Golden Ghost

by Terri Farley

  Sam decided she wasn’t much different from the horses. She waited, letting Jen figure things out.

  As the only freshman reporter on the school newspaper, Sam knew she was good with words. She could report on this mirage, but she’d leave it up to Jen to figure it out.

  “Well, of course it’s not Nugget,” Jen said. She pointed and her lips were set in a hard line, but she sounded like she was convincing herself. “Look, there. See that thing? It’s like—” Jen broke off, shaking her head. “It looks like a traffic light, doesn’t it?”

  “It does,” Sam agreed. “I know it’s a mirage,” she added. “And I know it’s not really there, but how do mirages work?”

  “There’s nothing supernatural about them,” Jen said. “It has to do with atmospheric refraction. I remember reading that there are either multiple or inverted images. So, that fits.”

  “But where is that?” Sam asked. “The place, I mean. Where’s it from?”

  “I don’t know,” Jen admitted. “Do you suppose my biology teacher would think I was kissing up if I called him and asked? Wherever it is, it’s not upside down. I know that much.”

  “If we ride right at it, will it disappear or move away? Or maybe,” Sam said, feeling a shiver, “we can ride through it.”

  “I think it will vanish,” Jen said, gathering her reins. “But I don’t really know. Shall we test my theory?”

  They loped toward Nugget. Before them, the image faded and finally disappeared. Sam didn’t see so much as a flicker of the golden horse.

  No road or trail led into Nugget, but Mrs. Ely had told them how to find the path.

  “There’s the gate,” Jen said. She pointed to a big iron gate, painted chrome yellow. A padlock the size of Sam’s fist kept it closed. “You’ve got the key, right?”

  Sam retrieved it from her saddlebag, dismounted, and gave the key a try. It opened smoothly and perfectly.

  “After you,” Sam said.

  She let Jen ride ahead of her, then led Ace through. When they were both on the Nugget side of the gate, Sam relocked it and slipped the key into her pocket. Then she remounted Ace.

  Sam bit her lip as Ace picked his way over the tumble of rocks and dirt that marked the way to the abandoned town.

  “Careful, girl,” Jen cautioned Silly as her hooves grated on a boulder that tilted as she stepped on it.

  Mrs. Ely had said the path stretched for about a mile, but it seemed longer.

  When Jen drew rein beside her, Sam noticed Silly showed dark patches of sweat. The mare tugged at her bit with foam-flecked lips.

  Ace was quieter than usual. The horses were tired and glad when the path smoothed into a dirt road.

  The ghost town stood before them, gray and eerie as an empty movie set.

  “Now we know why we weren’t allowed to come here before,” Jen said.

  Sam swept a frightened glance around the ghost town before she said, “You mean the rough ride to get here?”

  “Sure I do,” Jen said, but the sarcastic edge to her voice told Sam that Jen felt the menacing atmosphere, too.

  A line of shacks huddled shoulder to shoulder on the left side of the main street. Actually, Sam thought, looking around, it was the only street.

  A few hitching rails and water troughs stood before the faltering buildings, but no one had built boardwalks to keep the skirts of Western ladies from brushing the mud. This place had been built and abandoned in a hurry.

  Sam studied the buildings. Some were shops and some homes, but all had weathered to the same gray color and they slanted at the same angle, pushed halfway down by the high desert wind.

  “There was a crooked man and he had a crooked house,” Jen recited in a singsong voice.

  “Stop it,” Sam hissed. “It was just built in a hurry. They found gold and wanted to get in out of the weather and these were better than tents.”

  Sam couldn’t have explained why the nursery rhyme creeped her out, or why she was whispering.

  On the right side of the dirt street, a row of wind-bent piñon pines ringed a slightly larger shack. A wooden rectangle supported a tarnished bell with a short, frayed rope.

  The school, Sam guessed. Even though the town had only existed for a couple of years, there must have been children here, and a teacher. Behind it was an open area and then a ravine.

  Had that ravine been blasted by dynamite or fissured open by an earthquake? It went so far back into the hill, you could almost call it a canyon. She’d bet someone who knew geology would say it had been “born by violence.” The hillside had been cracked open like an egg.

