Round a Campfire at Night by Phineas Redux

‘Round a Campfire at Night’

—OOO—

Summary:— Henrietta ‘Harry’ Knappe and Sally ‘Snapshot’ Nichols, lovers and Deputies in 1870’s Red Flume, Arizona Territory, USA, tell tales one night, with friends, while hunting rustlers.

Note:— Influenced by the ‘Wolfville’ stories of Alfred Henry Lewis.

—O—

The grassy plains to the north-east of Red Flume were home to some of the richest cattle ranches in the vicinity; which meant they were also the haunt of the majority of cattle rustlers, too. The individual ranches were large enough to allow of whole herds being swallowed in the wide spreading horizons, far from sight of the home ranch. The method of control for these large herds generally consisting of a party of cow-punchers of no more than five or six for 500 head of cattle; which meant a determined group of rustlers, out in the grassy lonely plains, could attack and defeat so few with ease, before making off with the larger part of the original herd. One possible solution to this ongoing trouble was to sometimes have a posse under the control of a couple of deputies accompanying the usual ranch-hands, ready to take on the rustlers when any stand-off occurred. Such was the situation tonight, a slightly chilly evening in late October 187-, Territory of Arizona, not far from Red Flume; Gila Bend lying a fair distance further north.

The herders numbered, for this auspicious occasion, no less than seven men; the posse numbering, in its turn, eight individuals of whom two were young women, not counting the two deputies in charge—Henrietta ‘Harry’ Knappe, famed bear hunter as well as deputy, and her constant companion and co-deputy Sally ‘Snapshot’ Nichols, as competent with a pair of Smith and Wesson .38’s as anyone within a five hundred mile radius. The time was ten o’clock at night, darkness coming on though there was still a fair amount of light in the sky, the first stars appearing in the darkening blue firmament; Henrietta and Sally discussing the plans for the night with the surrounding posse and herders.

“What’s the state o’play as we speaks?” Henrietta starting proceedings in a confident tone.

“There’s four herders out, at the moment, each accompanied by one of our posse.” Sally on top of the figures, she having the schedule to hand. “They’re due to be relieved at midnight. There’s eight of us here, combined, round the fire ready fer whatever might happen.”

“Good.” Henrietta liking a plan that went to plan. “Change-over at midnight, so thet gives us a coupl’a hours ter kill—any suggestions?”

“All the chores done, an’ the supper over.” Sally shrugging her shoulders. “All’s left’s to pass the time tellin’ tales. Anyone got a good un?”

“I got a daisy,” Herb Atkins, dry-goods owner back in Red Flume and rapidly approaching the latter end of his middle years, sniggered obnoxiously. “all about a real good gal by the name o’Rosie O’Gra—”

“Hold hard, thar.” Henrietta knowing full well what kind of a story this would be if allowed to see the light of darkening night. “We’ll try another spieler, thanks. Sal, anythin’ goin’ in thet bright brain o’your’n?”

“Well,” Sally, caught off-guard, rubbing her chin. “Depends on what sort’a type ya means, leddy. Romance? Drama? Ghost? Take your pick.”

“Ghosts?” Jeannie Larsson, daughter of the bank manager back in Red Flume, shuffled uncomfortably. “Out here in the middle of dam’ nowhere? There ain’t nuthin’ fer miles around but cattle an’ c’yotes.”

One of the cattlemen themselves took up this point with some heat.

“Ghosts?” He grunting as he spoke. “Ye don’t know what yer talkin’ about, leddy; thankin’ yer all the same. Ghosts? Why this part o’the Territory’s thick as pea soup with all manner of ghosties, glims, banshees, spectres, an’ them German poltergeists.—”

“Poltergeists?” Sally, succumbing to her inner curiosity. “What in tarnation’s them?”

Another of the posse, Jim Wilkins, originally from somewhere in Pennsylvania now owner of the White Cloud Corral in Red Flume, faced up to this request.

“German ghosts, is all. Well, actually, they sort’a infests houses an’ places of like manner, generally; can be dam’med annoyin’, so I’m told.”

“Huh, strike poltergeists from the list of possibilities, then.” Sally sneering openly. “Find me a house, shack, or dirt hovel anywhere within a radius o’eight mile, an’ I’ll thank ye fer it, is all.”

Drake Conaughan, clothing-store owner, struck up here showing-off his wide book-learning; he being well-known as a wide and eclectic reader of such.

“Don’t need ter be a house or dwelling, y’know.” He nodding sagely, as knowing what was what in the spirit world. “Them ol’ Greeks an’ Romans, them as had those Empires an’ mad Emperors, they all believed spooks, ghosts, an’ demons lived a’most anywhere.”

“As where?” Sally always up for learning new facts.

“Wa’al, fer instance, they thought there were spirits in woods an’ forests—actily the separate trees, in fact.” Drake scouring the depths of his memory. “They lived in trees, rivers, pools o’water as lakes, ponds, or springs; even in the air itself—like I said, a’most anywhere.”

“What about round these here parts?” Henrietta coming in with a salient point as they sat by the campfire, with flickering shadows all round. “Any likelihood of meeting a ghost hereaway’s?”

“Mighty likely, I’d say.” Drake holding his end up heroically. “They, ghosts an’ demons, I mean, were known ter haunt hills an’ mountains an’ partik’ler places like ruins or barren desert parts—djinns, they wus called, over ter those desert Eastern parts past India an’ beyond.”

Jim Wilkins, having sat staring into the embers for some time now sprang back to life.

“I got a tale of a ghost, if’n anyone here wants ter hear sich?”

Henrietta looked around at the expectant faces lit by the low flames.

“Go to it, friend, let’s hear what ya got.”

—O—

“Heerd this story some year since, whiles over t’Phoenix visitin’ relatives thet time.” Jim rolling his jaw from side to side in concentration, he masticating a bite of chewing-tobacco therein. “I was relaxin’ in the main hall o’the Reliant Hotel mindin’ my own business; jes’ lettin’ the hours o’the afternoon roll by unhindered whiles I read the Phoenix Recorder thet time. An’ who should show up out’ta the blue, thumpin’ me on my dickey shoulder, the which’s never been right since Charlie Bartleby put half a shotgun blast in it seven year gone, none but Harold Vermaine, is all?”

“Who in hell’s Harold Vermaine?” Sally always jittery to reach the climax of a story without the hindrance of listening to what came after the beginning up to the final shoot-out.

“Nobody ye’d know, jes’ a personal acquaintance o’mine.”

“Oh.”

“Anyways, ter get ter the heart o’this here ghost story, if’n I may.” Jim letting a beady eye rake his audience in the light of the fire. “Whichaway’s what happened was this here Harold took a cane chair by my side, lit up a ceegar, said he was sorry fer causin’ me sich pain, havin’ forgot entire about my shoulder in the last six month since last meeting me; an’ then, seemingly havin’ nuthin else of import to take up his time, started out on this here tale.”

“The which I’d be pleased fer yer followin’ his lead, is all.” Sally still itching to hear the climax before the exordium was fairly under way.

