Moon over Squaw Creek

By Dan Zahn

Dan’l Coffey, a former Rough Rider, is unemployed and searching for adventure when he overhears some men in a tavern discussing a chilling tale of murder and mystery. They said town was in need of a sheriff because the last one, and the one before him, had fallen prey to some legend involving a mysterious creature. Understandably, no one seemed interested in the job, that is no one until Dan’l Coffey rode into town.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 23, 2022
• ISBN: 9781669807964

Dan Zahn

DAN ZAHN has been a portrait artist, a singer/songwriter, a touring musician and a teacher. He spent many years as a cartographer, worked on a survey crew and has clung to the handrail of a 1940 vintage tugboat during a gale on Lake Michigan. He is an avid fly fisherman and has written two novels. Many of his short stories are based on his own true life experiences.

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Prologue

In 1888, the rickety old wooden bridge that spanned Squaw Creek was replaced with a new, sturdier, covered version to accommodate the wagons carrying timber to and from the mill on the east side of town. The town fathers believed that a covered bridge would better protect the traveling surface from the elements, thereby enabling it to last longer. The town, which bore the same name as the clear running stream that divided it, was experiencing a growth in popularity and population.

On October 6th of 1889 as the Hunter’s Moon gave way to the early light of dawn, a man named James Crowley was found dead at the western entrance to the bridge. His face, neck and torso were torn to shreds. The town sheriff, Willie Briggs conducted an investigation, but for lack of evidence, and due to the nature of the wounds, it was determined to be the act of a wild animal, perhaps a wolf.

After a few months had passed, the event was forgotten by most folks until, two years later when, on the night of the Hunter’s Moon, the body of Sheriff Briggs was found next to the bridge on the west bank of the creek. He was in the same condition as poor Mr. Crowley.

Whereas there were no witnesses in the case of Mr. Crowley, the case of Sheriff Briggs was different. A woman named Emily Liddy found the body and claimed to have seen the wolf and a large man in a long black hooded robe disappear into the bridge as they fled the scene. Two years later, Mrs. Liddy became the third victim.

The timing and the nature of these deaths created a stir among the local Ojibwe families and some of the more superstitious whites, and a legend was born. Simply stated, the legend claims that sometimes in October, on the night of the Hunter’s Moon, the bridge over Squaw Creek is inhabited by a large man cloaked in black and a giant wolf set to prey on anyone foolish enough to cross the bridge alone.

Of course, it’s just a legend …

One

Dan’l Coffey sported a thick mustache that was trimmed even with the corners of his mouth. Standing only five feet, eight inches, he was barrel chested with thickly muscled back and arms; what he lacked in height, he made up for in brawn. Even as a young boy working on his uncle’s ranch in Texas, the older men claimed that the lad’s grip was so strong he could choke a horse.

Coffey was the adventuresome type so, when faced with the opportunity to fight in the Spanish-American War, he didn’t hesitate to volunteer. In May of 1898, at the age of eighteen, he trained under Theodore Roosevelt for ten weeks in San Antonio, Texas. The 1st United States Volunteer Cavalry was made up of east coast college men, cowboys and Indians.

On July 1st, 1898, alongside Colonel Roosevelt, the volunteers charged up Kettle Hill at San Juan Heights in Cuba. It was the bloodiest battle of the war. The unit’s bravery and success earned them great fame and the newspapers dubbed them Roosevelt’s Rough Riders.

After the war, Roosevelt served as the Governor of New York from 1899 t0 1900. In March of 1901, he became Vice President and when William McKinley was assassinated in September, Theodore Roosevelt became the 26th President of the United States.

When Dan’l returned to the states after the war, he found himself in New Orleans where he labored on the docks unloading shipments of coconuts and bananas from Central America. The work was hard and some days the climate reminded him too much of Cuba, so he soon began to think of other possible ways to make a living and perhaps even a change of climate.

After six months, Dan’l made his way from New Orleans to St. Louis by riverboat. There, due to some connections he had made as a member of the First Volunteer Cavalry, he was able to get a position on the Mounted Patrol division of the city police force.

Other than the time he spent in Roosevelt’s unit, Dan’l never responded well to strict rules and regulations such as those of the city police department. So he soon tired of life in a big city and after two years on the job, he turned in his badge and his gun. He had saved most of the money he’d made since returning from Cuba, so he used it to buy what he considered to be essential: some clothes, a gun and a horse and saddle.

For his weapon, he chose a short barreled Smith & Wesson .38 and a shoulder holster to wear on his left side. He had never owned a fine suit of clothes, so he stopped at a store called Scruggs, Vandervoort & Barney where he purchased a Victorian style suit of black tweed with a double breasted vest and a gray Homburg hat.

