I heard this little news article about a grave discovered under the paving in a city alley. I wondered what that person would have thought about it and how it happened that a grave was just paved over. Here’s what I came up with.

Alone

Baltron Dechant was an angry man. As a mountain man he was never one to talk much anyway but today, he was a malevolent force as he stalked through the fort. He passed through the gate with his horses, one loaded with the supplies he’d need for the winter, the other saddled and ready to ride.

Leading them through the press of Indians, off-duty soldiers and wagons with everything from dry goods to women of loose morals, he tied the horses to the hitching post. He stalked over to the tent where for just a couple of coins, he could get a drink. An acquaintance, another mountain man was there, drinking with some friends. All of the mountain men had been in to sell their furs and pelts and flush with cash, were enjoying the brief respite of company.

Andre called out, “Baltron, my friend! Come have a drink with us.”

The others shouted welcome.

Baltron scowled. “I can buy my own,” and threw the money on the barrelhead. The British purveyor who owned this little concession scooped the coins up and handed Baltron a tin cup with rum in it.  Baltron drank it down, slamming the cup on the barrel.

He stalked back to his horse and mounted, riding away to the hoots of the other mountain men.

Eight months later, Andre was riding through a gap in the mountains. Spring was gone and it was time to take his furs back to the fort to sell. It was getting late in the day and time to camp. While looking for a good site, he noticed a crude shelter built under the pines.

“Ho, the camp!” he shouted.

He listened carefully, straining to hear over the horses stamping and blowing. Dismounting, he led his mount nearer the shelter. He looked around. The shelter was little more than a lean-to of pine boughs slanted against a low hanging branch. There were no horses. He called again, and now, he could hear a small moan from inside the shelter.

He tied his horses off to a nearby tree and came back to the shelter, kneeling down and looking in.  “Baltron, mon dieu! What happened?”

Inside the shelter, Baltron was lying on a bed of boughs, covered with furs. Emaciated, Baltron coughed. “Andre?” he peered into the light coming around Andre in the opening.

Andre crawled in, “Baltron, are you sick?”

“I am, and close to death. Can you build a fire so I can die in comfort?”

Andre rebuilt the shelter so that a fire to be built next to the sick man. He put a kettle of water on the fire and dropped in some jerky to make a broth. As he spooned it up to Baltron he heard the story.

“The Indians, Baltron whispered between sips. Shot me, stole the horses and most of the furs. I made it here but the wound festered. I just wanted to be alone.”

Andre shook his head. “But why Baltron? What happened at the fort?”

“My Cherie, Fleur, wrote and said she was to be married. She could not wait for me. I was angry,” he coughed again, blood coming up in his spittle.

Andre chided, “No woman is worth it, Balton. There are plenty more.”

But Baltron turned his head away. “Not for me. Now, I just want to be left alone.” He turned his head back to Andre.  “Bury me here, mon ami, where I can be alone forever.”

Andre hesitated and Baltron shot his thin hand out and weakly grasped Andre’s arm, “promise me!” his eyes full of pleading.

Reluctantly Andre agreed. Baltron nodded, and Andre covered him again.

Poor Baltron passed away in the night. So Andre buried him in the pass, making a pile of rock his grave marker.

A century later, America was growing, the automobile was king and roads were being built everywhere. A surveyor crew came through and then the bulldozers, Baltron’s grave marker long scattered by frost heave and the movement of animals.

The road went in and the grave was paved over, no one knowing it was there. A ghost is sometimes seen on the road running through the pass, especially in the spring. Late at night drivers slam on their brakes at the sight of a mountain man, hair wild and shaking his fist. Now, he’s never alone.

The End

727 Words

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