The Worst of the Worst (A Campfire Ghost Story)

The weather was just about right for this time of year; brisk and cold—perfect conditions for a campfire. I’d begged to come along with my older brother, Dave, my dad, my two uncles and a passel of cousins as they horse-packed into the family’s yearly deer camp on the upper Brazos River. Most of the time it was just the guys; no girls allowed. This was the first year I would be allowed to tag along. Most everybody else is several years older than I and they continually remind me of that fact—I mean continually. I am picked on, as they say, unmercifully and when they tire of picking on me, they start picking on me all over again—it never seems to stop. Gosh, I wish there was another kid coming along soon to take my place as the youngest. But, as far as I know, there isn’t, so I’m stuck always to be the youngest.

We rode into camp earlier today and it’s getting close to nightfall. The adults have camp pretty well set up and we cousins have gathered enough fire wood from all the deadfall lying around to last us through tomorrow morning’s breakfast—I brought in as much as each of them did. We had carried enough of a sack lunch for our evening meal so the first cooked meal will not happen until tomorrow and that’s when we’ll really find out if enough wood has been gathered.

Most everybody is ganged up around the campfire now and for the time being, we cousins will be allowed to remain vertical; but the adults will send us off to our racks soon so they can swap yarns and stuff.

As soon as there is the first lull in the conversation, one of the cousins asks Uncle Jim to tell us again about “the worst of the worst.” Uncle Jim says he gets tired of telling that story but I don’t believe him. Us cousins like to hear it time and time again. For me though, once had been enough—plenty enough. I am told that Uncle Jim’s story has been handed down through the years from father to son, from grandfather to grandson and even from great grandfather to great grandson. My cousins seem to never tire of it; but like I said, once was enough for me.

Uncle Jim swears that he’s kin to the main character; an ole’ Texas Ranger from back in those ole’ days. I can’t remember the original character’s name. Uncle Jim just calls him either the Young Ranger or the Old Ranger, depending on where he is in the story. In any event, he’s a Ranger; make no mistake about that.

I spoke up and said: “I’ll tell it.” Before anyone could object, I started straight in:

“I can remember my great grandfather telling me when I was just a small child about the time when Ole’ Granddad took on the worst of the worst. It was back in the days of the Republic, while Texas was still a nation and long before, darn it, that it gave up that status to become a state. A great deal of the altercation actually took place in these parts, right around here as I recall.”

“A company of Rangers had been assigned to track down and bring in a renegade band of Comanch. They weren’t just regular old Comanch; they were young renegades, fed up with being pushed around on the reservation—they were the meanest of the mean, the worst of the worst. They wanted their say and their freedom. The Rangers tracked them up through the panhandle country skirmishing with them several times until the Comanch decided to separate; making many trails and leaving confusing sign behind. Because they had been on the trail so long every ranger was short of grub, cold weather gear and ammunition. Actually my I’s told that Ole’ Granddad had just two agettin’-stale biscuits, Judge Colt and 6 Jurymen, plus a handful of Townspeople in his cartridge belt serving as a jury pool. And that ole’ Bowie knife of his when he started the stalk those Comanch.”

I’ve been told that Granddad always used to refer to his Colt thata’way. And my Uncle Jim always called the Comanche Indians just ‘Comanch’; the group or just a single Indian—never mattered. Old habits like that seemed hard to break.

“When those Comanch took to separate trails, the Captain was forced to assign each Ranger a trail to follow and there they split up to gather as much information as possible, planning to later meet up for debriefing and re-provisioning.”

“Ole’ Granddad, then still a young and inexperienced Ranger himself, had been designated to follow the trail that led directly into this very area where we now sit. Now you kids keep this in mind, he was just supposed to gather information and then report back to Austin.”

“The trail sign was pretty good and the Young Ranger eventually determined he was a’tracking a group of thirteen Comanch. He knew he had his work cut out for him and managed to stay far enough behind them hoping all along to remain undetected and unkilled—mainly unkilled.”

