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Neewa the Wonder Dog and the Ghost Hunters
Volume One: The Indian Medicine Woman’s Mystery is Revealed!

Hi, I'm John Cerutti. My book can be downloaded or read on PENGUIN'S BOOKCOUNTRY.COM, BARNSANDNOBLE.COM, SMASHWORDS.COM, FREE-EBOOKS.NET, GOOGLE BOOKS.com, Amazon.COMLULU.COM, Free-Ebooks.net, NEEWATHEWONDERDOG.COM, AND NEEWATHEWONDERDOGANDTHEGHOSTHUNTERS.COM.  Since going on the web in Feb 2010 the book has HAD TENS OF THOUSANDS DOWNLOADS that I know of. On Smashwords.com it is Premium Approved. It has a 5 of 5 Star Rating on Free-Ebooks.net and a 4.5 of 5 Star Rating on barnesandnoble.com (with few raters.) Also on , goodreads.com, Kobo.com, itunes.apple.com openlibrary.org/, and many others. And in any format you want. Some versions on the above sites are outdated with errors corrected in newer versions.

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 Volume One: The Indian Medicine Woman’s Mystery is Revealed!

Sue says, " Amazon peer review, 8/18/2013. This is a story, not about Ghosts, and not about Neewa...it is a story of a teenage girl and her love for not only her sister and father.....but her growth and adjustment during her trip 1500 miles away from home. It's a novel of two siblings-- during their exciting adventure out west, separated for the first time; from their mother, grandparents, and friends. In this first person narrative, Cerutti uses a multi sensory approach, which takes the reader to a place far away---literally, to the state of Nevada- where his young family; daughters Christina (14) and Jacqueline (11) experience the opportunity of a lifetime. These three (four including Neewa) are not very different from your average American family, except they are hunting Ghosts!! The reader will feel the anticipation that they feel when searching for these supernatural beings, and you can join them! MORE

Comments from other sources: Great story for teens Submitted by Ildiko on 2 August, 2011 - 20:34. Really sweet to know that you have created this story with your girls in mind. I almost feel like I can see the interactions between them in real life...as you capture their personalities well. (for the little I know of them, it seems to me.) This would be a great story for teens...they would love it! I will get back to it some other time. Fun reading....love the FL grandmother's chicken meal. Mary





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    Adventure and mystery in the uncanny spirit world captivate the young lives of fourteen-year-old Christina and her sister Jackie, eleven. When the family moves 1500 miles from their home in New Jersey to the desert of the American Southwest, they encounter many spirits—some good, some evil.
    Out West the family seeks out the paranormal, hunting ghosts with the latest most sophisticated devices. Their searches take them to several eerie places, including a remote forest, a ghost town, and a sacred burial ground. They also explore an isolated Native American stream and investigate an Indian Pow Wow.
    Not long after settling into their new home, Christina adopts Neewa, a half coyote female puppy with a mysterious secret. But when the puppy becomes deathly ill, the girl is determined to find a doctor to save her pet. When a shaman vet miraculously turns up, he supplies a charm, a potion, and an incantation for Neewa to save her spirit.
    Danger lurks around every corner but the sisters surprisingly find protection in most unusual ways through a medicine woman, mythological animals, herbs and other mystical means.
    Throughout their extraordinary experiences the young sisters face various dimensions of fear and joy.


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Neewa the Wonder Dog and the Ghost Hunters

Volume One: The Indian Medicine Woman’s Mystery is Revealed!

John Cerutti

Dedicated to Christina, and Jacqueline

ISBN-10 0615408540

ISBN-13 9780615408545 (2/10/10)

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Neewa the Wonder Dog and the Ghost Hunters The Indian Medicine Woman’s Mystery is Revealed
0 of 5 stars
Amazon peer review, 8/18/2013. This is a story, not about Ghosts, and not about Neewa...it is a story of a teenage girl and her love for not only her sister and father.....but her growth and adjustment during her trip...


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Neewa the Wonder Dog and the Ghost Hunters!

Volume One: The Indian Medicine Woman’s Mystery is Revealed!

By John Cerutti

Published by John Cerutti at Smashwords

Copyright 2010 John Cerutti

ISBN-10 0615408540

ISBN-13 9780615408545




Adventure and mystery in the uncanny spirit world captivate the young lives of fourteen-year-old Christina and her sister Jackie, eleven. When the family moves 1500 miles from their home in New Jersey to the desert of the American Southwest, they encounter many spirits—some good, some evil.

Out West the family seeks out the paranormal, hunting ghosts with the latest, most sophisticated devices. Their searches take them to several eerie places, including a remote forest, a ghost town and a sacred burial ground. They also explore an isolated Native American stream and investigate an Indian Pow Wow.

Not long after settling into their new home, Christina adopts Neewa, a half coyote female puppy with a mysterious secret. But when the puppy becomes deathly ill, the girl is determined to find a doctor to save her pet. When a shaman vet miraculously turns up, he supplies a charm, a potion and an incantation for Neewa to save her spirit.

Danger lurks around every corner but the sisters surprisingly find protection in most unusual ways through a medicine woman, mythological animals, herbs and other mystical means.

Throughout their extraordinary experiences the young sisters face various dimensions of fear and joy.




Chapter 1 – Neewa’s New Family

Still can’t believe I moved 1500 miles away from our home and all my friends, this is a big mistake. If it weren’t for Dad I would be home right now. I’d be hanging with my friends and living in my house instead of this old broken down place.

I can’t understand why Mom moved to Canada either. It’s not fair that we are all so far apart. I miss her so much. Grandma and Grandpa didn’t want us to leave either. Everyone back home wanted us to stay.

Dad got this job with the government, that’s why we came out West. Monday through Friday he works calculating all kinds of stuff with very fancy instruments, electromagnetic field (EMF) meters, temperature sensors, static electricity & ionization detectors, motion detectors, listening devices, radio frequency detectors, even radiation monitors.

But on the weekends we take, or rather we borrow, this same equipment and use it. It’s a good thing the government doesn’t know what we do with their stuff. We certainly can’t tell Dad’s boss that we hunt ghosts. That’s right! We hunt ghosts, not imaginary ones, but ghosts and spirits that give off real natural energy, paranormal phenomena.

Dad says, “As long as I’m testing the equipment, the boss says it’s okay to take the stuff home.”

When we go on a ghost hunt, we also bring night vision goggles, a special infrared camera and a digital camera with sound recording capability to capture everything that happens on an investigation. Dad says, “If it gives off energy, it can be hunted.”

The equipment is the same kind of high-tech gear used to hunt tornadoes, thunderstorms, or even criminals. I’m not exactly sure what Dad does during the day at work. He doesn’t talk about it much. Its kind of funny cause when we have all of the equipment with us, Dad worries that someone might think we stole the stuff because of the labels that say, “Property of US Government.” He says we have to keep a low profile.

My goal is to be the world’s most famous ghost hunter that ever lived. I’m talking about having my own TV show and everything, that’s what I want.

My name is Christina, I’m fourteen years old and I hunt ghosts. Jacqueline, my sister, we call her Jackie, is eleven years old and she hunts ghosts too.


Jackie and I kind of look alike but we are so different. She has wavy auburn hair while mine is black and curly. Dad says I look really great with my hair up. That’s how I hide all the curls that annoy the heck out of me. I get so mad cause my hair frizzes out all over the place. I spend so much time straightening it, I could scream.

And just about everything Dad says to me makes me freak out. If he says something I don’t like, forget it. I fire right back at him. Then he says, “Stop it” or he’ll punish or ground me. When he says that, I blast him, call him a name or tell him to shut up. By the time I think about what I’ve said, it’s too late.

If he keeps his cool and says stuff like, “That’s no way to talk to your father,” he makes me feel guilty so I apologize.

But if he yells or says I’m mean, then I say more mean stuff and really get him mad. We won’t make up till the next day. Usually I feel bad all night and that sucks, but that’s what happens.

Jackie is more of a trickster type. Oh yeah, she’ll start trouble all right and mostly for me. If she doesn’t get her way, she goes into a major screaming tantrum until the roof is shaking and all Dad and me want to do is run away. But we can’t because she just keeps coming at us until she gets what she wants. Then she blames me, saying I did it! Or, “What did I do?” claiming her innocence.

What I hate most is when she blames me for something, saying stuff like, “It’s your fault I’m late. I was supposed to be there a half hour ago! You’re making me late!”

I tell her, “Go jump in the lake,” or something.

Our fight goes back and forth and gets pretty ugly, if you know what I mean. It ruins the rest of the night unless someone apologizes, which only happens if the one who gets hurt stays calm and says things to make the other one feel guilty, but how often does that happen?

Jackie and I never dress alike although I borrow her stuff and she takes clothes from me when I’m not looking. It makes me so mad. I tell her not to take my clothes but she ignores me. Acts as if I’m imagining it. Then she returns them when I’m not around. She thinks I don’t know what she does.

Give me jeans and a hoodie with a tight top and I’m happy.

Jackie and her friend Amanda are into designer clothes, chic tops, and name brands. She’s wearing pink today with her favorite sandals. She even paints her fingernails different colors from one day to the next. My nails are always natural, never painted.

I’m taller than Jackie by about five inches, but she can put me in a headlock and make me say uncle, but I won’t. Dad is like a foot taller than me. I’m going to be as tall as him someday.

Some day I’m going to be a writer. When I’m writing, I can make up stories and be sarcastic without anybody catching on.

Jackie wants to be an actor. She likes to takes lots of dance and singing classes.

I tell her, “You already are an actress.” She gets really mad.

My green eyes and long lashes are gorgeous, that’s what everyone says.

Whenever someone hears my last name they say, “Is your Dad John?”

“Yes,” I always say smiling, then they say, “I know your Dad.” I just grin.

One thing though, I hate my nose. It has a bump on the bridge from a couple of falls I took when I was little. One time I was walking up the slide and my feet slipped right out from under me, and BAM! I landed face first right on it.

Jackie’s nose is perfect but she still has her braces. I had mine off last month, now I just wear a retainer every night.

I’m so excited I finally got my puppy, the one I’ve been waiting for forever. Dad has promised me I could adopt a puppy for the last seven years. Now I finally have one, but she has no name and I have to pick a really great name for her. I’ve been looking on the Internet, and everywhere for the perfect name, but I can’t decide. Jackie thinks she is going to name her but that is out of the question.


Everyone is sitting in the TV room as I go through a box of stuff not yet unpacked from our move. Boxes are still in closets, bedrooms, and everywhere. In the bottom of this one is a book I’ve never seen before.

“Hey, look at this Native American Language Book.” I thumb through the pages to a section on names. They’re in columns with the English word next to the Indian word. I read through name after name.

“Wow! I had no idea there were so many Indian names, page after page of them,” I mumble spellbound reading one after another.

Suddenly one name jumps out at me. “Neewa is the word for snowberry, pronounced Knee-wa. Snowberry would be a great name for my new puppy. She’s all white like a snowberry. That’s it! I’m going to call her Neewa.”

There is silence in the room. I think everyone likes the name.

Grinning, I look around. “So that’s that, I’ve picked her name, it’ll be Neewa.”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute, I have some names for her,” Jackie complains. “How come you get to pick her name anyway? What about Snowball, Ghost, or Snowflake?”

She stares at me, then Dad.

“Jackie you can’t name my puppy. I’ve waited years to get her. You can walk her, feed her, pet her, and love her. But she is my puppy, and I’m going to name her.” I stomp out of the room determined.

“What are we having to eat? I’m hungry,” I yell to Dad shutting myself behind the door of my room.

Dad now darting around the kitchen answers, “Grandma’s Florida chicken, mashed potatoes and string beans. And Christina it’s your turn to set the table.”

I act like I didn’t hear him.

“Christina, NOW!” Dad adds.

“In a minute, stop bugging me, I will,” I shout knowing he’ll do it if I wait long enough.

Through the paper-thin walls, I listen to Jackie give a speech on why she should pick my puppy’s name. She makes me so mad as she continues her appeal to Dad.

“It’s Christina’s puppy so I should get to name her. This isn’t fair, she gets a puppy and I get nothing. I can’t even name it. I want my own puppy,” she complains.

After a good amount of silence, we all sit down to eat. The conversation continues about naming my puppy. Dad doesn’t really want to answer Jackie so he tells her the puppy is for all of us to enjoy. Christina has always wanted one and this is the way it turned out, blah, blah, blah, he goes on and on.

I’m really getting mad, “She’s my puppy Jackie! I’m naming her so get over it!”

Hum, let’s see, what can I say to send her over the edge, make her lose her temper and blow up? Hum, so many choices, let me pick one. “So Jackie, what song are you rehearsing for the talent show?”

Dad jumps in immediately, “Christina stop it right now! I know where you’re going with this. Jackie don’t listen to her, she is just trying to get you going.”

I glare at her from across the table. By this time my stomach is in knots, I can hear rumbling, gurgling, and I’m about ready to throw up.

“My mind is made up and that’s that. Why can’t you get it through your head?” I burst out.

Jackie continues to taunt me by suggesting silly names like Spot and White Fang. I ignore her. Those names don’t have anything to do with my puppy. Jackie always has to get her way, but not this time. She’s my puppy and I’m naming her, no one is going to change that.

Neewa is playing around the table trying to get my attention. Frolicking and jumping around, she spins and then leaps up. Quickly she circles me, bumping into my shin to make sure I reach down to pet her as she loses her balance and stumbles over her oversized paws.

Neewa’s nose starts sniffing the air. She smells dinner and sits perfectly straight at my side. Her tail is curled around her legs, occasionally thumping the floor. Her head is pointing at the food on my plate, eyes and nose focused, not even blinking.

“We can’t feed you at the table. You have your own bowls for food and water.” It’s Dad’s rule for now, we all agreed to it before picking her up at the pound. But I’ll have that rule changed in no time.

“You made me wait seven years to get my puppy,” I blurt out.

Dad answers in a serious tone, “Christina, you were not ready for a puppy seven years ago. I’m not sure you’re ready now.”

After dinner I fake a kitchen clean up so Dad will jump in and get it over with. I just want to slip into the living room and watch my TV shows. Never mind anyone else.

Jackie is looking for the book with the names but I hid it way in the back of the shelf where she will never find it. I’m not telling her where it is. I know what she’s up to. Oh crap, that’s it, she found it. She’s looking through the pages for another name for my Neewa. I pretend to pay no attention to her.

Turning to Dad she says, “Here’s the section on names.”

She pauses, studying and turning the pages. “What about the name White Cloud or White Star? They are perfect names.”

“Those are not Indian words you widget.” She makes me so mad.

Jackie ignores me. When I call her a name, she usually goes ballistic, kicking, and screaming at me.

She snickers, “Hey look at this, they have a word for ghost. It’s —ha, and more than one ghost is —nee.

Jackie reads a passage from the book, “Indians believe the Spirit lives forever. When the body dies, the spirit is called a spirit being and may take the body of another living creature such as a butterfly, a wolf, or even a bear. Or a spirit being may live in the wind or earth not taking any form at all.”

Silence fills the room, even Neewa is motionless listening as Jackie continues reading, “The spirit being is seeking a resting place in the sacred burial ground, among all the others who have died. This sacred ground is the doorway to the spirit world, the final resting place where all the spirit beings gather and celebrate eternal peace and happiness.”

“That’s creepy!” Smiling, I look at Dad and Jackie.

“Yeah, that’s really creepy,” Jackie adds, “Gives me the chills.”

“Do you believe that, Dad?” I look at him.

Dad walks back into the kitchen to finish putting stuff away, “I’m not sure I believe it, I wish it were true though. Most of the guys at work believe it.”

Jackie is so spoiled. Before Mom moved she would ask her, “Can my friend sleep over, Mom?”

At first Mom would say, “No, no, and no.”

Guess what? Later she always got her way and had her friend sleeping over. Most of her friends are odd, they love to sit around singing Broadway tunes and choreograph dance routines to the music of online karaoke websites.

I hate it when she sings off key. “You’re off key,” I yell from my room.

She gets so mad, really crazy, and even throws stuff at me. Except for maybe Dad, she’s got the worst temper of all of us.

