Winter 1869 – The Whisperings of Yellow Silk, the Rattlings of Yellowed Bones

 

He stood just beyond the reach of firelight. Despite the darkness, his pale raiment made it simple to find him. A gentle wind lifted his duster. Tahoe laid his hand on the grip of his six-shooter. I wrapped my fingers around the handle of my hammer. Father simply crossed his arms. 

The figure raised his right hand, palm up to show greeting and, perhaps, peaceful intentions. Then he rolled fingers and thumb together, leaving pointer finger free and staring in my direction. His voice was as warm as brandy in the afternoon. “She carries it,” he said. “She carries it in her dreams.”