Phantoms Which Rode Upon the Wicked Winds of the Western Plains

CW: A brief section of graphic violence

Based on real events, though certain elements have been dramatized or changed for narrative purposes.

After the end of the civil war, where brother had fought against brother, and father scorned son, the country had finally come to a dwindling simmer, unsure of how to proceed or what happens next. States once mighty and prosperous now lay at the feet of ruin, and a new world for all gleamed on the horizon. Arkansas, which had benefited greatly from slavery, now lie destitute, a great portion of its population now dead or maimed, its buildings and land scorched and destroyed, cattle, horses and livestock now being confiscated by the Northern army. A unrelenting drought had overtaken the land, not literal, but worse. A spiritual darkness, like a blanket, had wrapped around the plains like storm clouds, decaying the land and and people, men and women passing by hunched and lifeless even during day, the vestige of them human but appearing to be more like phantoms than men.

In search of prosperity and new frontiers, many caravans and parties departed Arkansas for California and other states. Two, however, would collide together on their voyage west, culminating in woeful misfortune and nightmarish barbarity. In eighteen sixty-six, Captain Wood, then known simply as soldier, left his home of Huntsville, which lie in Madison County, and joined one such party. He didn’t know what in particular he was looking for, but home reminded him of the sting of defeat, so he thought he ought to sail onwards, regardless of destination. The train Wood had joined was known as 'Capt. Boyed’s train'. The train included several wagons, as well as several horses. Of their lot, it was only men, save a young girl they called “ginger”, in part due to both her hair color and temperament. Of the men, their names were as follows:

Wilbert Goddard

Noah Miller

William Brown

Jedediah Moore

Matthew Jones and Henry Jones

Of the atmosphere of the train, tense and grim are the words appropriate to suffice. Of friendship, it was little, and of trust, even less. No man knew the other's intentions, and when night came they lay only half dreaming, eyes slightly open. They rode through hot sun, of which seemed to be no reprieve, and cold nights, winds so violent a superstitious mind could believe they were possessed. A few days into their pilgrimage, they came across another train, also heading to California. The party had no name, save for the colloquial term Capt. Boyed’s train would begin to call it, "Mankins train", named after its member John Mankins. Mankins had joined the train just a few days prior, himself being from Marion County, between White River and Yellville in the Flippin Barrens. These trains now rode together frequently, journeying for a long while before separating at the new frontier.

Mankins was a man of large build, of his reputation, even larger. Violent, and prone to ill temper and offense. His pride in himself was about the same length as his body. At first just a nuisance, his haughtiness and humor lacking comedy became increasingly grating as they rode on.

Mankins, also a hateful man, would often claim that he would shoot the first Indian they saw, man, woman or child. These claims became so frequent the men began to pounder if they were just ill spirited jokes. As they made their way more and more into the wild, away from towns and into Indian territory, these repeated statements seemed more like threats than banter. A storm came about a week into their traveling, wicked in temperament. The sky was black like tar, the only vestiges of light bolts of lighting which would briefly illuminate the jagged plains in a pale and deathly glow. They spotted a gathering of trees which they quickly sheltered under, the canopy not too thick but at least providing some reprieve from the wind that threatened to pluck them into the sky.

Mankins, both prone to odd fits of mania, and intoxicated on morphine and three bottles of whiskey, suddenly departed the cover of the canopy, walking out into the fever of the storm. He removed two pistols from his belt, silver and gold, and looked at the sky, face and hair wet. He shouted and hollered like a battle cry, and aimed his pistols at the sky and began to fire. The boom of the gunshots clashed with the thunder of the lightning, a symphony of discord. Mankins cackled and howled, saying he killed them all before, and he'd do it again. That death is no protection, and Hades no reprieve. Wilbert, troubled by this display, ran out and beckoned Mankins to return. Mankins threw Wilbert to the ground.

"These winds have sprits in them, they hide and lurk in blowing wind, wings hushed by thunder. I see them though. Wishing to return. I holler to let them know there's no place for them here anymore, and I hope to kill them. My bullets are infused with magic. Not by no shaman, but by me. My hate and will.”

Wilbert returned to the covering, and to the group, silent and now wet. Mankins continued firing and laughing, the thunder beginning to muffle him.

After the storm passed, the parties resumed their journey west. The trains briefly parted for a short while, mostly due to Mankins party having a few of their wagons break down, and spending a little under a day to repair them. They regrouped in New Mexico, meeting each other on the desert plains. They traveled mostly in silence, the heat too brutal for talk or brief conversation. Sweat rolled down the men's heads as if they were newly baptized, lips dry and bloody as they opened chapped mouths to breathe in hot air which burned their lungs. They increased their pace, a pack of wolves now following them from afar. They were skinny, and walked hunched, eyes sunk in. As the sun began to set, a hellish glow was cast across the already hellish land, the plains seeming to be on fire.

Come near nightfall, the parties spotted a camp not too far. As they neared, they heard children's laughter and women's talk, when they neared seeing a small settlement of native women and children. The men were delirious, and parched, both of water, and even though they dare not admit to themselves, of violence. Mankins in particular, famished, like the wolves that had stalked them.

Wilbert, sensing the men were not only thirsty, but delirious from the earlier heat, tried to ease the tension by going to one of the small boys, who played stick with a little girl, and asked him in broken native tongue for water. The boy, seeing the eyes of the men, went back to camp with fearful strides. A moment later a woman came out, looking over the men. She closed back the curtain, a moment later coming back out with a a pot. The boy came with her, and spoke in native tongue to Wilbert.

