Ghost Canyon (The John Decker Supernatural Thriller Series Book 7)

by Anthony M. Strong

  PROSPECTOR AND PIONEER.

  BEGUN IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD, 1868.

  Decker turned the page, his excitement growing. Travis Biggs was obviously an ancestor of the recently departed Harlan Biggs. That the casino owner was reading this book, clearly a journal kept by his ancestor, at the same time he was skulking around the Ghost Canyon Mine could not be a coincidence. Especially since the man who penned the Journal, Travis Biggs, identified himself as a prospector.

  Decker leafed through the pages. The first half of the Journal described the author’s departure from the East Coast and his grueling cross-country journey. He endured one hardship after another, including a food shortage, an outbreak of cholera among the larger group he was traveling with, and a Comanche attack which left one man dead and three more with arrow wounds. But it was an entry toward the middle that caught Decker’s attention. A passage that recounted Travis Biggs arrival in the bustling frontier town of Haley, Nevada, malnourished and suffering from dehydration. He scanned the page, and then the next one. By the time he’d reached the last pages, his hunch turned into a certainty. This was what they were looking for, and it explained so much more than why Harlan Biggs was sniffing around the mine. It also told Decker what the creature was, and why it was there. He read the relevant passages again, digesting every word, and then he closed the Journal and stood. The pieces were falling into place. The long dead prospector, Travis Biggs, had provided him with most of the answers, but he needed more information in order to defeat the creature, which he now knew certain Native American tribes referred to as the Baykok. And he needed the information quickly, because once darkness fell the creature would want to kill again, and he wasn’t completely sure the symbol he’d drawn in the earth at the second mine entrance would actually hold the creature at bay.

  “Hey.” Barnes appeared in the office doorway. “Fowler just texted. Wagner Mitchell’s place is clean. He’s going to borrow a pool car and head back to Haley.”

  “I figured it would be, considering.”

  “You find something?”

  “I found everything,” Decker said, holding up the Journal in a gloved hand. “You fancy making an unscheduled stop?”

  “Sure,” Barnes said, shrugging. “Where are we going?”

  “Downtown,” Decker replied. “Out past Fremont Street.”

  “That’s in the opposite direction to Haley.” Barnes looked confused. “Why would you want to drive out there?”

  “Because that’s where the Paiute Tribe live.” Decker stepped past Barnes toward the penthouse door. When he reached it, he turned to look back over his shoulder. “Don’t stand around. Hurry. We don’t have much time.”

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  The Las Vegas Paiute tribe’s downtown reservation sat on North Main, two-and-a-half miles away from Fremont Street, the area that most tourists associated with downtown. The small reservation, deeded to the tribe at the start of the twentieth century by a sympathetic landowner, was only a fraction of the lands now controlled by the Paiute. Further away, at the north end of Red Rocks Canyon, was another four thousand acres returned by the Federal Government, which the Paiute operated as a golf resort. But it was the administration building on the downtown reservation that interested Decker.

  “I still don’t see why we need to go here,” Barnes said as they drove toward their destination.

  “Because the answer to our problem may lie there,” Decker said. He patted the Journal, which he’d brought from Harlan’s office. “This tells us how the creature was created, and its purpose. Harlan’s ancestor was a greedy man, and when he found a rich vein of gold in the Ghost Canyon Mine, he didn’t want to share it. Most of the other mines in the area were already tapped out by then, and the prospectors who called Haley home were already departing for better opportunities. He knew if word spread of a fresh discovery, he’d never contain the flood of new prospectors.”

  “Okay. I still don’t see what that has to do with the murderous creature prowling about.”

  “There was a man of Native American ancestry living in town. Travis Biggs, the author of the journal, refers to him as a half-breed. He was part Ojibwe, and part Western descent. Consequently, he was an outcast. But he knew things. When he arrived in Nevada from the Great Lakes region, he brought the knowledge of his ancestors with him. This included an entity known as the Baykok, a terrifying creature with glowing red eyes, a hypnotic gaze, and the ability to fly.” Decker waited a moment for this to sink in before continuing. “Does that sound familiar?”

