The Cowboy Continues His Ghost Story
By: Keith R Wilson
Tags: Fiction, Ghost Story, Gothic Fiction, Novel

The Cowboy Continues His Ghost Story

Chapter 25

Image by fabiopiccini

The Weather-Beaten Man in a Cowboy Hat spit tobacco juice into his cup. Even though he was the official barista, I went behind the counter to get a new cup of coffee for him, just to keep his tongue loose, and one of those dinner-plate-sized cookies for the Therapist Emeritus, just to keep her mouth shut. You don’t want someone interrupting a good storyteller with too many questions when he’s in the zone, even when you’re not supposed to be listening.

“Thank you, rightly, Sir,” he said to me. A moment later he had us back in the bready kitchen of Art and Edith Gates, somewhere where the second knuckle of the frostbitten middle finger would be on the mittened hand of Michigan.

“They say — years ago — the two brothers — were out — huntin’ deer.”

“Poachin’ deer,” said Edith from the refrigerator, pullin’ out the butter.

“Well, a fellow’s got to eat.” I was gettin’ hungry again even though I’d just finished lunch.

“The State’s — got no right — tellin’ a man — he can’t shoot deer — when they’ve been eatin’ — his crops all year.”

I asked, “What did Conklin do, shoot his brother?”

“His brother — shot a deer — but only — drew blood — so they had — to track it.”

Edith added, “Don’t forget it started snowin’ to beat the band. It was snowin’ so hard the younger brother gave up and headed for home.”

“Wouldn’t the snow would make the deer easier to track?” Blood on snow is easy to spot. I know these things.

“No, it was snowin’ too hard for that. This was a blizzard, you see. That older brother was just too bullheaded to quit. Just like Father, smokin’ away for years while I kept tellin’ him to quit, till finally he gets emphysema. Now he goes chasin’ runaway cows when he can hardly breath.”

“He had to have his deer, huh?”

“Oh — we don’t know — all we know is — what Conklin said — after it — was all done.”

“And be prepared to hear a lie,” said Edith.

There was a piece of linoleum tile loose under my foot. I moved it around to put in back in place. I like to leave things like I found ‘em.

“The younger brother was just a kid, really. A young fool who thought he knew better than his elders. They’d just inherited their father’s farm and were always arguin’ about how to run it. We think the younger brother just wanted things his own way and thought of a way to put an end to it.”

“You think that way — I don’t,” Art said.

“So, he saw his chance to get rid of his brother,” I said. I didn’t want the ol’ couple to get diverted on some ol’ argument. I wanted to hear the story. “That’s pretty extreme, but if he really felt strongly and thought he could get away with it, he might.”

Edith chided me, “No God-fearin’ person would even think of such a thing.”

I was afraid I wouldn’t get any bread.

But Art saved me. “You thought of it,” he said to her. Then he turned to me. “She’s all mixed up — she never thinks — long enough — to know what she’s sayin’ — she just says — whatever hits her — She’s just like — Conklin — He wouldn’t have — gotten in trouble — if he ever thought — about what — he was doin’.”

“It sounds like he had a lot of sense to me. He went home, instead of runnin’ after a deer in the middle of a blizzard.”

“It was a blizzard, all right,” Now I felt she approved of me. “It was the biggest blizzard here in a hundred years. The snow just about buried the cabin the brothers lived in. It came down fast, like out of a big dump truck. The young Conklin went home and piled wood on the fire. It got dark, with the snow in the air and all. The drifts covered the windows till it was just as dark as night. He kept pilin’ that wood on the fire, but it was so cold it didn’t make much difference.”

In my first year up in Michigan I was just beginnin’ to fix up my place. I hadn’t put sidin’ up yet. You could throw a cat through the walls sideways. I’d wake up in the mornin’ with a pile of snow in the kitchen and the water frozen. The air would be so cold it would reach right in and sting you in the lungs. On days like that you could spend all day just survivin’, like Art strainin’ for his next breath. All you can do was find some place warm and sit and wait for it to get better. It’s not so bad when you have someone to stay warm with, but women get tired of that kind of livin’ pretty fast. Then you’re by yourself and there’s nothin’ you can do. All you can do is sit and think.

“Did I say the wind was blowin’? It was a regular blizzard. The wind got caught in the trees around the cabin and made an unholy racket with howlin’ and such.”

“That Conklin — he sat there — he started thinkin’ — the wind howlin’ — was a ghost.”

I didn’t doubt it. When a person starts to think, he’s likely to think anythin’.

