The Ghost

Cowboy · Oct 25, 2004

Whitetail season opens in my area on November 1. One year I had the tag and I had a very nice buck spotted. The deer used an alfalfa field along a county road, but before first light he would melt into the sagebrush on the far side of the field. He could on occasion be seen climbing a sand rock ridge, probably to bed down along the heavy cover along a creek on the backside of the ridge.

That was how I happened to spot him. One early fall morning as I hurried down the road to work, I just caught a glimpse of his gnarled rack where he picked his way among the sandstone pillars. This would be the buck I chose to hunt.

The leased field was farmed by a man that I knew. He had made some deal with the owner who lived in California. The owner?s family had long ago settled this area, but no longer lived in the state, let alone on the land. It was but a couple hundred acres. The farmer offered to buy that land, but it could not be bought. His offer was not only rejected, but he was threatened with losing his lease if he ever brought the subject up again.

On the land was an old foundation and crumbled frame, with a few scattered remnants. Old rusted horse-drawn farm equipment, rotted pens, rusted metal pans, and broken china lay scattered amongst the weeds and sage. The family was devastated by illness not long after the turn of the century. All but one son perished.

I came to the conclusion that to intercept the buck, I must be on the ridge well before the sun turned the eastern sky a lighter gray. For this I must climb the nose of the ridge on its east end.

FALCON · Oct 25, 2004

Keep it coming! I'm going on my first whitetail hunt, and I want to know what kinda ghost I'll be hunting!!!!

Cowboy · Oct 26, 2004

I cut the lights on my truck as I pulled under the limbs of an old cottonwood down along the creek bottom. The air was frosty and still and the starlit skies spread out above me. I gathered my rifle and pack, took one last swig of coffee and started out along the fence that led up to the ridge.

The sage brush was huge and heavy between the fence and the foot of the ridge. Some of the bigger sage looked more like small trees. No wonder that big buck dropped off the ridge into this stuff. It would take an army to push him out. Finally I had to cut through the sage to get to the ridge. The heavy blackness of it engulfed me as I ducked my head and plowed ahead, hoping I was staying on course.

I came to the far side of the sage where it thinned and the foot of the ridge began. The starlight was enough for me to find footing amongst the sand rocks and ledges. I slowly picked my way up the ridge. I figured once on top of the bare ridge, I could get my bearings and work my way to where I believed the buck would cross.

When I arrived at the crest of the ridge, I happened across what looked like a two track road. It must come up from the hay field side, and possibly from that old homestead. The road was barely visible. I followed it, as it sort of was going in the direction I wanted.

Ahead in the blackness I could see something projecting up from the short dead grass on the ridge top. As I drew closer, it looked like an iron fence. It was in fact a waist high iron picket fence, and within it were the headstones that marked the graves of people buried there long ago.

Breaking the promise to myself to not use the flashlight, I cast a beam across the headstones. A family plot. It was that of the family I knew had homesteaded there. Nine stones in all, with ages that ranged from 5 to 42. All died in the same year.

The significance of this had not sunk in previously. What could have caused such devastation? To my knowledge it was a complete mystery. The population of this area was very small at that time, and such things were not very well investigated. It was a tragedy that was accepted and forgotten. I too shrugged it off and turned to my hunting plans.

kingfish · Oct 26, 2004

More, more,more.....Please.

FALCON · Oct 27, 2004

CB:

Keep it coming!

nebraxas · Oct 28, 2004

Very enjoyable. Thanks. Can't wait to read more.

Doug

huntsonora · Oct 28, 2004

Great story, I cant wait to hear the rest.

Drummond

Cowboy · Oct 28, 2004

I dropped off the crest of the ridge and found a place among the rocks where I could wait until the sun came up. The cold rocks sucked the warmth from my back, as I sat there. With nothing better to think of, I contemplated the unfortunate end of that family. I resolved to do a little research on the subject when I could.

Slowly the eastern sky grayed, then turned a pale pink. As it did I began to make out the still forms and shapes on the hillside below as it stretched down to the hay field.

In spite of my concentration, the morning dawned without the slightest suggestion of a deer of any kind crossing up and over the ridge, though there was much I could not see at my vantage point. When it was clearly too late, I stood and walked back from the way I came.

As always, I studied the ground for tracks. I was not disappointed. There was a goodly number of large deer tracks that came up the ridge, and mostly were concentrated in a slight notch formed by wind-worn sand rock near the ridge crest. The tracks led me past the burial plot, where I took a look again in the light of day. Nothing new to be learned, but questions were re-emphasized.

Down the back-side of the ridge I went and entered the forest of sage. I could only imagine how old this brush was. It could easily have been as big when the family lived.

I worked my way into the sage forest, head down, and came upon an obscure but certain trail that had been cut through it. Large deer tracks were pressed firmly in the soft sandy soil as they passed both ways on the trail. I turned to follow as it led deeper into the thick growth.

Surprisingly, I came upon a small opening with a tiny spring. The spring was rimmed with white crystals, but the water was clear. It was interesting that the deer tracks passed clear around it, and did not appear to stop for water. The tracks followed the trickle down into a heavy patch of tall grass. This is where I believed the deer bedded for the day, and I got no closer for fear of spooking him out.

I back tracked out on the feeble trail, past the spring and out to where the sage-brush once again opened to the hay field and cottonwoods that rimmed it. Now that I looked at it, the distance from the homestead to the spring was only a few hundred yards.

By now the sun was well up in the sky, and the air warmed me to less comfort than I wished. I found my way back to the truck.

Cowboy · Oct 31, 2004

In the days that followed, I did a little research. The year that the family met its demise was near the end of a terrible drought. The surviving son was enlisted in the army and overseas.

I can only imagine his grief at learning the fate of his family. What great miserable energy, and possibly even guilt, that would impart to him could go untold if was not for his spirit. That would live on, as I came to conclude.

I had tried many times to intercept that buck but with what I saw of deer, you would think that not one existed here. I saw his tracks regularly, sometimes freshly cut in the snow. He was able to dodge amongst the sand rocks and avoid my surveillance. He would find his way down to the heavy sage and sanctuary.

If I were to take this deer, I had to get down closer to his bedding area and catch him leaving it in the evening.

I found my stand at the edge of the heavy sage where the faint trail led in and out of it. When the sun had gone down and the birds settled their chatter, and creepy stillness settled over the area.

I nearly stood straight up when a man?s voice within feet of me said ? Good evening sir?.

Turning to look, a man stood in the waist high brush. His face was pale. I could not see any expression on his face below the broad-brimmed hat that he wore.

Before I could say anything, he said ? I do not want to know what brings you here, but you should know that this is a very bad place. You must not drink any water from that spring?.

I started to speak, but he turned to the brush and made not one sound. I stood dumbfounded for many minutes, and a chill crawled up my back as I began to understand. As I stood there, I caught a flash of white from the far side of the brush behind where the man had stood and the glimpse of a heavy gnarled antler.

I chose not to hunt that deer anymore. Instead I rested his spirit with a stone in the family plot marked Spencer E. Burnaugh, He Could Not Be Here Through No Fault of His Own.