At night I shut my door to get away from everyone. I need time to myself to read books and do things. My favorite authors are Stephenie Meyer and Dan Brown. But most of the time I’m online talking or texting to my friends back home. One of my friends, I met on line at FanFiction. It’s a web site where we write reviews of TV shows and movies. We all write stuff and then comment and critique each other’s stuff. I call my friend “Ohio,” because she lives in Ohio. She’s home schooled.

Jackie loves to read, mostly mysteries, and action-adventure like Harry Potter books and lots of other ones too.

“Good night Dad, love you,” Jackie says as she glides to her room.

Sleep, I need sleep. “Good night Dad, love you.”

“Goodnight Christina, night Jackie, love you.”

I stare at the ceiling in this ugly place. My new home is beat, it’s an old one-story ranch in a neighborhood laid out in a perfect grid. Of all the houses in this part of town, ours is the oldest and the smallest. It’s the worst looking too, never been updated like the other ones around us. I’ll tell you one thing, I’m not planning on staying here long. I’m getting out of here as soon as I can.

The inside is just three small bedrooms and a like kitchen and living room. The front door and several old windows have plastic stapled over it to keep out the cold.

The outside is a mess. The driveway in front is full of potholes. We have to use a bumpy dirt path around back in the alleyway. The only good thing about it is the back pathway ends just a few feet from the side door, the only door we use to get in and out of the place. But watch out when you turn off the alley, there’s a big tree right there. Dad almost hit it a few times.

Beige stucco covers the cinder block structure we call home. And burgundy red paint outlines the windows, doors and roof. The color of the house was white, but after years of harsh sun and wind, it’s got a layer of encrusted dirt over the top. It’s not white any more.

An old wood fence around the front yard is falling apart. It has double rails made of 2 x 4’s that run along the border between the neighbor’s yard and ours. Oh my God, the railing colors alternate between burgundy and off-white, with dirt caked on to match the house, Yuck!

The painter must have run out of the burgundy and added white paint to make it go further to finish the job. You can see where the shade of burgundy gets lighter, turning into pink and fuchsia at the corner. His painting ladder, splattered with paint drips, still rests against the house where he stopped.

Flowerbeds on either side of the walkway haven’t been cared for in years. They still have beautiful flowers blooming, attracting a tiny green and yellow hummingbird at dusk. The Iridescent tiny green bird hovers, while using its long beak to slurp the nectar from the flowers. I’ve tried to take pictures of him but he gets scared off so easily and flies away in a flash.

The landlord said we could rent the house for a few hundred dollars a month. That’s if we take care of it until he gets out of the nursing home. Dad says he’ll never get out.

My house back home was twice the size of this one and brand new. Bedrooms, living room, every room was bigger and it had lots more closets and big wide windows with windowsills to stack my stuff on. The kitchen had cherry wood cabinets, and bathrooms with satin nickel faucets and fake marble counter tops on matching vanities. The place was so cozy and the apartment downstairs was perfect for Grandma and Grandpa, with gorgeous southwestern motifs in the ceramic tile that covered the floor. Everyone was so mad when Dad said we were selling the house and Grandma and Grandpa would have to move.

It was on a dead-end street, the last house, and there were lots of kids. We played games, went fishing in the pond and had lots of fun. Jackie’s friend, Debbie, who lived on our block had a swimming pool and we had a trampoline for everyone to jump on.

Grandma and Grandpa were always there on holidays and weekends and giving us presents, even when it wasn’t our birthday. I miss my family and friends so much. Sometimes at night I look at their pictures and cry myself to sleep.

Here, our new neighbors won’t even talk to us. Worse than that one night when I was coming home, I saw one neighbor turn away from me as I went in my door.

One exception, the banker and his wife made an effort to be hospitable and welcoming. Hank and Jane Burns are very nice people. From time to time they come over to the house, talk to us, and even brought brownies. Meanwhile, they try to find out everything they can about us. Dad says Mr. Burns wants us to take out a loan or invest in cable TV or something.

Jackie started babysitting for their daughter, Brice. That gives Hank and Jane time to go out for dinner and a movie without having to worry. They trust Jackie and she is

paid pretty well for her time.

Besides Brice, there are no other kids around here, it’s like they rounded them all up and sent them away. Or maybe zombies came and took them. Whatever happened to them? I don’t know. But the streets are deserted, no skateboards, scooters, or jump rope. This place sucks.




Chapter 2 – Yesterday Was the Happiest Day of My Life

It was early morning when Dad woke us up. Usually, when he tries to get me up on a weekend morning I tell him, “Leave me alone, go away, don’t bother me!”

Yesterday morning was different. Getting up and dressed and being ready was easy. Finally we were going to the animal shelter to get the puppy I’ve been waiting for my entire life.

Jackie on the other hand was moving as slow as a snail. I stood at the door, tapping my shoe on the floor. Annoyed, I waited while Jackie had to have her morning bowl of cereal.

“Jackie let’s go, we’re late,” I plead with her to hurry.

“Christina shut up! I can’t hear the TV,” she replied.

“Dad, Dad, Jackie is having cereal, tell her to leave it, I wanna go now,” I begged Dad.

Finally after a lot of yelling, we got in the van and left.

After we drove a while into the desert from town I saw the sign, “County Animal Shelter.” The arrow pointed up a long dirt road. At the end of the bumpy road was a dull gray building.

Around back was the kennel area. At this distance, the compound looked neat and tidy, with animal pens in rows. I could see some of where the dogs were kept. In the front were a few parked cars and a big front door with one window.

Loud sounds of barking dogs came from behind the building. No wonder they put this place way out in the middle of nowhere. But as we got closer, the noise got so loud it sounded like a foxhunt was going on in the back. And the building seemed to turn even grayer.

I was very nervous as I led everyone across the stone parking lot. Jackie and Dad followed close behind me.

After knocking on the steel door, a man in black coveralls, hair slicked back and parted down the middle, slowly opened the door. The barking got even louder and I was hit with a wave of the pungent smell of a dog pound. The older man with a kindhearted smile greeted us. My guess is he’s the dogcatcher. His appearance and pale face made him look like Dracula, lacking only the makeup and cape.

“Looking for a pet?” he grinned.

“Yes,” I answer back.

“Right this way, you folks just look around,” Dracula said.

“Follow me,” I ordered.

I whispered to Jackie, “That guy looks like Dracula, look at his hair.”

We laughed as we walked through the hallway into the inner chamber.

Dad reminds me, “Christina remember we want a nice, friendly, house-broken and fully grown dog.”

“Poppy, Poppy, (I call Dad Poppy sometimes) I heard what you said, now stop with the pressure okay?” Hoping he will back off and leave me alone.

I wandered from side to side on the walkway between the large and small cages with big and small cats and dogs of all colors inside. Creeping through the maze, I looked left then right, checking each animal, yet passing one after another. Occasionally I hesitated for a moment to take a closer look, but continued my journey down the endless corridor of forlorn and cast-off pets. I was heartbroken looking at all the cats and dogs with no homes. Surplus animals, once loyal and loving pets, now no longer needed, discarded members of society wanting to be taken care of.

Dad whispered in my ear as if the animals were listening to him, “After sixteen weeks in the pound they will be put to sleep.”

“Put to sleep? What does that mean?” I blurt out loudly. Is he saying that they are to be killed, murdered?

“They have to be euthanized, destroyed,” he finished his thinking.

Instantly I became flushed, face red-hot. Each one of them needed a home, to be loved, before it’s too late. Gasping for air, I was horrified at the thought that any one of these animals would be destroyed.

Now my morning at the pound was no longer joyous and full of promise. It was more like a slow motion death walk in a horror movie. Frame after frame passing before me with animals being led to the gas chamber where they were to be “taken care of” all right.

The morning was slipping away, there seemed to be more and more animals, and choosing just one became more complicated. I wanted to save them all. Maybe even lead a jailbreak and set them all free.

Jackie followed me through the aisles of animals while Dad was left behind somewhere.

Nearing the end of death row, I became full of fear and anxiety. Animals jumped toward me as I passed their cages, wanting to be saved from their ultimate fate.

If I reached out to one, it lunged to the side of the cage, crashing into the wire wall, trying to kiss my fingers, as if I were Pope John Paul. And had the power to save them. It was as if they knew their fate and that I was their savior. But nothing could save all of these animals.

Unexpectedly, I spied a little white puppy curled up in a ball with its littermates. It looked up at me with pointed ears too big for its head and a shining black nose. It was the cutest puppy I had ever seen. It jumped up on the side of the cage letting out a yelp, calling me.

This puppy was so pretty, a German shepherd looking girl. She had the deepest steel gray eyes and a long snout on its big head. Her tail curled up over her hind legs like a Husky as she stood on her back legs up against the cage, nibbling on my fingers with her pointed white teeth. She was so beautiful, and had such soft ivory fur. And those big floppy paws were too big for her body, just like her ears. I hope she doesn’t grow into those paws.

Jackie,” I shrieked, “here’s the one, here’s the one!” feeling joy that I have not felt for a long, long time.

Just then Dad caught up to us. I petted her through the cage as she ran around my hand like it was a toy to tease and chew on.

“Can we take her home Dad?” I looked at him.

“Hey,” Dad moaned, “I thought we agreed on a grown dog, one that’s already trained and house broken.”

Jackie stooped down next to me and the puppy licked both our faces through the metal mesh. It was love at first sight for her too.

“Jackie you want this one right? Say yes,” I pleaded with her.

“Dad let’s get this one,” she agreed.

“Dad, I want this puppy, she will be a good watch dog and protect Jackie and me. Grown up or not, please Dad,” sounding like a beggar but not caring.

Dad was reluctant to commit, something about it being too much work, or some other reason. I didn’t know and didn’t care what he was thinking. A long pause followed. He seemed to be weighing his options.

I didn’t see it as a difficult choice. On the one hand he could disappoint us and spend the rest of his days in hell, or take the puppy and win the Greatest Dad of The Day Award.

“Okay, Okay,” he says as he steps up to the podium for the Best Dad Prize.

Jackie and I disagreed on almost everything, but not this. The puppy was coming home with us. This was the first thing we had agreed on all week, maybe all month.

Dad was surprised there was so little paperwork to adopt our puppy. He only had to sign a release and the puppy was free to go.

Holding her in my arms, we headed for the exit when Dracula, the dogcatcher, came from his coffin to wish us well.

I stopped and looked at him, “Where did she come from?”

He replied as if he knew the origin of every animal in the pound. “That one came from the desert. Someone found the three of them roaming around and brought them in.

“They had no mom or dad with them. Not much chance they would have made it to sunrise out there in the desert. Something would have had them for dinner. I think your shepherd pup is a coy dog.”

“A coy dog? What’s a coy dog?” I inquired.

He answered, “A coy dog is half coyote and half dog.”

Stunned by his answer, I feel my face flush and my eyes blink rapidly. Did he say coyote? Did Dad hear what he said?

“Thank you,” I hastily turned heading for the door.

Running, I cradled her in my arms and dropped my face into her soft fur hoping no one else heard what the dogcatcher had said. They might want to take her away. I’ve never heard of a coy dog before, never knew such a thing existed. But the dogcatcher said it, so it must be true.

After that, I don’t remember very much, just holding my puppy and running for the car.

“Hurry Dad, drive, drive,” I shouted, “I don’t ever want to lose her.”

He answered, “Don’t worry Christina, no one’s going to take her away from you.”

A few minutes later we were driving home. I keep thinking about the news of my puppy being only half dog. Even our drive though more desert wasteland doesn’t distract me from worrying about her.

I’m so tired of this place, nothing but desert everywhere.

The desert is a dangerous place compared to the place we used to live. Back East there is little risk of being killed by a scorpion, rattlesnake, or a pack of coyotes. Nor is it likely you will die from starvation, thirst, or exposure if you get lost. But out here in the desert you can die from any of these.

I can imagine how Neewa got separated from her mother. She had to go hunting for something to eat. Probably, all the puppies were running, playing, and wandering around before they realized they were all alone.

Neewa isn’t a regular dog. She didn’t grow up in a house with a picket fence and kids running around. Neewa may have a mom, dad, brothers, and sisters, but she’s part wild animal.

Wild animals have to eat raw meat and whatever their mom brings them to survive. I’ve watched programs on National Geographic and the Nature channel about how animals survive in the wilderness.

“Yuck,” I say picturing Neewa eating raw meat, regurgitated from her mother’s stomach onto the ground.

“Gross,” comes out of my mouth as I try to shake off the disgusting thoughts I’m having, but they continue.

“She’s a wild animal,” I blurt out not thinking what I’m saying. Jackie and Dad look at me startled.

My mind continues to race. Maybe Neewa’s mom was the alpha female in the pack. The other female coyotes took care of the litter. Neewa’s mom did what alpha females do—whatever that is.

After a long silence, “Will a half coyote and half dog be a good pet? Content to live with us or will she run off into the desert to be with her own kind?”

Dad spoke to reassure me, “Yes that may be true but her natural instinct is to be loyal to man. I’ve read that coy dogs can be good pets. We’ll see how it goes. Everything should work out fine. But if she’s too wild, we’ll bring her back.”

Not another word was spoken the rest of the trip home. Everyone was in deep thought about my new puppy, our new family member.


That’s what happened yesterday. Today Neewa is running and playing all around the house. Already she is settling into her new home.

She must be very confused from all the changes, too many for her to understand. I can relate to that, all the changes I’ve been through lately with Mom and Dad separating and selling our house and then moving way out here.

It was only a few days ago she was on the wide-open desert, happy and playing with her brothers and sisters. Then, wham! In the blink of an eye, she’s in a cage, with no room to roll around and nowhere to explore.

“Dad look, here is the definition of a coy dog,” I stare at the screen of my phone.

Dad and Jackie stop what they are doing. Everyone is silent and all eyes are focused on me. It is so quiet; you can hear the birds chirping outside our windows.

I read, “A coy dog is the hybrid offspring of a male coyote (Canis latrans) and a female dog (Canis lupus familiaris).”

“Poppy can we keep her? Coy dogs need to be adopted too,” I plead. “Dracula will destroy her if we take her back.”

Dad shrugs, “We’ll see how it goes.”

Neewa has checked out everything in the house, all the bedrooms, living room and the barely functional toilet and tub in the one and only bathroom.

She has bowls for food and water in our outdated kitchen. But her bed is in my room along with her toy box full of the latest squeaking playthings for her favorite games, fetch and tug of war. The squeaky toys that look like bones are her favorites, but she will spend hours gnawing on the real soup bones that Dad cooks for her.

As she lies under the kitchen table, I daydream of her fitting into our family. Her ears perk up, and she looks at me.

“Good girl, Neewa,” I say to her.

I blink away the tears in my eyes, praying she will never go back to that dog pound.


In my new school, I walk into classrooms full of kids I don’t know and who don’t know me. Some of them look at me funny. One or two make comments, but I ignore them. If one of them tries to bully me I curse at him and tell him where to go. Honestly, I’m not going to be here long enough to become friends with any of them anyway.

I’m always online or on ooVoo with my best friends back East. Right now I’m telling them about Neewa my new puppy. My friends back home and me are always texting each other about everything in our lives. We talk about who’s dating, who broke up, and who’s drinking and drugging.

Dad and Jackie don’t know that I stay up so late. They have no idea. But it’s three hours later back East, so my friends there are up way later than me. It’s already twelve midnight there when it’s only nine at night here.

When I’m on my laptop, don’t bother me. And if you do, I’ll drop F-bombs on you till you have a stroke. When I was younger, I would have said I’ll maul you like a lion if you bother me, ha-ha.

I watch movies, You Tube videos, and TV shows on my laptop. But my favorite thing to do is to stay up late watching horror movies.

What I really want to do is hunt ghosts, spirits, angels, and demons. They do exist, no doubt in my mind. They’re everywhere. In the wind, earth, fire, and even in other living things. But they are not the only paranormal phenomena I hunt. There are orbs, aberrations, and objects that move totally by themselves. While I’m out West, I’m going to hunt them down in haunted houses, deserted towns, everywhere.

The moon is full tonight and the sky is clear as I gaze out my bedroom window. The light reflects off everything in my yard, it’s so bright out it looks like daytime.

Hey, what’s that running across my front yard in the shadow of that tree? It looks like a dog or maybe a coyote. Whatever it is, there it goes over the fence, disappearing into the night.

