by J. T. Edson
‘Which’s a thing we’re all scared of happening,’ Bratton commented. ‘But, seeing’s how you’re sat here among’ us still wearing a badge and I’ve never heard of you doing nothing else but being a peace officer, I reckon it didn’t come to that.’
‘It didn’t,’ Branch admitted, exuding an air of relief. ‘But, by cracky, I’ll tell you it was close.’
‘How’d you avoid it?’ Alvin inquired.
‘I didn’t,’ Branch confessed. ‘What I heard was your grandpappy and Miz Freddie dropped by one night to sociabelise with Judge Rothero. [43] Over dinner, ’long of other things, they got to talking accidentical-like about our fuss. Seem’s how Colonel Dusty took to saying’s how he’d never heard tell of Sheriff Billy Bob going out hunting for moonshiners, only after genuine law-busters and’s how having a revenuer gunned down that-aways was reckoned’s being genuine law-busting in some quarters. Top of which, letting such happen without doing nothing to bring the miss-cree-ant in was like to antagic-onalise all the rest of the Bomber Boys so bad they’d come a-swarming into Jack County thicker’n fleas on a back-country mountain-cur [44] ’n’ they’d go to a-chasing and a-prying every which ways until life wouldn’t be fit for living, ‘cause nobody’d be able to whomp up a cooking of White Lightning in peace, nor move any of it that was already made.’
‘Trust Colonel Dusty to think up something as slick as that,’ Sergeant David Swift Eagle remarked. Tall, powerfully built, in his late thirties, despite having his black hair cut short and wearing the attire of a working cowhand, his coppery-brown aquiline features attested to his nationality. He was, in fact, a pure-blood Kiowa Indian. ‘I bet the judge paid mind to what he said.’
‘Sort of,’ Branch affirmed, but nothing in his demeanor showed whether the result had been favorable or not. ‘He said’s how he reckoned the good taxpaying citizens of Jack County couldn’t’ve looked at it that way, so it was his right and bounden ee-lected duty to warn ’em. Which he did.’
‘I just figured he might,’ Alvin stated sardonically, being aware that the Rothero family had long derived the majority of their income from the moonshining activities of the Jack County residents. He had also noticed with pleasure the general concurrence with Swift Eagle’s praise of his paternal grandfather.
‘Now me, I took it right kindly of him to stand by us that way,’ Branch declared. ‘’Cause, after he’d done it, afore you-all could say, “Pass me the jug of White Lightning, Aunt Selina-Mildred,” everybody in Jack County—including Young Charlie Winthrop’s had been, but who was now Ole Charlie Winthrop on account of us—was all neighborly to Sheriff Billy Bob and me ’n’ saying’s how we hadn’t had no choice but to do what we’d done way things stood when we done it.’
‘I reckon we’re all right relieved to hear that justice and reason prevailed,’ the small Texan drawled, glancing across the room as a vehicle of some kind came to a halt at the front of the bunkhouse. ‘And I reckon the story must have a moral some place.’
‘It for sure has,’ Branch confirmed. ‘Goes to show’s how folks’ll support their friendly neighborhood peace officers happen they get shown how doing it’ll bene-fit the communally. Top of which, it taught the fellers running the stills not to go acting too impet-erous when folks strayed in the vee-cinity of their stills.’
Footsteps had crossed the porch while he was speaking and, discovering he was in error by assuming they heralded the arrival of the other two members of the Company when the door opened, he continued in what sounded like an ingratiating tone as he hurriedly brought down the elevated foot. ‘Why howdy you-all, Major. We ’n’s’ didn’t know’s how it was you’s’d just drove up.’
‘That figures,’ Major Benson Tragg replied sardonically, glancing to where the big blue-tick raised its head slightly and its tail gave a single, briefly lethargic wag. ‘Happen you had, you’d all have been dashing around like that fool hound dog pretending to be doing some work instead of just sitting here and letting me catch you loafing this way.’
‘I was just saying this very minute’s how it was time we started to do something,’ the oldest of the sergeants prevaricated, but giving off an aura of speaking the truth. ‘Now wasn’t I, partner?’
