Chasing Ghosts

I always hated Fort Bridger.

The way they draped the flag over the Johnson family general store shopfront sign didn't sit right with me. It felt symbolic–like our own army had invaded and tactically cut off our supply lines, like they did the Indians. The Johnsons were good people. They never charged more than a nickel for a tin of coffee and even gave goods on credit when the winter ran long.

I caught Tim Johnson before he left, his wagon sagging under everything he owned, heading towards Green River while I was hunting elk in the foothills. He said the army had paid a pretty penny to get him to pack up and go, but he couldn't look me in the eyes as he said it. That was the last time I ever saw him.

When Shelly and I had first heard the army was turning the trading post into a base, we knew it would mean trouble. Things were quiet in our part of Wyoming, but we'd heard stories from Shelly's parents, who lived near Fort Laramie, where soldiers had been kicking up hornet nests for years. The U.S. Army's mission out this far west was well-known: provocation and elimination. And Shelly knew it.

That look she gave me–that damn look. She could see the future as if it were her reflection: clear as day and staring back at her. Her eyes had that same wide stillness a buck gets right before it senses the shot. I wonder if, at that moment, she saw me galloping out of Fort Bridger behind Lieutenant Jones, his pompous decorative saber reflecting sunlight in my eyes. If she did, she would have told me to leave while we still could, and I would have listened. She would always make me listen.

"We're going just past that mountain there, Danny." Lt. Jones hollered back to me over the rhythmic thuds of horse hooves.

He spoke in a tone that didn't invite a reply. So I didn't give him one.

After another hour of riding, we reached the base of the mountain.

The wind up there was like spring water–fresh and clean. It was a sharp contrast from the air at the base, which was dry and poisoned by gunpowder. The trees grew tall in this forest, and the game was good. I'd brought Mary here last year to pick wildflowers while Shelly visited her parents. She was so tiny that Shelly was worried she'd fall off the horse and wouldn't let me take her more than a few miles. But that day, I held on to her as tightly as possible.

"You ride good for a civilian," Lt. Jones said, snapping me out of my reverie as he dismounted his black parade horse.

"Makes it easier to get from one place to another," I feigned politeness as I climbed down from my brown gelding.

"I bet it does. How far is your homestead from here?"

"Twenty miles."

"That's quite a far ride."

He spoke like I hadn't done the math myself.

"It is," I replied coldly.

"Right then. I'm thinking we stop and catch some lunch around here, what's say you?"

"Game's better downhill."

I might as well have kicked dirt on his boots.

"You've got a smart mouth for a quiet man."

"Thank you, lieutenant," I replied, mocking respect for his rank.

He stepped up to me an inch from my nose, and his potbelly nudged me, forcing me back on my heels. I was taller, but his freshly polished boots gave him just enough lift to meet my eyes. His breath was sour from chewing tobacco.

"Let's get one thing straight–I'm in command here. You're a civilian scout only here as a courtesy from General Miller on account of what those savage natives did to your family. I'll say this once and only once: I lead, and you follow."

He finished my reprimand with a spit near my pack. I swallowed hard and unclenched my fist. I'd have to bite my tongue if I wanted justice for Mary and Shelly.

After an hour of fruitless tracking, Lt. Jones had the ingenious idea to hunt downhill. He claimed he'd mistaken one landmark for another and now remembered where the game was best.

We tracked along the riverbed. I'd seen a few rabbits here while fishing. Shelly came with me a couple times before we had Mary. She'd knit while I'd try to wrangle a salmon for dinner. Her soft humming seemed to draw the fish in. I didn't catch much after she stopped coming.

She was humming that day, too. Sitting on the porch in an old wooden rocking chair, mending a raggedy patchwork doll while Mary played in the field. I kissed her and headed towards the barn to feed the cattle, hearing that tune fade in the distance as I walked.

Then the screaming started.

"Are you gonna help track, or are you hoping they'll shoot themselves?" Lt. Jones called out from the brush loud enough to scare off anything within ten miles.