His final purchase of the day was a beautiful copper bay mare and a saddle. With his new clothes and a few of his favorite books neatly packed into a duffel bag secured to the back of his saddle, he headed north to Chicago.

Dan’l didn’t see much of Chicago, but what he did see was enough to make him think less of it than he thought of St. Louis, so he ventured out of the city in search of other surroundings. While sipping a beer in a place called Zimmer Tavern and Wagon Shop, he overheard two men talking about a haunted bridge and how last October the town’s sheriff had become the second sheriff, and the fourth victim, to fall prey to some mysterious creature. It seems, they continued, the town was currently in need of a sheriff and nobody wanted the job. Danl’s curiosity was piqued and his taste for adventure awakened.

Turning to the two men, he asked, Where is this Squaw Creek? How do I get there?

It’s north, just over the state line, said one of the men.

You the fella ridin’ that copper bay mare outside? said the other.

I am.

It’ll take you the better part of a day on horseback, said the first man.

I’m in no hurry, Dan’l said.

Just head west to the river and follow it north. That river road will take you right there, the other man said.

Dan’l thanked the two men, finished his beer and left. The next morning, he woke early and headed toward the river. At about four that afternoon, he rode into the town of Squaw Creek.

Two

A fancy hand lettered wooden sign of top workmanship welcomed him to Squaw Creek as he rode in from the south. A smaller sign of equal quality told him that the trail he rode in on was now named Whitney Street. Ahead of him, the street was lined on both sides with one, and two-story homes. Some were simple log cabins and others were of a plank style, but the ones that stood out were made of brick.

The first junction he arrived at was the corner of Whitney and Main Streets. Main Street went off only to the right and was lined with business establishments. The road had a slight incline to a point where it disappeared into a covered bridge over a rippling creek.

The home on the southeast corner of Whitney and Main was a two-story brick affair that boasted a turret at the front and a wooden porch that wrapped around two sides of the building. The fancy sign out front identified the building as the Office of the Mayor, E.J.Whitney. Across the street on the northeast corner was one-story brick building with a white picket fence. A sign on the gate read, Dr. C.A.Winslow.

Dan’l guided the bay onto Main Street and took notice of the businesses as he rode by. On his left was a Chinese Laundry, and next to that a Public Bathhouse, a Tonsorial Parlor, a Mercantile, Stuckey’s Saloon, a Blacksmith/Livery and an empty lot. On the south side of the street was a newspaper office, a post office, the bank, Crowley’s Inn, and, at the end, the sheriff’s office.

There was, he judged, an empty lot between the sheriff’s office and the bridge. It appeared that Main Street did not continue east on the other side of the bridge, but turned and ran south along the creek. Beyond the bridge, among the treetops, there rose a steeple and some chimneys.

A raised boardwalk provided access to buildings on both sides of Main Street. Since travel by horse was still the most used form of transportation, hitching posts and rails also lined the street. This town was starting to remind him of some of those west Texas towns he’d known as a kid.

Dan’l reined up in front of the sheriff’s office and tied the bay to the rail. In large capital letters above the door was the word Jail. The window beside the door said Sheriff’s Office and, in smaller letters, the name of its previous occupant, Sheriff Herschel V. Stone. The door was ajar, so Dan’l walked in.

At one end of the room, in the front corner was a large roll topped desk and an armless swivel chair. Next to the desk was a simple straight backed wooden chair. There was another window on the east wall to the right of the desk. On the south wall was an empty gun rack, a simple coat and hat stand, and a wood burning stove. The holding cell took up the other end of the room and in it was a single cot.

The daylight streaming through the two windows lit the room and above the roll top was an oil lamp on a wall bracket with two more spaced evenly on the back wall.

Dan’l took a seat at the desk and opened the top drawer where he found two keys. One was obviously for the cell and the other, he reasoned, was for the office door. He was about to stand up and try the keys when a young man appeared in the doorway.

Well, hello there, said Dan’l. Can I help you?

The young man pointed at the bay.

Is that your horse?

Yes, it is.

Nice horse. My name is Jimmy. What’s your name? Are you the new sheriff?

Coffey was amused by the young man’s rapid fire style.

"Well, Jimmy, my name is Dan’l Coffey and I’m not the sheriff yet. I guess you could say I’m here to apply for the job.

At that moment, a large, round man pushed the young man aside, entered the room and took over the conversation. Another, very large man stood outside facing the street.

Then I guess you’ll need to talk to me.

The man’s tone and the volume of his speech was indicative of his authority."

It’s fortuitous that I happened along, he said. "I should’ve thought it proper that you seek