“Let yer hoss stand an’ breathe some, leddy; we’ll get thar, sure—jes’ have faith.” Jim clearly having suffered such interruptions before in his story-telling career. “Wa-al, what Harold lit out ter lay on me was jes’ the orniest tale I ever heerd, thet’s a fact. It went somethin’ like this, if I recalls the details exact in their order, which I meb’be doesn’t. Anyways—”

Harold took a suck on his ceegar, paused ter let the smoke exit his tubes mighty slow so’s he got the full effect o’the fine tobaccy, then fell ter lyin’ through his teeth sich a’ways—

Jim, we’ve known each the other some many a year, What’s thet? Twelve? Long as thet, eh? Wa’al, never heed it, it ain’t ‘portant; ‘bout a year since, when I was out by the Three D’s Ranch, owned by ol’ Pepperpot Johnson y’recalls, I found mysel’ an’ three other ranch-hands makin’ a night-camp over by Crittle Creek whar it flowed, some wearisome an’ shallow, across Johnson’s acres. Let’s see, there was me, Pete Drummond, George Carpenter, an’ Xavier Rowlands, we all crouching by a fire one evening all by our lonesomes. George was attendin’ ter his Lefaucheux pistol, them always needin’ a deal of oilin’ if’n ye wanted them ter keep workin’ when needed. Pete was readin’ a letter from his ladyfriend he’d received a week since an’ which he was recitin’ inwardly fer about the fiftieth time. Xavier was mumblin’ ter his’self, he bein’ in the throes of a mighty fine toothache, the which he disallowed each of us ter attend to fer him; he sayin’ he didn’t’ want half his jaw took out promis’cus, rather than the one tooth—he sayin’ he’d wait till Tuesday next when he could visit the Phoenix dentist—in the meantime he not bein’ by any readin’ o’the Regulations any sort of company fer anyone around him. An’ as all this was goin’ down round our fire what happened but there was a disturbance out a’way some in the dark: which pretty much got us, all four, on our feet mighty quick we all presenting as fine a stand o’artillery to the darkness all round as’d have done Jim Bowie an’ Davy Crockett proud.

“Who’s thar?” I sings out, loud an’ clear. “We hears ye some sharp. Identify yersel’s, or we starts throwin’ lead.”

“Holla, Perkins!” Comes a shout out’ta the darkness, soundin’ some fifty yards distant over the sagebrush.

“Who in hell’s Perkins?” Shouts I back, never before havin’ come in personal contact with anyone o’said name.

“Hey, is thet you, Harry? Harry Vermaine?” This anonymous voice pipes up, now soundin’ some happy.

“Wa-al,” Sez I, hedgin’ my bets. “If’n so, who the hell are ye?”

“No’but Frank Bellamy, is all, Harry. Remember me?” The disembodied voice’s tone now perceptibly calmer an’ relaxed. “Can me an’ my frien’ come along in, an’ take some grits an’ beans along a’you all?”

Searchin’ my memory some sharp, it bein’ dark as Hades, an’ cold as the Arctic with a mighty reachin’ breeze settin’ up fer the night, I final recalls the stated character from my distant past.

“Frank Bellamy?” Me still some wary; after all, in the interim of our last meetin’ he might well have set-up as a road-agent an’ miscreant. “What was the name o’the spread we last worked at t’gether? Mighty quick, now—my trigger-finger’s gettin’ itchy.”

“Calum MacKinnery’s Broken Triangle spread; a thousand head o’beef cattle.” Comes the voice, mighty sure of itself.

“Oh, ar’right, come on in—but make it slow, an’ make it without firearms on show, or there’ll be consequences.” Me still bein’ some suspicious, as by natur’ bound, you’ll agree.

The flickering shadows from the still active fire didn’t make it any easier t’see what was a’goin’ on back in the dark outside the circle of light; but eventul two men, leadin’ their steeds, came forward enough t’be recognised. The leadin’ man, his face hidden by a wide thick beard, on seein’ me took t’waving his hand in greetin’, like to an ol’ friend.

“Hi, thar, pard.” Sez he, mighty joysome. “Long time no see.”

The fact I didn’t recognise said individual under his facial camouflage some set me back a tad, but wantin’ ter be all friendly an’ welcomin’ I stood up an’ made a signal as ter the visitors taking a place at the fire; the which they proceeded t’do.

“We got sausage an’ beans, still hot, not bad this evenin’ too.” Sez Pete makin’ free as host. “Grab those there platters an’ dig in, if’n ye wants.”

“Fancy I will, thanks.” Sez Frank, leanin’ over an’ scoopin’ a mess o’potage out’ta the pan.

“I’m easy, thanks.” Pipes up the other fella, in a voice like an echo comin’ from a deep mine-shaft. “Jes’ rest my’sel on this here piece o’wood, whiles.”

In the next few minutes I sort’a fixed t’see if’n I could wrench some facts out’ta this here so-called Frank, if’n it was actil him—I bein’ some suspicious still. I mean, if he was the real true Frank what was he doin’ here, round this campfire, this evenin’?

“Been some time since we last met, Frank.” Sez I, hopin’ fer him ter open up some personal.

“Yeah, ain’t it.” He replyin’ some wide o’the mark. “Meb’be eight month or so. Not quite a year, I’m sayin’. So, how’re ye gettin’ along? Fine an’ dandy, I hopes?”

“Pretty fair.” I replies, still not wantin’ ter give out much in the line o’personal information before necessary. “An’ you?”

Frank paused a while there, fillin’ the time by doin’ the same with his mouth vis-à-vis his sausage an’ beans before returnin’ ter the fray.

“Mighty nice grub, applauds yer cook, fer sure.” He tryin’ the wide game in compliments. “Went ter Phoenix, then over ter Los Angeles fer a while, then ended up pollutin’ Fresno fer my sins. After which I sudden felt the need ter return ter my roots, which finds me here this evenin’, pard.”

This might’a been on the up an’ up, or it mightn’t; what I felt at the time was it didn’t cover much in the personal line, detail-wise, anyway. So, leavin’ this aside I went ter tryin’ ter open the barnacle thet was Frank’s companion; me still some mistrustful about Frank’s motives.

“An’ you, mister?” Sez I, layin’ out like the free an’ easy host. “Wherebe you stand in this sity’atin? Friend o’ Frank’s here, or what?”

The man—who was tall, though sitting as we conferred, some lean, leaner than most mature men I’d seen in recent years, and haggard-faced, cheekbones like mountains on his face—took this moment to turn his head towards Frank, as if deflecting my question onto him instead.

But Frank, still focusing on his beans—he obvious bein’ some strong on the hunger line—was busy on them alone.

“Didn’t catch yer name, friend.” Sez I, gettin’ down ter basics. “I’m Harold Vermaine, out’ta Red Flume, Territory o’Arizona—you?”

The man, turnin’ back ter me some dissatisfied I thought, final took it in’ta his head ter start talkin’.

“Sam Fullarton, from San Diego, original—been herdin’ cattle fer hell knows how long backaways. Jes’ met Frank earlier this evenin’, some half mile from here.”

Hearin’ this didn’t make me any happier, folks; me thinkin’ a friendship needed more’n half a mile an’ some few hours acquaintance ter mature. I turned ter Frank, he bein’ engaged with his coffee-mug at this pint.

“Frank, where’d ye come from, this past few days?”

“Where?” He seeming some put out at this. “Wa’al, let’s see—Yuma, ter be exactly certin’. Been ridin’ the wild country in between—why?”

“When’d ye meet Sam here?” I fixin’ Frank with my eye, some sharp. “Jes’ me bein’ some interested in same—we bein’ all alone by ourselves out here in the badlands, you’ll agree.”

Frank took the time to glance round the campfire, final allowing t’himself the majority of his spectators were eyeing him with something less than friendly comprehension.

“A-ah! Wa’al, like Sam sez, I was headin’ on across the sagebrush desert round about here when Sam jumps up out’ta God knows where in my path, spookin’ my steed some wild. I’d a’hauled out my Colt but I’d forgot ter load the dam’ thing earlier ter’day so gave it the go-by. We eventul got ter talkin’ an’, ter cut it short, here we be.”

I mulled this over, for what it was worth, which wasn’t, in my view, for much.

“So, pard, who’re ye, if’n I may put it so short?” Me now layin’ aside the mask of host an’ puttin’ on the face of someone who wanted facts, an’ some quick.

Sam had took ter minutely examining the ashes an’ red embers of the fire, rather than the faces of his co-hosts round same. Now, kicked hard in a delicate area ter make free with his personal history, he sighed some lonesome an’ final lifted his head to stare me in my face. His expression in the doin’ of same not fillin’ me with enthusiasm, judgin’ by the cold light in his blue eyes.

“It was jes’ one o’they things—pure accident, is all.” He talking rather more deep than before; his tone now sounding like thunder rolling in a mountain ravine far away. “I was ridin’ this region, an’ Frank jes’ appeared in my way, out’ta nowhere. We seemed ter match our way o’thinkin’ an’ decided to team up fer the rest o’the way ter Red Flume. Thet clar things up?”

