The Ghost Riders of Catalina Canyon

Doug Donnan

Executive Editor/OM-GEN+

donnan.doug@yahoo.com

"The Ghost Riders of Catalina Canyon"

by

Doug Donnan

    [ 1868 // Northern Mexico // Somewhere in the vastness of the Sonoran Desert ]

"Well, the story goes that there's at least tres or cuatro, three or four of them mi amigo,"

Valdez said over his shoulder as he looked all around the spreading sand, rock and

craggy rubble stone arroyo. "You have never heard of los jinetes del fantasma perdidos?"

"No, I recon I ain't," Ben Carson called just up ahead and then tickle-spurred his

spotty-rumped Appaloosa pony up even with his sidekick. "But, I'm all ears friend.

Go ahead, I'm listenin'."

Valdez proceeded to tell the ten gallon, black-Stetsoned, bristly chinned Carson about

the legend of the faceless riders of Catalina Box Canyon of the Sonoras. The twosome

rode on side by side until the merciless golden sun slowly burried its burning oval face

down behind the jutting points and precipices of the stretching silhouette of the

Santa Catalina Mountains. A massive singular cotton ball cloud had, seemingly,

impaled itself just atop one of the towering mountain chain's skyscraping peaks.

As the solar circle took refuge behind all of this and faded completely from view,

it thoughtfully left behind a brilliant, Japanese-like fan of majestic purple and

vermillion rays all above and far off across the now darkening, deadly silent Sonora's

vast horizon.

An unannounced and completely unexpected chill found its way all around and about

the two trail weary vaqueros. It wrapped over them like some mystical majician's

sweeping black cape.

It was cold now, 'almost' intolerably cold.

"So what you're tellin' me, basickly, is that there are three or four lost and lonesome

Mexican spirits... 'ghosts' that is, ridin' around out here apparently somewhere or

everywhere with big ol' floppy top sombreros n' they ain't got no faces to speak of.

Is that pretty much it?"

"Si amigo es verdad," from Valdez as he shivered a bit inside the open spread of his

tattered, multi-hued woolen pancho. "Pero... maybe,just maybe, they were living

vaqueros like us once, pero now they are condemned by God, or just perhaps Satan

himself, to ride the plains and prairies for all of tiempo... 'time' and eternity."

"Sounds like a lot of loco tortilla trail talk if ya' ask me Valdez," Carson chided

and chortled. "I'd ask just what in the hell you think these faceless fools are lookin'

for all over out here in hell's half-acre, but they ain't got no damn faces that folks has

ever seen or knows about. So the lookin' part would be a damn sight hard for 'em...

as I see it."

"Well, no lo conozco amigo, pero some folks believe that they're lookin' for somebody

to lead them out of this aqui world y back to heaven or hell, whichever it is, where they

think they truly do belong. Cuidado Carson on being irrespetuoso... disrepectful though

way out aqui... here in the wilds of mysterious madre Mexico... comprende?"

"Aw, to Hell or Hades with all of that Dios y Diablo hogwash," Carson snapped back

as he used his free hand to pinch closed the top collar of his long, khaki trail-weathered

duster. "Let's see if we can't find us a damn spot to put up for the night out here in this

godforsaken place. We can scrounge up some kinda' campfire fixins, sagebrush,

tumbleweeds and the like and get some hot coffee goin' on amigo. Between your spooky

ass sombrero story and this damn night air, me n' my personal, faceless shadow are

both chilled to the bone... comprende-vu?"

"Muy bien Carson," Valdez replied with rolling, chocolate brown, silver-dollar sized

eyes. Let's try por ahi, por esa caverna poco profunda," he pointed off in the distance

at a cairn-like pile and compilation of immense sandstone bolders and massive time

molded rocks.

"Sounds like a damn fine plan there Valdez," from the saddle-stretching Carson.

"Vamos my Mexican muchacho... let's give it a try."

"Si amigo, por que no," from the wary, wide-eyed Valdez.

And, at that, the two sleepy, Stetson and sombrero topped saddle tramps soflty spurred

off and away into the darkening shroud of the Sonora.

                             *     *     *

                                       [ Approximately one hour later ]

"Well Valdez, my fine frijole friend," from the now sand-and-saddle-lounging,

pouch-rolled cigarette smoking Carson. "It looks as if you done picked us out a damn

good campin' spot here in this little cave of yours amigo... muy bienski!" he quipped as

he issued a pencil-thin stream of ghostly gray tobacco smoke.

"Gracias amigo," from the lazed and slouching Valdez. He tossed a couple of gnarly

sticklets onto the crackling little fire just there between them. The impromptu campfire

flashed up in high spirited little licks and tongues as if trying to show its appreciation for

the gracious donation. "Estoy feliz de que usted---"

There was a tramping sound far off in the midnight darkness and distance. Were they

horse hooves of some kind? They both froze in their relaxed lazed positions there just

around the open crackling fire. Eventually, they struggled up to their floppy red sock

and bootless feet. They looked all around and about them, blindly, into the full moon

high-lighted blackness.

"Okay Valdez," Carson whispered nervously, "Just what in the hell is 'that' all about?"

"No lo conozco amigo pero, creo que podriamos tener algunos visitantes," from Valdez.

"Some damned visitors huh? Well, I'll just see into that before who or whatever it is

gets any bright ideas about sharin' n sharin' alike," Carson declared as he bent low

into his bedroll for his blue-black Colt repeater. He drew out one of the large amber-

glowing sticks from the dancing campfire. "I'll go have a look see on our two ponys

out there. You just stay here and keep an eye out on our goods and such. I should

be back dreckly."

"Si amigo, pero tenga cuidado bien? Valdez all but pleaded.

"Don't you just worry your little sombrero-self about me my friend. I can take care of

myself. Vamos muchacho," Carson finished as he traipsed off, slowly and carefully,

pistol and makeshift torch out in front of himself as if he might be readying to enter

some dank cave or long ago forgotten and abandoned gold mine.

                              *     *     *

                                      [ Approximately 15 minutes later ]

The still groggy, and now extremely apprehensive, Valdez had decided to take matters

into his own hands. He erected himself to a crouching stance. 'His' six gun now cocked

and cartridged. He pulled free his own campfire torch and soon moved off, slowly and

silently, to try and find out about the missing, machismo mercenary Carson.

Eventually...

"Oye Carson!" he whisper-shouted off into the darkness as he held his squatter's rights

position. He was now completely dumbfounded, for there was only one horse, his,

skittishly waiting there. Valdez was now beside himself with woe and consternation.

Carson's Appaloosa pony was now mysteriously missing too. "Donde estas mi amigo?"

Pero, only the haunting, lightly blowing desert wind responded.

"Por favor mi amigo!" Valdez shouted out in complete fear and desperation otra vez.

"QUE PASA?"

Nada... nothing, but the chilling night.

Then, suddenly, off in the dim distance, five galloping, ghostly horse-and-rider shadows,

onyx-hued silhouettes painted by the pale light of the indifferent owl-eyed alabaster moon.

"Madre de Dios!" Valdez whispered. He whipped a tidy sign of the cross just atop his

freezing, sweating, forehead as he watched in horror the quintet of ghostly apparitions

ride off and away into the hellish blackness of the Sonoran night.

Four hooting and howling horsemen, 'vaqueros' with floppy sombreros led by a singular

rider with a tall, dark, ten gallon... Stetson hat.

                                       ___ The End ___