‘Like good old General Georgie Washington said when he was asked if he’d chopped down his momma’s cherry tree, I cannot tell a lie,’ the small Texan responded, exuding an equally spurious veracity. ‘So I’ll have to up all honest and truthful to say yes to that.’
‘Times like this, I find myself wishing that blasted lucky B.A.R. hadn’t jammed!’ the commanding officer of Company “Z” snorted, crossing the room to toss his briefcase on to the table and sitting next to the two speakers. ‘Something tells me I’m going to regret asking this, but do you-all believe in evil spirits, Jubal?’
‘Why sure, Major, I believe in ’em good enough to take the odd snort, or six, on occasion,’ Branch replied, then an expression of innocence pervaded his leathery features and he continued in what might have been tones of conscious virtue, ‘Afore them goddamned Yankee pussyfooters [45] up to Washington, D.C., brought in their blasted Prohibitical law that is. But not since, being a duly sworn ’n’ duty bound peace officer who—’
‘I feel as if I’m going to fetch up!’ Tragg interrupted grimly and making a wry face. Swinging his gaze to the youngest of the sergeants, he went on, ‘And, was I to be loco enough to ask, what kind of fool answer are you going to come up with.’
‘Me, sir?’ Alvin answered in a mock unctuous fashion and went on, provoking a sotto voce yet clearly audible mutter of Apple polisher from his partner, ‘Why I’m not the kind to go wasting your invaluable time that way, for shame. I conclude you’re talking about the kind of evil spirits who go roaming around after dark, all white and spooky, wailing and clanking chains fit to scare a body to death. Not those other sort which’re all some old timers who should know better think about, and go to guzzling given half a chance, law or no law.’
‘I couldn’t have put it better myself,’ the Major asserted, paying just as little apparent attention to Branch’s equally distinct ejaculation of ‘He’s a blasted young snitch’s well!’ and noticing it brought grins from the other sergeants at the table. He was aware that such seemingly inconsequential persiflage was a sign the partners had developed a firm respect and liking for each other and adopted it as a means of strengthening the bond between himself and the men under his command, knowing the time could come when he would have to send them on assignments which would not only put their lives in jeopardy, but might be construed as breaking certain constitutional laws. ‘That’s just the kind I meant.’
‘Well now, blast it!’ Branch objected, his demeanor registering asperity. ‘Why didn’t you-all say straight out ’n’ clear what you was after, Major, so’s I wouldn’t’ve got to wasting your in-valuable time neither. What you’re wanting to know about ain’t evil spirits, it’s ha’nts.’
‘And I thought a razor-sharp old timer like you-all would for sure know that without needing to have it run through the branding chute slow and easy,’ Tragg answered, opening his briefcase. ‘So I didn’t bother to spell out word for word that it wasn’t hard liquor I was meaning.’
‘’Scuse me for billing in, Major,’ Sergeant Swift Eagle said, sharing his superior’s and Alvin’s knowledge that a ha’nt was the colloquial name for a ghost. ‘Would there be any particular evil spirit you’re thinking about?’
‘There would, Dave,’ Tragg confirmed soberly. ‘So particular, in fact, that it could have caused somebody to be killed.’
‘Whooee!’ the small Texan ejaculated. ‘And Grandmomma Freddie always reckoned that over here in what she used to call the Colonies [46] we don’t have any for-real, out-and-out, doing-meanness or bringing-misfortune-to-anybody-who-sees-it ghosts like the one of the Dowager Duchess of Brockley in England who she used to tell scary stories about to us Hardin, Fog and Blaze kids around Halloween.’ [47]
‘I tell you,’ Branch complained q
uietly, directing the words to the other sergeants rather than his partner or superior. ‘It’s a mortal sin ’n’ shame Miz Freddie didn’t fright’ some ree-spect for his elders into one particular Hardin, Fog ’n’ Blaze kid.’
‘I wouldn’t want to be gainsaying Miz Freddie’s word, seeing’s what she did for Uncle Waxahachie Smith,’ [48] Tragg drawled, once again paying no discernible attention to the elderly sergeant’s comment. ‘Only I reckon, happen I’m right in my thinking about what I’ve heard, this particular ha’nt—as Jubal will have it called—maybe hasn’t got around to being one of those for-real, out-and-out, doing-meanness-or-bringing-misfortune-to-anybody-who-sees-it kind like they have back in England, but I figure he’ll do for us Colonials until one comes along that is.’ His gaze turned to the Kiowa sergeant as he went on, ‘It’s the Ghost of Brixton’s Canyon I’m talking about, Dave,’
‘Him, huh?’ Swift Eagle replied and, although there was little observable change to his tone and demeanor, all his companions could see he was very interested. ‘Sounds like he’s gone some further than just scaring folks down Grouperville way?’