“Seemed ter happen mighty quick?” Sez I, bein’ sarcastic ‘cause I felt it was timely so ter do. “Cain’t say as I’ve heerd o’any other close friendships sproutin’ so fast. Makes me, fer one, some interested ter hear the details; times an’ places bein’ what they are.”

Sam mulled this over some hard; so lettin’, if nuthin’ else, Frank finish his meal down ter the last spot o’grease on his plate—Sam meanwhile lookin’ uninterested in same complete.

“How long does a friendship need ter take effect?” He soundin’ some cold an’ mean about it. “Won’t be the first sich, no-ways, sure.”

“What ye got ter say on the matter, Frank?” Me tryin’ ter widen the discussion some. “You feel somethin’ about this here Sam Fullarton ye ain’t felt fer others, recent?”

Frank, havin’ filled up ter his waterline internal an’ so no doubt feelin’ free an’ handsome with all Humanity, seemed relaxed with the whole affair; he not seemin’ ter take much note o’the matter.

“We met, some promis’cus I admits, out in the scrub earlier.” Frank smiling wide as if it were a happy coincidence. “Kind’a likes the ol’ guy, some, I got’ta admit. Somethin’ wrong with thet?”

“Not if it’s reciprocated, I assumes.” Sez I, takin’ the wide view.

“Thet there’s a mighty fine big word, Harry.” Sez Frank, makin’ some of a sour expression. “Any idee’s on what it means, fer those who doesn’t?”

Me bein’ caught short by this request I falls ter lookin’ through the lexicon I carries in my mind pretty sharp a’fore replying.

“A feelin’ taken by two or more people assumin’ the same outlook on some matter of import.” Sez I final, mighty pleased at my explanation. “They thinkin’ an’ feelin’ the same about some subjec’. Two minds thinkin’ alike, as it might be.”

Frank, to be fair, considered this concep’ some industrious; chewin’ it strong, gettin’ all the marrow out’ta same, a’fore comin’ back with any snap answer.

“Ah well, thet might be a trifle strong fer what’s happened a’tween Sam an’ I. It only bein’ some eight hours since we first met. But, hell, what’s the sweat?

At this pint I’d final brought the conversation round ter the corner where we were likely ter part company, an’ went on with my heart in my mouth an’ my right hand restin’ some innocent on the butt o’my Colt.

“There’s people who make friends all nat’ral an’ goin’ by Hoyle; then there’s folks who goes out’ta their way ter make a connection with someone out’ta the blue fer reasons o’their own—which is the pattern I feels is goin’ on here as we speaks. Sam, who are ye, an’ answer me straight if’n ye please.”

The fire was still bright an’ warm, shadows flickerin’ over the faces of the spectators sittin’ round. There was a cool breeze comin’ in from the outskirts of the surrounding sagebrush landscape an’ the stars were comin’ bright overhead, it bein’ a clar night. Frank was leanin’ forward, like ter hopin’ ter soak up as much heat out’ta the fire as he could, whiles Sam was sittin’ straight an’ military in his outlook, face cold an’ stone-like, eyes lookin’ like searchlights in the gloom. Somehow he seemin’ to be less happy an’ comfortable where he now found his’self than when he first strode in amongst us.

“You seem some determined in askin’ pes’nal questions.” He now soundin’ in tone like waves fallin’ back from a shallow sandy shore after a storm. “My origins, I feels y’all round this here fire’ll agree, is my own; suffice ter say some whiles back ter’day I was ridin’ across this here wild land headin’ fer wheres yer don’t need ta’know. In the doin’ of which I meets up with Frank here some auspicious backaways across the flatlands hereabouts. Since when we’ve bin moseyin’ along t’gether all happy an’ in good order. What for ye all wants t’make somthin’ o’sich?”

Judgin’ from his attitude, an’ somethin’ about the way he held his’self I here takes in’ta my head thet the time fer bold action had arrived, a’fore somethin’ nasty occurred, fer Frank in pertik’ler, but the rest o’us in gen’ral, too. So I sits back, some quiet an’ smooth, ter haul somethin’ out’ta my saddlebag a’hind me unseen, an’ addresses Sam some straight an’ cold.

“Sam, I’ve bin observin’ of ye since the first instant ye strolled out’ta the shadows alongside Frank here—an’ what I’ve so observed don’t make me none happy nor content.” I keepin’ my eye squar’ on Sam whiles I spoke, hidin’ with my jacket what I now held in my right hand. “I saw Frank’s hoss, lookin’ some like a victim pursued by a hord o’Indians out fer its scalp, shyin’ as far away from yer as it could, always. I’ve seen Frank here easin’ his’self nearer an’ nearer this here fire as though he was sittin’ in the middle of an ice-field in the Arctic, no matter what he sez contrariwise. I pertik’ler noted, me bein’ sharp o’eye since childhood, you’ve walked across the sandy ground, from out’ta the far shadows over there behind us, alongside Frank. Frank’s boot marks bein’ still clar an’ easy fer anyone lookin’ ter see on the ground—yours ain’t, ‘cos they ain’t thar t’be seen, nor ever was. Sam, ye may be many things, but what ye ain’t is human.”

At this pint o’my peroration I sits straight, hauls my right hand in’ta view so showin’ what I held to all round the campfire, an’ opens it ter hold in full view o’Sam.

“Perhaps what’s wanted is some clarification o’the matter?” Sez I bold an’ brazen as all get-out. “What say we takes a look in this here book—see if’n it can clar the matter up? How’s about this verse?”

An’ so sayin’ I starts in ter read from the Bible I held open an’ true in my hand. No further had I got than the first verse o’the chapter I’d chosen than, not ter be profane at all, all Hell broke loose. A wild wind, as ter a full storm, came blowin’ in from God knows where disruptin’ the whole camp-site, blowin’ gear all over the ground around an’ throwin’ up dust as ter a sandstorm. The fire-flames, still burnin’ bright up ter thet time, took ter shakin’ an’ quiverin’ like to someone with St Vitus Dance; an’ we all looked ter our pes’nal well-bein’ fer a few seconds. Then sudden, the storm had gone as if it’d never bin, an’ Sam an’ his hoss gone with the wind, too.

What’s thet ye says? Where fore was he? Who knows! All I sez is, from sittin’ round the fire bold as brass an’ callin’ Frank his bosom friend ter disappearin’ like the last snows of Winter, he simply wasn’t, no more—nor his hoss. What do I make o’same? Wa’al, what is thar t’make? Frank’d had a long journey, cavortin’ all over the badlands o’south Arizony; he was tired an’ open ter suggestion, an’ it seems somethin’, I won’t say someone, had took note o’his weakened state an’ thought fair ter latchin’ on’ta him fer what reason we best not consider. I, bein’ a long-time pastor an’ well-known as same throughout the Territory, meb’be was some more sharp as ter Sam’s specifics than most, is all. Anyways, we wasn’t bothered by any recurrence o’same fer the rest o’the three days it took us ter reach Red Flume; since when this here Sam, whoever or whatever he was, hasn’t bin heerd of no more by man nor beast, neither, thank God. An’ thet there’s my story, Jim,—hopes it finds ye interested an’ pleased ter hear same.

—O—

There was a perceptible silence round the campfire as everyone took in the various nuances of Jim’s tale; then Sally spoke up loud and clear.

“Thet hit the mark, sure ‘nuff! Ain’t heerd sich a pack o’lies tol’ so well in months. Got any more, Jim?”

But Jim, with a pleased but embarrassed wave of an arm, forbore to engage any more of the campfire’s attention, giving way to whoever felt up to spinning a yarn next.

“How’s ‘bout ye, Jeannie?” Henrietta focusing attention on the daughter of Red Flume’s bank manager. “Heerd ye had somthin’ of a little confliction over ter Flagstaff, last month; wan’na tell us ‘bout it?”