  “Chillingly so,” Barnes replied. “You think Travis Biggs summoned this entity?”

  “I do, with the help of the part Ojibwe outcast. A man referred to in the journal only as Karuk.”

  “But how?”

  “The Baykok is created from the scattered bones of a disgraced warrior. In this case, they used the remains of a man interred outside the traditional burial grounds. A Paiute named Shilah. Travis doesn’t say what caused Shilah’s fall from grace and subsequent burial so far from the rest of the tribe. I suspect he didn’t know, since the grave was already ancient when they visited it. Suffice to say, they desecrated the remains and stole some of the bones, which they scattered in the mine.”

  “There must’ve been more to it than that.” Barnes didn’t look convinced. “Just taking a few bones from a grave and putting them somewhere else doesn’t create a monster.”

  “I assume there was an incantation or some other magic at work. Regardless of how Karuk accomplished it, we’ve already met the result, and it almost killed us.”

  “True. Although it’s a lot to get my head around,” Barnes said. “And it still doesn’t explain why we need to visit the reservation.”

  “Because Travis Biggs failed, which is why the creature is still with us. After Karuk placed the bones in the mine and summoned the tortured soul of the disgraced warrior, he got a bullet in the back for his troubles. It was a brazen admission of murder written by the very man who committed the act. But this was the Old West, and Haley had no law enforcement.”

  “That solves another mystery,” Barnes said. “The skeleton Robyn has in her museum. She found it up near the mine and it dates back to that era.”

  “Precisely. The skeleton displays damage consistent with being shot, which matches the confession in this journal.”

  “We can safely assume the skeleton is Karuk, then.”

  “It’s a reasonable hypothesis.”

  “That still doesn’t explain why the creature is still around. Travis Biggs must’ve had an exit strategy, or he wouldn’t have killed the only person with the knowledge to summon the Baykok.”

  “Because he made a mistake,” Decker replied. “After murdering Karuk, he stayed out of the way and let the creature do its work, killing the other miners. Presumably, word spread that the mine was haunted.”

  “Which is why the area was consequently named Ghost Canyon.”

  “Exactly. Other prospectors would have been loath to step foot inside the mine, especially since Travis was now the only one who knew about the gold still contained there.”

  “Right.” Barnes nodded.

  “Except that he could never reach the gold. He went back into the mine and gathered up the scattered bones, just like Karuk said to do. He returned them to their original burial spot, which should have appeased the angry spirit, and caused it to depart. But when he tried to reach the gold, the Baykok was still there. Knowing not to look directly at it, he was able to escape, but only barely. This is where the journal ends. The last pages are blank.”

  “Something must’ve happened to Travis Biggs.”

  “Clearly. While we will never know the circumstances of his demise, it’s reasonable to assume that he kept trying to reach the gold and eventually fell prey to the creature. My guess is that his bones are somewhere in those tunnels to this day.”

  “The man he murdered, Karuk, must’ve done something to ensure his own safety.”

  �
�That’s what I’m thinking,” Decker said. “He knew Travis Biggs might try to double-cross him. He just didn’t expect it to happen so soon. He made sure Travis could not get rid of the creature alone. The most obvious way to do that would be to keep one of the bones and hide it. Then, even if Travis reinterred the remains, the skeleton would not be complete, and thus Shilah’s energy would not dissipate.”

  “Makes sense,” Barnes agreed. “It also explains why Harlan Biggs was so interested in the mine. Gold. He was heavily in debt to a mobster and might lose his casino, or worse.”

  “He must’ve seen news reports about the deaths inside the mine and realized his ancestor’s journal was true,” Decker said.

  “It’s all falling into place,” Barnes said. “You still haven’t said why we’re visiting the Paiute. We know what the creature is and how it came into existence. We know how to defeat it.”

