A visit from the Ol' Prospector

This tale comes from a few folks, who when I was on the streets, often said I looked like an old prospector, when carrying my full load. That got me to crafting a character, sometimes acted out in the spooky season for a laugh, to tell some tales, about the past from this ghostly point of view. He's a ghost, just don't believe in them, so thinks he's still alive. You might see him, come the nights of All's Hallows Eve, wandering about calling for those mules of his, between running pans for gold, and cursing the witches as hexed his pan to only bring up nuggets of sweet and chocolate treats. 

Strange footsteps echoed in the building, as the youngsters wandered about in costume, one side a stomp, the other half drag, half limp. The scuff held tones of wind amid the drying leaves the town's trees, when the cold autumn winds dropped down the canyons. 

"Tarnation. Ornery. Where you nasty brayers gots off to this time?" Not more than a whisper, barely heard amid the aisles o' the big box store. Dogs whimpered, drawing back a bit, or barked wildly as the footsteps passed. Folks startled over the actions of animals that normally loved coming there. 

One long sigh, nearly buried by the noise o' modern forced air units, slithered down the aisles. 

"Dag-bummed mules, find that ol' bar in time to gets some nuggets, and they chooses nows to runs off. Oughta sell them boths to that there skinner, I oughtas." Customers jumped, as the whisper grew, and a mist gathered in the center aisle o' the store, forming a moving fog bank, drifting to the east. "Maybe the boys dones doubled back on me. Maybe. Nasty brayers, fer certain." 

Footsteps became louder, the whistling breathing of an old and bothered man now echoed between them, fog turning solid, yet still casting no shadow under the form that emerged from the swirling mass. 

"Dag-goned hayburners. Never let a man get a few good pans out o' that bar, they do. Gonna sell them, I swear me, I'm a gonna." The stomp came loud, as he turned up the wider aisle aimed at the easternmost door. "Get one day a year, ta comes back and find me some gold to buy my claim back, and they dones runs off, every years. Nuff to make a man cuss around ladies, it is."

Near the entrance, a cluster of costumed children, hands out to gather in sweets from the cashiers there jumped as a chill passed over them, when a louder yet stomp came. 

"You young'uns done seen any mules wanderin' by here?" A dusty, hunched o'er man snapped, tapping down his shovel on the concrete floor. The battered brown hat, front of the wide brim bent up, back down, and side wavy from years of use and abuse topped a mop of wild, graying hair, dim blue eyes and big nose framed by a white with hints of pepper beard, dusty dungarees and flannel shirt making him solid, above battered, tan work boots. 

Shaking his dusty head, he moaned. "Young'uns done looks like you seeing a ghost. Just me, the Ol' Prospector, tryin' to find my mules. Nasty brayers runs off all the time."

Looking them over, shocked and slight worried faces of parents behind them, he sighed. "Ain't no ghost, folks. Just an ol' man, cursed to pan the streams fer'ever and ever, seekin' nuffs nuggets and dust to buy back me claim, stolen away by some fancy tinhorn lawyer, come speakin' 'bouts laws and domains, not claims and ore." He laughed. "Not that it got him a penny o' flakes, save those fools gather in, thinkin' they found gold. Nope, that there gold bar be mine, and the stream hides the glitters from all but me."

He rapped his shovel, held more as a cane, and less as a tool, leaning over gently, a smile creasing his face. "But I bets you young'uns have seen ghosts before, just not knows it. Here in Fort Unions, there be ghosts o' all kinds. Long wandering conquistadors seekin' El Dorado's golden streets still, cowpunchers trailin' herds o' bunched strays they lost comin' this way, Niner's like me, seekin' the glory o' the motherlodes, even squatters and settlers, tryin' to get in one last harvest before the storms o' winter come. You just don't know what you see, when the foggy rains o' late October come to these benches." His grin grew, left eye twinkling with mischief's gleam. "Maybe even the phantom train, headed up the canyon and back from the smelters, haulin' ores down and supplies back up them there Cottonwood strewn canyons."