Jeannie Larsson showed all of her pretty brunette twenty-three years as she sat at the fire. In height she came a couple of inches taller than Sally, but short of the immense heights achieved by Henrietta. A somewhat pointed chin and wide smiling mouth gave the impression she was even younger than first appeared; but the clear sharp light in her grey eyes as she looked at anyone gave the lie to this supposition. Now, she grinned while scratching the knee of her blue jeans, preparing to tell a good tale well.

“If’n ye insists so, Harry.” Her voice being somewhere close to the soprano, with a rich depth belying her years. “It happened, like yer said, thet time Ma took me ter Flagstaff fer a break in the cool hills; it bein’, as ye all recalls, some mournful an’ hot down in the desert thet time. Wa’al, what happened was we went ter stay a week or so with Aunt Simpson, Thomasina Simpson: so this here tale might well be named the story of Aunt Simpson’s Miniature.”

Sally, always eager for details and facts, here struck in, somewhat at a loss.

“Miniature? Miniature what?”

“Portrait.”

Sally took note of this Sphinx-like reply, but found it as clear as the Ancient Egyptians had the maxims of said Goddess.

“Portrait? Whose? An’ why was it miniature? Painter not have enough canvas ter go round whenever?”

Another silence echoed round the campfire, receding into the shadows further out like rolling waves on a disturbed ocean; the spectators feeling that, even for verifiable lack of knowledge, Sally was pushing the limits of good taste.

“Sal?” Henrietta, noting the atmosphere, valiantly came to her lover’s assistance.

“Yeah, what?”

“A miniature painting is jes’ thet. A small painting of a landscape or more likely a person; small enuff so’s it kin be put in a pocket or purse, fer carryin’ roun’ personal an’ private, ye see?”

Sally, enlightened, considered this and found it compatible with her understanding.

“Oh—A-ah! I see’s. Right, carry on, Jeannie, I’m listenin’ hard-I am!”

Having safely survived traversing the borders of Sally’s level of misunderstanding Jeannie took a deep breath and launched out on her snippet of personal history.

“it was like this, Aunt Simpson was the recipient of an Aunt hersel’; by which I means she also had an Aunt—exactly what relation this lady might’a been ter me I never have discovered. Anyways, said lady, Aunt’s Aunt, as it were, had taken the liberty of popping-off some few weeks since, leaving Aunt, Simpson thet is, a deal o’relics, none important or worth so much as ye might’a hoped. Anyway, ter get to it—”

“I was hopin’ fer thet, too.” Sally piped-up without realising she spoke out loud.

“What? What was thet, leddy?”

“Oh, er, nuthin’, jes, mumblin’ ter mysel’. Carry on.”

“Hmmph! Anyways,” Jeannie returning to the fray undaunted. “When Mother an’ I got ter Aunt’s house over ter Flagstaff Aunt was goin’ through a mite o’bits an’ pieces duly sent down from Phoenix where the earlier Aunt lived. Amongst which she found, second day we was there, a fine miniature portrait o’said Aunt when in her hot youth, or so Aunt Simpson surmised.

“Mighty fine piece o’art,” She sez, eyeing the thing with burgeonin’ pride. “Thinks I’ll keep it by me in my reticule, fer remembrance sake.”

Mother nor I could ever remember Aunt Simpson ever allowing she’d ever met her own, now deceased, Aunt; but we let it go, not wantin’ ter appear mercenary nor covetous: it, the portrait, not seemin’ ter either o’us, much of a work of fine art as made out, neither. But there ye goes, different people, different tastes, as Mother often said over her evenin’ cup of rum infused coffee.

Anyways, this here dam’ portrait had somethin’ to it, not known ter either Mother, me, nor Aunt Simpson. And it began makin’ itself known, an’ some of a dam’ nuisance, the very next day we was all out in the fair streets o’Flagstaff, rummaging through the shops lookin’ as yer do fer bargains. We’d come, in a percolatin’ sort’a manner, ter Lilly Hammond’s General Store; a place fitted out an’ dealin’ in most everythin’ a lady could, should, or ought’a need fer her daily perambulations through Society.

Now what Mother nor I knew at thet time was Aunt an’ Lilly had a long-time feud goin’ on a’tween them; sich as had started when they was youn gals an’ had only grown stronger in advanced years. Aunt often enough only goin’ in said store more out’ta annoyance’s sake then fer any need ter buy anythin’. Wa’al, this day, me an’ Mother close by, Aunt set-to examinin’ the rolls o’cloth suitable fer makin’ in’ta a Summer skirt. First she looked at printed cloth, with roses an’ green fronds, but took aginst same pretty quick. Next she thought about a brown woolen, but poo-pooed thet too. After which she sudden saw a roll o’ gingham on a high shelf thet, she said, looked like it might hit the mark jes’ right.

Lilly weren’t none too happy, she havin’ ter go t’the end o’the long counter ter roll along a high ladder on wheels ter reach the shelf, high in the sky, mighty near the rafters. But she made it, eventul; comin’ back ter sea level with the roll over her arm. She throws it across the counter mighty smooth, unrollin’ it as it fell, like an expert.

“Here’s a fine gingham, Miss Simpson; red an’ blue, jes’ right fer Summer, an’ none too thickly woven, either.”

“Hum!” Replies my Aunt, obvious settlin’ in fer the long siege, other customers needs bein’ taken as no account. “Wa’al, I doesn’t know. What does ye think, Nancy?”

Nancy bein’ my Mother who, bein’ kind-hearted an’ not wantin’ a local war eruptin’ on her watch, tried the soft soap routine—but to no good effect.

“It sure do look jes’ the thing, I must say. You’ll look mighty pretty in it, fer sure.”

But this was a case of Hope chasing Ambition, and failing miserably. Aunt shook her head at this kindly meant remark, and set her face aginst the gingham wholesale.

“Naw, Miss Hammond, on second thoughts it don’t match my complexion none too good; thinks I’ll look fer something more in keepin’.”

Miss Hammond, I suspects well used ter this level o’failin’ ter make her mind up by a customer an’ my Aunt in pertik’ler, kept a straight face but ye could see the strain underlyin’ her effort thet way.

“Perhaps modom would like this crushed silk? Dark green, but glows in the light like emeralds in the sea.” She waxing some poetical by way of makin’ the sale. “I’m sure it would set-off modom’s tone jes’ right.”

Whatever modom—I mean Aunt Simpson—would have found to decry this sentiment, as she certainly would have, was never to be known however; for thet instant Aunt, fer reasons unbeknownst ter Mother nor I, reached in her reticule an’, in searchin’ fer her purse, happened ter bring ter light the miniature of her lately lost Aunt. Jes’ at thet same instant the ladder, used by Miss Hammond ter ascend ter the roof fer the now abandoned gingham, gave a crack in its ligaments, a metallic screech from one of its metal wheels, an’ proceeded to fall sideways along the inside of the counter towards Miss Hammond.

By a miracle it missed the lady, slidin’ down behind her to hit the dry floorboards with a almighty crash thet shook the eardrums an’ the whole settin’ o’the store, like to an actil earthquake. One corner, in passin’, caught the edge of Miss Hammond’s skirt pullin’ her sideways, layin’ her on her beam-ends on the floor beside the collapsed ladder, an’ out’ta our sight fer the moment.

“Oh, dear.” Sez my Aunt, not soundin’, howsomever, as much put out as ye might’a expected.

“Goodness Gracious!” Sez Mother, tryin’ fer the high ground an’ missin’ same complete.

“Sh-t!” Sez I, but the other leddies too much in’ta their own pes’nal involvement in the drama to notice I got away thet time scot-free.

“Bit of a rumption?” Sally coming in with her thoughts on the affair before Henrietta could stop her. “Anybody hurt? I mean, was Miss Hammond alright?”

“Nah, jes’ covered in dust from the dry floorboards.” Jeannie smiling at the memory. “Looked as if she was on the verge of some salty language, though. I think Aunt an’ Mother both noticin’ same decided it was a notable moment ter head elsewhere on their shoppin’ expedition. So we made no bones about abandonin’ the concierge to her own devices an’ slipped out in’ta the street like girls desertin’ school fer dancin’ an’ skippin’ instead.”

