A Ghosts’ Story (in 3 parts)

Recollecting the Sand Creek Massacre of 1864

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The Sand Creek Massacre, November 29th, 1864. A ghost story in three parts. We marched up all night to the big bend in Sandy Creek, where we crossed the ridge to Smokey Hill and came upon Black Kettle's village, Cheyenne and Arapahoe. One hundred and three lodges containing not over five hundred all told, three hundred and fifty of whom were women and children. John Smith, a white trader, came out holding up his hands and running towards us when he was shot. Lauderbuck came out with a white flag and he received the same treatment as Smith. When the shooting started, we had killed some three hundred or so. Bucks, women and children were scalped, fingers cut off to get the rings off them, and this as much with officers as men. One lieutenant colonel cut off several pairs of ears, then came across a squaw and took the child from her. Little children were shot all the time begging for their lives, as were women, arms around soldiers' legs begging mercy. Several squaws killed their own children rather than have them killed by the soldiers. Black kettle, white antelope, war bonnet, left hand, little robe, and several other chiefs were killed. Left hand stood with his hands folded across his breast until he was shot saying soldiers no hurt me. Soldiers, my friends. Part two Deciding I am somewhere in the high plains, following as best as I can without a motorcycle, the Robert Persig Trail. Through a succession of small towns America, the land sung by Woody Guthrie. I stopped for the night in one of those small towns, it could be any small town, west of Kansas, north of New Mexico, south of Wyoming, east of Utah. I'd settled into the night when sometime after midnight I was awakened. No noise, other than a fresh wind. I stumbled in an early sleep state to the bedroom window and parted the curtains slightly. Other than the occasional tumbleweeds rolling by, there was nothing to see under the eerie street lamps. Then it appeared, a ghostly figure, shimmering dressed in full Native American address, feet never touching the ground, that glided across the sidewalk, its fixed gaze never wavering. Then imperceptibly it seemed to slow down and vanished into nothingness. Then another then another. Then they were gone, leaving only a fresh wind and a thunderous silence. Part three The Reckoning The next morning I head to the coffee shop before moving on. As I enter, I read the name over the door, the Hunter Thompson Cafe. I smile inwardly, noting both the omission of the middle initial and the misspelling of the surname, and I enter. There's only one other customer perched over a cup of hot steaming coffee seated at a far corner. I sit down at the counter. Soon a career waitress appears, hands me a menu, pours a mug of obligatory coffee, then disappears. I order eggs and ask, where is everybody? At first she looks hesitant to answer as if she didn't want to be drawn into polite, meaningless conversation, then speaks. I'm intrigued instantly and agree. She beckons me to come closer. In about fifteen minutes there will be a small funeral passing through the town. You should see it process through that window. Well, that kind of explains the low attendance here, I suggest. Not quite, sir. No one will be out and about except the afflicted family. You see, and her voice dropped to a whisper, the ghost people were here last night. No one knows when they're coming and they don't appear too often, but after they do, they take one of our children away with them. So that's what she cut me off. Best not to think about what you saw. Best not even to talk about it. If I were you, I wouldn't want to bring the attention of the ghosts of Sand Creek on yourself. That's all I'm saying. And she disappeared back into the kitchen. I ate my eggs quickly, finished my coffee, left a twenty dollar bill, and made a quick exit. I look at the rear window as I'm heading out of town, and there was, as she had predicted, the small, somber funeral procession. Other than that there were no people on the streets, no tumbleweeds either. I have oftentimes in moments of vacancy and reflection, thought about that small town and its disappearing children. The story haunted me back then, Los Desparacidos Chicas. Now miles and miles away, time and times away, in towns up and down the eastern seaboard. The story still haunts me. Still haunts me still.