Maybe it was a spirit? It was an Indian warrior wandering in the night. He was a brave warrior who died in a raid, a revenge attack of another camp. His soul took possession of that coyote. Now he returns to his camp. The coyote has chosen the path across my yard.

The Indians around here hide their sacred burial ground. I’ve heard some Indian kids whisper about it.

That would really be something to find one of those graveyards and capture one of their ghosts on film. I’d be rich and famous, move to Hollywood and have my own TV show.




Chapter 3 - Ghost at Donner Pass

Dad is reading the newspaper at the kitchen table when he bursts out, “Hey a ghost was seen at Donner Pass.”

“What ghost?” Confused I ask, “What and where is Donner Pass?”

Dad looks over at me, “Donner Pass is in the mountains about three hours south of here and the Donner Party disaster was a historic wagon train headed west that got caught in a blizzard and most of the pioneers died.

Dad reads me the article. “Mrs. Eleanor Waldo of Phantom Hill, Texas, told her story. She said she and her husband were stopped at the overlook rest area, sitting at a picnic table when she saw it.

“’It was a ghost all right. It looked like a thick cloud of smoke with a head. But it was a woman with a stone face and a broad smile. She hovered right in front of me, staring at me.’

“The ghost asked me, ’Would you like to come to dinner?’

“I followed it up the mountain as it kept saying, ’Come with me, I would love to have you for dinner.’

“Interrupting Mrs. Waldo I asked, ’Wait a minute, the ghost said I would love to have you for dinner?’

“Mrs. Waldo looked surprised at the way I phrased my question as she replied, ’Oh you don’t think she meant I am the dinner do you? Oh my, maybe she did.’

“Mrs. Waldo squealed, and continued with her story, ’I followed it up the mountain and when we started down the other side, I saw an old rusted-out car with a skeleton sitting at the steering wheel, driving.’

“’As I got closer and closer to the car, a great gust of wind blew right through me and kicked up so much sand, I had to close my eyes. When I opened my eyes I gasped, the skeleton was gone.’

“She said she heard her husband calling her to come back. When he caught up to her she told him about the ghost.’

“He exclaimed with frustration in his voice, ’that’s nonsense Elle, it’s the heat.  It’s one hundred and nine degrees. You didn’t see anything.’

“She told her husband to hush up, then sat in the old nineteen thirty-five Buick for a while. ‘It’s a nineteen thirty-five Buick. My family had one of these when I was a child.’

“Mrs. Waldo continued her story saying, ’I checked out every nook and cranny of that car. My husband and I checked the car from its headlights to the taillights. Under one of the seats we found an old empty bottle of whiskey.’

“She said that she was feeling around under the dashboard and found that hidden compartment she and her sister had stored stuff in when they were kids. In the compartment were chips, poker chips, lots of poker chips.

“Her husband counted them up. There was twenty thousand dollars.

“’Twenty thousand dollars!’ he said again and again.

“Mrs. Waldo cried out, ’Can you believe it?’

“The newspaper reporter called the casino manager and asked how much the twenty thousand dollars in poker chips are worth?

“The casino spokesperson said, ’The chips are worth twenty thousand dollars at our casino.’”

Dad puts down the paper saying, “Mrs. Waldo was lucky her husband followed her over that mountain and caught up to her. I don’t think it was a “good” ghost that appeared in front of her and wanted to take her to dinner. It was an evil ghost from the Donner Party. I’m sure Mrs. Waldo saw something. She could never have made that story up.”

Some people say spirits use ghosts to trick humans and take possession of their body and soul. After the body dies the spirit lives in the wind or earth and seeks the body of a human. That’s when it possesses the body, returning from that supernatural world to the natural world.

I have read about people who imagine seeing ghosts. But in fact they saw moonlight reflecting off a rock or a broken piece of glass. What they saw might have looked like a ghost to some people.

People high on drugs or alcohol have vivid imaginations when it comes to seeing ghosts. There are always stories in the newspapers about people seeing ghosts out in the lonely desert or isolated mountains. They see a shadow and think it’s a ghost. Their imagination causes them to see things that are not there. They make mistakes, people always do.

Smiling I give Dad a hug, “Dad can we go to Donner Pass and find that ghost? We have to go right away while the trail is still fresh.”

Dad seems distracted as he replies, “Oh, yeah that sounds good. I’ve been working with a brand new thermal scanner for the hurricane search planes. It’s going to be installed in all of them, if we can only get it to work right. It’ll read the temperature inside the storm within a hundredth of a degree. I’ll bring it home on Friday, we can use it for the weekend, but I have to return it by Monday morning.”

Dad always tells the boss the truth, he tells him, “I’m bringing this equipment home to run some tests.” But he doesn’t tell him what tests we are running and he especially won’t tell him we use it to hunt ghosts.

Later at dinner we plan our upcoming trip for this weekend. I’m so excited, this is going to be so cool.

Oh no, I just realized we’re all gonna be in the van together for three hours.

Dad tells Jackie and me, “Okay this is the plan. We’ll camp out Saturday night at the Donner Memorial State Park. Before sunset we set up the equipment where Mrs. Waldo saw the stone-faced lady. I think that is the most likely place to catch that ghost. By the way it is also where the Donner Party was trapped in the winter of eighteen forty-six.”

“Okay Dad, Jackie, and I will pack our stuff, you make a list of everything we need and we can check it before we leave,” I add.

When we go on a hunt we bring all kinds of equipment. Not all of it is ours. Some of it comes from where Dad’s work.

An absolute must is the electromagnetic field meter (EMF) and the infrared thermometer, which detects infrared energy and converts it to a temperature reading. Two more devices measure the electricity in the air, the electrostatic field meter (ESF) and the air ion counter. We also have a radio frequency (RF) field strength meter that detects electrical fields like FM radio and microwave transmissions as low as .5 MHz, all the way up to 3 GHz, and expresses the strength as power density (.001 to 2000 microwatts/cm2). It measures the electricity given off by stuff like transformers, computer screens, telephones, electric motors, and yeah, spirits too. For extra safety we bring a Geiger counter or radiation monitor that detects deadly alpha, beta, and gamma rays.

I ask Jackie, “Did you pack the motion detectors? We need them for the cameras we will set up on the trail. If anything moves in front of one of them, the camera will turn on and, Wham! We will catch that phantom.”

My new digital video camera has audio capability, which records every sound. The recordings are important because we can capture electronic voice phenomena (EVPs), or footsteps, knocks and banging during the hunt.

Temperature changes like uncommon cold or hot spots can be detected with our infrared thermal camera and the infrared thermometer. Both of them will detect variations in temperature and signal the presence of a spirit.

Difficult to document events like telepathic communications, odors, and scents like sulfur, ammonia, perfume, and flowers are written down in my notepad. I take a writing pad with me on every investigation.

If I’m checking out a house haunting and someone is still living there or a past resident is near-by? I like to interview them to find out if they’re having nightmares, apparitions, seeing moving objects, or even just having simple electrical problems. All the notes from my interviews are written down for later comparison.

“Jackie, you packed the anemometer? That’s the weathervane looking thingy with the four cups. It spins and records wind speed.”

“I’ll get the spectrometer which analyzes light intensity and somehow figures out what an object is.”

This weekend we are bringing the cameras, motion detectors, EMF meters, digital thermometer, night vision goggles, light meter, anemometer, radio frequency field strength meter, and a spectrometer.

Of course we always have flashlights, cell phones, a laptop to view the video we take, and our camping stuff. We try to bring all our equipment, but it doesn’t all fit in our backpacks. It makes no sense taking more then we can carry.

Hunting the Donner Party ghost is going to be risky for two reasons. First, this ghost is active. It’s trying to lure someone for some reason. Mrs. Waldo almost fell into its spell. Who knows what would have happened to her if she had followed it to “dinner?” Second, some of those people in the Donner Party died horrible, agonizing deaths. I think this ghost is still in pain and therefore wicked and dangerous.

I learned about the Donner Party in school. They were settlers headed to California in a wagon train in eighteen forty-six. There were about ninety people of all ages. Winter came early and heavy snow trapped them in the mountains. Not all of them lived through it.

The wagon train didn’t have enough food and blankets, and many of the settlers died of hunger, exposure, and frostbite. Those few settlers that did live told stories of terrible hardship and horrible acts. They did things that people are not supposed to do.

I’m pretty sure this ghost we are going to hunt is not resting in peace, if you know what I mean.


Finally it’s Saturday morning. We are packed and ready to go. A three-hour ride will give me plenty of time to do my homework. I have to finish writing a book report about ghost hunting. I’ll do my math and chemistry after that.

Let’s see, I have Neewa’s bowls and a chain to keep her tied up. I’m sure Neewa will love hiking the trails, camping, and ghost hunting. She loves to run and play with me—this trip will be fun for her too. I feel so much better, just having her around.

As I carry the last of our gear out to the van Dad announces, “Okay we’re ready to go, all aboard. Jackie you sit in front, Neewa and Christina in the back.”

“No Dad, I’m sitting in the front, I called it. Jackie, you get the front seat on the way home.”

Jackie scoffs, “You always say you called it, but I never hear you. That’s okay, I get to sit next to Neewa, ha.”

We all get in the van and drive off to Donner Pass on our ghost hunting adventure out west. Driving on the interstate is fun because the speed limit is eighty miles an hour. This is so cool. We will be driving over mountains, through deserts, and valleys. Small towns about the size of a swimming pool dot the highway as we speed by.

When we get to the Sierra Mountains it’s going to be just like back East, all green with lush meadows and streams. Not like this boring desert where everything is flat and faded beige with nothing but empty wasteland full of sand and sagebrush.

As we drive along the highway, I get to see a lot of places I want to visit. There are huge cattle ranches and casinos near every gas station and rest stop. Located about half way to Donnar Pass is a gold mine where you can take trips into the mine and see just how it was a hundred years ago. And near that is a secret military base where they supposedly keep the bodies of aliens that have crash-landed on Earth.

After driving for hours and sleeping most of the trip, I realized we have gone almost two hundred miles through the desert. Ahead in the distance, I see the majestic Sierra Nevada Mountains. Peaks the size of Mt. Everest jutting into the blue sky. Donner Pass is right under one of those peaks.

As we near our destination I see small meadows hidden here and there, fluorescing green, blue, and yellow. Then we pass an amazing huge marsh that seems to go on and on forever to a distant mountain. The whole swamp is blooming purple right at this moment. Deep lavender flowers on pale green stems blanket the landscape. Endless colors as far as the eye can see. Miles awash with heavenly violet flowers so thick they look like a carpet extending into forever.

We’ve left the desert and start our way up the lush mountainside, entering a steep gorge, the only route in. The two-lane road leading up to Donner Pass goes through a gorge so narrow the road has no shoulders or anyplace to pull over and rest. Just a tiny gap in the between mountains squeezing the roadway into a thin passage the switches back and forth, meandering up, rising steadily, disappearing before us into the forest.

Behind us the desert colors are so dull and blurred, with beige sand and brown dirt all muddled together with an occasional clump of pale olive sagebrush. Except for a rare grove of green scrub pine, there isn’t any color to see back there.

If I want to get away from that wretched house where we live now. I have to travel twenty-five miles to a nearby canyon to find a lush mountain stream, with quaking aspen, and green thick mosses that smell like morning due.

Only after it rains on the dessert does it come alive with budding flowers, grass shoots, and the wonderful desert smells of wet sage and sand. Only problem is it only rains a few times a year.

Dad points out the window, “That road is for runaway trucks. It’s an escape ramp for heavy eighteen-wheelers if they lose their brakes and can’t stop. Sometimes the trucks can’t stop when they are coming down the long steep mountain roads. The escape ramp is there for them to exit onto the or they will lose control on the turns and crash.”

Sure enough I spot a road that goes to into the forest, basically nowhere. It shoots off of this side road onto a path along the rocky ledge. It’s a mile-long ramp carved into the mountain and its slope up. Slowly the grade of it starts rise, then the angle rapidly increases until it ends abruptly at a pile of sand and a railroad tie barrier above the trees.

“That ramp saves a lot of lives,” Dad adds.

“What do they need that for?” Jackie asks.

Mocking I answer, “Jackie, if a truck is coming down the mountain and loses its brakes, it can turn onto that ramp. The ramp is so steep it slows the truck down, even if it has no brakes!”

“Yeah, so what does he do when he starts to roll backwards toward the road?” Jackie counters.

“Yeah, that would be a big problem. Hopefully, he slows down enough that he is able to stop his rig somewhere on that ramp,” Dad chimes in.

“Yeah, hopefully,” I comment.

Red cedar and white pine trees reach up into the blue sky. I can see the sap leaching onto the bark, reflecting the sunlight. Little bubbles of the stuff drip down the tree creating a stream of light reflecting juice that eventually forms a droplet. The dribble grows until it is a blob, and the blob to a glop of sap so oversized it drops to the ground. Plunk.

The steamy air carries the fragrance of pine to my senses. Little evergreen needles float down to the ground in the wind. Layer after layer fall, creating a soft bed of yellow and rust covering the clay soil.

Higher and higher we go. The forest begins to thin out. Only small clusters of trees dot the rocky terrain. We are at the timberline, above which little grows. A huge peak with a waterfall pouring over its rock face is revealed as we climb to still higher elevations.

Nearing the crest of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, we are about to enter Donner Memorial State Park. At the entrance stands a statue in memory of the settlers who lost their lives on that fateful wagon train trip west to the Promised Land.

Dad pulls over near a sign on the side of the road that reads, “Elevation 10,000 Ft.” We get out to stretch and have a look around. Neewa runs into the woods for a quick sniffing adventure.

It’s ninety degrees, unusually hot for this late in the afternoon. There is little breeze to cool us down and an unusual amount of humidity in the air.

My face is flushed and red from the heat. I always turn red when I’m out in heat for a while. It would always happen when I played tennis back east and it took forever for the redness in my face to go away.

Dad gets all paranoid, “Tina your face is red, do you have a fever?” He touches my cheek and forehead with his lips to take my temperature.

“Dad stop it,” I tell him, “I’m fine.”

I look up at fifteen feet of statue depicting three pioneers: a man, a woman, and a child. The embossed bronze plaque on the monument reads, “The Donner Party Memorial.”

I wonder if the ghost that Mrs. Waldo saw is the woman in the bronze sculpture? Tonight we will be looking for her.

It’s peaceful around the monument. Whispering breezes curve around the contours of the statue as a trickling stream in the background is fed by the snowcaps still remaining on the highest peaks. I hear a woodpecker tunneling in a hollow tree, consuming its bugs.

After exploring around the monument, we drive to the camping area. The Donner State Park campground is about a half-mile in the opposite direction from Donner Pass, where we are setting up our equipment to catch that rogue spirit. Entering the park we pull up to the large wooden welcome sign for a paper copy of the layout with all the rules, regulations, and warnings to campers on the back. The picture of the campground depicts a circular dirt road with forty campsites. And in the middle of all the numbered areas is a common bathhouse with showers.

Picking a campsite is not easy. There is a lot to think about.

After parking in one of the driveways, we walk around the circle assessing the pros and cons of the available camping spots. About three or four of them are taken and have tents already set up. There’s not that many people up here for some reason.

Each site has a driveway that leads to a small flat picnic area with a table, barbeque, tent platform, and a sunken campfire surrounded by rocks.

Jackie, Neewa, and I pick out the site with a view of a small meadow and the most shade trees. Dad begins unpacking and setting up the tents, while Jackie and I unload the rest of the stuff.

Next to our picnic table is a sign with the word ”Warning” in big letters across the top. Below that is a picture and description of the many possible visitors that might be lurking around the park during the night. I’m least concerned about bears because Neewa will bark at them and keep them away. Besides, we’ll put our food in the metal bear-resistant food locker provided at the campsite. But the scorpions—they give me the creeps. Good thing our tents zip up tight. Funny thing though, the sign doesn’t say anything about ghosts.

It’s still light out, time to go exploring for the best location to set our trap to catch that phantom.





Chapter 4 - Fetch

Neewa loves to play fetch and run like the wind to get whatever I throw.  It doesn’t matter if I toss rocks, small logs, old rag dolls, shoes, or anything.