“So what happened then?” Sally feeling that something was in the air, just needing the last push to come to light.

“Ah!” Jeannie taking up her tale once more. “Wa’al, there’s the rub. We went along Farnham Road, dodgin’ past the saloons, though I was developin’ a mighty fine thirst but what can ye do whiles in company with Aunt an’ Mother? Anyways, we final hit up at Callum Davis’ Home Store, called so because it held all thet you would ever need ter stock said establishment. Figures I could do with a new tablecloth an’ some new plates, sez Aunt bright as a new pin; her earlier contretemps seemin’ ter have set her up pretty well in the viv an’ verve stakes. So we enters said store, it bein’ some dark though lit by overhead oil lamps. The owner away t’the far end, hidden by intervenin’ tables, counters, an’ piles of assorted kitchen comestibles an’ objec’s.

“We goin’ through the whole journey o’your Aunt re-stocking her house, a’fore we comes ter anythin’ in the least significant?” Sally sounding somewhat jaded by the tale so far. “—‘cause night’s wearin’ on, y’know.”

Jeannie, at all other times the very star of youthful American Womanhood, hunched her knees up where she sat by the glowing fire, gave Sally a thorough examination from under lowered brows, decided not to erupt like Stromboli, and instead merely sighed with that air of exasperation known to all lecturers when they realise their audience is restless and it’s going to be a long hour or so.

“Wa’al, if’n ye’re lookin’ simple fer the guts o’the matter reckon we can slip, some wholesale missin’ out a lot o’fine detail, ter the actil conclusion, if’n thet’s more ter yer taste, leddy?”

Sally forbearing to reply Jeannie carried on her story, chewing on a piece of beef jerky to help the imagination.

Aunt hed gone through the store like to a herd o’locusts on a spree—not actil buyin’ anythin’, y’understands, thet not bein’ her style, usual. But what she was after was the flavor of the place an’ it’s stock. She bein’ a customer of great experience an’ years, she could smell out a bargain or new stock like a c’yote trailin’ a wounded deer. An’ what she eventul hauled up alongside was a counter on which were displayed a whole herd o’fancy new teapots—”

“Teapots!” Sally sounding highly offended. “Since when did dam’ teapots have anythin’ at all ter do with a ghost story? Ye losin’ yer bearin’s, or what, young ‘un?”

Jeannie, having by this time judged her ill-tempered spectator to a tee, merely sighed, going on regardless.

Aunt, I may not have noted as yet—some people not likin’ mere details in a story—didn’t like coffee overmuch, she lovin’ a nice cup o’tea of a mornin’. She havin’, ter my certin’ knowledge, three teapots fer sure holed up in dark corners of her house whiles we, Mother an’ I, were on holiday there. There’s some fine specimens o’the teapot art there, Nancy, sez Aunt mighty pleased with the sight. Reckon I’ll jes’ hustle through ‘em, see what’s up ter scratch an’ all.

As we was standin’ aroun’, lettin’ Aunt do what she did best, who appears from the shadders but ol’ Callum his’self, obvious on the lookout fer a bitin’ customer. Ho, leddies, sez he mighty jolly, teapots, is it? Wa’al, look at they specimens; the best o’the best, even if’n I says so my’sel’. But Aunt, bein’ the ol’ war horse she was, wasn’t taken in by this amateur attempt ter sell her what she didn’t want. Call these here teapots, Cal? She obvious on a roll, why I seen broken-down tin coffee pots with holes in ‘em thet’d do fairer service as teapots then these here rejects. Ain’t yer got anythin’ of style or quality at all?

Callum, he already havin’ had more’n enuff experience himself of Aunt, took this in good stead, though it clear needed a lot o’his best inner strength not ter tell Aunt exactly what he thought o’her. This here pot, fer instance, madam, he opines with feelin’, is a Lexington Pottery item—the which cain’t be bettered this side o’the Rio Grande. It’s red an’ yeller, pipes up Aunt, as if noting the dubious ancestry of a hound-dog. What about this here blue ‘un, then; the which with blue flowers all over?, responds Callum, obvious out fer a sale at all costs. Hmm, Aunt curling her left nostril in contempt, at thet price? What d’yer think we Flagstaffians is made of? Gold all over? How much’re ye askin’ fer it? Five dollars? Are ye out’ta yer mind? If’n it were made o’solid silver, which it certin ain’t, I still wouldn’t give, oh, more’n two-fifty; an’ then I’d be stealin’ from mysel’.

“Has this here story got a pint?” Sally clearly having reached the end of that short item generally known as her patience. “Or a ghost, fer thet?”

“Hold on, hold on,” Jeannie not the least put out. “I’m a’gettin’ thar. Callum, at this time clearly havin’ reached thet pint in his monthly tussles with Aunt where survival counted above all else, came to a hard decision, fer a shopkeeper I means. Alright, sez he a’tween set teeth, two dollars flat, how’s thet? Cain’t get a better bargain anywhere in Flagstaff!

Wa’al, Aunt, not to crumble under pressure too easy, hums an’ haws some awful, but final allows she’ll take the item under discussion, an’ in so doin’ reaches in’ta her reticule once agin’—”

“Oh, God!” From Sally, seeing where this part of the tale was headed.

“What was thet, leddy?”

“Nuthin’, continue.” Sally deferring to the inevitable.

So, Jeannie continuing though casting a suspicious glance Sally’s way, Aunt hauled out her purse, but not without havin’ ter grab the miniature portrait once agin—it bein’ thet sort’a reticule, y’see. The kind where’s, ye wantin’ something out’ta same, come what may ye has ter empty everythin’ else a’fore ye comes ter the objec’ ye first needed. Anyway’s, the moment the portrait saw the light, or dim shadow, of the interior o’the store, all Hell cut free like to a Fair-day holiday.

“How so?” Sally, interrupting because her nature persuaded her so to do.

“Sal,” Jeannie final reaching her own limits, “if’n ye interrupts my eloquence jes’ one more time I allows, fair an’ square, I’ll paint these here surroundin’ boulders an’ rocks with yer blood an’ entrails if’n I swings fer same—OK?”

“Oh, well!” Sally muttered, some disconcerted, receding into sarcastic silence.

A rack o’mens’ suits, standin’ ter one side, sudden fell over fer no perceptible reason, cloggin’ the aisle on thet side. “Hey, what fer’s goin’ on?” issued, some unfriendly, from a mature leddy now some overlaid an’ enveloped by a brown Gentleman’s Linen Morning. Jes’ as Callum, Aunt, Mother an’ I turns ter take in the unfoldin’, in every sense o’the term, sity’atin, what happens but a teapot on the edge of the table, where Aunt had laid her portrait miniature whiles she wrastled with the other items in her dam’ reticule, slid off an’ landed on the bare floorboards with a crash as if’n it’d fallen from the high skies, splinterin’ in’ta a million shards in the doin’ so.

“What for the Hell’s goin’ forward here?” shouts Callum, all taken aback with events beyond his control. But a’fore he could continue his call to order somethin’ liquid began splashin’ on the floor in the aisle we all stood in. We-all turnin’ our heads ter the heavens or, at least, the dusty rafters of Callum’s store ceilin’, what’d we see but one o’his oil-lamps leaking paraffin like a sieve. A’fore anyone could do or say a further word the paraffin, touchin’ the hot exterior o’the lamp, caught fire an’ a veritable waterfall o’liquid fire began rainin’ down on the floor an’ all nearby customers.

“Fire! God’dam fire!” shouts Callum, already his’self halfway ter the street entrance, customers or no.

“Come leddies,” Sez Aunt, calm as a fish on a slab o’ice. “Let us leave this—place!” She scoopin’ up her belongings from the table-top as she spoke; these includin’ the dam’ portrait which she slid in’ta the deep dark of her reticule as we headed fer the exit an’ survival.

Jeannie here stopped for breath, and a swig at a bottle near to hand before continuing.

“So, what happened?” Sally, against her better judgement, searching for facts.