  “But there are still two things we don’t know,” Decker replied.

  “What happened to the bone Karuk held back in anticipation of Travis Biggs deciding he was a liability,” Barnes said.

  Decker nodded. “And where Shilah’s grave is located.”

  “You think someone in the modern Paiute Tribe has those answers?”

  “I believe they can point us to Shilah’s grave,” Decker said as Barnes pulled up in front of their destination, the Paiute Tribe’s administrative center. “And as for the bone Karuk kept back, I may already have solved that mystery. But we won’t know until our return to Haley.”

  “Then what are we waiting for?” Barnes asked, turning the engine off and jumping from the vehicle. “Let’s take care of this and get back there quick as we can.”

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Decker and Special Agent Barnes approached the Las Vegas Paiute Tribe’s administrative building but were disappointed to find the lobby doors locked.

  “Doesn’t look like anyone’s home,” Barnes said.

  “It would appear that way.” Decker peered through the glass, noting that the lights were off. “There are no opening hours posted.”

  “We might need to come back tomorrow. Get here earlier in the day.”

  “I’d rather not wait that long,” Decker said. “We’ll have to find another way. This is too urgent.”

  “Short of walking around knocking on random doors, hoping someone hereabouts knows something, I don’t know what else we can do.”

  “If that’s what it takes,” Decker said, “that is what we should do. I’d rather not risk the Baykok escaping again tonight and killing anyone else.”

  “I hear that.” Barnes rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I’m just not sure it will get us very far.”

  Decker was about to reply, when he heard a door slam around the side of the building. Moments later, a slender woman of no more than thirty years of age, with long dark hair, and an olive complexion, appeared in the parking lot. She carried a bag over her shoulder, a bunch of keys in one hand, and a can of soda in the other.

  She looked surprised to see Decker and Barnes at the building’s front doors. “Can I help you, gentlemen?” She asked, changing course, and walking toward them.

  “Maybe,” Decker replied. He lifted a hand and shielded his eyes from the sun, which was now low on the horizon. “Do you work here?”

  “Right now, I’m the only one that works here. At least, full time.” The woman drew level with them. “Is there something in particular you’re looking for?”

  “Yes, there is,” Decker replied. “My name’s John Decker, and my colleague here is Special Agent Jackson Barnes. We’re looking for information regarding the tribe’s history, and in particular, the final resting place of a warrior known as Shilah.”

  “I’m Sandra Levi. I’m the administrator here. Actually, I’m the entire staff.”

  “Really?” Decker looked surprised.

  “There are less than sixty Las Vegas Paiutes left. Most of us work in one of our smoke shops, or at the golf resort out on Route Ninety-Five.”

  “I see,” Decker said. “Can you tell us anything about Shilah? It’s important.”

  “I’m sorry,” Sandra said, shaking her head slowly. “I’ve never heard that name. How long ago did he live?”

  “We don’t have an exact date, but he would’ve died before the 1870s. Possibly even a century or more before that.”

  “That far back.” Sandra looked thoughtful. “Our history, especially centuries ago, was mostly oral. There is someone that might help you, although I can’t guarantee he will have the information you need. His name is Bobby Yellowhorse. He’s been collecting the history of the tribe for as long as I can remember. If anyone knows of Shilah, it would be him.”

  “Fantastic,” Decker said. “Is he close by?”

  “Yes.” Sandra nodded. “He only lives a block from here on Sackett Street.”

  “Great, would you mind giving me the address?”

  “I think I should call him first and make sure he’s willing to see you,” Sandra said. She finished the rest of her soda and deposited the empty can into a trash receptacle, then took out her cell phone. “Just give me a second, and I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Sure.” Decker waited while the young woman placed the call. She conversed with Bobby Yellowhorse for less than a minute and then hung up. “He says he’ll see you. Actually, he sounds rather excited. He likes to talk about our history.” She removed a business card from her bag along with a pen and scribbled on the back, then offered it to Decker. “This is where he lives. My phone number is on there too, if you need anything else.”