She makes me laugh so hard when I play with her. She scampers about and circles me. And if I’ve been away from her for a while she’s really glad to see me, jumps up in the air and spins around too. Even after I take out the garbage and gone for a few minutes, it’s as if I’ve been away forever. When she first sees me or hears my voice she barks and growls playfully. It even seems like she is commanding me, saying, “Play with me now,” or “I’m ready to play, let’s go out and I’ll run around and you can watch me.”

I throw a stick into the driveway of our campsite and she is quick to fetch it. Then she frolics around me teasing me keeping it out of my reach. She crouches down with her front paws stretched out in front of her and drops the stick between them, watching my every move.

“Give it here girl,” I request.

But she won’t give it to me. It’s hers now. Instead she grabs it and shakes it vigorously while staring at me, begging me to chase her.

Standing about ten feet away, she drops it, “cluck,” and barks while looking at me as if to say, “I dare you.”

The game is on, if I make the slightest move or even just flinch, she will run.

Contemplating my next move to distract or divert her attention, I dive at the stick trying to steal it from her.

Lunging forward, she easily beats me to the stick and runs off holding her head up proudly, snarling in an affectionate way.

As usual Neewa has decided not to give the stick to me and runs around challenging me to snatch the prize from her.

She struts by me like a matador circling a bull. I reach out to grab it. But she only lets me put a fingertip on her trophy and quickly pulls it away, positioning herself just out of reach.

Neewa is so fast I can never catch her. If I’m lucky enough to get hold of her toy—she pulls me down onto the ground, yanking it away and leaving me there tied up in a knot. Playing fetch with Neewa is more like playing tug of war.

My only chance to regain possession of her toy is to trick her. To do this I have to convince her that the game is over. Make her believe I’m no longer interested, so she doesn’t need to hold onto the prize.

To do this I turn my back on her, walk away, and act as if I’m no longer interested. She doesn’t want to miss going with me, so she drops the stick and runs after me.

This is the crucial moment. Not a muscle in my body can hesitate—I can’t change the gaze of my eyes or alter my breathing for fear of alerting her to my deception. I must be sure she has taken the bait and wait till the very last second before I sprint back to regain possession of the trophy.

Suddenly, I pivot and sprint for it. Ah ha, now she is onto me. She sees through my guise as we both dash toward it. My body tightens as I extend my arm, diving through the air.

Damn, she gets there first, beating me again.

She looks at me, with stick clenched tightly in her mouth and barks as if to say, “Hooray I won, throw it again.”

I reply, “I’m tired girl, you win, I’m going to sit and rest.”

Is it over? Neewa watches me intently, on guard for another trick. Following me no matter where I go, she makes sure I don’t double back and grab the stick.

It doesn’t matter if I go for a hike or just lie down in the tent. She is there by my side.

“I love you, Neewa,” I sigh.

Jackie is hanging out by the tent and throws a stick way out into the open desert. Neewa scrambles toward it, running at full gallop down the hill, overshooting her target, she sprints into the valley surrounded by rocky peaks on all sides.

“Wow, look at her run,” Jackie says in awe.

Neewa gallops past large clusters of scrub brush and desert flora dotting the landscape. While passing a tiny lush upland meadow, she sniffs the grasses and flower patches.

Jackie and I watch her cross the valley at full gallop heading up the opposite ridge. I gaze at the rocky crest above her as it disappears into the blue horizon. She darts toward a summit covered in fractured rock and shale, peeled from the heights above after frosts and blistering sunshine. Rising above the tree line, she sprints through the barren moon-like landscape.

We both call her at the same time, “Neewa, Neewa.”

She continues, eyes straight ahead, following a scent, tracking her prey. Her white silhouette moves over a background of dark shadows and gray.

Fear grips me for a moment. Will Neewa run over that summit? My heart beats faster as she approaches the apex. I can feel the blood pumping and the sweat on my brow.

“Neewa! Neewa!” I strain my voice calling before she disappears, “Come, Neewa!”

We watch waiting for her to turn, make a move, and begin her retreat. Finally, she relents her direct ascent upward and circles behind a gigantic boulder, disappearing from sight for several moments. Then she appears from behind the rock and races full speed down the hill straight for us.

Reassured I exhale, “Here she comes.”

Running down the ridge and back across the valley she arrives where we stand and drops the stick on Jackie’s foot. I reach out to cuddle her.

“AHHHHHHHH!” Jackie screams jumping backwards, “That’s not the stick I threw… that’s a leg bone.”

“Don’t touch it,” I step back, then move forward and stoop to examine it.

Looking at the bone on the ground, “If this is a human bone, it’s going to ruin our ghost-hunting trip.”

We are going to have to call the police. They will tell us we found a body—a murder victim. Maybe it’s the bones of someone from the Donner Party who was never recovered?

“The police will have to call the crime scene investigation (CSI) team. Who knows they might have to take all our stuff, tents and all,” I mutter in a hopeless tone.

Jackie looks at me horrified. “What about whoever it is? They deserve better than having their bones scattered all over the mountain?”

Acknowledging Jackie, “You’re right, I’m just thinking of myself and my ghost hunting trip. We’re finally here and I want to catch that ghost so bad, I don’t want to go home now.”

Dad comes flying down the trail, “What was that? Who screamed? Are you all right?” He takes Jackie by the shoulders and looks her straight in the eye.

Jackie rambles, “I threw a stick for Neewa and she brought back this bone. Look!” she points.

He hugs her saying, “Your alright, your all right.”

Dad hesitates, “It could be anything, where did she get it?”

“Across the valley and up on that ridge,” I motion.

Without hesitation Dad walks out into the valley headed up the hill. On the steep incline he takes shorter steps, working his way over the rocks.

Dad calls me on his cell phone, “Where? Where?” He waves his arm looking at me.

Directing him to the location where Neewa was sniffing around I bellow, “To the left, left. No not that way, the other left.”

“Am I getting closer?” He yells into the phone as he works his way, slowly moving closer and closer. Inspecting the area, kicking rocks and dirt, he stoops down.

Jackie and I hold our breath anticipating identification of the victim.

Dad shouts into the cell phone as if he is yelling across the valley. “Here it is, I don’t see hooves or a skull.” Breathing heavily into the phone, “The skull will tell me if it’s a human.”

Seconds pass like hours, Jackie and I stare, waiting for confirmation that our trip is ruined.

“Here are the hooves!” Sounding relieved, “It’s a deer all right and the skull’s over there, no antlers though—must be a doe.”

“T M I, Dad,” Jackie says after hearing every word.

Jackie shakes her head to get rid of the thought of a dead deer laying a few hundred feet from our campsite.

I hang up and turn away grimacing, wondering how it might have died. Maybe it was thirst or starvation or maybe a coyote attack?

“I’m just glad it isn’t human bones. We probably would have had to go home. And just when we’re about to have some fun.” I hint at my excitment.

“Yeah, real fun Christina, what are we going to discover next?” Jackie raises her eyebrows, “Hope no more dead bodies, no matter if it’s a deer or not.”

Neewa has been following Jackie and I around since she dropped her newfound bone, “No more playing fetch, you are going on your chain. That deer could’ve been poisoned. You could die from chewing on that bone.”

Dad returns huffing and puffing.

I question, “Did you set the ghost traps at the exact spot where the settler’s wagon train was stranded, you know—where it happened?”

Dad smiles, “Yup, right where Mrs. Waldo saw that spirit last week too. Everything is on the trail ready to catch that ghost. I have all the equipment set up. One of the motion detectors is connected to the digital camera and the other is attached to the thermal infrared camera. The anemometer is right next to them and the electromagnetic field meter is on the opposite side of the trail.”

“Jackie you keep the light meter and the spectrometer (determines the composition of the object) with you in case that ghoul visits us here at camp. Dad will be carrying the radio frequency field strength meter (detects electrical fields) in his backpack. I’m in charge of the night vision goggles, compliments of Dad’s boss, ha ha.”

“All right, we’re ready,” I continue, “now all we have to do is wait for this phantom to show up. These banshees will do anything to lure a human being into their trap. They want to take over your body and soul and this fiend is no different.”

As we sit around the campfire, Dad begins to tell a scary legend. He always does this especially when we’re in the middle of nowhere.

Neewa lies by my feet, her chain still clipped to her collar. Occasionally she looks up at me with her steel gray eyes. She checks in on me, she always does.

Dad speaks with an eerie shiver in his voice as he begins to tell a story. “People and pets disappear in the desert all the time. Usually they are found dead, near the place where they were last seen.”

“She lived deep in the forest in a tiny cottage and sold herbal remedies for her livelihood. Folks living in the town nearby called her Bloody Mary, and say she was a witch. None dared cross the old crone for fear that their cows would go dry, their food-stores rot away before winter, their children take sick of fever, or any number of terrible things that an angry witch could do to her neighbors.

“Then the children in the village began to disappear, one by one. No one could find out where they had gone. Grief-stricken families searched the woods, the local buildings, and all the houses and barns, but there was no sign of them.

“A few brave souls even went to Bloody Mary's home in the woods to see if the witch had taken the children, but she denied any knowledge of the disappearances. Still, it was noted that her haggard appearance had changed. She looked younger, more attractive.

“The neighbors were suspicious, but they could find no proof that the witch had taken their young ones.

“Then came the night when the daughter of the miller rose from her bed and walked outside, following an enchanted sound no one else could hear.

“The miller's wife had a toothache and was sitting up in the kitchen treating the tooth with an herbal remedy when her daughter left the house. She screamed for her husband and followed the girl out of the door. The miller came running in his nightshirt. Together, they tried to restrain the girl, but she kept breaking away from them and heading out of town.

“The desperate cries of the miller and his wife woke the neighbors. They came to assist the frantic couple.

“Suddenly, a sharp-eyed farmer gave a shout and pointed towards a strange light at the edge of the woods. A few townsmen followed him out into the field and saw Bloody Mary standing beside a large oak tree, holding a magic wand that was pointed towards the miller's house. She was glowing with an unearthly light as she set her evil spell upon the child.

“The townsmen grabbed their guns and their pitchforks and ran toward the witch. When she heard the commotion, Bloody Mary broke off her spell and fled back into the woods.

“The far-sighted farmer had loaded his gun with silver bullets in case the witch ever came after his daughter. Now he took aim and shot at her. The bullet hit Bloody Mary in the hip and she fell to the ground.

“The angry townsmen leapt upon her and carried her back into the field, where they built a huge bonfire and burned her at the stake.

“As she burned, Bloody Mary screamed a curse at the villagers, ’If anyone mentions my name aloud before a mirror, I will send my spirit to revenge myself upon them for my death.’

“When she was dead, the villagers went to her house in the woods and found the missing children the evil witch had kidnapped. She was draining their blood and using it to make herself young again.

“From that day to this, anyone foolish enough to chant Bloody Mary's name three times before a darkened mirror will summon the vengeful spirit of the witch. It is said that she will tear their bodies to pieces and rip their souls from their mutilated bodies. The souls of these unfortunate ones will burn in torment as Bloody Mary once was burned, and they will be trapped forever in the mirror.”

“Thanks Dad, I’m going to sleep in a tent in the middle of nowhere and you tell me this chilling story. Now stop it, I’m not kidding. You’re going to give me nightmares.”

“Come Neewa, you’re staying in the tent with Jackie and me.”

As I lie down all kinds of thoughts run through my head. Thoughts about ghosts and the Donner Party’s terrible tragedy flood my brain. I look through the nylon tent at the glowing fire. Shadows of the campfire flames dance on the tent like a movie screen displaying a slide show. The shapes dwindle and shrink smaller and smaller, it’s the fire’s last dance.

Listening to the quiet, there’s nothing out there. A few crickets, a frog or two but mostly the crackling fire. Drifting into sleep,

I know bodies are discovered on the desert all the time, I’ve heard stories. One time a four-wheeler found a human skeleton near here in an old deserted mine. Imagine that, going in a cave and seeing bones lying there. Now that’s scary. I’d explore an old mine, but I’m not going first.

Sometimes a newspaper reporter will get an anonymous letter telling where a dead body can be found.

Local police receive tips too. People are afraid to come forward, so they call or write anonymous letters, revealing where a corpse is. Usually all that’s left of the carcass are bones. Most of the time no one can figure out who it was. Out of respect, the police give the remains a name—John Doe if it’s a man and Jane Doe if it’s a woman.

Tonight we are going to catch that ghost. Then I can tell all my friends back East. They will think I’m so cool, the most famous ghost hunter ever. But right now I’d better get some rest before we hike up the trail. I need sleep now. My eyes are heavy and begin to close, than open and close again.




Chapter 5 - Dream (Dreaming)

“Dad, I have to go find Neewa’s mother and father.”

“That’s a good idea,” he moans still asleep. “Are they still living in the desert?”

It’s dusk and I’m in the middle of the desert, walking along an endless wall of sand.

I call out to Dad, “Are they dead?” He doesn’t answer.

Maybe they are lost somewhere, or they were killed out here in the middle of nowhere. Does Neewa look like her mom and dad?

“Hello, hello,” my voice echoes through the vast wasteland. I pick up a newspaper lying on the sand and begin to read aloud.

“A hiker discovered a skeleton in the desert last week. The police are investigating the circumstances of the death. CSI has been called in to analyze the evidence and the coroner performed an autopsy.

“’The victim was last seen a month ago playing cards at a downtown casino,’ Detective Kelly said. ‘Apparently he was followed out of the casino and shot three times in the chest. An ace of hearts was found in the dead man’s pocket.’

“The hiker, who would not give his name, found the remains near the den of a family of coyotes.

“’Animals dug the bones up,’ the hiker said. ‘Oddest thing though, several of the pack looked like white German shepherds.’

“Detective Kelly said, ‘Our detectives also found a Native American Indian tomb near the shallow grave of the gambler. The Native American appears to be over a hundred years old.’

“Kelly added, ‘We have sent for a forensic anthropologist from the University to document the tomb. We will know more when we have that report.’”


Chapter 6 - Ghost Hunt

After running into camp, Dad is out of breath and shakes me, “Wake up, the camera started, wake up. Get your sister, let’s go.”

“Wake up who?” I ask sitting up, startled.

Neewa slides out of the tent opening following Dad as he gathers some stuff and starts up the trail.

My mouth starts to form words, who was the dead gambler? Then I realize it was just a dream.

Shaking Jackie’s shoulder and arm, “Jackie wake up, wake up, the motion detector went off.”

“What time is it?” Rubbing her eyes, she tries to sit up but falls over and back to sleep.

Putting on my boots I reply, “Three AM, and it’s cold out. Get the flashlights.”

In seconds Neewa and I are jogging up the trail with great expectation of what we will find.

By the time I get halfway there I’m out of breath, gasping for air. Neewa circles me as I stop and stand on the side of the path to catch my breath. I wheeze for more thin air. At this altitude my asthma could kick in at any moment. As I catch my breath, Jackie the cross-country runner passes by.

“Meet you up there, Christina,” she huffs.

Neewa runs to her side as she passes, Jackie pats her head. They run together for a few strides, before Neewa turns and comes back to my side.

There’s no one else out on the trail, no barking dogs or roaring car engines speeding by. Other than our flashlights streaking through the air, the stars and a half moon illuminate our path and reveal the dark silhouettes of the mountains around us.

I inhale the scents of the sage and lichen-covered rock moist from the morning dew. Mist hangs over the trail and disappears in the darkness.

I hope that she-devil doesn’t show up now.

A breeze whistles through the dry grasses and rock crevasses nearby.

Neewa and I sprint up the hill and finally arrive at the stakeout. Breathing heavy, I put on the night vision goggles and check for red or purple shapes moving in the sea of darkness around me.

“Yo, Poppy, no heat-emitting bodies giving off infrared thermal energy out here,” I report.

Dad is fidgeting with the cameras. “The digital camera ran for one minute and ten seconds,” he says. “But the infrared camera didn’t even turn on at all?”

“Why didn’t the motion detector turn on the IR camera?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “I don’t know, we have to check it out when we get back home.”

I suggest, “Jackie, check the radio frequency field strength meter.”

Jackie displeased replies, “Dad kept it in his backpack at the camp, it wasn’t even here.”

“My bad,” he says. “Check the other meters.”

“The light meter and the spectrometer are still at the tent in Jackie’s backpack,” I add with a bit of sarcasm.

“We’ll have to put them out next time,” Dad says.