“What happened was thet Callum’s place half burned down.” Jeannie shaking her head over the drama of the moment. “A pile o’cits got ter formin’ a chain with buckets an’ eventul managed ter save about half the shack, so it weren’t a complete tragedy, after all.”

“And Aunt Simpson?”

“Oh, she breezed on about her shoppin’ expedition bright as a new pin. It, she tellin’ us as we walked along, havin’ nuthin’ whatever ter do with her.”

A longish silence followed; Jeannie, between chewing on her beef jerky, taking sips from the beer bottle she held, Sally and all the other spectators meanwhile musing on the tale so far.

“And,” Sally eventually speaking-up, because she could see Henrietta wasn’t in the mood. “what then?” I imagin’in there was some kind’a climax ter this dam’ tale, in the end?”

“Oh, yeah, sure.” Jeannie nodding, as in the know. “More so then anythin’ a’fore, even. We’d jes got ter Parkinson Street, pushin’ through the oncomin’ crowds on their way ter enjoy the fireworks ter our rear, when Aunt stops in her tracks. Leddies, sez she, I has one more place ter impose myself on—Hopkins’ Habadashery, come, it’s this way.”

On bracin’ up aginst said establishment Mother an’ I found it was a small shop with one winder an’ door, not lookin’ as if it could hold more’n three customers at once without burstin’ at the seams. Aunt went in, like a Captain leading a boarding-party, and we found ourselves in a bright clean store seeming dealin’ exclusive in womens’, er, foibles an’ fixtures, if’n ye gets my meanin’. Miss Hopkins, Aunt speakin’ up like a pilot shoutin’ across a river-mouth, Has ye any leddies’ slips in white silk? She’s deaf as a wood post, she explains ter us, turnin’ round fer the purpose. Shout loud or she won’t hear ye. No, no, not those; slips, madam, slips; them over thar. Yeah, thet’s right. Silk ones, not those clammy dry cotton one’s. Thank yer.

By this time, as ye all roun’ this here campfire already expec’s I’m sure, Mother an’ I was waitin’ on tenterhooks fer thet moment when Aunt felt it needful ter explore the interior corners o’her dam’ reticule fer the necessities ter pay fer her bargains. The which moment final arrived, like the wolf on the fold. Three dollars an’ twenty cents, Aunt was in the middle of complainin’ as she delved in’ta the objec’ under discussion, things sure is over-priced these days; why, I remembers clear as daylight when I was a young lass these here doin’s’d have cost no more’n seventy cents entire. On Miss Hopkins replyin’ out loud ter her customers face thet prices forty-five years since jes’ nat’ral ough’ta have increased as by duty bound Aunt stood still fer a second then went ter gettin’ ready ter fight the Battle o’Gettysburg all over. But a’fore doin’ so she, havin’ scruffled some handsome in her reticule lookin’ fer her purse—the which now resided in her left-hand skirt pocket forgotten by one an’ all—she laid the dam’ miniature on Miss Hopkins counter, face side up—an’ what a stir it caused, ‘cause Miss Hopkins recognised it straight-off, or who it represented, anyhow.

“By all thet’s Holy, what the dam’ yer carryin’ thet witches’ presence around fer? Have ye no feelin’s fer yer fellow leddies, or men fer thet matter?” sez Miss Hopkins, mighty riled an’ backin’ away from the objec’ aginst the shelves behind her counter. “Take it away!”

“What, madam?” Aunt riled in her own turn, not liking any relative, even if recently deceased, to be taken lightly and with contumely. “Thet there’s my Aunt; an’ long I loved same, a’fore she kicked the buc—I mean a’fore she passed on ter a better place.”

“The only place thet dam’ woman picter’d thar passed on ter is the deepest, most obnoxious, sulphurous whirlpool o’eternal fire in the depths o’Hell, is all.” Miss Hopkins makin’ her objections plain an’ square as by Hoyle to the memory of whoever it was Aunt’s Aunt’s miniature portrait actily portrayed.

“What! What!” sich bein’ all Aunt could come up with on the spur of the moment.

“Thet there representation ain’t o’anyone’s Aunt, never mind yer own, Miss Simpson.” Miss Hopkins, recoverin’ some, deigning ter explain. “Thet there’s Sylvianah Fairmont, o’bad memory. I knows because I’ve been involved in the Highfield Kirk General Council fer the past twelve year, an’ so knows some about witches, demons, ghosts, an’ things thet goes bang in the night. Thet there’s Sylvianah ter a tee, no doubts; an’ a trouble-maker wherever she went is what she was, a’fore she met with her accident ten year since.”

“Accident?” pipes up Aunt, mine, some intrigued by the way things were turnin’. “What accident?”

“The kind happens when, of a dark gloomy night, ye appears in a graveyard intent on diggin’ up the recently interred remains o’a nineten year ol’ gal who’d recent died o’a tertiary fever. The kind’a accident follows a heavy wooden spade handle bouncin’ off yer head more’n once, several times over. Thet kind’a accident.”

“How’d ye know?” I sez, mighty brave.

“Still got the spade!” Sez Miss Hopkins, starin’ us all in the face, cold an’ unconcerned. “An’ I knows exact where thet portrait needs ter go, right now.” She continues before anyone of us, perkik’ler Aunt, has a second ter interfere. She grabs the miniature from the counter where Aunt’d laid same, darts t’the iron stove a couple o’feet away, opens the top with a metal fork thereby an’, a’fore anythin’ could be done ter stop her, dumps the portrait in the stove.

We all, standin’ like statues round, saw what happened next clear as day. From the interior of the hot stove a bright red light, the like of which none of us had ever experienced a’fore shot out. It brightened till it was almost impossible ter look at, then dimmed, though glimmering some awful with strange shadders as it did. Shadders, from my pint o’view as I watched same, thet seemed ter reflect things an’ activities so awful they simple cain’t be named in proper company. Then there was a last brilliant burst o’what I can only describe as dark light, an’ the show was over.

When Jeannie’s tale had finished all round the fire took time to assimilate what they had just heard recited—Henrietta first coming back to life to give her opinion.

“Thet’s some kind’a a tale, every which way. What happened next?”

Jeannie, having finished her beer and beef jerky, shrugged her shoulders.

“What d’yer want happened next? Nuthin’. What could’a happened? Aunt’s miniature was gone, burned ter ashes; Miss Hopkins’ actions couldn’t be brought a’fore the Law without makin’ Aunt out ter be a fool at least, if not worse; an’ the foregoin’ accidents involved with the dam’ thing made us all, Aunt included, think thet meb’be the outcome was as much as could be hoped fer, everythin’ bein’ taken in’ta account. So, what happened? We all went home an’ had a calmin’ cup o’tea all round, is what happened. Thet’s all.”

—O—

The campfire was a silent centre to the ring of spectators, after the conclusion of this story, everyone having their own opinions on the affair so described. Then Henrietta spoke up, as cooling the temperature which was, outside the ring of the fire, already somewhat chilly anyway.

“Thet was a tale, an’ no gainsayin’.” She nodding agreement at her sentiment. “Reckon it’ll take some thinkin’ on, sure. Anyone else got a tale this dark night, ter shiver our timbers an’ turn our blood ter ice-water?”

“Huh! Yer doesn’t want much, does yer, handsome?” Sally perking up at her lover’s outlook “However, anyone got somethin’ ter add o’interest, speak up while yer got the lectern, don’t mind me.”

“I got a story,” Herb Atkins, recovering from his earlier put-down at the start of the evening’s entertainment, coming back like a hero. “if’n ye wants ter hear. I calls it the Wheatfield; though some calls it, back where I grew up, the Suicide’s Field. Wan’na hear?”

There was a rustle round the fire, each listener in their own way preparing to hear the intriguing tale. Some taking swigs of beer or whisky, some biting on pieces of food left-over from supper, some just shuffling into more comfortable positions as the shadows flickered all round.

“Go to it, Herb. We’re listenin’.” Henrietta giving approval to begin.