‘He could’ve gone a whole heap further this time,’ Tragg corrected, then swung his gaze to the youngest sergeant. ‘Have you-all heard of him, Alvin?’
‘I can’t say I have, sir,’ the small Texan replied. ‘Has he been around for long?’
‘Not too long, as ghosts go,’ the Major admitted. ‘Ebenezer Brixton was a Yankee geologist who drifted down to Grouperville early in the summer of ’19. Seems he was taken with the notion that there was a vein of gold in the walls of a canyon out on the Badlands, as folks thereabouts call a patch of pretty rough and rugged country that starts maybe five miles south of the town. He was so sure, he bought up a fair piece of land around it, brought in a bunch of Chinese coolies and special mining gear from out of State to do the digging.’
‘Something tells me he didn’t have a whole heap of luck with it,’ Alvin commented, feeling sure that such an event as a gold strike could not have been kept secret if it was made and unable to recollect having heard any reference to it.
‘He didn’t, from all accounts,’ Tragg answered and Swift Eagle nodded in concurrence. ‘He wouldn’t allow anybody but the coolies into the canyon even, much less to look around the diggings. Not only did he have the land posted all ’round it, he had some pretty tough hombres he’d brought in along with the coolies and gear to make sure folks stayed off. None of the coolies ever went into Grouperville and, when the guards did, they pretty soon made it known they didn’t aim to answer any questions, nor favor any being asked. Anyways, one day early in ’20, he paid off all the guards and coolies and sent the equipment back where it came from, allowing he’d been wrong about the gold. A few days later, a cowhand hunting for strays by the edge of the Badlands heard one hell of an explosion and, having heard Brixton was finished digging, went over to see what was doing. When he got there, he found the entrance of the workings had been blown up and, going by the look of things, Brixton along with it.’
‘Is that what had happened?’ Alvin inquired, as the Major stopped speaking and looked at him with the air of expecting some comment or question.
‘Everything pointed to it being that way,’ Tragg admitted. ‘When Sheriff Fat – Big – Jim Healey was told about it, he went out there and found a note saying Brixton was so sorrowed at having wasted his friends’ money and having been proved wrong, he couldn’t face up to living anymore.’
‘So he’d committed suicide,’ Alvin guessed.
‘That’s how it looked to the sheriff and the way the Grouperville coroner’s inquest saw it,’ Tragg agreed. ‘Seems Fat Jim had been out to see Brixton the day before the explosion and everything that had been there then, including his car, was still there. Which, seeing’s how he didn’t own a horse or anything else he could have ridden off on and there was no place, other than Grouperville, near enough for him to have walked to, he could hardly have left.’
‘Didn’t the sheriff get any notion that he was intending to kill himself when they met the day before?’ the small Texan inquired, once more deducing he was expected to raise some point and noticing the others were not offering to anticipate him, but appeared to be waiting to hear what he had to say.
‘Fat Jim Healey wouldn’t hardly have a notion whether it was day or night,’ Branch asserted and, as Swift Eagle gave a grunt of agreement, elaborated, ‘He wouldn’t be the smartest jasper you’d come across, even if he was on his lonesome when you met him.’
‘I’ll bow to your superior wisdom, sir,’ Alvin declared. ‘But didn’t anybody think it might be a reasonable precaution was they to try to dig out the workings and make sure Brixton wasn’t just buried alive?’