I was about ready to kill him. I needed some time to myself.

"I'm gonna scout further upstream," I declared and didn't wait for a response.

He muttered some expletives behind me, but his words didn't land like before. It became clear that he wasn't reminding me who was in charge; he was trying to remind himself.

I was at peace here. The pine-sweet air and the sounds of the rushing water seemed to transport me back to the past. A time when all I had to think about was catching something fat for dinner.

Back then, my conscience had been as clear as today's afternoon sky. I'd never even seen a Lakota. They were just the boogeymen who kept us from hunting the best trails. There was plenty of game to go around. No reason for the army to start raising hell. Just like me, it was revenge the Lakota were after on that terrible day. The day when the old wives' tales rode from my grandmother's lips to our front porch. Now, all I see are their clay-painted faces when I close my eyes. All I hear is the chorus of war cries and screams of terror. I had lived the last year chasing ghosts. Except for now–strangely enough–they let me be.

I closed my eyes, trying to reclaim my memories from before the attack. I felt Shelly's hand against the small of my back as she rested her head beneath my jaw. I could taste the extra salt my little Mary had accidentally dumped into my birthday stew.

Finally, I heard the humming. Only, it wasn't Shelly's tune. It was a new one—a calm, haunting tune that carried through the forest as if it belonged to the land.

I stepped into the cool, knee-high water of the river as the tune beckoned me to follow. Hopping over mossy logs and twigs with practiced ease. Then, crouched behind a boulder, I saw her.

It was Shelly, or it could have been her if not for the ochre-painted shawl.

She knelt by the river, washing out a clay pot. The little girl beside her hummed the same tune, pausing occasionally when she had found a new pebble to add to her deerskin sack. Sunlight shimmered off the ripples of the water and lit their faces, making them seem ethereal.

I didn't dare take a breath. My knees swelled, but I ignored them. I wouldn't disturb this moment. As an outsider peering into her tranquil little world, I watched the little Lakota girl as I used to watch Mary. It was a respite from my burdens. Now, watching this little girl had done the same.

Behind me, a twig snapped, then another.

No animal would be so careless.

Then it dawned on me–Jones.

"Well, now, this is certainly better than lunch." He hissed.

My pulse quickened. A chill swept over me.

I couldn't speak.

I couldn't think.

Lt. Jones cocked his pistol.

"The small ones always scream, best to take them out first."

And I saw it all. Past and future. Like Shelly must have. I was cradling Shelly again, her scalp bloodied and her body cold.

Then, it wasn't Shelly. It was this Lakota woman whose head I was cradling. My hands were bloodied from a bullet wound in her forehead. Yet, I was crying the same as I did for my girls. Ugly tears that one can only produce in tragedy.

I turned to Jones.

He was aiming at the child.

I thought of how scared Mary must have felt to be taken out of her little world.

That's when I grabbed the saber.

I grabbed it not because it was the most effective weapon or even the closest one. I grabbed it because it was his.

As I ripped it free, the sun flashed off the blade and into Jones' eyes.

He fired one reflexive shot into the air. It rang out, seeming to bounce between the trees.

Before he could fire again, before he could bark another order or insult, I drove the blade through him, piercing his stomach.

It cut through the lieutenant like he was a stick of butter. His bottom lip trembled as he dropped the pistol into the underbrush. All he could do was stare at the sword that skewered him–his pride, his rank–turned against him.

He whispered something. A prayer to himself, maybe.

Then he collapsed into a thorn bush. For the first time since I met him, Lieutenant Jones was quiet. There was nobody to mourn him. No flags lowered. No hands to cradle his head.

He was just–gone.

I took one last glance at the woman, who now found my eyes. She had one arm around the little girl's shoulder and the other raised hesitantly.

We said nothing, but I got the sense that she understood.

My knees went limp, exhausted from the weight of revenge, and I sank into the grass.

At that moment, I realized something:

I hadn't been chasing ghosts.

I'd been carrying them.

And now, they were finally at peace.