“The sign led him eventually to the ole’ cotton plantation on the banks of the Brazos just over that hill yonder. That’s the old Miller Plantation, and they say it’s haunted. I don’t know fer sure; but you dang sure don’t want to be around there at midnight. They say it’s the ghosts of the Comanch—now they call ‘em the Spirit Warriors and they’re still as mean as they ever were.”

“As Ole’ Granddad followed along, it soon became night and sign got real hard to determine. On a hunch, the Young Ranger headed in the direction of the old plantation house; just a hunch now, ya understand.”

As I told the story best I could, I thought to myself, “Why would Great-Great Granddad follow these Comanche in the dark; didn’t he know that that wasn’t a good idea?” The dark scares me and I’m not even tracking Comanche; I’m just trying to make my next birthday—that is if my brother and cousins will let me. What time is it now? How long ‘till midnight? I gotta get me a watch!

Looking across the fire pit, I could see the smoky glazed over eyes of my brother and cousins mesmerized by my uncle’s story being retold once again for their enjoyment. Just plain creepy if ya ask me.

“Just after half past eleven o’clock that night the Young Ranger found himself in close proximity of the plantation house.”

“Figuring they weren’t being followed any longer, the Comanch hadn’t even posted a lookout to provide warning of approaching danger. The Young Ranger, now down to just one Juryman left in his .44, crept as quietly as he could to within hearing distance of the main house; wondering all along what had become of the family that resided there—what had been their fate? As close as he could get, he could still not make out any movement or voices inside.”

“Left with only that one live cartridge and still no information to take back to Austin, he figger’d he had no choice but to continue his labor. He had to get into the plantation house and see what those thirteen Comanch were up to. He no intention of going back to Austin empty handed and empty headed. Perplexed as he was, he had no idea why there weren’t any of the thirteen Comanch outside acting as lookout. What were they doing inside? Again, what had become of the family? One cartridge or none, he had to know.”

“Were all my relatives touched in the mind? It’s plain to me that I wouldn’t find myself anywhere near that house, especially in the dark. There’s hair cutting and throat slashing Indians inside—I’m wouldn’t a’set one foot in there.”

“Remembering a tip from a senior Ranger, the youngn’ pulled off his spurs and stuck them in his vest pocket upside down as best he could—hoping to reduce his chance of detection. He had been told this by that old Ranger with many years of service: ‘you never want to sneak or crouch or squat with your spurs on—one is not as bad as the other two but all three will lead to no good.’ The Young Ranger had finally learned himself that lesson the hard way on several occasions and had paid dearly for it.”

“As he squatted there on the porch, he could hear the wailing of banshees and blood curdling screams coming from the upstairs. He knew that he had to get inside and save the family—assumed to be the ones doing the screaming.”

“As stealthily as he could, the Young Ranger gained the porch and found an open downstairs window. He slowly eased himself through it. The moon lit the inside pretty well and he had good visibility of most the entire ground floor from the large parlor-like room. Just about that time he heard a big clock upstairs as it chimed the last quarter hour before midnight. The Young Ranger was still fretful but there didn’t seem to be any Comanch down here on the first floor.”

“He located what he presumed to be the kitchen door and crept as quietly and as slowly as his heart would now allow. Finally, he was close enough to be able to hear what might be happening on the other side.”

“At previous tellin’s of this tale, this is where I routinely looked around and decided now was the time to make my getaway: “I need to take this apple core to my horse and hit the sack.” Without saying another word or lookin’ anyone straight enough in the eye; I would exit outta there headed to the picket line, then to my tent and finally inside my sleeping bag with head tucked under so nobody or nothin’ could find or get me—nothin’.

Ha, ha-ha! I always heard loud laughs come from the fire pit area not long after I had departed. Were they laughing at me? I didn’t care; just as long as I was outta there. I always thought they waited just long enough until they knew I was in the tent and hiding in my sleeping bag before they laughed; but still, they always laughed. One day this would end; maybe one day soon—they’ll see.

Unlike all those other times before, I’m staying here this time. Well, at least for a little while longer anyway. Let’s see just how much more of my company my cousins will be able to take.”