Digital camera in hand, he rewinds the tape back to the beginning. As it plays we all squeeze together to watch the screen. Our faces are motionless, like children peering out of a window watching the first snowfall. Excited we watch, nothing, nothing, nothing.

Whiz! Something flies across the screen at the speed of light. It looked like a giant pair of wings. Losing my balance I fall backwards onto my butt.

“What is it?” Jackie exclaims.

“I don’t know. Neewa, stop licking my face, Yuck!” Her tongue swipes my cheek and eye.

“Ha, ha,” Jackie and Dad stare at me as I scramble to my feet.

“What was that?” I ask laughing, getting between them in front of the screen.

Disappointed, Dad replies, “Looks like a big old owl to me.”

Jackie sighs, “That’s no ghost.”

He rewinds the tape, playing it back in slow motion this time. We watch the screen anticipating the flying object.

Swoosh! It passes from one side of the screen to the other in a second.

“It’s a Western Screech Owl,” he mumbles.

An owl is not a ghost and an owl is not going to get me my own TV show.

“The meter is reading twenty-two milliguass (MG) of electromagnetic waves at the same time the owl flew past the camera,” I say.

“How do you explain that?” Jackie asks.

Dad is busy adding up all the EMF given off by our equipment.

“Let’s see, if we add up all the EMF from our stuff? Three MHz for the one cell phone, and about one and one half MHz for each camera and the other stuff added in we have a total of about eight MHz for everything. That leaves fourteen MHz unexplained, which is equal to the electromagnetic field given off by two televisions and a microphone,” Dad concludes.

“I don’t see any TVs here, do you?” I add.

“This is curious. If there were electric lights, wires or some other source of this energy, that would explain the fourteen MHz? But I don’t see anything that would give off that much energy,” Dad questions.

Determined to account for the discrepancy he explains, “I checked the electromagnetic field on the trail before I set up our trap. It was less than one MHz, which is the normal level anywhere on Earth. If it was the owl that caused it to jump to twenty-four MHz, then maybe the owl was not an owl.”

“Check the other meters. Did the aerometer register anything when the owl flew by?”

I read the meter, “The wind thingy says seventy miles per hour. That’s pretty fast for an owl. How fast do owls fly anyway?”

“Well if that owl caused the increase in wind speed, then that would mean it was an owl and not a ghost. Or the ghost could have taken the shape of the owl,” Dad ponders aloud.

I add, “I don’t know, it doesn’t make sense? We will have to double check everything again when we get home.”

Slowly the dark sky is filling with new light, giving way to pink and fuchsia rays as the sun begins to rise. To the west is darkness, stars, planets, and the Milky Way. Like jewels they are dazzling, glowing, as we stand between night and day.

New light colors the mountains ruby red as it peeks above the ridge highlighting the jagged edges.

Warm colors of orange and purple radiate onto the soft blue horizon. Light pushes away the night, darkness fades into the light of day.

Dad and Jackie begin to pack up our stuff for the trip home as Neewa and I play a game. The game is I pet her with big strokes along her back, neck, and behind the ears. When I stop, she jumps up on me, begging for more. It’s Neewa’s favorite game.

On the way home Neewa and Jackie are asleep, but I’m awake thinking about that ghost. I was sure we were going to catch it. I wonder if we did?

I don’t know, having a video of an owl traveling at seventy miles per hour and a reading on one meter of twenty-four mega hertz (MHz) of electromagnetic field doesn’t prove we captured Mrs. Waldo’s ghost?

But I know ghosts are real, they are. And I’m going to catch one.

We have the latest ghost hunting stuff, better than all the other ghost hunters. All paranormal investigators have equipment that detects different types of energy including magnetic, microwave, and wind as well as electrical, sound, and light.

Some scientists say these types of energy are white energy. They say white energy can be seen, touched, and measured. These same researchers say white energy makes up ninety-eight percent of all the natural energy in the universe.

A small group of scientists see galaxies moving in ways that can’t be explained by normal laws of mechanics. They theorize it is dark energy that comprises ninety-eight percent of the energy in the universe. Dark energy cannot be seen, touched, or measured. Nobody seems to know very much about it.

Drifting in and out of sleep, I wake up and fall back again as we travel the long trip home from Donner State Park.

I didn’t get the proof I needed to prove that the ghost exists, but I’ll capture one yet, you wait and see.

We arrive home too tired to unpack everything, so we take in the cameras and the most of the important meters inside. Then after walking and feeding Neewa I drop into my bed.

“Good night, Dad, love you.”

“Good night, Christina, Jackie, love you.”

“Love you, Dad,” Jackie says.

“Good night Neewa.”

Neewa cuddles up near my feet. She looks up at me, content. Her gray eyes stare back at me, looking for attention. She rolls to her side and takes a deep breath. Her rib cage rises and falls as she lets out a slight snort and closes her eyes.

When Neewa dreams she rolls over and lets out a yelp at the same time. Then she talks in her sleep in doggy language. I wonder what she’s talking about? Do all dogs dream? Do they all talk in their sleep?




Chapter 7 - The Illness

It’s evening and Neewa hasn’t eaten all day. She is exhausted, not herself at all, and she is not drinking her water either.

Her black nose is dry and she is coughing. On top of that, she has brown stuff in the corners of her eyes.

Panic grips me as I look at her. “Dad, we have to take Neewa to the vet right away.”

Dad has noticed the change in her too. He looks at me, then her again. Moments later we are carrying Neewa to the car. We jump in and drive to the veterinarian.

After waiting an hour, we are shown into the examination room. The vet enters and takes a quick look at Neewa’s eyes, ears, and nose.

He looks at her concerned. “She is very sick with a disease called distemper, a deadly canine disease.”

“There is nothing I can do for her, she will not make it. I’m sorry.” He shrugs his shoulders and walks to the exit adding, “Please see my secretary on your way out.”

My head falls into my hands and I burst into tears, sobbing uncontrollably I’m unable to stop trembling.

“Dad, don’t let her die! Please!” I cry.

The vet stops, turns, and walks back toward us, “There is a remote chance she will recover but it is not likely. When dogs are born they must be immunized for distemper. It’s serious and can spread rapidly through a kennel, especially if unvaccinated individuals are present. Not all patients die, however a significant number do. Dogs of every age are susceptible, however, the very young and old have the highest death rate, as high as seventy-five percent. Patients that recover from distemper may suffer permanent damage to vision as well as the nervous system. Puppies can have severely mottled teeth, losing many of them due to abnormalities in the developing enamel.”

He leaves the room. Dad, Jackie and I carry Neewa to the van. Once inside the van, I weep all the whole way home.

“I can’t just watch her die, we have to do something.”

I look at her on my lap, motionless. “Neewa, don’t die.”

When we arrive home, Dad goes to the phone and calls everyone we know, most of whom are his Native American friends from work.

I sit crying in the corner with Neewa next to me. She looks at me pathetically as if she is about to die.

Jackie begins to sob and slams her door, locking herself in her room.

Neewa has more brown sand in the corners of her eyes and is coughing a high-pitched cough. Dad says she sounds like me when I was a baby. I used to have asthma attacks.

Dad exclaims, “Everyone I’ve spoken to is talking about a vet named Cuthberson. He’s the best one around, they say if he can’t save her, no one can.”

Dad finds his number in the old gray phone book in the kitchen drawer and calls. The office answering machine picks up the call and a voice says, “You have reached the office of Doctor Cuthberson. We have no appointments available. The doctor is at the county fairgrounds all week. Please call back after Saturday. Thank you.”

“He is the official county fair veterinarian. Tomorrow is the last day. The doctor will be there all day,” Dad declares.

I announce, “I’m going to find that doctor and he’s going to save Neewa.”


I wake up early Saturday morning. Dad and I are on our way to the fair to find the doctor. Jackie is staying behind with the Burns family for the day. She can take care of Neewa, look in on her, and give her water while I’m away. Though she hasn’t drunk any in a while.

Dad and I arrive at the fairgrounds not knowing where Doctor Cuthberson is. The circumstances look hopeless. I’m searching for a doctor I’ve never met, nor do I have any idea what he looks like.

Inside the razor wire topped fence that surrounds the fair’s compound, we try to comprehend the impossible task ahead. The fair is huge. You can’t even see the other end of it. It appears to be miles in every direction.

Dad and I go straight for the First Aid tent, he must be there. Upon arriving, the tent doesn’t appear to be busy at all, but with this heat wave we have been having, it will be.

I question the attendant, “Is Doctor Cuthberson here?”

“No,” he replies. “He spends most of his time by the stables. He works out of his mobile hospital parked at building number two."

Dad and I decide to split up, taking different paths to cover more ground. We look into each other’s eyes. Mine are watering up, but he looks determined and I pull myself together as I hug him once.

“Meet me at the fairs information booth,” he shouts, as we run off in different directions.

I’m going straight to the mobile hospital to check and see if he is there. Dad is going to try the vendor area and talk to some of his friends who are volunteering at some of the concessions.

The hot breeze swirls through the grounds laden with the smell of farm animals. There are barns full of cows; Guernsey, Friesian, and Jersey. Pigs too, of every variety and more, so much more. I pass corrals of horses: Arabian, American Quarter, Thoroughbreds and more.  And 4-H club exhibits with sheep, rabbits, and chickens of every variety, size, and shape.

I’m walking aimlessly in ninety-degree dry heat and it’s only eleven o’clock. My clothes are sticking to my body like plastic wrap.

When I was little I loved to stop at the hatchery where you could watch the baby chickens hatching from their eggs right in front of your eyes.

Events like steer wrestling and horse jumping are going on in the two side arenas. Acres and acres of competitions, booths, games of chance, and even amusement rides surround me as the sun beats down from above as it approaches midday.

I stop to sit in the shade and sip my water bottle for a moment. In the background the rollercoaster screams, and the Himalaya circles one way, stops, and then reverses, while the riders cry out for more. Those are my favorites rides. When I was little Dad took us on all of the best rides back home at our county fair. We rode the highest and fastest roller coasters on the East Coast too.

Hours pass and I still haven’t found him.

Desperate, I ask a family sitting by their animals at a 4-H exhibit, “Have you seen Doctor Cuthberson?” I sigh.

“No, haven’t seen him,” someone in the circle responds.

Further down the dirt walkway at the end of the barn, I ask a group of trainers standing at the horse stables, “Can you tell me where Doctor Cuthberson is?”

“He hasn’t been around yet today,” one of them replies.

I would never ask strangers questions before this. I’m too shy to talk to people I don’t know. I would rather die that walk up to someone. But this is different. I have to save Neewa. And if it means asking people questions I’ve never seen before? Then I’ll do it!

Suddenly the loudspeaker blares, “Attention, attention, five minutes till the start of the chuck wagon race.”

The main arena for the race is just down this walkway, the sign says. Stopping near the pig-racing track, I look around to get my bearings. I have no way of knowing where he is in this gigantic carnival.

I catch a glimpse of the information booth out of the corner of my eye.

The man inside the booth begins another announcement, “Dr. Cuthberson, paging Dr. Cuthberson, please report to the chuck wagon race starting line.”

I sprint to the announcer at the booth.

“Where is he? Where is Dr. Cuthberson?” I screech.

The man points into the massive crowd of people walking in every direction. His finger guides my eyes across the huge public walkway packed with people.

Strollers are speeding everywhere—doublewides, tandems and triples. Grandmothers cuddle crying babies. Vendors sell their wares up and down the pavement. Clowns with huge red, green, and blue balloons amuse the children. People rush in every direction.

“There he is, right there,” the announcer points.

“Where? Where?” I shout.

“The tall man with the black hat and red neckerchief.” The broadcaster holds his raised arm steady pointing in his direction.

I’m mesmerized, frozen as I stare at Doctor Cuthberson for the first time. The crowd seems to part for the six-foot tall lanky figure, ahead above the rest. He strolls toward the arena dressed in blue jeans and a western shirt with the collar open below his stubby, unshaven chin. Suddenly he disappears into the crowd, swallowed up by the masses.

Scrambling into the mob, I push through the heap of humanity struggling to get to the opposite side of the pavement where he walked just a moment ago.

“Shoot! Lost him,” I moan finding myself standing where he stood.

I run in the direction he took, jumping up to see above the crowd, straining to locate him. But he’s nowhere to be seen.

I decide to race him to the chuck wagon race starting line. Zigzagging and crisscrossing through throngs of people, darting between bodies, I arrive at a dead end.

In front of me is a stadium full of people dressed in cowboy hats and multi-hued tops, waving colored bandanas, standing and cheering for their favorite teams. The roar from within is deafening as the crowd pulsates, forward and back.

At the starting line of the oval dirt track are chuck wagon teams lined up four across. Each team has six horses decorated with the team’s colors, matching blankets, and blinkers. Every horse is decked out with a classy harness, collar and bridle, and tethered by leather straps to its wooden wagon.

Horses are snorting and stomping their feet, anticipating the start of the race. Arabians, Paints, and Appaloosas stand side by side. Their brushed coats glisten in the sun, while rigging of polished golden wood, frames their grand physiques.

Seated behind each harnessed team of horses are a driver and passenger—adorned with color-coordinated bow ties and silks. They wear cowboy hats, vests, chaps that cover their blue jeans, and custom leather boots. They wait on the edge of their seats with reins in hand, listening for the starting gun to fire.

Behind each doublewide seat is a fifteen-foot high covered wagon painted with the logo and name of their ranch. The colors of the drivers’ shirts match the canvas covering the wagons.

The track reminds me of back home and the many trips to the horse races with my Grandma on Thursday nights. I loved those nights with grandma, cheering for our horse to win. Yelling for my team to come in first, just being with her. She hugged me so good.

I exhale a deep sigh and take a bench seat in the “no charge” viewing stands at the far end of the arena. The paid seats in the center of the stadium are packed, not an empty spot in sight.

Chapter 8 - The Starting Line

“On your mark, get set…” The starter’s words ring out over the public address system, “Bang!” He fires his pistol into the air.

Drivers snap their reins, sending a clear message to the teams. Shaking the ground, they sprint away from the starting line, twenty feet of horses followed by twenty more feet of iron, wood, and canvas.

Racing into the first turn, wagons squeeze together as drivers lean to the inside to keep their balance, each expert coachman controlling ten tons of flesh and carriage, thundering down the track. Racing through the turn, the wagons reflect the light of the setting sun behind them. They pass the shadows of shade trees under Western blue skies. Into the straightaway they sprint, a continuous stream of dust kicks up into the air behind them. Maneuvering for position, each team tries to take the lead.

The announcer calls out their order as they enter the last turn. “It’s the Hawker Ranch in the lead, followed by the Bond Farm, La Rosa Ranch is third, and bringing up the rear is the Quest Group!”

Coming through the backstretch and heading for the finish, the teams gallop four abreast. A mountain of wood and animals roar past the grandstands.

People are jumping up and down, waving colored bandanas and hats. Everyone is standing, electrified, as the teams stampede by.

My seat vibrates as if a clap of thunder has just struck nearby.

All of a sudden, Crash! Boom! Bang! Comes from the finish line in an explosion. Clouds of dust the size of hot air balloons rise above, obscuring the finish, silencing the arena. Air currents scoop up the dust and carry it away, revealing a mound of wagons and horse teams in chaos.

Horses are tangled, trapped, raising their heads, straining to be free. Two teams of horses are knotted together, amid the pandemonium, and two lone horses are ensnared by wagons, held captive by their harnesses in the mangled wreckage.

What once were horse-drawn wagons are now twisted metal, torn canvas, and splintered wood.

The crowd, already silent, lets out a collective gasp, “Oh!”

A man behind me sighs, “They are going to have to destroy that horse.” He points at a trapped horse.

I leap from my seat, cross the blacktop, and climb to the top of the arena fence.

A grisly sight, horses are whinnying and snorting, struggling to be liberated, gasping for freedom.

“Looks bad,” a man nearby whispers to his friend.

It’s a miracle; all the drivers and passengers seem to have escaped injury. A few can be seen, in shock, eyeing the devastation, not knowing what to do first.

Trainers, bronco riders, and calf ropers are risking their lives running into the wreck to rescue the teams of horses.

Men brandishing blades of steel cut agitated horses from their harnesses. Spooked, shaking their heads, one Appaloosa and an Arabian dash in opposite directions. They run erratically through the arena, each turning at different intervals, only to dart back from where they came.