  The street slanted upward, then ended in a graveyard full of grave markers. They zigzagged in uneven rows across the face of a small hill.

  Wind gusted. The horses pricked their ears as a tumbleweed battered against the graveyard fence, trying to get out. Then, there was a creeeak sound, followed by a slam, and both horses shied.

  Sam saw a shutter on the schoolhouse move. Ace jumped sideways, bumping into Silly.

  “It’s only the wind,” Jen said soothingly, as Silly swished her tail and shivered. “What’s got you all skittish?”

  “As if you don’t know,” Sam muttered. She rode Ace in a circle to distract him from Silly’s fit of nerves. “This place is weird.”

  “It’s not so weird.” Jen gave a soft laugh and stroked her mare’s damp neck. “Let’s ride to the end of the road—”

  “I’m not going into that graveyard,” Sam interrupted. “Not yet, I mean.”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve turned superstitious?” Jen joked. “Besides, I just meant it might settle the horses to let them sniff around a little.”

  Sam decided it might be an okay idea. When Jen urged Silly forward, she let Ace follow.

  The horses’ hooves crunched as they passed the buildings. Sam was surprised to see she could make out faded letters on some of them.

  General Store. Sam wondered if there was anything left inside. Canned goods? Bolts of calico cloth? Maybe big wooden barrels used to hold pickles or crackers for a miner’s lunch?

  Assay Office.

  “Hey,” Sam said, pointing. “Isn’t an assay office the place miners went to have their gold ore weighed? I bet they traded it in for money, too.”

  “Are you thinking there are silver coins or antique dollar bills, maybe even a little gold dust still inside?” Jen teased.

  “It’s possible,” Sam said.

  “Old treasures are always guarded by ghosts,” Jen warned in a wavering voice.

  “Be quiet,” Sam told her automatically.

  But Sam’s uneasiness had just about disappeared and she went back to studying the faded buildings.

  Sheriff was written in scrolled lettering that had once been black. That little office looked straighter and sturdier than the rest. Maybe there was a jail inside and the structure had been built to withstand vigilantes set on hanging outlaws who weren’t convicted fast enough.

  Sam felt herself smiling. This really was sort of cool. Every Western movie she’d seen came flooding back, with embellishments from her imagination.

  Ice. That was sort of strange. Wouldn’t ice be a luxury in a little desert town?

  Battle-Born Saloon. Sam turned the name over in her mind, remembering Nevada had become a state during the Civil War.

  She leaned forward in the saddle, trying to see through the open front of the structure. Though that rectangle on the saloon’s street side had been empty for decades, it looked as if the saloon might have been the only place with glass windows. They must have been expensive in those days.

  She pictured an old horse-drawn wagon coming down that steep and rocky road she and Jen had just traveled. Carrying a piece of glass had to have been delicate, risky work.

  “What do we do besides collect artifacts?” Jen asked, when they’d passed the school and were almost to the graveyard. “I haven’t had a chance to look at the assignment since I got back.”

  Sam had reread Mrs. Ely�
�s handout just last night and she had no trouble remembering the assignment. For once, she was ahead of Jen.

  “First, we take field notes,” Sam said.

  She figured that meant writing down what they observed. A suspicious scuff on the dirt road reminded her to watch for hoof prints.

  She was sure she had not imagined the gold horse in the midst of that mirage. What if it had jumped the locked yellow gate then run down Nugget’s main street? Or maybe it had followed a secret trail that led around the gate.

  Sam listened for the sound of a brook or stream. She only heard the wind’s low moan as it chased its tail around the old gray buildings. But if there’d been a town here, there had to be a source of water.

  Sam looked up at the canyon walls. They’d block the worst of the wind. With water, shelter, and a bounty of weeds to eat, a lone horse could stay here quite comfortably.

  “What else do we have to do, besides the field notes?” Jen asked.

  She sounded a little irritated. Clearly, she’d noticed Sam wasn’t paying attention to the conversation about the project.

  “Mapping, cataloguing, and writing a report comparing this ghost town with a contemporary town. I think that’s all,” Sam said.

  And then she saw them.

  Unlike her friend Jake, Sam was no tracker. But here, the alkali dust showed clear hoof imprints. If they’d been old, they would have blown away, so they must be very recent. That was all the evidence Sam needed to believe a real bone-and-blood horse had walked here.