“Hearing voices from inside the kitchen, the Young Ranger positioned himself outside the door in a tiny alcove that allowed him concealment for the time being. He couldn’t understand a word they were saying, but fer sure, there was much disgust and distrust in that kitchen. The renegade Comanch were distrustful of the old chiefs, none of which were with this group. Word had passed that they were indeed discontent with the treatment they were getting from the old chiefs and tribal leaders. Catching a phrase here and there, the Young Ranger believed them to be arguing about who’s their leader of this group and what they were gonna do next.”

About now is the time that my Uncle Jim usually took on the voice of the Old Ranger, his granddad, and began tellin’ the story in the first person. “I begin ta thinkin’ maybe I’ve been wrong all along and it’s time to get my first person outta here. After all, these guys are the worst of the worst; at least at this very point in time and I’m not feeling too good about the Young Ranger’s chances right ‘bout now. Not sure whether to go or stay, my body seems to be unyielding; my bones are frozen in place.”

Almost immediately, I continue, now in the Old Ranger’s voice just as Uncle Jim had done the first time I heard the story, hoping to get it right. “I’m listening’ to the goings on as those Comanch continue to argue; madder than hell, most of them. The louder half of them are storming around the room, pointing out the windows in the direction that I had come from earlier and gesturing with their rifles.”

“I didn’t have any idea how long Uncle Jim’s story was supposed to continue; I had never been this far into it before. I had no idea just how long my bones would remain frozen or how long my heart would hold out. Excitement was rampant in my mind. I was hoping to be in this circle ‘til the very end; wishing to no longer be cowering in my tent when the end came, whenever it would be. I’m trying my best to hold on. What time is it anyway?”

Looking around the campfire, I judged the eyes of my older brother and our cousins—blank and empty, every last one of them. “I had them at this point and whichever direction I took, they’re gonna follow.”

“The discussion on the other side of the kitchen door was as heated as it was gonna get. They ain’t gonna decide anything without maybe killing each other, I could tell. Never-the-less, I had to make a decision. Right then and there, I decided that these Comanch knew just as little as I did about what was about to happen next; but before I could manage to turn and retreat to the window and maybe head for Austin; I had to do something for that family trapped upstairs—if they truly were trapped. But what? It had been eerily quiet from the upstairs area as long as I had been inside—nothin’ like it had been when I was outside.”

“Quicker than I could say ‘what’s next?’ those renegade Comanch got straightened out and started for the door right next to the alcove where I had stationed myself. As quickly and quietly as possible, I moved back across the parlor room and climbed the stairs to the second floor.”

“Once there, I found myself in a long wide hall with several doors off each side—I assumed these to be bedrooms. As I tried the handle on one then another with no luck, the banshee wailing and blood curdling screaming resumed from behind the doors. Creeping from shadow to shadow, I alertly made my way to the far end of the hall and took up a position behind the big ole’ grandfather clock stationed there. I commanded the attention of the entire hallway. I suddenly became more concerned as to what my chances were gonna be.”

“Peeking out from behind the clock case, I watched as all thirteen Comanch entered that second floor hall carryin’ rifles in one hand and knives in the other. They paid no attention to the doors on either side as if they already knew what they concealed, but continued in one rank straight in my direction down the hall closer and closer to where I was positioned.”

“At that very instance, the big ole’ clock’s minute hand clicked the final minute off its dial, ready to start a’chiming out the midnight hour. I swallowed what fear and pride I had remaining and raised myself up from my vantage point. Leaping out from concealment behind the clock, I stared straight into the eyes of each—the Worst of the Worst, the Comanch Ghost Warriors—as Bong…one by one they fell to the floor…Bong…and then wrapping what my Mom calls my lady like fingers around Ole’ Granddad’s Colt just at the exact moment in time that big ole clock struck twelve…Bong…I shot the other one!”

With that I arose immediately from my place by the fire and sorta trotted off to my tent, glimpsin’ back over my shoulder at my brother’s and cousins’ astonished faces—their mouths hanging wide open at their knees—and quickly slid into my sleeping bag. Pulling my covers up to my chia, all the while listening for the voices of my brother and cousins. As I eventually pulled the covers over my head, I began to hear a chuckle from one, then two, and finally the whole lot of ‘em. They realized that they’d been taken by me—the youngn’—and they knew it.