More men rush to help, carefully crossing the track, glancing in every direction, not wanting to be trampled by horses running wild in the arena.

One team of six horses, wagon less, is careening around the track eerily holding their heads high—manes blowing in the wind—bodies sweating—eyes bulging.

Someone shouts in amazement, “There goes Doc Cuthberson! Look at him climb into the wreckage!”

Another man yells, “He’s fearless!”

Before anyone can blink an eye, he’s in the middle of the debris grasping the reins of one ensnared horse, pulling it to its feet. Reaching to untangle another, he coaxes it to his side. Everyone in the bleachers is in shock, motionless, eyeing his every move.

Horses are still running loose in the stadium. Cowboys, with lassoes in hand, are chasing them down. Wagons from the massive wreck are being hoisted and towed from the pileup by teams of men with trucks and chains.

Holding the horses, he perilously stands his ground, ordering the cowboys, “Pull there! Push that wagon! Now that one!” He yells, “Hurry boys, hurry.”

Cowboys are yelling, shouting orders to untangle the wagons surrounding Doc and the two remaining horses. Working feverishly side-by-side, they thrust and heave, determined to free up the wagons. Finally, untangled, they are swiftly pulled away.

Smiling, almost laughing, Doc emerges from the chaos jogging toward the main gate with the two horses in his grasp.

Concerned owners and trainers run to him, eager to take their horses and calm them with familiar words and comforting strokes. Cautiously they inspect them for injury, and then whisk them away to their stalls for further care.

Many in the crowd sigh, one concedes, “I’m glad that’s over with.”

Another exhales, “That was a close call.”

“Were any of the horses hurt bad?” I ask.

“Won’t know till Doc checks them out,” someone responds in a hopeful tone, winking and holding up two crossed fingers.

Now is my chance to see Doc Cuthberson—to save Neewa. I jump from the corral rails and sprint to the stables to find him.

Arriving in moments at a gigantic wooden barn between the arena and stables, I hesitate before entering. Slowly I peer around the corner and inside. Thick wooden timbers climb from the floor to the crossbeams that traverse its length and width above me. Dim sunlight shines through a few tattered boards protecting the loft full of hay from rain and wind. Bowls of milk for the cats sit on the floor near more hay and next to the green poison for the unwanted rats that will soon prowl here in the night.

On the hay-covered dirt floor, horses held by their trainers wait their turn for the vet’s assessment of every bump and bruise. Everyone is talking about the crash. Their voices are laden with concern. That’s when I see him, kneeling alongside an Appaloosa gelding of at least fifteen hands, examining, and gently patting his side.

Tears stream down my cheeks as I stagger up to him and cry out, “Dr. Cuthberson, my puppy has distemper—she is going to die—you’ve gotta save her!”

I plead, “Can you help her? Please?”

Perplexed, he looks up at me as he gets to his feet. Stepping away from his patient, he takes off his big hat and with one great swipe brushes off his jeans. Staring at me, he circles around the far side of the horse and continues his evaluation, checking head, front quarter, hindquarter, and legs.

At last he looks at me and says, “Little girl, what the heck are you doing here?”

Glancing away he spits a wad of chew onto the dirt floor and then observes the tears streaming down my cheek.

He leans over the horse between us and with a thick Western accent whispers, “Bring ‘er to my office tomorrow morning, I’ll take a look at ‘er, we’ll see what we can do.”

“Thank you, thank you,” I blubber wiping tears from under my eyes, standing, staring at him, in shock.

The concerned owner of this horse peers over Doc’s shoulder at me. Many others owners stand there among many horses patting their steeds, waiting their turn.

Doc turns to the man and says, “This one will be all right. Wrap up all four ankles good and tight.” He nods to a man in a white coat to his right watching every move.

The horse’s owner exhales in relief.

Turning on his heels Doc walks away, headed for the next one in line. A rancher walks up to him. Doc recognizes the man and smiles.

“Doc, I need you out at my ranch right away. I can fly you out in my plane,” the rancher says sounding troubled.

“I hardly use a car anymore,” Doc says as he walks alongside the rancher. “I have to check on the rest of these horses first. Then we’ll go.”

Both men have serious expressions on their faces as they go separate ways. Again Doc Cuthberson disappears, this time swallowed up by a swarm of horses and their caregivers.

I am overjoyed. All I know is he’s gonna see Neewa tomorrow. He’s going to save her. I know he is.

I turn and run toward the main fairgrounds leaving the chaos at the stables behind me. Sounds of whinnying horses being tended by worried trainers fade into the distance. While the cheerful sounds of the fair, come back into focus. I’m back in the hustle and bustle of the carnival and beside myself with happiness. Trying to hold back my sobbing and regain my composure, I stop near a bench along a walkway and sit.

Below the evening sky are the bright lights of the fairgrounds. The Ferris wheel turns against the star-studded backdrop. Riders scream as they reach the top of its great circle and then descend back to the ground. In the distance the Egyptian Boat rocks one way and then the other, increasing its arc, higher and higher with every to and fro.

I’m up and jogging again, encircled by people strolling, laughing, eating, and rushing to their next thrilling moment.

Vendors hawk their toys, beckoning would-be buyers to come forward.

The fair will be closing down later tonight, it’s over until next year.

I run to Dad who is sitting at the information booth where we agreed to meet.

“Christina, I haven’t been able to find him,” he blurts out.

“But I have,” I shout. “I found him and we can bring Neewa to his office in the morning.”

“He’s going to see her on a Sunday morning?” His voice gets louder in disbelief.

“Yeah, I got it covered. I’ll tell you all about it, but right now all I want to do is go home.”

Heading for the exit, with everyone else going home too, I spot Doctor Cuthberson being driven through the fairgrounds to the airport. He’ll soon be flying out to that ranch.

“He is going to see a sick horse out in Winnemucca,” says one man to another walking next to us. “The ranchers depend on him to care for the large animals in this county.”

“He’s the only one in these parts,” a woman chimes in.

“Yup, he travels miles to care for the horses, cattle, and sheep around here,” another adds.

Working my way through the crowd toward the van with Dad, my thoughts wander. No one told me he doctors only large animals. He’s different from the other veterinarian in town who cares for dogs, cats, and smaller pets. He stays in his office and has the animals come to him. Dr. Cuthberson flies across the county to take care of all the ranchers’ large animals.

Once in the car, I tell Dad the whole story. How I first laid eyes on him through the crowd of people. Where I ran to find him at the chuck wagon race, and all the riders and horses that barely escaped injury in the terrifying accident. And about witnessing all the people running to the rescue, and the Doctor in the middle of the wreck saving the trapped horses. Lastly, I tell Dad how I found him at the stables caring for every one of those horses.

We arrive at home and I run to check on Neewa. She is not well, about the same as when I left her this morning, maybe worse. She tries to drink some water from the bowl I raise to her mouth, but only takes a little. Her nose feels like dried leather. Trying to greet me, she shakes as she stands, then collapses down to the ground in a ball of white fur.

I cry as I tell her, “You have to hold on, I’m going to take you to the doctor tomorrow. He is going to save you!”

Neewa looks at me as if she understands. But her look tells me, this had better work, because I’m not gonna be able to hold on much longer.

I sob and tell her, “Tomorrow everything is going to be better. I know Dr. Cuthberson will save you.” I hold her close to me. “You have to make it through the night! You have to, you hear me!” I pull her face into mine. Her dried nose against my cheek.

“I can’t keep you inside Neewa, you’re too sick. You have to stay outside again tonight.” She looks at me with her sagging big gray eyes. I clean the crusty discharge from the corners and hold her close to me as she closes her eyes and falls asleep in my arms.




Chapter 9 - Doc’s

It’s morning and we arrive at Dr. Cuthberson’s ranch. Dad and I carry Neewa into the office.

His assistant, the one in the white coat at the fair, comes to meet us. “I’m Lyle, the doctor is helping one of his mares give birth. Do you want to come watch?”

“Bring your puppy, she can’t hurt any animals here,” Lyle says as we walk through the empty waiting room.

Mumbling as we walk, “I don’t want to see this, I really hate blood.”

Jackie follows the assistant saying, “I wanta see.”

Dad carries Neewa in his arms. She is limp, not at all the same frisky puppy we adopted at the pound months ago.

Keeping my head down and hiding my eyes, I enter the barn. The faint scents of manure and hay hang in the air. Every stall is clean, with a layer of fresh hay and a bucket of oats hung on the side. Colorful blankets are draped over the sidewalls of each stall, and a wooden name placard prominently hangs above each gate.

“Where are all the other horses?” I ask Lyle the assistant.

He answers, “They are out in the pastures for the day, we bring them in around five.”

Unsure of myself, I lag behind everyone as we enter the fifth stall. The mare is lying down, breathing heavily. Her foal is beginning to show. I can already see the foal’s legs outside of the birth canal. Above the stall’s entrance is her name, “Queen Ann.”

Doc says, “It’s her time to give birth.”

Jackie’s eyes are wide as she and Dad watch.

I decide to leave and maybe come back later, when it’s all over. Dad holds Neewa as I duck into the next stall, hoping I don’t puke.

“Is it a filly or a colt?” Lyle excitedly asks the Doctor.

As I peak around the corner, sounds of water gurgling and suction emanate from the stall.

Sweat drips from his forehead as he answers, “Don’t know yet.”

I stare as he helps Queen Ann. He gently pulls the legs of the foal, who is born a few seconds later.

 “It’s a filly!” he exclaims.

Slinking back into the birthing stall, I watch the newborn lying on the hay next to her mother.

My stomach begins to settle. What a great movie this would make, someone should videotape this. But it isn’t for the fainthearted.

Doctor Cuthberson says to his assistant, “Lyle, you watch the filly. I’ll be back after I take a look at the puppy.”

We follow him into the examination room near the front office. Dad places Neewa on the stainless steel table in the middle of the room. She collapses into a white lump.

Ammonia, strong enough to cause me to tear, permeates the air in the clean and organized room. I gaze around the room at locked medicine cabinets. Under the large windows is a row of glass cases. Inside are Native American artifacts and artwork, with pottery, baskets and weapons labeled and dated just like in a museum. Woven blankets and oil paintings of fierce-looking Indian chiefs cover the walls.

Doc Cuthberson turns from the sink and begins the examination. Methodically he looks at her eyes, nose and mouth, quickly completing the procedure.

His voice is confident as he quickly speaks, “I wanta give her a shot of live distemper virus, maybe jump start her immune system. It’s not the usual treatment, but it’s her best chance to live. It could kill her too. If I don’t give her the shot she’ll die for sure.”

Swiftly and just as convincingly I reply, “Give her the shot.” Dad nods his consent.

Doc doesn’t say a word as he leaves the room, returning in seconds with the shot. He grabs a hand full of her butt cheek fur and skin and sticks the needle in. She yelps.

Without delay he says, “Leave her here overnight. Pick her up after school tomorrow. We’ll keep an eye on her.”

He politely says, “Good luck,” and hastily heads back to his new filly.

I look at him, “Thank you for helping Neewa.”

Doc looks at me with piercing blue eyes surrounded by dark skin and furrowed brow. The door slams closed, locking behind him.

Neewa is still on the table. “You have to stay here tonight,” I hold her. “The doctor will take care of you.”

Tears run down my face as I squeeze her close to me. I feel so helpless. There is nothing I can do but pray.

Moments after Doc leaves, Lyle the veterinary assistant enters the room.

He looks at me saying, “The doctor gave her the live virus in hopes that her immune system will strengthen and fight off the disease. Don’t worry, we will keep an eye on her for ya.”

He gently takes her from the table and my grasp. I lunge forward to give her one last kiss and hug.

Lyle walks us to the exit. The door shuts with a bang. I walk away sniveling.

Jackie is upset and puts her arm around me as we walk to the van.

Dad embraces us and says, “She’ll be fine, you’ll see.”

Driving out of Doc’s driveway, I look out the window. Somewhere on this ranch, Neewa is lying helpless in a cage, alone in the desert again, just like when she was born.

Jackie all excited says, “Christina! Look at the K-2 meter. It’s flashing like mad.”

I look toward Jackie, tears still welling in my eyes. “I can’t think about that right now.”

Dad gushes with excitement, “Did you see those masks on the wall? One was labeled, ‘Sun Dance Headdress’ and another marked ‘Shaman Spirit Mask.’ And there were ancient medicines and powders in that other glass cabinet in the corner.”

Jackie adds, “I saw a scepter that had some kind of hair on it. I hope its not human hair, eek!”

Dad turns toward me with a glaring stare, “Doc Cuthberson is either a collector, or a shaman. I’ll bet they have secret ceremonies out here.”

Jackie shrieks, “I brought the pocket spectrometer and the radio frequency meter too. The readings are off the charts!”

“What’s going on out here?” Jackie yells.

Dad eagerly says, “Let’s do an investigation when we come back here tomorrow to pick up Neewa. We’ll bring the cameras and take video of the ranch. I’ll bet this place has all kinds of paranormal activity.”

“Christina, what do you think?” Jackie asks, trying to distract me from Neewa’s critical condition.

“I’m worried about Neewa. I pray she lives.”




Chapter 10 - Back to Doc’s

I’m waiting at the curb for Dad and Jackie to pick me up.

“Let’s go, Dad,” I demand, jumping into the back seat. “I have to go get Neewa.”

The ride out to Doc’s ranch seems never-ending. I twitch and move around in my seat but I can’t settle down. Finally we arrive.

Dad points to some boxes in the back seat. “We have the cameras and some of the other equipment for our investigation of Doc’s ranch. I’ll set everything up in the back of the van before I go in. Jackie, you stay in the van and watch everything. Make sure the cameras are running.”

Jackie moans, “I don’t see why I have to wait out here and take the video while you guys go inside.”

Jackie smirks, “Yeah, yeah, okay I‘ll stay here and sweat to death. No, I’m going for a walk around the ranch till I find a nice cool shade tree to sit under.”

Dad whispers, “Okay, but keep everything in sight. I don’t want to get caught snooping around.”

In the waiting room, I clench my sweaty fists and pace from wall to wall. “Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name…” I pray Neewa will be all right.

Dad is walking around the room looking at all the artifacts. He’s taking notes as he goes from one display to another.

“Here she is,” Lyle boasts, walking her through the door into the waiting room.

“Neewa’s walking,” I exclaim, jumping to my knees to embrace her.

She is wagging her tail. That’s good, really good. Even her nose is a little wet. I hold her close as I feel the thump, thump, thump, of her tail on my ankles.

Dad gets his traditional sniff and lick on the hand. In return, Neewa expects and gets a scratch on the head, just behind her ears.

“Is she okay? Will she live?” I stutter, blinking my eyes, anxious to hear his answer.

He kneels next to me, stroking Neewa’s ivory white coat, scratching her behind the ears. “Doc thinks she is going to make it, but she’s still in danger.”

Walking us to the front of the building Lyle says, “The doctor said give Neewa plenty of water, dry food only, and one of these pills every six hours. You have already given her the best chance to live.”

I stare at the sign on the wall, “All Doctor’s Fees are Payable on the Day of Examination.”

Lyle sees me and says, “We will take no money from you and Neewa.” He hastens, “Doc wants her back here in two weeks. Oh, and he had a question… where was she born?”

I answer, “The dogcatcher said she was born on the desert, just outside of town. We adopted her at the pound.”

“Oh,” he nods closing the door behind us.

Neewa walks across the parking lot. Excited to be free, she tenderly frolics around us on the way to the van. She runs to Jackie who hugs her, and in return gets a lick on the face, from eye to forehead.

“Neewa your breath stinks,” she says.

I’m so thrilled to have her back. At last, I can laugh again.

Neewa hops gingerly into the van and stands on the back seat waiting for me. Watching me, she tilts her head the way she does. She looks so much better.

All the ghost-hunting crap is in my way as I squeeze into the seat next to her.

Finally I shout, “Get this stuff out of here, its in Neewa’s way.”

I hand Jackie a meter, camera, and begin to lift up piece after piece of equipment.

Reaching, Jackie looks at the meter and shouts, “This one is stuck at forty-eight MHz. That’s twelve higher than the reading we got the other day at Donner Pass, the highest reading I’ve ever seen.”

Dad asks, “Jackie did you look around for anything that might give off an electromagnetic field? Like a transformer or an air conditioning unit?”