  “Thank you,” Decker said, accepting the card.

  “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

  “Me too,” Decker replied. “Because lives may depend upon it.”

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Bobby Yellowhorse lived in a small cinderblock house painted yellow with sky-blue trim. A barn stood to one side of the main structure, in front of which was an old Camaro that looked like it hadn’t moved since Bill Clinton was in the White House. Another vehicle, a dusty Ford Mustang at least a decade newer, stood on the driveway.

  Barnes pulled his Crown Victoria behind the Mustang and came to a stop, and together he and Barnes approached the house. The front door opened before they even reached it.

  The man they had come to see was so old Decker couldn’t begin to guess his true age. His dark tanned face was wrinkled like a roadmap. His hair, thinning but still down to his shoulders, was pure silver. As they drew close, he turned and hobbled back into the house, using an intricately carved cane to support his weight. As he went, he motioned for them to follow him inside.

  He moved to an armchair that took up a corner of the room opposite a tube television with rabbit ears on top and sat down with a relieved grunt. “Pardon me for not standing on ceremony,” he said, leaning the cane against the side of his chair. “But my legs aren’t what they used to be, and if I’m on my feet for more than a few minutes, the arthritis pain is unbearable.”

  “Not a problem,” Decker said, closing the door behind him and moving further into the room with Barnes at his side.

  “Sandra tells me you have questions about a Paiute warrior,” said Bobby, getting right down to business. “Can you give me some details?”

  Decker told him about Shilah, and their belief that the warrior’s spirit had transformed into a Baykok and was prowling still, looking for new victims.

  “A Baykok? That’s northern folklore. Ojibwe.” Bobby said. If he found Decker’s claim far-fetched, he made no show of it, save for a raised eyebrow. “What proof do you have of this?”

  Decker had brought the journal in with him. He approached the old man, kneeled next to the chair, and opened it, then explained about Travis Biggs and Karuk. He spoke fast, realizing time was slipping away. It was already almost five in the evening. It would be dark soon.

  When he was done, the old man sat with his hands placed in his lap, deep in thought. Then he motioned to a dresse
r on the far side of the room. “Go look in there. You’ll find a binder marked pre-1850. Bring it to me.”

  Decker complied.

  Bobby took the folder with a grunt. “This binder, along with the others in that dresser, represent the information I have gathered about our people. Much of it was handed down to me by my parents and grandparents, or other elders of the tribe, many of whom have now passed on. It’s far from complete, but I’ve done the best I can.”

  “Can you tell us what we need to know,” Barnes asked.

  “Maybe.” Bobby opened the binder and leafed through the pages for many minutes, occasionally making small tuts of frustration. Eventually, he looked up, his eyes sparkling. “There was a member of the tribe called Shilah, a long time ago. He was indeed a warrior who was interred outside of the traditional burial grounds, although what crime he committed to be treated so, has been lost to time. There are no other entries for that name matching the information you’ve given me, so he must be the ancestor you seek.”

  “Fantastic,” Decker said. “Do you know where he’s buried?”

  Bobby nodded. “According to my records, his last resting place is at the far end of Ghost Canyon, on an elevated plateau overlooking the Colorado River, near Eagle Wash.”

  “I know that area,” said Barnes. “It’s only a couple of miles from Haley. It would’ve been easy enough for Travis Biggs and Karuk to walk there from the town.”

  “Can you show us the exact location on a map?” Decker asked.

  “I think so.” Bobby nodded.

  “I have a map in my glove box,” Barnes said.

  “You do?” Decker glanced toward him, surprised.

  “Sure. GPS is great, but an old school paper map comes in useful when you want to mark locations down, especially if they are off the beaten track.” He turned toward the door. “I’ll get it.”

  Decker watched the FBI agent step outside, then turned back to Bobby and took out his phone. There was one other thing he wanted to ask. “Would you mind if I show you something, while we’re waiting?”