Wilbert nodded his head and took the pot from the woman, after he had leaned his head back and drunk with the vigor of a drunkard, passing the pot around. Mankins drunk last, and instead of giving the pot back to the woman, sat it at her feet. When she leaned down to pick it up, Mankins removed his silver pistol and shot the woman in the stomach. The bullet ringed like a knife to the eardrum, and the woman fell to the ground, her eyes empty and spirit now departed. Both parties now cursed Mankins, Noah urging the group to depart before the men returned.

They rode until the night retreated back behind the cosmic curtain, the scorching sun now set back over the land. The men rode quite, save for the occasional curse a party member would spit at Mankins. This cycle of severe and unrelenting heat, followed by cold and stormy nights went for days, each day filled with a certain expectation of vague and nebulous dread. Near sundown, the sun slowly setting back down, and the sea of sand and rock now ruddy, they neared a circle of ravens which flew above. As they rode on a little more, they saw several dead wolves laid on the dirt. They were skinny, and malnourished. Some had their stomachs gored open, intestines and organs spilled out, every now and then a raven diving down and plucking one. Ginger wondered aloud if this was the pack of wolves that had been pursuing them, but no one knew for certain. The parties continued on a little while longer, setting camp near a lone naked and crooked tree when the sun had now fully departed, and the tempest returned.

When morning came, the sun propelled from the outer void, and the land was again cast in harsh red and fire, men on horseback, covered in dark ruddy paint, rode with the rising of the sun. There was twenty-eight in total. The parties quickly gathered their belongings and rode out. They flew across the land, maniac and in terror, the horses also in fear, sensing the state of the men. Ginger spotted a mesa not too far off, screaming over the wind to inform the parties, and they rode for it. The native men rode frenzied after in fevered pursuit, each passing second nearing the group more and more. They began to holler, their yells carrying on the winds like harbingers of judgment.

The group rode up the escarpment, the slope becoming steeper and steeper, some of the men's horses stumbling and falling back down, the horse and rider now dead or maimed. They abandoned their horses, running the the rest of the way. The hollering of the men reached a pitch as they neared the bottom, leaping off their horses and striding up the slope. When atop the mesa, the group removed all pistols and arms, standing ready. The air had gone quiet, save for the wind which still passed violently. After a dreadful few moments, which through much fear seemed far longer, the men arrived atop the mesa. One, presumably the leader based on white paint which ran down from his forehead to chin, lay down his bow and approached the group, stopping but several feet away. He spoke briefly in native tongue, his voice raw and heavy, then went quiet. Wilbert translated.

"He says he was hunting, when the one with the silver pistol killed his sister. He says he was afraid to come home, because the harvest has been low this year, and that he has failed his family by not providing. When he returned , he learned his sister was now dead, and saw her stomach, flesh ripped open. And now his shame has tripled."

The man opened his mouth once more, but quickly stopped, his breath shaking. After a moment, he opened his mouth once more and spoke. Wilbert again translated.

"He wants to kill all of us, like our people have done to him. His sister was the last of his family, and now he is a wanderer. He has no kin, and no true home. But he hates himself, because he can't do what men like us can. Only one of us committed a sin against him, so only that one will be judged."

The man spoke for the last time, but a few words uttered. Wilbert's eyes sank.

"He says to hand over Mankins, and that he will skin him. Alive."

The group was silent, no man so much as releasing a breath. Of his own accord, Mankins stepped forward.

"Okay. I'll do it", Mankins said, his voice monotone, not rising or lowering as he stared at the man.

The man gazed at Mankins for a moment, before nodding his head and turning around. Two men came forward, blades in hand. The man turned back towards Mankins, who sneered as he removed his belt. Mankins dropped the belt to the ground, but walked to Ginger, his silver and gold pistol in had.

"Take these."

Ginger looked at the guns a moment, then at Mankins.

"I don't want them."

Mankins laughed.

"Suit yourself", he said, going to the edge of the mesa and tossing them off. "When the storm returns, one of the spirits will swipe it up and it'll be taken by the wind. Who knows, it may be mine."

Mankins removed his garments, his hat, which was now weathered and faded, his boots that were caked in mud and dry blood, his pants which were originally white, his jacket, which had two bullet holes, one near his left breast, and one near his lower left abdomen, and took off his grey trousers and black socks, and when he stood completely bare, approached the man.

"Do your worst. Lord knows I have."

And the man did. Four men came forward, who grabbed Mankins arms, the other two holding his legs.

The man, now the wanderer, raised his blade, comprised of steel and fastened with lariat, two antlers attached to both sides, and cut the skin on Mankins face, just slightly below his hairline. Blood dripped down like tears as the man pulled the skin down as if removing a mask, Mankins howling like a hyena, his mouth a full grin. Like alchemy, and gold to silver, his laughter turned to screams as the man now dropped a chunk of balled and red flesh to the ground, Mankins skull now fully naked. This violence lasted for about thirty minutes, or until Mankins now lay on the rusty dirt, his body a writhing mess of exposed tissue, muscle and bone, a sickly smell rising like incense as the sun scorched his body.

Whether from will or strange power, Mankins rose from the ground and walked a few feet, one hand outstretched for the sun. He muttered something, faint and incoherent, then fell dead to the ground. Ginger, whose head had been turned by Wilbert and tucked in his breast, turned her head and peeked an eye towards the scene, only to immediately return to her place of reprieve.

The native men gathered Mankins skin and corpse and returned for the bottom of the mesa, and red plains. The wanderer turned before departing, not saying anything but looking at the men a minute, then left.

The group stood a moment, or several, overlooking the desert and crimson plains which stretched on like strange waters.

"What do we do now?", Ginger inquired, breaking the spell of silence.

Wilbert walked back for the slope they had come up.

"We keep heading west", he responded.

One by one, the group followed, descending the mesa and resuming their pilgrimage across the great and red hot.