—O—

“Wa’al, it were like this.” Herb musing with downcast chin on long-past memories. “It all started back in ’Forty-two, a’fore the Rush’d happened; when the fields o’Californy were still orange an’ lemon rigouts. Not thet it concerns Californy any ways at all, my tale bein’ set in nor-west Arizony, where ye can still get green fields thet grows stuff, wheat, corn, barley, an’ the likes. Wa’al, there was one field, on Farmer Jenkins’ spread it were, a few miles west from Gila Bend, thet reg’lar grew fine wheat year in year out; an’ where the seat o’this present story lies.’

“Ye’re gon’na tell us a ghost story about a dam’ field?” Henrietta allowing her level of disbelief in such to take full control of her emotions.

“Yeah, I is.” Says Herb, straight out.

“Oh!” Henrietta, seeing the raconteur’s determination, having nothing to fall back on.

“So, where was I? Oh, yeah,” Herb getting into the proper frame of mind for his recollections. “It all started when Bart Davis—ye all remember Bart Davis, o’course?”

“Nah.” Henrietta making no bones about her lack of knowledge. “Who was he? A road agent, kidnapper, bank robber, murderer, what?”

Herb allowed his sarcasm at this interruption to show in his expression, though he simply replied in kind.

“A painter.”

“A painter?” Henrietta no way understanding. “What’d he paint? Houses, horse troughs, way-signs?”

“He was a landscape painter—a artist; the kind as makes them oil paintings folks hangs on their dining-room walls ter impress guests an’ sich.”

Henrietta contemplated this explanation for a few seconds, then merely shrugged her shoulders, as saying what the hell!

“So this painter—this artist of experience, influence, an’ popular demand,” Herb anxious to make the substance and importance of his hero plain to all. “set-up his easel in this here field o’Jenkins’, ready ter paint the encirclin’ environment in his usual style—sich bein’, from what I’d heerd others remark, mostly green an’ brown muddy gloominess. How sich helped a bright sunny wheatfield in all its glory I cain’t say, not bein’ by trade an artist mysel’.” Herb waving away incipient criticism off-handedly. “But, anyways, what happened was thet this here Davis set-up as a guest o’Jenkins, who was mighty happy ter have sich a affluent an’ well-respected lodger all ter his’self, fer braggin’ purposes later, over ter the White Stallion saloon in Gila Bend. So Davis arrives, so’s persons in the know later testifies, some down-trodden an’ miserable at Jenkins’ farm. He, Davis, seeming sufferin’ from the Blue Devils mighty handsome; a state o’mind the which Farmer Jenkins found it pretty difficult ter bring the artist out’ta.”

“He some depressed?” Henrietta butting-in unasked. “One o’his daubs not sellin’, or what?”

“Nah,” Herb shaking-off this question without effort. “Artists, even successful ones, is well-used ter their works not hittin’ the Public’s taste; look at thet there British painter, was Turner his name?, he gave up sellin’ his picter’s straight—kept ‘em all in his house, growin’ mouldy an’ damp fer years a’fore he quit the scene, Artists—they cain’t no-how be set in reg’lar moulds, no-way. Anyway, this here Davis; he was miserable, gloomy, sadder’n a rattler thet’d lost its tail, an’ one day he ups an’ tells Jenkins he’s a mind ter paint in his wheatfield. Don’t spile the harvest, sez Jenkins, his mind on future profits; nah, don’t worry, replies Davis, an’ don’t worry about lunch fer me—I may be some while.

So out he goes, easel under right arm an’ paint-box under his left arm, stumpin’ along in a heavy-footed manner wholly attributable ter his’self. Jenkins goes ter doin’ whatever farmers does of a day then, round about three in the afternoon, havin’ heerd nor seen nary a shadder of the painter inbetwixt, he hears a gunshot ring out loud an’ clar, comin’ from the direction of his wheatfield.

“What’s so strange about thet?” Henrietta once more holding up the smooth running of the tale for her own selfish purposes and needs. “Surely a farm’s al’lus ringin’ out with gunshots—hares, rabbits, snakes, cy’otes; hell, a’most anythin’?”

But Herb was up for this, giving his interlocutor a wide grin, as one who had the answer to hand.

“Farmer Jenkins’ was one o’they cult, or should I say sect, followers; didn’t believe in shootin’ vermin wholesale; was one o’they who only ate vegetables, even; though God knows how he got by, thereby.”

“Vegetables?” Henrietta unable to restrain herself at this curious information. “Folks cain’t get by only eatin’ vegetables—why, stands ter reason, ye jes’ cain’t—it ain’t healthy.”

“Wa’al, all I knows is this here Farmer Jenkins was givin’ the thing a fair trial, apparent.” Herb now beginning to become a trifle nervous, shuffling round to better find a comfortable position as he sat on his saddle by the fire. “Cain’ I get along with the tale? So, Jenkins heerd the shot, went out ter converse with his ranch foreman, an’ final decided ter pay his wheatfield a visit, jes’ ter make sure all was on the up an’ up. An’ what did the two men find on reachin’ the scene?”

There was a silent pause, Herb obviously wanting someone to ask the pertinent question, but none listening up ter the mental effort. Then Henrietta, by now even herself feeling she was somewhat hogging the raconteur’s attention, piped up a trifle nervously.

“What? Someone had an accident?”

Relieved that his question had elicited an answer, even if from his growing Nemesis, Herb nodded and went on.

“They found Davis face down in the wheat, seeming shot through the head—some definite, in fac’. Jenkins later testifyin’ thet the painter’s brains was spread all over his field like ter apple blossom in the Spring.”

“Nasty!” Henrietta shaking her head in disapproval. “Passin’ road agents, was it? After whatever Davis had thet was worth anythin’?”

“Nah,” Herb coming to the dramatic point of his story. “Shot his’self, pistol still in his right hand, barrel smokin’, an’ the entry wound clouded some black with powder burn where he’d held the barrel aginst his temple.”

“God!”

“Yeah, well, thet was the end o’Davis.”

“So,” Sally, having restrained herself handsomely previously, now over-rode her partner to come in with the telling query. “Why’d he do sich? Must’a been feelin’ mighty poorly an’ down, you’d think?”

“No-one ever discovered the wherefore or why of it.” Herb going on with his tale, now that the juicy heart of the matter was in the foreground. “People jes’, eventul, puttin’ it down ter his mental state bein’ some out’ta order, the which Jenkins and others could easy testify ter; so the case was closed an’ life moved on—but not fer long.”

“Oh,” Henrietta now fully under the power of the unfolding story. “for why?”

“Harvest time came along, for why.” Herb sitting up, deeply engaged in the telling of the story himself now. “Or, at least, it out’ta had done. What happened was, when Farmer Jenkins came ter harvestin’ his wheatfield, what’d he find?”

“God! Get on with the dam’ story—we’ll be here all dam’ night, otherwise.” Sally, her hard cold nature pressing strongly, unable to hold back the growling beast within.

“Rrrr.” Herb, assailed on one side by carping criticism, stared into the embers of the campfire, spat sideways expertly relieving himself of his chawing baccy, and returned to the fray refreshed. “So Jenkins, expectin’ a fine return o’wheat fer his year’s outgoin’s, hauls up ter the field, takes a long wide glance over his crop, an’ is straight disappointed across the board. For why? For ‘cause half his crop weren’t, is why.”

“Wha’d’ya mean?” Henrietta as flummoxed as her staring and glowering partner, though better able to articulate her displeasure.

“Only thet a large part o’the field,—it bein’, turns out, the exact place an’ area Davis had quit this mortal coil,—was barren o’anythin’ like ter a harvest at all, jes’ bare earth.”

“Yer not tellin’ me—” Sally, out of countenance entirely at the way this story was headed, giving the tale-teller a look that would have made the Medusa herself stand back in astonishment, querying her own methods.

“No harvest, at least from thet part o’the field,” Herb shouldering on past all and every hindrance now, showing determination to reach the goal of his story come what may. “Nobody said anythin’, at the time, about Davis bein’ involved; but, the next year when the very same circumstance occurred, no harvest on thet part o’the field, Jenkins got ter thinkin’ about Life, Religion, curses, an’ hauntin’s o’all descriptions. Bein’, as I’ve already made clear, some of a pertik’ler sort’a religionist his’self—not one o’the main parties therein, I means,—he took ter callin’ on his partners in the curious off-shoot chapel he was a member of ter come ter his aid.”