Seeing disbelief, he shook his head. Setting the shovel down, both hands on the handle as he leaned o'er it, peering at his audience. "Tellin' the plumb honest truth, there. You looks arounds, traces them ol' tracks still be there. Long grades that avoid the steeper climbs, mimicking the runs o' Tanner's Ditch and the canals o' you ancestors fer irrigatin's with. And on foggy, rainy, or snowy nights, you might just see the swirls o' the ol's steam engine's plume, as she runs those traces, seeking to finish that last run, one more time. Might even hear the faint scream o' her whistle, as she rounds the bends, finding other ghosts, or folks in these funny horseless carriages you race 'rounds in, missing out the things we saw as you speed on by." Laughing softly, he caught many an eye, those o' the kids that dared meet his gaze. Leaning back, he wavered as the shovel pointed to Fort Union Boulevard. "Yep, trains ran once, up along that road o'er there, 'fores branching aroun' Butler Hill, to rise up slower along the Big Cottonwood's run. Trains that served the mines o' both canyons, trains that were cursed by those they woke too early, the natives they drove off the land, and the settlers whose water they done fouled with tailin's and coal dust from the trains. Been many a year since those tracks was pulled out, by gandy-dancers long since ghosts themselves now, but those trains still run. Uphill slow, fightin' to reach the tops o' the canyons, and the mines along the way. Or racin' downhill, out o' control, engineers and firemen prayin' as they fight to keep their cars all on the tracks, not spilling the precious loads they carry. You watch, you'll see, young'uns. Those mines, the ghost ores still are dug, by the shades o' miners trapped under them mountains' bones fer'ever, and their ore still rides down them tracks, just not as you can tell, lest you see the fogs and snow swirling around, before, and inside them.

"Those trains, they were't lifeblood o' towns downs hereabouts. Jobs at the smelters, jobs in the railyards keepin' them trains runnin', jobs cutting the wood or diggin' coal to fire their boilers. Not a regular run, maybe twice, thrice at most a day, but still, they moved along, slow inside the canyon, buildin' up a fine head o' steam along these here flatter benches, racin' to Murray and Midvale, to deliver they loads o' rocks, and have folks pull out the precious from the worthless bits. Hints o' the rails marked durin' snowstorms as ice lines along Fort Union, showin' where those spirit iron horses still run, amid the snows, to deliver ghostly ore. Mark my words, you listen, out there tonight, you'll hear the huffin' and chuffin' as the pistons o' those ol' trains still run, tryin' to make it down to safety, a'fores an avalanche takes the tracks out again. See the cars rockin' in the air out above the freeway, in the places they dug down to make those lanes fer folks to roar along, faster than steam engines comin' back down the canyons. The flakes or raindrops will stick together, showin' you those ol' rail runners up there, or along the creek bed further up the canyons."

He leaned back, tipping the battered hat back, wiping his brow with his kerchief. "Yeppers, thems were the days, when the iron horse was king o' this valley, stopping sometimes to gather up a few cars o' sugar beets to haul to the processing houses, during the harvest. When the howling was not just the winds racin' down the canyons, but the release o' the steam, when boilers got to full pressure, and needed to bleed a bit. Days when men and women watched and waved as the trains passed, hopin' there'd be no leavin' o' the rails, prayin' the mountains were not hungry fer they kinsfolk and neighbors as worked they mines. When the land here still had farms, 'sides ol' Wheeler's place o'er yonder, as still bein' workeds." 

Hunching over his shovel, both hands again on the handle he sighed. "Nowadays, fancy folks dance the snows in winter, sled runners strapped to their feet where we dug out them ores fer the rich men back east. Investors who bought us out, forced us to work fer pennies, instead o' all the weath we'd finded. Been many a nights, under them mountains, since I last came down, ta find that place where the dust and nuggets gather up, down here beneath them purple mountain majesties. But one day a year, they let me out, to try and work that bar, and gather me up the funds to buy it back from them, to get me's claim back."

Cocking his head, he sighed. "Dag-bummed mules. Leave a man to wander 'bouts lookin' fer's them, when rightfuls, he should be runnin' pans fer flakes. Oughta sold them to that there teamster, back after the war 'tween the states. Rightful, I shoulda." He waves his free hand, turning to the back o' the store. "Tarnation! Ornery! Get your mangy hides back here boys! Found that sandbar, we need to run pans, a'fores we has to go back there." Limping along, left leg dragging the foot along, he moaned again. "Been a century since that avalanche took me, when I snuck out to pan the waters above Donut Falls. Need them mules to behave and stay put, long enough to buy my peace." As he walked away, his form became as misty as the trains he'd spoken of, before swirling apart into a blast of sawdust raised at the back of the store. 

A final echo came, faint, but full of warning to the kids. "Don't go lookin' fer me gold, young'uns, you be cursed as me, to only seek it once a year, and have others stop you from findin' it. Tarnation! Ornery! You boys gets back here, ya hear me!"