Cyclone Jack and the Ghost of Dry Gulch
Gather 'round, folks, and let me tell you the tale of the most peculiar showdown this side of the frontier – the story of Cyclone Jack and the Ghost of Dry Gulch.
It was a searing hot summer in 1883, and Dry Gulch was as parched as an old dog’s tongue. The sun hung low in the sky like a blazing ball of fire, and the townsfolk shuffled through their dusty routines, heads bowed under the weight of heat and life’s burdens.
Cyclone Jack had just set foot in Dry Gulch – a windswept stranger with a black hat tipped low over piercing blue eyes, and a pair of six-shooters hanging heavy at his hips. They called him “Cyclone” because trouble shadowed him like dust in a whirlwind, and wherever he roamed, chaos was bound to follow.
Now, trouble was brewing in Dry Gulch long before Jack ever wandered in. A shadow had fallen over the town, with unexplained vanishings and whispers of a ghost haunting the once peaceful valley. His name was Ezekiel Grimes, and eight years back, he’d been hung for cattle rustling and murder. Yet folks said he’d returned from the grave, seeking vengeance on those who’d wronged him.
Jack strolled into the Gold Nugget Saloon. The place was bustling with miners, ranchers, and drifters – all seeking solace from the blazing heat. He amble to the bar and ordered a whiskey, the amber liquid reflecting the flickering lamplights. Taking a long, slow sip, Jack overheard the chatter of the locals.
“Seen Old Man Crawford lately?”
“Nope. Reckon the ghost got 'im.”
“Bah! Hogwash and tall tales. Ain’t no such thing as ghosts.”
Jack’s ears perked up at this, and he turned to the grizzled bartender, a big bear of a man with a thick beard.
“What’s all this talk about a ghost?” Jack asked, his voice as smooth as silk but carrying the weight of command.
The bartender sighed and leaned in to whisper, though his voice was loud enough for all to hear. “Ain’t no ordinary ghost, stranger. Ezekiel Grimes. He’s come back, they say, taking revenge on those who saw him hang. Folks been disappearin’. Ain’t safe to roam the streets after dark.”
Jack nodded, mulling over the bartender’s words. That night, he rented a room at Miss Etta’s Boarding House, the only place in town with beds not as hard as the rocky ground outside. As the sky darkened, he sat by the window, gazing out into the moonlit streets.
Just as midnight struck, Jack caught a glimpse of something moving near the old livery stable – a figure draped in a tattered coat, hat low over a face cast in shadow. Jack’s heart raced. He grabbed his pistols and slipped silently out of the boarding house.
The streets were empty, save for the faint sound of hooves clicking against the dry earth. Jack followed the figure, keeping to the shadows. The figure moved with a ghostly grace, leading him to the edge of town, where the cemetery lay quiet and still under the moon’s gaze.
There, amidst the headstones, the figure stopped and turned. Jack stepped forward, his pistols at the ready. With a swift motion, the stranger whipped off his hat, revealing not the face of a ghost or a specter, but a mortal man – weathered with age and sorrow – Ezekiel Grimes’ brother, Samuel.
“You’re not dead,” Jack stated, lowering his guns but keeping a wary eye.
Samuel nodded. “Rumors of my death… greatly exaggerated. I faked it – wanted revenge for Ezekiel, but not like this. Those disappearances? Keeping folks safe ‘til I could find proof of who really killed him.”
Jack’s brow furrowed. “Proof?”
Samuel’s eyes glinted with determination. “Cattle rustling, that was true. But he never killed anyone. Someone set him up. I think it was Sheriff Daniels. He was in on a land grab scheme, and my brother was just in his way.”
Reckoning the truth, Jack knew they had to confront the crooked sheriff. The next morning, as the first rays of dawn pierced the darkness, Jack and Samuel rode into town armed with the truth and a plan.
The saloon was bustling as they entered, with Sheriff Daniels sitting smugly in a corner, counting coins. Jack stepped forward, his voice commanding silence. “Daniels, you got lawmen’s blood on your hands.”
Daniels sneered, reaching for his revolver, but Jack was faster. With a shot that echoed through Dry Gulch, he disarmed the sheriff and revealed the secret ledger hidden in Daniels' desk that chronicled every deceitful deed.
The proof was irrefutable. The townsfolk, long weary and worn, rose against their corrupt sheriff, casting him out of Dry Gulch for good. Samuel, his purpose fulfilled, finally found peace and left, heading to distant horizons.
As for Cyclone Jack, he tipped his hat, mounted his horse, and rode out of Dry Gulch, vanishing into the horizon like the whisper of a restless wind. And though trouble would surely find him again, he’d always be ready – a cyclone in a dustbowl, leaving tales of justice in his wake.
