, “Bless us ’n’ the grub.” He tucked a napkin in his collar and continued, “Pass them mashed taters, please. What happened to them kids?”
“That lovin’ pair got cornered on a high cliff ’n’ jumped off, smack-dab in the Spring River.”
“Pass me them biscuits, Annie. I suppose the fall kilt ’em . . . mayhaps they drown.”
“Well, you supposed right, Joe. Miz Lucy, she say, that there spook light is speculated to be one of the younguns walkin’ round a-lookin’ for t’other.”
Annie’s recounting of the tale caused her mind to wander on things of feminine romanticizing, and she grew silent.
Joe figured she’d finally run down. “I talked to some ol’ timers round town, ’n’ they told me a few things.” He reached for the last soda biscuit. “Is there any more red-eye gravy?”
Annie shook off her reverie and said, “A few things about what? They’s a little bit left ’n’ more in the skillet . . . a few things about what?”
Joe’s face broke out in a knowing grin. “I heered it’s the ghost of a miner searchin’ for his ol’ lady ’n’ kids, what got kidnapped by a band of renegade Indians way back, long time ago.”
Annie was a bit miffed. “Couldn’t be a miner. T’weren’t no mines here b’fore the Northern Aggression. I reckon that ol’ Injun woman knows better.”
Joe could hardly conceal his grin as he said, “And nother feller claimed the light is caused by the devil himself. He said that if a certain bridge out there is crossed a certain number of times, the devil himself will pop up in a cloud of smoke.”
“T’weren’t no bridges back then neither.” Hearing about the devil making an appearance anywhere at any time was something Annie would never take lightly, and Joe’s grin split his face as Annie saw he was now teasing her.
Using the last biscuit to sop up the last spots of red-eye gravy on his plate, Joe said, “Well . . . no matter what it was that I seen, there’s just no denyin’ I did see it.”
Annie wondered how a tale could take on so many reasons for being. “Joe. I’ve got a hankerin’ to see those great balls of fire or whatever with my very own eyes.”
Joe said, “’Twas a sight to behold.”
“Ain’t never seen a real live ghost. Don’t think one ’d pose much more danger than a wampus cat.”
“Probably not,” said Joe. “You get a chance to make an apple pie today?”
Annie was committed. “And if it turns out to be the devil—why, Lordy, I’ll carry along the Good Book, ’n’ that’ll pertect us. Such a tale that’d make at church next Sunday. Berry pie’s all I got.”
