Ghost Canyon (The John Decker Supernatural Thriller Series Book 7) by Anthony Strong (ebooks that read to you .TXT) 📕

“Great, would you mind giving me the address?”

“I think I should call him first and make sure he’s willing to see you,” Sandra said. She finished the rest of her soda and deposited the empty can into a trash receptacle, then took out her cell phone. “Just give me a second, and I’ll see what I can do.”

“Sure.” Decker waited while the young woman placed the call. She conversed with Bobby Yellowhorse for less than a minute and then hung up. “He says he’ll see you. Actually, he sounds rather excited. He likes to talk about our history.” She removed a business card from her bag along with a pen and scribbled on the back, then offered it to Decker. “This is where he lives. My phone number is on there too, if you need anything else.”

“Thank you,” Decker said, accepting the card.

“I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

“Me too,” Decker replied. “Because lives may depend upon it.”

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Bobby Yellowhorse lived in a small cinderblock house painted yellow with sky-blue trim. A barn stood to one side of the main structure, in front of which was an old Camaro that looked like it hadn’t moved since Bill Clinton was in the White House. Another vehicle, a dusty Ford Mustang at least a decade newer, stood on the driveway.

Barnes pulled his Crown Victoria behind the Mustang and came to a stop, and together he and Barnes approached the house. The front door opened before they even reached it.

The man they had come to see was so old Decker couldn’t begin to guess his true age. His dark tanned face was wrinkled like a roadmap. His hair, thinning but still down to his shoulders, was pure silver. As they drew close, he turned and hobbled back into the house, using an intricately carved cane to support his weight. As he went, he motioned for them to follow him inside.

He moved to an armchair that took up a corner of the room opposite a tube television with rabbit ears on top and sat down with a relieved grunt. “Pardon me for not standing on ceremony,” he said, leaning the cane against the side of his chair. “But my legs aren’t what they used to be, and if I’m on my feet for more than a few minutes, the arthritis pain is unbearable.”

“Not a problem,” Decker said, closing the door behind him and moving further into the room with Barnes at his side.

“Sandra tells me you have questions about a Paiute warrior,” said Bobby, getting right down to business. “Can you give me some details?”

Decker told him about Shilah, and their belief that the warrior’s spirit had transformed into a Baykok and was prowling still, looking for new victims.

“A Baykok? That’s northern folklore. Ojibwe.” Bobby said. If he found Decker’s claim far-fetched, he made no show of it, save for a raised eyebrow. “What proof do you have of this?”

Decker had brought the journal in with him. He approached the old man, kneeled next to the chair, and opened it, then explained about Travis Biggs and Karuk. He spoke fast, realizing time was slipping away. It was already almost five in the evening. It would be dark soon.

When he was done, the old man sat with his hands placed in his lap, deep in thought. Then he motioned to a dresser on the far side of the room. “Go look in there. You’ll find a binder marked pre-1850. Bring it to me.”

Decker complied.

Bobby took the folder with a grunt. “This binder, along with the others in that dresser, represent the information I have gathered about our people. Much of it was handed down to me by my parents and grandparents, or other elders of the tribe, many of whom have now passed on. It’s far from complete, but I’ve done the best I can.”

“Can you tell us what we need to know,” Barnes asked.

“Maybe.” Bobby opened the binder and leafed through the pages for many minutes, occasionally making small tuts of frustration. Eventually, he looked up, his eyes sparkling. “There was a member of the tribe called Shilah, a long time ago. He was indeed a warrior who was interred outside of the traditional burial grounds, although what crime he committed to be treated so, has been lost to time. There are no other entries for that name matching the information you’ve given me, so he must be the ancestor you seek.”

“Fantastic,” Decker said. “Do you know where he’s buried?”

Bobby nodded. “According to my records, his last resting place is at the far end of Ghost Canyon, on an elevated plateau overlooking the Colorado River, near Eagle Wash.”

“I know that area,” said Barnes. “It’s only a couple of miles from Haley. It would’ve been easy enough for Travis Biggs and Karuk to walk there from the town.”

“Can you show us the exact location on a map?” Decker asked.

“I think so.” Bobby nodded.

“I have a map in my glove box,” Barnes said.

“You do?” Decker glanced toward him, surprised.

“Sure. GPS is great, but an old school paper map comes in useful when you want to mark locations down, especially if they are off the beaten track.” He turned toward the door. “I’ll get it.”

Decker watched the FBI agent step outside, then turned back to Bobby and took out his phone. There was one other thing he wanted to ask. “Would you mind if I show you something, while we’re waiting?”

Bobby shrugged.

“Perfect.” Decker brought up the photograph of the dead miners huddled in the passageway that became their tomb. He enlarged the section showing the symbol scratched into the earth—two inward facing arrows within a roughly drawn circle—and held the screen toward Bobby. “Do you recognize this?”

“Let me get a closer look.” Bobby leaned forward, squinting at the screen. He pursed his lips. “That’s a protection symbol. The arrows represent a defense against harm. The unbroken circle signifies safety. Together they act as a powerful shield against those of malevolent intent.”

“Will it