“After a while, the older brother found his way back. The good Lord helped him find the cabin. He had to dig through the snow to get to the door, though. He knew his brother was in there from the smoke comin’ out the chimney, so he started callin’ his name to let him in.”

“That fool — Conklin — sittin’ there — listenin’ to ghosts — he thought his brother — was a ghost — callin’ his name — tryin’ to get in.”

“That’s what he told everyone, anyway. He got up and took a hammer and nails and nailed the door shut. He had to have a cold heart to sit there in the cabin by the fire all night and listen to his own brother right outside the door, cryin’ to be let in. He never lifted a finger to help, so filled with foolish pride. In the mornin’ he got up, pulled the nails out, and opened the door. His brother fell in, frozen like a ham you take out of the freezer.”

“What did he do then, cut him up and have him for supper? He wouldn’t need to be shootin’ deer out of season, then, would he?”

They didn’t think it was funny.

“He was tried — for murder — They said — not guilty.”

“That’s what they said. But the Lord has His own justice. Conklin never slept a night after that and no one decent would have anythin’ to do with him. So finally, he went away.”

To be fair to Conklin, I can easily imagine him lyin’ awake at night, hearin’ ghosts. He’d go to sleep just long enough to dream about openin’ a door and, when the frozen body hit the floor, he’d sit up wide awake, covered with sweat as cold as that blizzard.

They didn’t say anythin’ more. So, I asked, “Is that the end of it? Is that why the woods are cursed? Wait, who built the big house?”

“Conklin made — good money — while he was away — came back — with a wife.”

“So, he made out all right,” I said. “Sometimes it pays to keep it movin’ and not think too much about things.”

Edith hoisted herself up from the kitchen table. She armed herself with oven mitts and began to take out the bread.

“I don’t know — It seemed he — had somethin’ good — all that money — and a wife — He built a big house — But he was so — tied up — with the ghosts — in his head — he couldn’t see — the woman loved him.”

“You had to feel sorry for the wife. She thought the universe turned on that man. She hardly knew she had married a monster, just like I didn’t know I was marryin’ a stubborn fool. He kept on talkin’ about hearin’ things all the while they were buildin’ that house. It was built for her, you know. She came from the South, just like you, and he built it like that, so it would remind her of home. He started talkin’ about the ghost so much she started to hear it, too, so she left. I guess she knew she was better off without him. He went back in those woods Father likes to tramp around in when he can hardly breathe. He took a shotgun with him and blew his brains out. The poor girl never even came back up for the funeral.”

We took a look at the bread comin’ out of the oven. None of it had risen right.

I said, “Maybe the yeast was too old, or the flour was too heavy.” Edith drove us outta the kitchen.

Me and Art walked to the barn. The cows, thinkin’ they might get some ensilage, penned easily in an aisle. One at a time we twisted their tails till they entered the chute. Then I’d hit the hydraulics and the chute would squeeze the cow till she couldn’t move. It would rotate her till she lay on her side. Out of range of his ol’ lady, Art smoked while I picked shit from under their nails and trimmed them up.

Art’s son Jack came by and watched. Jack said to me, “I’m hopin’ you’ll be done by tonight. The trimmin’ is stressin’ the cows and their milk production dropped.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “I’ll work here till I’m done, even if it takes all night. I don’t have anythin’ better to do.”

“That’ll be good,” said Jack. “I saw you havin’ lunch in the old place. You didn’t need to do that, you could’ve come to the house. I’ve been meanin’ to tear it down ever since my parents died. “

“They ain’t still alive?… I’m sorry. I mean, sorry for your loss.”

“Yea, my mother surprised everyone by dyin’ before my father. He had emphysema for years and she was always fussin’ that he’d kill himself. They’re both dead now and I can’t figure out what to do with the old place. My wife would never live in there, herself. She’s got to have everythin’ new.”

I looked over and Art was in a fit, laughin’, and slappin’ his knee. You’d never think a man with emphysema could laugh so hard. You’d never think a dead man could laugh, neither.

As soon as Jack left, I packed up my rig and left Onion Hill. I didn’t care to trim any more hooves there, or anywhere, ever. I sold my business to a kid with more money than sense and took off. I wasn’t goin’ to spend one more night talkin’ with the old couple, smellin’ bread I’d never eat, tendin’ the fire as the wind played on my house, all by my lonesome. I set out to find a place where Art and Edith could never find me.

Teenagers from town must still hang out at the old Conklin place. The foundation would be strewn with beer bottles and used condoms. Around a fire circle, hidden in the lilacs, the kids would do well to peel away the layers of the legend of Onion Hill, and caution each other from snuggling too cozy with the notions of the head.