“Granda, I have to write a story and read it to my class,” Fynn Colwell said with a sad look and slumped shoulders Sunday morning. “Can you help me? I don’t know where to start, and you always tell good stories.”
“When do you need it?” Eamon Colwell asked setting his Sunday paper on the small table next to his rocking chair.
“Tomorrow!” Fynn replied.
“Tomorrow! How long have you had this assignment?”
Fynn stared at the hardwood floor and muttered, “Mrs. Rosenbloom gave us the assignment a couple weeks ago, but I kept putting it off. I don’t think fourth-graders should have to get up in front of the class and tell a story.”
“I can tell you a story about President Hoover I heard at the barber shop,” Eamon said.
Fynn shook his head. “No one wants to hear about him.”
Eamon rubbed his jaw. “Okay. Have a seat, and I’ll tell you a story about a friend of my granda.”
“Do you mean Bone Colwell?” Fynn asked sitting in Nan’s chair.
Eamon nodded.
“This should be good. What was the friend’s name?”
“I don’t know his real name, but everyone called him Buckskin Cal.”
“Did he wear old clothes like Daniel Boone?”
“That’s likely how he got his name. Anyway, when he came to this country from Ireland, he settled in the Colorado mountains.”
“Was he a gold miner?”
“Among other occupations,” Eamon replied. “He found some gold and silver in the mountain stream that ran through the valley. News got out somehow, and other miners arrived and settled along the gulch creating a mining camp. In the beginning the camp boomed, and grew rapidly like so many others.”
“Were there saloons and dance halls?” Fynn asked with a sparkle in his eyes.
“Of course. Buckskin Cal prospected for a time, but never struck it rich. Then he moved into town and ran what you would call a drugstore. He sold home remedies along with supplies for the locals and the prospectors. He did that for several months, and made a good living. He made enough money to open the biggest dancehall saloon in town. He even married one of the saloon girls who worked for him. She was called the most beautiful woman in the whole territory and could sing like a nightingale.”
“Sounds like he had it made.”
“The legend is that he made so much money he had a pair of boots made of snakeskin with fancy silver heels that clicked on the floor as he walked.” Eamon made a clicking sound then chuckled. “But then the gold ran out. The miners moved on, and the town was mostly deserted.”
“Did he live in a ghost town?”
Eamon chuckled. “Not exactly.
“What happened to the town? What was it called?”
“The original name of the mining camp was Aikens Gulch, but that name didn’t last long.” Eamon clicked his teeth and stared at the fireplace before continuing. “A little over a year after the mining was in its heyday an epidemic of small pox hit the town. Lots of people died, and many of the others moved away. Buckskin Cal and his wife stayed and tried to help the people who didn’t leave.”
“Because he sold medicine, right?” Fynn asked.
“Yes. He would go into the mountains to find the remedies and his wife would take the medicine around the town. She carried a bucket of water from the mountain stream that was supposed to cure the disease.”
“Did they get sick?”
“No. They survived, but the town didn’t,” Eamon paused before adding, “At least they survived for a time.”
“Oh no! That doesn’t sound good.”
“After taking care of all the local people, Buckskin’s wife succumbed to the disease, or so the story goes. She sort of just disappeared.”
“What do you mean?”
“Be patient, and I’ll tell you. Years later when Buckskin Cal was an old man, he caught small pox and was real sick. Near death.” Eamon looked around the room then motioned for Fynn to move closer. “The legend is that a woman in a black dress with a black veil could be seen late at night watching over Buckskin Cal, but no one ever saw her outside of his house. People claimed they heard her singing to him. He eventually passed away, and the last of the townspeople buried him in the cemetery with the other victims of the small pox.”
“What happened to the town then?”
“The town had another period of prosperity because of another silver strike. The people couldn’t agree on a new name, until someone suggested naming it Buckskin Cal. The name stuck, and the town lasted another two or three years. Eventually, the mines played out, and everyone left because of the harsh winters. The buildings decayed until nothing was left but some foundations and the old wagon trail.”
“Too bad,” Fynn said.
Eamon nodded then whispered, “The only thing left of the town now is the old cemetery, and the story is that once in a while late at night you can see a woman in a black dress and veil wandering among the graves with a bucket of water. They say if you are real quiet and listen closely, you can hear her singing.”