“No, I was busy with all this stuff. Then you guys came back too fast. What am I, a magician?” she blurts out sarcastically.

Dad looks around and exclaims as we pull away, “This place is loaded with spirits. I can feel it. As soon as we get home we’ll check all the cameras, meters, everything.”

We drive out the rutted driveway leaving Doc’s ranch. He has a huge place full of all kinds of animals, the smell of them permeate the hot air. Several barns, two houses, and fenced corrals dot the landscape. He has cattle, horses, and sheep too. There are a couple of ponds. Some ducks and geese rest on the shore while others are dipping and diving in the fresh water. They probably get their water from those spinning windmills; it looks more like an oasis rather than a ranch.

The main house has many windows, two big chimneys at each end, and a long porch that runs all the way along the front, side, and across the back. Clotheslines traverse the yard running from the house to the back fence. There’s one set of clothes already dry from the hot desert sun.

Neewa will live. I know she will, although I can still see the disease in her yellow- tinted eyes. And her breath smells really bad. Sitting in the van, I daydream about giving her food and water, lots of water.

After getting home I give her one of the pills. The only way to be sure she swallows it, is to push it down her throat and watch her neck bulge as it goes down. She walks away and goes into my room where she curls up in a ball on her bed and goes to sleep.

I tell her, “Go to sleep, girl. It’s time for you to rest. You’re home now.”

In the living room, Dad and Jackie are looking at our cameras and meters. They are in our paranormal lab, at least until we can figure something else out. I call it ghost-hunting headquarters.

“Did the camera get anything?” I ask Dad and Jackie.

Dad replies, “We are looking at the digital file now.”

“There, there,” Jackie exclaims, “That’s a floating orb! There’s another and another!”

“This place is paranormal central!”

“Did you see that?” So excited, Jackie sprays spit on me.

The hair on the back of my neck stands up. “What are they? And what do they do? Why would anyone call floating bubbles, orbs?” I sarcastically add.

“Christina, cool it! Give me a second. I’m watching this,” Jackie says perturbed by my interruptions.

Staring at the screen, she finally answers me as if she is reading from a textbook.  “The orb is energy being transferred from a source such as power lines, heat energy, batteries, or people—to a spirit… or orb, so it can manifest. It may not even be a conscious act. The spirit is doing what it does. It’s the way they get their energy.”

Really excited Dad jumps in, “Finally we got something on film.”

“Look! Six floating orbs! It’s an orb hotel out there!” Jackie shouts, “Dad, they could be animal spirits. They don’t have to be people spirits, especially since he’s a vet. I’ll bet a lot of animals die out there. And the ones that haven’t crossed over yet, well they are still there,” Jackie whispers.

Standing behind her, I visualize cattle and horses floating through the air.

She pulls herself closer to the laptop, focused on the screen. “I’m going to import this video into my movie maker program. I’ll be able to look at the video and audio tracks separately. Maybe we captured one of those orbs trying to speak with us.”

Dad warns, “Jackie, make a backup copy of that file right away, and put another on a DVD to be safe. And by the way, we can’t tell anyone about this, at least not until we get back East. First we have to get as far away from here as possible. Then we can report our findings to the National Paranormal Society. I’d probably lose my job if we made this discovery public now. Besides, there is a lot more ghost hunting that still needs to be done before we disclose what we do.”

“I want to go back out to Doc’s ranch again. We have a good excuse, Neewa’s follow up is in two weeks,” Jackie adds.

Dad guesses, “I bet we find their secret Indian burial grounds out there.”

“I’ve had enough for today,” I close my door.

I’m finally away from all the ghost talk. Collapsing on my bed, I think about Neewa’s pills. They look like horse pills, an ugly gray and brown color, and they are so big.

Maybe they are horse pills? I just hope they work.

She is lying down in her own bed now and will probably sleep through the night. She’s stretched out her feet up in the air as usual, the way she always does. When she dreams in that position her feet move back and forth as if she is running, I laugh at her.

I’ll have to wake her and give her another pill in a few hours. I hate pushing it down her throat, but I have to make sure she swallows it or she’ll never get better.

“Good night Dad, love you.”

“Good night Christina, Jackie, love you.”

“Love you, Dad,” Jackie says.

“Good night, Neewa.”






Chapter 11 - Neewa’s Tongue

Waking, then falling back to sleep and waking again. I look at Neewa lying, helpless. There is nothing I can do for her but hope she recovers or dies without pain.

Doctor Cuthberson said he thinks Neewa is going to make it.

I repeat his words softly, over and over again. “She’s going to make it. She’s going to make it.”

Finally, I fall asleep at 5:00 AM, only to be awakened by my alarm a half hour later. Dragging myself out of bed, I’m so tired, and so not into going to school.

Wagging her tail, Neewa gets to her feet and wobbles across the rug to her water. I smile guardedly.

“Dad, she’s drinking,” I holler into the kitchen. “She’s drinking.”

He answers, “Great, Christina. Don’t forget to give her a pill.”

Giving her today’s first pill I tell her, “Girl you have to eat and drink today. I’m putting you outside with plenty of food and water.”

Snapping the chain to her collar I tell her, “I’ll be home early, only a half-day of school today, Yea!” She pulls away and licks my chin.

“Oh, Neewa, don’t lick me, yuck!” We look each other in the eyes as the bus pulls up. I turn and run to catch it before it drives away. A cloud of dust billows over her chain as she drags it across the yard till it snaps tight, stopping her. Staring, Neewa watches me disappear down the street. Looking back at her standing there, I sigh. Today she will lay in the shade, drink plenty of water and sleep.

I’m still the new kid at school. I don’t really know anyone. Most of the kids I meet live on the reserve and go to high school far away in Arizona. The kids here figure I’ll only be around a little while anyway, so why bother. I feel the same way. No need to get too friendly, I’ll be leaving soon. It’ll be good-bye to this place.

One of the kids on my bus is a real troublemaker. He came up with this harebrained scheme to steal his own girlfriend’s stereo. Then he tried to frame me. Said his girlfriend saw me looking in her bedroom window. He was going to rob his own girlfriend! She caught him handing her stereo out the window to one of his posse.

I denied it, told them I was at home all night. The cops didn’t believe him.

They were already following him and his buddies for drinking and drugging. He was arrested and I was cleared, but can you imagine the trouble I could have been in?

“Ring, ring, ring,” that’s the final bell. Am I glad this day is over. I’ll jog home instead of waiting around for the bus.

As I run to within a few blocks of home I yell, “Neewa, Neewa!”

She replies, “Woof, Woof,” in a deep-throated bark. As I enter the yard she is waiting for me, staring with tilted head, listening to my footsteps approach, and wagging her tail.

I sprint to her and unclip the chain from her collar, telling her, “Good girl.”

“I’m so glad to see you.” I stroke her neck and shoulder as she leans into my hand, panting.

She circles me, jumping and barking for me to get a toy and play. Then she sprints around the whole yard, as fast as ever.

“Calm down Neewa, take it easy, you have to get better first.”

I look around for the water and food dishes that I put out this morning. All the water is gone. She might have drunk it? Or maybe she knocked it over? One of the bowls of food is empty. That means she ate her first meal in days, unless of course the squirrels got to it first.

I run inside and return with fresh water. She drinks, and looks up at me. Eagerly, she slurps up more and dribbles it all over my shoes. Her black nose is shiny and moist again, not the cracked, dried up, flaking tissue it was the other day. I squeeze her and we both fall over onto the dry dirt that covers most of the yard.

“Yuck! Neewa your breath stinks!” I cry out scrambling to my feet.

Grasping her snout and holding her head steady, I peel back her black lips and peek at her teeth for the first time since her illness. Quickly she shakes loose from my grip.

Goose bumps explode on my arms and legs. Cringing I cry out, “Oh my God, Neewa, your teeth are green, and some are missing.” I stagger away from her feeling like I’m going to throw up.

Just then Dad and Jackie arrive home in a whirlwind of dust, as the van pulls up the alleyway drive.

“How’s Neewa doing?” Dad asks with a genuine look of concern.

“She seems okay, I think she’s doing better,” I mumble.

I get chills thinking about her awful teeth. The first veterinarian warned me about this. He said she would lose some teeth. Thankfully, she hasn’t lost all of them. All of the top and bottom premolars are gone, which are the ones between her canines and molars.

Neewa is panting, gnawing on one of her soup bones while she lies on the only patch of grass in the yard. No problem with her front teeth. She cleaned all the meat off, not a speck is left on that bone.

Crack! She splits the bone wide open and feverishly slurps out all the tasty marrow. I guess there’s nothing wrong with her back teeth either.

Neewa runs to Dad, prances around him, encouraging him to grab one of her toys and play.

Dad smiles, “Hey what is that pink thing hanging out of Neewa’s mouth?”

Embarrassed for Neewa I defend her. “Dad, get over it. That’s her tongue. She lost some teeth, okay, so her tongue hangs out a little.”

“A little,” Dad chuckles, “Her whole tongue is sticking out of her mouth.”

“Stop, you’re making a big thing out of nothing. It’s just the tip that hangs out the side cause her premolars fell out.”

Without those teeth, Neewa’s pink tongue slips out of the toothless gap. This small swatch of pink against her black lips and white face  gives her a funny, almost hysterical look.

In fact, Neewa’s tongue has become the family joke. I’m always saying, “Neewa stop sticking your tongue out.” She looks at me and tilts her head to one side. Then I burst out laughing.

Everywhere we go people ask, “What is that in her mouth?” Or someone might inquire, “Is that her tongue hanging out?” “Yes,” we say, and everyone wants to know why.

One time, a kid walked up to her and pulled on it. Surprised, the little girl exclaimed, “Yuck! It’s her tongue?” We all laughed… and Neewa handles it all with great dignity.

Neewa loves to run around the yard, but if I don’t watch her she disappears. Sometimes she can be blocks away in just seconds. I don’t even know where she goes. Dad says she visits other dogs, but I think people invite her into their home. I bet they feed and play with her.

When I realize she has vanished, I call her to come home. Sometimes she barks and runs home like the wind. Other times, it takes hours of searching the neighborhood, calling her name, again and again before I find her.

When I find her, I ask, “Where have you been?” But she won’t tell me. Sometimes when she runs away, I think she may never come home, but she always does.

It was right around this time I started keeping her on the chain more, and that’s when things got weird. Neewa began to dig holes in the yard. First, she dug a hole over by the steps of the house near a cement wall. No one took much notice, until she dug two more holes by our fence. It wasn’t long before the yard was full of holes, a dozen or more. Soon the place looked like the desert in the movie, Holes…. Everywhere you looked there was another and another.

Her favorite holes are the ones that are as big as a cave. She crawls down the entrance on her belly and turns around inside. Then she pokes her head out to watch, smell, and hear everything going on around her. The dirt she digs out of each hole is left in a pile at the opening. She rests her head on this mound and keeps her nose in the air, sniffing the wind, on guard for any intruders.

When our neighbor Jane saw all the holes Neewa dug, she was totally shocked. She thinks Neewa digs the holes to stay cool and away from the heat during the day and at night when it is cold she can stay warm inside.

In high mountain deserts, summer days and nights have a wide range of temperature. Days are ninety to a hundred degrees, but nights are cool, sometimes even cold.

Tall Bristlecone Pine trees shade most of our yard and Neewa’s play area. The trees keep us cool during the day, especially if there is a breeze.

We don’t have to worry about cutting the lawn. Ha-ha, the grass just doesn’t grow in a place that gets so little rain and sunshine. Dad likes that just fine. One thing he hated back east was cutting the lawn, leaf clean up, and all that stuff.

Flowers in the front of the house attract lots of bees and birds. The bumblebees buzz like little chain saws. And at dusk I’ve seen hummingbirds hovering around the honeysuckle and lilac bushes that crowd the house and give off sweet fragrances.



Chapter 12 - Rodeo

Dad walks in and trips over one of Neewa’s soup bones. “Whoa!” he shouts sliding several feet across the room, barely regaining his balance. “What the hell was that?”

I laugh, “You have to watch where you’re going.”

Dad kicks the bone out of the doorway and chuckles.

“Hey I got an idea, let’s all go to the rodeo. Can you believe it, a rodeo here in town?” He exclaims.

I ask myself, go to a rodeo? No, I don’t think so. They torture those animals, don’t they?

“I’m not going,” I say.

Dad answers from his room, “It’s the Women’s National Championships. The main events are saddle bronco riding, barrel racing, bull riding, calf roping and steer wrestling.”

“I wanna go,” Jackie shouts from her room.

“All right I’ll go,” I say reluctantly, knowing Neewa can’t come with us. “But we can still bring her and keep her outside, right Dad?”

Dad puts on his best jeans and is stomping his feet into his boots, “Bang! Bang!”

“What the hell are you doing?” I ask.

“Bring the ghost hunting equipment,” he reminds me. “We can test it out at the rodeo. We’ll see what kind of readings we get from the riders and horses.”

I have to remember to bring along Neewa’s corkscrew stake and chain to keep her from running off. As long as we park in the shade, she will be nice and cool. She can take a nap under the van. I’ll make sure she has plenty of water and food.


Arriving at the arena, I jump from the van and prepare a place for Neewa to stay in the shade while we are in the arena. I secure her to the chain and fill her bowls.

While waiting for Dad and Jackie to gather the stuff, I survey the surrounding area with its rippling sand dunes and sagebrush scattered over the stark desert. Tumbleweeds blow across the landscape driven by scorching hot winds. Each new angle of the sun’s rays paint the serrated rock on the distant mountains bright rust and amber. Towering peaks rise over shadowy crevasses under the cloudless blue sky.

Scratching Neewa behind the ear, she leans into my rub for a deep massage. “You stay in the shade Neewa. And don’t pull your stake out of the ground. Here is your lunch and water. We’ll be back in an hour or so, I promise.”

The rodeo has already started. I throw my backpack full of ghost hunting stuff over my shoulder and run for the main gate.

The parking lot is full of trucks with license plates from every state. I see Idaho, Wyoming, California, Iowa and Arizona to name a few, even Canada is here.

As we walk through the entrance into the arena, the sound of the crowd is deafening. Fans are cheering and clapping for one of the competitors. Dad and Jackie are talking to me as an announcement is broadcast over the public address system.

“I can’t hear you!” I say.

A woman on horseback, wearing chaps and a hat pulled down tight on her head, disappears into a tunnel at the far end of the arena. The barrel racing competition has just ended. A hush comes over the crowd as staff rush in and roll the bright red barrels off the main floor, preparing for the next event.

Spectators are perched on railings and fill the bleachers. Families huddle together to support their daughters, mothers, and sisters. Most are wearing blue jeans or silk jackets with logos and of course cowboy hats and boots. The older folks have on the traditional dungaree or corduroy jackets or vests.

As we search for seats, I look at the spectators who fill the bleachers.

The Native Americans bring their look. It’s more of a hybrid between a Western cowboy and American Indian. The blue jeans and boots are about the same, but above the waist are Indian blankets or deerskin jackets with fringe. Their beige stoic faces are draped in characteristic jet-black shoulder length hair or framed in marine style crew cuts. And topped with ten-gallon hats with colorful beaded headbands.

Mexican Americans have come to compete too, with multi-colored ponchos, gaucho hats, and short hair. In the crowd are a few sombreros with red and yellow trim, and gold tassels.

Finally we find empty seats at the far end of the arena. Dad sets up the tripod in the aisle with the infrared camera. Jackie is getting readings pointing the infrared thermometer toward the nearby competitors who are warming up for the next event. I raise the digital camera to my eye and zoom in and out on the spectators across the way. The K-2 meter, Ghost Hunter’s favorite device lays quiet next to me on the seat, no lights flashing detecting any EMF here.

No one sitting around us will ever guess we’re paranormal investigators disguised as rodeo fans. They have no idea what we are doing, nor do they care.

“Next event Calf Roping,” the announcer’s voice blares ceremoniously. “The first contestant is Josie Sullivan riding Sissy, representing the Sullivan Ranch, Gunstock, Colorado.”

While cheers radiate from the stands, a horse and rider stampede into the rink, galloping from the tunnel at a furious speed. I jump up in my seat at the sound of a Bang. A gate flies open releasing a calf from the pen near the tunnel. All three of them sprint straight at us at lightening speed, nostrils flared, hooves kicking dirt up in every direction.

