The Ghost of the Cheyenne Plain

Late one night, with the wind whipping drifts
off the Evanston to Cheyenne highway
I pulled the pick up into a spread gravel patch
outside a bare bulb cafe.
It was one of those driving forever nights
and I’d stopped to coffee up.

An old cowboy was the only other folk there, all huddled around his cup,
except for the waitress, who didn’t seemed pleased
at the thought of a new customer.
Bad night out, I said, and shrugged out of my coat,
then nodded, looking at her.
That’s right , she said, glancing at the old man,
One of the worst, according to him.
Says it’s a night the Lost One is out,
and the wolves are riding the wind.

I thought for a minute she was making a joke,
but she didn’t seem to see the humor.
Then the old wrangler looked over his shoulder,
and I could see there was more to the rumor.
His eyes were red, and I’d have to say haunted.
He looked a shade worse than poor.
But you could tell by his gaze he more than half wanted
to talk out these troubles he wore.
Come on over, old timer, I said with a smile.
Bring your cup and pull up a chair.
I’m mighty road weary and it will be a while
before I go anywhere.
The old man hesitated. I could sense his reluctance.
His face seemed drawn and pale.
Then he sort of unfolded, ambled on over,
set down and told me this tale.

It was Autumn, he said, must of been ‘58. I was much younger then.
I was riding for an outfit outside of Cheyenne. Had just started wranglin’.
I was riding the fence line, along to the east, when suddenly I began to hear,
off in the distance a sad sobbin’ sound, all wobbly and filled with fear.
It was one of those evenin’s when you can’t really judge a distance by the sound
Seemed sort of far off, sometimes, then real close. Coming from all around.
I’d think I was movin’ right up on that cry,
then I’d mount a hilltop and find
nothin’ but desert and the broad lonesome land.
It began to play on my mind.
There was a little light wind that come with the dark.
And with it come something strange
Soft, like you couldn’t really tell what they was.
Howls, I’d say, out on the range.
I was worrying maybe there was coyotes out, or wolves.
Then they wasn’t all gone
I was wantin to turn back. Figured I’d done my pay.
But still, I kept movin’ on.
The sun had gone down but there was a glow on the hills.
Like ancient fires it seemed,
just sitting on the tops of the mountains, dancing.
Like a landscape in a dream.
I got to tell you I was feeling uneasy.
The night had grown spooky and weird,
and I pulled my Winchester from out of its scabbard.
I admit I was downright afeard.
Yet still I kept riding, like I had to keep going.
The decision weren’t no longer mine.
Sometimes it’d be hours and I wouldn’t hear nothin.
I couldn’t keep track of the times
I’d hear that faint whimper, all mournful and lonely.
Must of covered fifty miles that night.
The darkness seemed endless, liked to go on forever
and I longed for and prayed for first light.
Then I’d hear it again, that sad-hearted sob,
rising above the wind.
The sky grew even blacker, with those fiery streaks
spreadin’ across the mountain,
and big heavy raindrops started to fall.
The howling grew louder, as though
the wolves rode the wind, whipping clouds
all around in dark swirls and eddies of snow
that blasted my cheeks and interfered with my vision.
My horse sort of stumbled, groaned,
and nearly went down. I got to worrying ‘lest it broke a leg,
left me all alone
face to face with the storm, the wolves howlin,
the night blacker than any nightmare.
I began to wonder If I’d ever get home,
or if my life would be endin’ out there.

Then at last I stumbled over a rise,
and what I seen made my hair stand on end.
They was bones, all bleached and covered with sand.
Some was scattered and stacked by the wind.
Who they belonged to, guess I’ll never know.
Why they were there I don’t understand.
But it’s sure they didn’t want to lie there alone,
all lost in that vast lonesome land.
And I know now I should have gathered those bones,
and burried them there on that rise.
Should have put a stone marker over the mound.
Alone is a hard way to die.
But the sound of the wolf howls wrapped all around me,
the craziness made me numb.
And I remember holdin’ my ears with both hands, fallin’
down like a man struck dumb.

But the sounds of the howling like wolf cries from hell
crept deep down inside of me
And the plaintive bawl of that sad lonely soul
has marked my destiny.
I’ve spent untold days retracing my path,
looking for that lonely place.
But the wind and the desert has taken what’s theirs.
Of them bones I can’t find a trace.

They say that the desert has its own set of rules,
and is no respecter of men.
It makes little difference who you may be.
In a contest the desert will win.
And on evenin’s like this, when the snow eddies drift
in circles and try to get in
the cries of the Lost One can be heard in the night,
and the howling wolves ride the wind.

I put down my coffee cup, I’d been clutching it tight,
and squinted my sleep-needy eyes.
Then rubbed at my shoulders. They were kind of stiff,
and I still had four hours of drive.
Thank you old timer, that was quite a story,
I said, picking up my bill,
But I’d better be going . Still got a long drive.
I was headed toward the till,
When a strange eerie sound wafted into the room.
Came from the night out the door
I looked around started. But the wrangler didn’t move.
You could tell he had heard it before.
A long high whimper, like a soul filled with terror,
sort of mewing, plaintive, thin
and behind it a howling, like ten thousand wolves,
riding the high desert wind.

©February 2000 by Jo Lynne Kirkwood

Headin' Home...

Home
to the Traildrive Collection