“And what good did thet do?” Henrietta anxious for the story to reach a climax, any climax. “Time’s gettin’ along, soon be midnight, an’ changin’ o’the guard all round, so make it snappy, Herb, if’n ye don’t mind.”

“Funny ye should mention Time, an’ Midnight, Harry.” Herb no whit put out now he had his story well in hand. “Don’t know precise what confabulations he an’ his compatriots had about same. But final, one midnight dark, they all assayed ter meet at the wheat field an’ give it, by way o’sermons an’ helpful admonitions from the Bible, a pretty decent piece o’their combined moral minds—eed’yets thet they was.”

“Takes it their ploy didn’t go ter plan?” Henrietta seeing the way things were shaped. “Messy, was it? Anyone killed, or worse?”

“Nah, though it weren’t, apparent, fer the want o’their tryin’ thetaways.” Herb shaking his head in disgust at the innocence of some people. “They goes up aginst a ghost—or, more likely a Demon from the deepest depths o’ Ol’ Harry’s, beggin’ yer presence Harry, sulphur-ridden domain. An’ what did they expec’ ter find or meet?”

“What?” Sally herself now taken up with the unfolding tale, it reaching what was obviously going to be a dramatic, if not tragic, conclusion.

“What they expected,” Herb turning his head to take in all the circle of his listeners. “was, I supposes, a plain church meetin’; it bein’ outside in the open air I expec’ it’d better have bin called a conventicle; anyways, instead of a calm respectful sermon or two, a layin’ down o’Church Law, an’ a pleasant well-meant admonition ter whatever evil presence was stainin’ the field ter up sticks an’ take itself off elsewhere, what happened was anarchy in all directions, entire.”

“How so?” Henrietta raising, against her better judgement, an interested eyebrow.

“As a howlin’ gale, from God knows where—it otherwise bein’ a middlin’ calm evenin’—comin’ out’ta nowhere an’ blowin’ everyone’s hats akimbo ter every pint o’the compass.” Herb smiling coldly at the image so suggested. “Ye may imagine the confusion caused? People runnin’ all round, like chickens on a spree; women cryin’ out in all manner of tones; men screamin’ in fear an’ terror in the surroundin’ dark, their numerous torches flickerin’ incoherently, feelin’ the strain o’the moment, y’see; an’ the wind throwin’ dust an’ grit in everyone’s eyes so’s people, afterwards, laid claim ter all manner o’outrageous goings-on.”

“Like what?” Sally seeing some juicy details in the offing; she dearly loving a gloomy tragedy.

“Like seein’ the face o’the De’il his’self, a’starin’ in’ta their very souls fer a few seconds as the winds an’ breezes blew all roun’.” Herb giving it all he had. “Of women seein’ things o’a physical natur’, enacted by a horde o’ naked demons the like o’which few had ever imagined never mind had a fancy ter take part in. Of sudden images of scenes from Hell itself, those seeing which could hardly, after, be made ter describe so awful were their memories of sich. The very harvest, the high wheat itself, a’wavin’ an’ twistin’ around like as ter the wheat-stalks had become serpents’ tentacles; grasping at folks’ ankles, knees, an’ upper legs—the like the women, feelin’ same under their skirts, took aginst mighty general an’ with absolute scorn an’ disparagement—many screamin’ like Banshees thet the End o’the World had final come, an’ it weren’t none o’their fault, Almighty God!; an’ other exclamations of a deeply sorrowful an’ mournful natur’. An’ then, the final action; which never did make it in’ta the local newspaper fer fear o’spreadin’ dread an’ horror Territory-wide.”

A silence as of the Ages in decline followed this dramatic remark—all his listeners staring in awe at Herb as he sat by the flickering fire; quivering shadows on his face making the more nervous think of demons in their presence at the very moment, indeed.

“Go on.” Henrietta, knowing the climax had arrived, anxious for it all to be over. “Some wishes I’d never asked yer ter start this dam’ tale in the first place.”

“What happened was the roarin’ gale gave out entire, all of a sudden.” Herb raising his head to stare in particular at Sally. “The wheat, havin’ had its fun seemingly, fell back ter jes’ bein’ wheat an’ nuthin’ more, an’ calm an’ tranquility reigned over the field agin like any normal day or night; after which, though, a quick head count bein’ taken ‘cause of someone noting something of import, it were found thet Farmer Jenkins was no longer a member of the group. Thet, indeed, he’d ceased ter exist as a competent object o’Natur’ entire. In short he weren’t t’be seen anywhere, no-how.”

“Why?” Sally keeping her end up valiantly, though feeling a cold chill creeping down her spine.

“Because, though the wheatfield was wide an’ flat in all directions fer some fifty yard ter each an’ every pint o’the compass, an’ the harvest was only up ter a man or woman’s waist beyond the circular sphere o’influence o’Old Nick’s supremacy, of Jenkins nary a coat-button was ever found.” Herb assaying a thin-lipped smile which indeed made his visage reflect something of the sinister, if not outright evil. “No-one, even in the confusion of the late gale an’ its visions o’depravity an’ terror, had seen him exit the vicinity; no-one had seen hide nor hair of him since the last biblical admonition had been spoken aloud over the field; no-one, ever afterwards, ever saw a smidgin of him in years ter come. He’d gone entire; walked out’ta this pleasant land, parting company with his relatives, friends an’ acquaintances, seeming, without the politeness of a valedictory farewell; simply gone as if he’d never existed.”

Another silence arrived, spreading round the campfire’s aura of light and relative warmth while those sitting there contemplated the numerous possible explanations for the story they had just heard.

“Wa’al,” Sally anxious to take the wider, logical outlook on the affair. “I expec’s, taken all in all, there ain’t—”

“—an’ the very next year the field gave as good, clean, an’ full a harvest as the new farmer could ever a’hoped fer, is all.” Herb concluding in fine style, cutting short all adverse criticism before it could see the light of day; it now being close to midnight.

—O—

“Who’s goin’ out ter the north side o’the herd?”

“Me.” Sally giving her lover a wide grin. “I’ll be partnering Jim—You?”

“I’ll hit the east side, along’a Jeannie.” Henrietta with the whole set-up at her fingertips. “Herb can see ter the south side o’the cattle. Wha’d’ya think of any rustlers turnin’ up, whenever?”

Sally thought about this primary reason for their presence, giving the subject all her attention.

“Wa’al, lover,” The two women standing some way off from the campfire and its other stirring customers. “as long as who we meets, if anyone, is flesh an’ blood, thet’s all straight an’ fair. Jes’ so long as they ain’t, on arrival, any o’those dam’ spectres we’ve bin hearin’ of the last two hours. Jeez, I can still feel the cold chills runnin’ down my back.”

“Never fear, leddy,” Henrietta on top of this plea for comfort from the woman she loved most in all the world. “jes’ call out, an’ I’ll be by yer side, Henry repeater ready ter blow yer enemies ter Hell an’ Damnation in a twinkling.”

Sally contemplated this assurance for a few seconds then nodded her content with the situation.

“Wa’al, lover, lets get this show on the road; my trigger finger’s itchin’ fer exercise—whether it be rustler, road agent, or Demon from Hades, I makes no objection ter either or all, me bein’ ready an’ willin’ fer whichever.”

“God, loves yer ter bits, leddy!”

“Reciprocated, every which way. Come on, time’s passin’ an’ we’ve got all night ter go yet.”

“Hurph, I’m with ya, sure ‘nuff. OK, then, move ass, yer holdin’ me an’ my hoss up.”

“Rrrr,” Sally growling low at this remark. “Wait’ll we gets back ter Red Flume, sis; you’ll find out somethin’ then.”

“Oo-er, cain’t wait.”

The End

—O—

Another ‘Red Flume’ story will arrive shortly.

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