‘Even Fat Jim Healey wouldn’t overlook that,’ Tragg stated, without bothering to correct the sheriff’s sobriquet and continued, after a quiet but audible, ‘Not so long’s somebody else thought of it for him,’ from Branch and another brief signification of concurrence by the Kiowa sergeant, ‘Only, according to what he told the coroner’s inquest, there was no way they could have dug out the workings with what they had on hand. All the special equipment had been sent away and nobody in town knew where it had gone. There’s never been any other mining around Grouperville, so there wasn’t anything else in that line to be had thereabouts. Then his deputy, who allowed to have done considerable hard-rock mining, said there was no chance at all of anybody living through such a bad cave-in, at least not long enough for equipment to be found and brought in. So, when it was mentioned that the town could wind up by having to pay for the hiring of the gear, the verdict came out that Brixton was dead by misadventure and there was no mention of suicide.’
‘Even if any kin he might have weren’t too happy about there having been no attempt to make sure he really was dead, the verdict could help them claim should he be insured,’ Alvin remarked, being aware that coroner’s juries occasionally produced findings of convenience. ‘But how did you hear about the suicide note?’
‘Fat Jim told Cap’n Gaskin about it when he asked for one of us Rangers to go out and look the canyon over,’ Swift Eagle explained, referring to the commanding officer of the Company from which he had been transferred. ‘I was sent and, what I saw, I was inclined to agree with what the deputy said about nobody being able to live through such a cave-in, especially was he minded to kill himself.’
‘But that wasn’t the end of it?’ the small Texan drawled, more as a statement than a question.
‘It wasn’t,’ Tragg confirmed. ‘Brixton might not have found gold, but he’d blown into an underground water course and made himself a fair sized drinking hole in the canyon. So a couple of Chicano [49] goat herders decided to set up camp there, goats being just about the only kind of critters that can find enough grazing to live on out in the Badlands. They only stayed there one night, though. Went rushing into Grouperville next morning, scared close to white-haired and telling how they’d seen a ghost in the canyon. They allowed it was all white, glowing, and came floating through the air wailing and moaning. When their dogs went for it, something knocked them off their feet before they got even close and they lit out yelping like their butts was burning. So one of the herders cut loose at it with a scattergun and, although it jerked like it was hit, it just kept coming across the water at them and they took to running.’
‘It went through the water?’ Alvin asked.
‘Nope,’ Tragg corrected. ‘Way they told it, it floated just above the surface without so much as raising a ripple.’
‘Could whatever it was have jumped over?’ Alvin wanted to know.
‘Depends whereabouts it was when it crossed,’ replied Swift Eagle, to whom the question had been directed. ‘Way I recall it, the water come from a crack at the bottom of one wall, widens into a pool in the middle of the canyon, then narrows as it runs out under the other wall.’
‘And they reckoned it came over in the middle,’ the Major supplemented.
; ‘What did the sheriff do about it, sir?’
‘Told them the canyon was private property and he’d throw them in the pokey if they went trespassing there again.’
‘Didn’t he go to see if there was anything in their story?’ Alvin inquired.
‘You-all don’t know Fat Jim Healey,’ Branch sniffed. ‘Does he, Dave?’
‘Not if he reckons he’d do any more work than he has to,’ Swift Eagle declared. ‘Which he’d figure riding out across the Badlands on what could be a wild goose chase wasn’t worth the effort.’
‘He did,’ Tragg confirmed. ‘Seems he just allowed they’d been swilling tequila so much they’d been seeing things and let it go at that.’
‘Only it still didn’t end there,’ Alvin guessed, wondering what the conversation was leading up to; but convinced that, whatever it might be, he was to be involved.
‘Not by a long country mile,’ Tragg agreed. ‘A couple of young cowhands went out to the canyon a few nights later, figuring to prove white folks wouldn’t let themselves be scared off like the Chicanos. They concluded that, if they saw whatever it might be, they’d ride up and rope it, then fetch it back to show around town. Well, it showed all right. But, before they could get close enough to throw a loop, their horses were spooked so bad they were thrown and when they tried to go after it on foot, something they couldn’t see knocked them both off their feet.’
‘Something?’ Alvin queried.
‘They didn’t know what it was and didn’t stick around long enough to try to find out,’ Tragg replied. ‘All they could say once they hit town again was that the thing had still been a fair ways off from them when it happened. From then on, folks took the notion that the thing must’ve been Ebenezer Brixton’s ghost haunting the canyon. Fact being, ’most every time anybody’s been out there after dark, it’s showed up and those who tried to get a closer look have been knocked down like the cowhands and the goat-herders’ dogs were.’