  “With two of us, that shouldn’t be very hard,” Jen said.

  Sam looked up. What could Jen be talking about?

  “What are you staring at on the ground?” Jen blurted. “You’re hanging halfway out of your saddle!”

  “I’m looking for stuff to put in our field notes!” Sam replied angrily.

  Jen’s surprised stare told Sam she’d overreacted to Jen’s question.

  “What did I say?” Jen asked, dodging Silly’s head as the mare reacted with alarm at Sam’s voice. “Sor-ry. Don’t tell me, if it’s that big a deal.”

  “I’ll tell you, but you’re not allowed to make fun of me.”

  “When do I ever make fun of you?”

  “Only all the time,” Sam told her. “Don’t pretend your feelings are all hurt, either, Jennifer Kenworthy. Remember when you told me I was anthro—” Sam stopped. “Anthro…” Now she was really mad. Why couldn’t she remember that stupid word?

  “Anthropomorphizing?” Jen asked calmly. “Giving human traits to animals?”

  “Right,” Sam said with a nod. “You said I was doing that to the Phantom.”

  “And you were. You always do, because you love him.” Jen pushed her wire-framed glasses up on her nose.

  Suddenly, Ace and Silly stopped, legs braced. They snorted in surprise.

  The tumbleweed, Sam thought. Here it comes.

  Wind had finally pushed the tumbleweed through the cemetery gate. On the loose, a stickery weed, big as a calf, bounded toward them.

  But Ace and Silly weren’t watching the tumbleweed. They gazed toward the schoolhouse.

  The tremulous, high-pitched neigh lasted only an instant.

  “Look!” Jen gasped while Sam was still staring.

  Flame gold, the horse peered around a corner of the schoolhouse. Cream mane tangled to her shoulder. Curve-tipped ears and a dainty muzzle pointed toward them. When her head tilted to one side, considering them from another angle, her forelock parted over chocolate eyes. A loud sniff told the horse they were strangers. Furrows appeared over her eyes. Fear made her forefeet dance in place, tapping the hard ground.

  It all happened in seconds, and then the horse was gone.

  “Wait!” Jen pleaded, but she didn’t wait to see if the horse stopped.

  Together, the girls urged their mounts forward. The horses lunged with eagerness. Keen on following the palomino, they didn’t seem to notice that their shoulders bumped as they took the turn around the schoolhouse.

  Years of windblown dust hid stone paths through the schoolhouse garden. Ace’s shod hooves slipped on rock. He didn’t go down, but he slowed.

  “The ravine!” Jen shouted, and sent Silly after the other palomino.

  One closeup look at the ravine told Sam that Jen’s pursuit wouldn’t last long. Red-orange layers of earth had settled over purplish dirt. Though the place was barren, Sam heard the sound of water flowing around heaps of rocks.

  Jen wasn’t foolish enough to risk her horse’s delicate legs in that boulder-strewn trap. No way.

  But Jen kept riding. With tight-legged insistence, she pushed Silly on.

  There must be a path through the rocks, Sam thought. She just couldn’t see it from here. After all, the strange palomino had disappeared right through there, and she was no ghost.

  Silly couldn’t find a trail, at least not at a gallop. Her ears flicked in all directions and she squealed in frustration, trying to follow her rider’s orders.

  Jen looked frantically from one side of her mount’s neck to the other, but then she seemed to give up. She sagged back in the saddle. Obviously she couldn’t find the path, either.

  Sam was glad. She’d never seen Jen ride with such recklessness.

  Silly gave a choked neigh. Was she caught? A hoof could easily lodge between rocks. But then Jen’s voice came over the clatter of the mare’s hooves.

  “Okay,” Jen comforted. “Okay, girl. You did a great job, but she’s gone.”

  Looking over her shoulder, Jen backed Silly, step by step, out of the ravine. She didn’t wheel the mare until she’d reached the almost-level schoolhouse garden. When Jen swung Silly around at last, Sam was amazed at her friend’s joyous smile.

  Wind clanged the school bell in noisy celebration. Silly pranced like a parade horse, and the braid hanging over Jen’s shoulder, straight with a tassel on the end, looked like an exclamation mark.

