Chapter 5 - The Return of the Ghost
In May of 1879, the high prairie bloomed with green buffalo grass and yellow wild mustard.
A party of four territorial surveyors, led by a tall, gray-bearded former army engineer named Captain Thomas Vance, was mapping the new stage route between Fort Laramie and South Pass.
They rode their horses down into the Sweetwater Cut, their pack mules trailing behind them.
"Hold up, Captain," called out one of the younger surveyors, pointing a leather-gloved finger toward the dry creek bank. "Look there. Smoke."
Captain Vance pulled his horse to a halt, his blue eyes narrowing beneath his wide-brimmed hat.
Rising from a small iron pipe sticking out of the green prairie grass above the creek bank was a thin, steady plume of blue wood smoke.
"A trapper's den?" the surveyor asked.
"No trapper builds a chimney like that," Vance said, unbuttoning his holster strap as a precaution. "Let's check it out."
They rode their horses down into the creek bed.
Sitting on a smooth granite rock beside a crystal-clear stream running through the gravel was a woman.
She was broad-shouldered, wearing a sturdy leather tunic made of cured elk hide over a shortened wool skirt. Her dark hair was braided neatly around her head, her bronze skin glowing in the morning sun. She was kneeling beside a wooden tub, washing clean wool yarn in the stream water.
She looked up as the horses approached.
She didn't look frightened. She didn't look desperate. She stood up smoothly, her long wooden washing paddle held casually in one broad, calloused hand, her dark eyes looking at the four men with complete, calm authority.
"Morning, gentlemen," Mercy said, her voice clear and resonant.
Captain Vance stared at her in absolute astonishment. "Madam... who are you? Where is your camp?"
Mercy gestured with her paddle toward the heavy canvas curtain hanging against the clay bank behind her. "You're looking at it, Captain. Welcome to my home."
Vance dismounted, walking up to the entrance. He pulled back the canvas curtain and looked inside.
His mouth dropped open.
He saw the stone hearth, the neatly stacked venison cuts, the tallow candles, the hand-carved wooden furniture, the raised floorboards, and the immaculate dry dirt walls that held a comfortable, cool temperature despite the spring heat outside.
"My God, woman," Vance whispered, turning back to look at her in awe. "You spent the winter of '78 in this hole?"
"It's not a hole," Mercy said softly, a faint smile touching her lips. "It's an earth house. And it kept me alive while better men froze on the trail."
Vance looked at her hands, then at her solid, powerful frame, and a look of profound, deep respect washed over his weathered face.
"What is your name, ma'am?" Vance asked, taking off his hat.
"Mercy," she replied. "Mercy Whitcomb."
Vance flinched, his eyebrows shooting up. "Whitcomb? Silas Whitcomb’s wife?"
Mercy’s eyes narrowed slightly. "You know Silas?"
"Every man in South Pass knows Silas Whitcomb," Vance said grimly. "He's been sitting in Gidley's Saloon for six months, spending his mule money, telling everyone who'd listen how his poor wife died in the blizzard near Sweetwater Cut."
Mercy stood very still for three seconds. Then, a slow, dark, quiet smile spread across her face.
"Is that what he told people?" Mercy asked quietly.
"Yes, ma'am," Vance nodded. "He’s leaving on the Tuesday stagecoach for Salt Lake. He claims he's going west to forget his grief."
May you like
Mercy looked up at the vast blue Wyoming sky, then down at her strong, broad hands.
"Captain Vance," Mercy said smoothly, "would you mind giving a surviving ghost a ride to South Pass City?"