  “We found treasure after all,” Jen whooped. “And it’s not some ordinary bag of gold. It’s Rosa d’Oro, the lost Kenworthy palomino, alive as she can be!”

  Chapter Three

  No wonder Jen had abandoned her usual good sense.

  “That was her,” Jen insisted, as they dismounted in front of the sheriff’s office to let the horses drink from a wooden trough of rainwater. “I’m positive.”

  As Jen stared dreamily toward the ravine, Sam tried to recall what she’d heard about the Kenworthy palominos.

  For decades, Jen’s family had owned the Diamond K Ranch, and they’d been famous for their palominos. When years of drought had forced the Kenworthys to raise money or lose the ranch, they’d sold off the golden horses, one by one.

  Even that hadn’t been enough to save the Diamond K. When only five palominos remained, Jen’s parents had had no choice but to sell the ranch. The buyer with the best offer had been Linc Slocum.

  Linc Slocum had made a fortune through shady deals and wild schemes that worked just often enough to keep him a millionaire. Since his arrival in Nevada, he’d used his money and toothpaste-commercial smile to buy the life of a Hollywood cowboy.

  The Kenworthys’ ranch had become part of his Wild West fantasy. And every ranch needed a weathered, no-nonsense foreman. Jed Kenworthy, a lifelong rancher with eyes that drooped like a bassett hound’s, fit Linc Slocum’s image of a foreman. So, even though Slocum had changed Diamond K into the Gold Dust Ranch, he’d kept Jed Kenworthy on to boss the cattle and cowboys.

  That was what made Slocum’s offer the best, Sam figured. Jen’s family had stayed right at home.

  But Sam didn’t remember hearing any stories of a horse with a Spanish name.

  “Tell me what happened again,” Sam urged. “And what was the horse’s name?”

  “Rosa d’Oro. ‘Golden Rose’ is the translation. But there’s not much to tell,” Jen said.

  “How can you say that? If this really is her—”

  “Yeah, I know,” Jen said. Her face lit up and she hugged her ribs wi
th delight. “But no one knows what happened, exactly.” Jen shook her head, then launched into a story. “Dad kept five horses—Golden Champagne, Sonora Sundance, Silk Stockings, Mantilla, and Golden Rose—two stallions and three mares, just in case he could get the breeding farm up and running again. But his idea fizzled, big time. He knew Mom’s mare, Mantilla, might not make a brood mare, because she was too old, but Silly was a disappointment,” Jen’s voice softened and she petted her palomino as the mare rubbed her damp muzzle on Jen’s shoulder.

  Sam tried to think of Silly as Silk Stockings. The sixteen-hand palomino Quarter horse had flashy white stockings and near-perfect conformation. How could she be a disappointment?

  “She’s infertile,” Jen explained. “Even though she’s been bred a dozen times, she never gets pregnant. And then when Linc bought Champ, he insisted on having him gelded, so that put him out of the breeding program.”

  “Slocum doesn’t deserve him,” Sam said.

  Why had Jed Kenworthy sold Champ to Linc Slocum? The rich man wasn’t much of a rider. Champ’s temperament and training were wasted on him. Slocum saw the palomino as just another pretty toy.

  “Dad knew that, but Slocum traded the house for Champ,” Jen explained. “We don’t have to pay rent or anything. He traded us straight across.”

  “Wow.” Sam gasped. A horse for a house. Was any horse worth that much money?

  “So that left Sundance and Rose for breeding stock.” Jen held up her hand, folded down three fingers and left two upright. “Dad bought Rose from a ranch in Mexico. Her bloodlines went back to conquistadors’ horses brought from Spain hundreds of years ago. She was the Moorish type of palomino Queen Isabella liked. You know, Queen Isabella who gave Christopher Columbus his money?”

  Sam nodded, but asked, “Moorish?”

  “She had the black skin and delicate face of an Arabian and she was a golden butterscotch color.” Grinning, Jen pointed toward the ravine. “I didn’t get a great look at her, but from what I remember, that horse could be her twin.

  “Anyway, Dad got her just before things went bad. I remember Mom didn’t want to spend the money because Rose was just a two-year-old and they had to wait for her to mature before they could show or breed her.”