The calf, fearing for its life, desperately tries to escape the horse and rider thundering toward it, squeezing the terrified animal closer and closer to the rail.

Suddenly, the cowgirl hurls her rope high into the air. It soars, as if in slow motion hanging above the ground, circling toward its target. Whoosh! As if by magic it falls around the neck of the calf’s head. Josie pulls the reins of her horse and the team skids to a stop. As the rope slices the air, it snaps tight around the calf’s neck. The calf spins a hundred eighty degrees, lands on all fours in shock, and rolls its eyes back and moos.

Jumping from her horse to the ground, she swiftly follows the taut rope with gloved hand to the calf’s neck. She then hoists her cowering prey off its feet and drops it to the ground on its side with a thud. In seconds she ties three legs of the bewildered beast together and steps back throwing her hands high into the air in triumph.

Everyone applauds and looks to the clock and standings to gauge her performance. All of this takes place in about fifty seconds, the amount of time it takes to inhale and exhale ten breaths.

For the next hour, horses and riders sprint up and down the arena, pounding their hoofs, flexing their muscles and snorting in the air. Again and again the challenge plays out, woman vs. beast, beast vs. woman.

At intermission everyone scatters to buy food, programs, and souvenirs as a big tanker truck applies water to the arena floor to keep the dust down. The wet dirt’s pungent fragrance filters through my nose to the back of my mouth. I can taste the floor.

“I wanna use the thermal infrared camera. Dad, let me have a turn, you always get it,” I demand.

Handing my camera to Jackie I say, “Here you take the digital, I’ll use the infrared.”

Infrared pictures are called thermo-grams. They display the heat given off by the horses, riders, or cattle in colorful shades of red, purple, and blue on the screen. The colors are representations of light outside of the visible spectrum called emitted radiation.

Wow, those horses are so beautiful all dressed out with elegantly braided tails and manes, and shiny coats sparkling from a recent brushing. Silver studs adorn the embossed saddles with strands of rawhide hanging down and their bridles and halters glisten from the lights above.

The woman riders are dressed in colorful tops, jeans with chaps, and boots with imposing spurs. Adorned with just the right amount of makeup, bright red lipstick, and rouge on their cheeks. They are objects of beauty as well as power.

Jackie whispers, “I’m taking a close-up picture of that horse over there with this sixty X zoom lens. Wow, it feels like I’m riding on the horse myself, this is so cool.”

That was the last event; it’s the end of the rodeo.

All the awards and prize money is being handed out. Cameras are flashing as the press scrambles to interview the winners and console the others.

I hang out and get some autographs on my program. One of the girls who signed my program sat near us in the stands. I saw her chewing tobacco.

She asked me, “Did you have fun at the rodeo?”

I tell her, “It was really something to see you girls riding, roping, and wrestling.” She laughed and said, “We are good, aren’t we?”

 “Yes you are,” I said.

As I walk to the exit I hear a woman’s voice, “Let’s go to that ghost town, the one just west of here.”

That was all I needed to hear. I turn to her smiling, “Excuse me Miss, where is the ghost town?”

We all shuffle along together to the exit.

She replies, “Ah, it’s only about five miles from here. You take the main highway west to a sign that says ‘Automotive Shop’ and points to the left. Turn right at the sign and take that dirt road to the end. It leads to a box canyon where the town is. We’re going there now. Do you want to follow us?”

“Can we Dad?” I say with a look in my eyes that fully explains the consequences for a wrong answer.

“Yes, Yes, definitely, we are going,” Dad says while trying to balance all our stuff, some strapped around his neck and the rest under his arms.

“Great,” I declare, “We’ll follow you.”

“We have a red pick-up truck with a horse trailer that says Rayburn Ranch on the side,” she replies.

“Okay, we’ll be right behind you,” I add.

I run to the van, hurrying to walk Neewa and throw all her stuff into the back of our van. Dad and Jackie pack the rest of our gear and get in, while I scan the parking lot for the Rayburn’s red truck.

Catching a glimpse of their trailer I yell out, “There, there they are!”




Chapter 13 - Ghost Town

I’m nervous as we turn onto a dirt road at the sign that says “Automotive Shop.” The lonely trail has desert on both sides, and those amber and rust mountain peaks I saw from the arena glimmering in the background are right in front of me.

Neewa whines as our van slows down. Dad cracks open the door just enough for Neewa to push it open with her head and jump out the door. Leaping onto the ground, she runs alongside of our van and then into the desert kicking up sand, her nose just a hair off the ground. She stops short, checks out a prairie dog hole and continues searching for any other scents.

“Run, Neewa, run!” I cry, inspired by her energy and ability.

My attention quickly shifts to a faint image of the discarded settlement coming into view. I silently stare at the eerie-looking scene. It looks staged, like a miniature playhouse dropped from above. Surrounding the forgotten colony are steep canyon walls on every side, and ten-foot high sand dunes block the only road leading in and out.

Main Street, if you want to call it that, is the one and only street with a small row of buildings on either side. The dwellings once bustling with people are now empty.

It’s a forsaken town, a ghost town. Nothing else is visible anywhere around it. No electric wires, streetlights, or government building proclaiming ownership. No abandoned wagons or cars lie about, nothing. Nor is there anyone to be seen, except the Rayburns and us.

Parking our van alongside the Rayburn truck, we all get out as Neewa catches up. She prances around, circling us wildly, jumping, excited that we are going on a hike. Jackie, Dad and I gather up our backpacks and begin the hike into town.

Taken aback, I see a cemetery in the foreground, just about five hundred feet from where we stand. It is small, filled with knee high weeds and surrounded by a faded, mostly broken picket fence.

Mr. Rayburn points at the cemetery. “Places like this were called boom and bust towns, and they all had their own cemeteries. When someone died, they were buried with everything they owned. Most people had very few belongings, so the undertakers left their boots on. That’s why all the towns out West named their cemeteries Boot Hill. That accounts for the “Boot” part of the cemetery name. The “Hill” piece of the name can be explained by the fact that the location picked for the burials was the highest ground near town. That was in case of a flash flood. The town folks didn’t want bodies floating all over the place after a storm.”

Mrs. Rayburn adds as they walk off together, “Many of these boomtowns lasted only a few years or until the gold or silver ran out. After that everyone left town, well almost everyone. None of the inhabitants of Boot Hill ever did, I hope, ha ha ha.”

I look at Dad and Jackie, neither of them is laughing.

Inside the cemetery I find grave markers so battered by the wind and weather they are blank. The names and dates have worn off. Others have only faint impressions of the letters and numbers that once spelled out the name, date of birth, and when the occupant died. If we’re lucky we might find an epitaph telling something about the deceased or maybe how they died.

I exclaim, “Wow check this out, Tabor, Agnes P., Pioneer, Wife, Mother.”

Moving to the next grave, I can hardly believe my eyes. “Dad, Jackie, look. Seaborn Barnes, Sam Bass Gang, Texas Train Robber, shot in the legs during the Mesquite Train Robbery!”

Dad walks from the middle of the cemetery and whispers, “Getting any readings on the K-2?”

“No, nothing yet.” I kneel down and touch the brittle grave marker, wood flakes away from under my fingers.

“Christina, this is so cool. Get a picture of that one with the infrared camera—I mean the camera.” Jackie looks around as if she let our secret out.

Dad says excitedly, “There has to be something here. We will know if one of these graves gives off infrared or electromagnetic energy.”

“Don’t worry about the Rayburns. They’ll never figure out we’re hunting ghosts,” I say.

Dad and I are first to turn and walk toward the gate to exit the cemetery.

“Hey wait up, I’m not staying here alone. I’m finished with this place. Let’s get out here,” Jackie calls out running to catch up to us.

We only have a few hours before dark, so I’m taking thermo images as we walk into town.

The Rayburns are already leaving, heading back to their truck. We meet halfway between the cemetery and town.

Mrs. Rayburn says, “We’re headed back home to California.”

“Once many years ago, there were gold and silver mines all around this town,” Mr. Rayburn adds.

“Thanks for the tip on the ghost town. It’s really awesome,” I reply.

Jackie agrees, “Yeah, this is sooo cool.”

“Watch out for Sally Ann,” Mrs. Rayburn says laughing.

I look at her— “Sally Ann?”

Mrs. Rayburn replies, “She’s the ghost that lives in town. There is a legend about her and her brother. He was very ill and she, although dead for years, came back from the other side to encourage the doctor to help him.”

Mr. Rayburn looks us in the eye and begins to tell the story. “About one hundred years ago the circuit doctor was in town and was awakened from a deep sleep by a bright light shining right in front of him. He sat up quickly, shading his eyes.

“At first he thought that he had overslept. But the glow was not coming from the window. As his eyes adjusted to the brilliance, he saw a woman dressed in white, standing at the foot of his bed. A heavenly light surrounded her, and she glowed from within as well. The doctor gasped in fear and huddled underneath his bedclothes.

“‘Do not be afraid,’ the spirit said in a kind gentle voice.

“The doctor took heart at her words. He withdrew his head from the covers and looked right at the glowing woman.

“‘I come to you from another world,’ the woman said.

“‘Who are you?’ the doctor asked.

“‘In life, my name was Sally Ann. I was sister to Simeon Carter.’

“‘Why have you been sent here?’ asked the doctor.

“‘I’m here to tell you that my brother Simeon will die of strychnine poisoning if you are not more persistent.’

“The doctor swallowed his guilt, remembering his pride in having thought he cured Simeon.

“One of the earliest lessons he had learned in medical school was how such pride could cause him to be too confident with his treatments. A patient could die if the doctor was not thorough. The doctor was falling into this trap with her brother Simeon.

“He thanked the ghost for her warning and promised to go to her brother at daybreak. Satisfied, the ghost vanished and the room was in darkness once more.”

After those words, the Rayburns walk toward their truck. Mr. Rayburn turns and says, “I ought to know, Sally Ann was my Grandmother.”

Seconds later they drive off, leaving Neewa and the three of us in the ghost town, alone with Sally Ann.

Within seconds of their departure, out of our knapsacks comes the paranormal stuff we have been concealing from them.

“Okay let’s go to town,” I say.

Dad warns, “We have a lot of ground to cover and not much time till sunset. Better get a move on it— our best chance to catch Sally Ann is at that hotel.”

It’s around eighty degrees, warm for this time of day. I can feel the nearby canyon walls radiating the day’s heat absorbed after many hours in the sun. There is little time before it drops from the sky and disappears. Then it will get cold and dark, fast.

Neewa runs off into the canyon, as if destiny was calling her.

“She can’t disappear in that box canyon, unless of course she can fly over those cliffs, ha ha ha.” We all laugh, although I am a bit nervous at the thought of it.

As we enter town, I stare at the faded gray structures that line each side of the street. The wobbly buildings, one and two stories high, have shadowy alleyways between them.

The entire town looks like it’s ready to collapse, complete sections of several roofs are torn away. Railings and steps on the front porches are crumbling and decaying. In the same condition are the wooden walkways connecting them. Splintered planks lie on the once muddy paths, left to rot. Long ago these paths connected the town’s bustling traffic of ladies in puffed-out dresses and feathered bonnets and men wearing vests, suites, and wide-brimmed hats to shade them from the hot sun.

Hollow openings are all that’s left of the windows and doors, blown out by the harsh windstorms that frequent the canyon. Several doors dangle by a nail or a hinge, still in place from the past. About the only things moving in town are a couple of shredded raggedy curtains fluttering about, still attached by a thread to the once modestly decorated second floor boarding rooms of the day.

Bang! Bang! echoes down Main Street. The sound comes from somewhere and ricochets off the back of the canyon. I snap my head up to look for its origin, but I can’t tell which direction it came from.

“Jackie, make sure you don’t put your finger over the microphone. I want the audio recording of this ghost town to be perfect. It may be the only one ever made here.”

Dad whispers, “Be quiet, we might capture an EVP.”

I ask softly, “Jackie, what’s an EVP again?”

“Electronic Voice Phenomenon? It’s a captured recording of one or several disembodied voices. Most times the voices are not heard as they’re being recorded. Only when you play back the digital file can you hear them,” she smiles.

“Nobody go inside any buildings, they might fall apart at any minute.” Dad is repeating himself again because he’s stressed out about it.

“Chill, Dad, I heard ya! Stop with the crumbling buildings already, we’re not going in. You are so annoying.”

Jackie points, “Hey look! That was a dry goods store and over there the saloon, and there’s the hotel. What’s that other one?”

Jackie and I walk side-by-side, photographing the few signs still legible on the front of the buildings. One says “Sheriff’s Office,” another “Blacksmith.” We work our way around the back of town with my thermal imaging recorder in hand. I begin to tape the details of the back of every building. Jackie raises the digital camera with its sixty X zoom lens to her eye and scans through a door and down the hallway of a building. With that camera lens, it feels as if you are walking down the hall yourself. Next she zooms into each room through the outside windows.

“Christina, look! That door, it’s got a bright light around it,” she turns her head toward me with a chilling look on her face.

I walk to her and stare at the door. It’s glowing around the edge, and seemingly pulsing. A intense halo surrounds the border of the door.

The weather-beaten cedar door has deep silver and gray vertical ridges. The glass doorknob is missing, probably taken by a treasure hunter who didn’t have enough room or strength to take the door.

“I’m going in,” I whisper to her.

“No, Christina, Dad said don’t go inside.”

“I’m just going to check that door.”

“Don’t go,” she whispers.

Before she can finish her words, I climb in the window and walk at a snail's pace down the hall. The doors frame shimmers, and appears to pulse. A breeze in the air rushes by me as it is funneled from the flat prairie, into the building, and through the narrow corridor. Sweat beads on my forehead and drops down onto my eyes and nose. I stare at the glowing outline of the door. Closer and closer I tiptoe until the finger on my sweaty hand glides along its edge. I’m about to push it forward when it swings open—all of a sudden bright light hits me square in my eyes, blinding me. Trembling, I slink inside and peer around the room expecting to see something.

The brilliant orange and yellow setting sun sits in the middle of the window opposite me.

“Christina hurry up,” Jackie implores.

The room is empty except for a broke chair and a three-legged table turned over on its side. Just bare floorboards, no ghosts, nothing. I turn and walk back to Jackie who anxiously waits.

Dad’s gone over to the hotel with the K-2 and radio frequency field strength meter. He’s at the hotel door when we come from behind the buildings.

“The K-2 is lighting up like a Christmas Tree,” he exclaims, holding it up for us to see. “Look!” The green, yellow, orange and red lights flash. “What do you think of this? It could be Sally Ann?”

“Could be,” I agree. “Dad we recorded everything.”

“Me too, Dad, I zoomed down every hallway and into every room.” Jackie backs up my account of our where abouts.

“Okay, it’ll be getting dark, no telling who or what might be out here at night. We’ll check all the recordings at home, lets get out of here.” Dad starts walking back.

If only the Rayburns stayed a little longer. We could have stayed into the night. With them here we would have found Sally Ann for sure.

But with only three of us out here, no thanks. Even the National Paranormal Society recommends a minimum of three adults at an Investigation. I’m not sure if that’s for verification, or just safety?

I fall behind everyone headed for the van as we exit town in a hurry.

“Hey, what is the name of this town anyway?” I yell to Dad and Jackie leading the way out.

“Don’t know? We should try to figure that out,” Dad answers.

“I saw it on the hotel, its Potosi, its spelled P-o-t- o-s-i,” Jackie answers.

“What kind of name is that? French?” I suggest.

“Maybe,” Dad replies.

As we make our way back toward the van we pass the cemetery. I stare at the forgotten souls piled up in neat rows, covered in weeds, forgotten. Abandoned in the middle of nowhere.

The cooler night winds are arriving in town. Dad hands me a sweatshirt from his backpack. I gaze back at town. It’s a real ghost town. Only thing moving in town are the tumbleweeds blowing down Main Street.


“AHHHHH!” I scream, “What was that?”

That freaked me out, I’m getting out of here. Panic grips me, my heart pounds. Jackie raises her hand to cover her mouth, as if to catch a deep sigh.

“Relax,” Dad utters. “That’s the same shutter we heard banging on the way into town.”

“It’s a shutter? I didn’t see any shutters anywhere in town. I’ll check the video when we get home, you’ll see, that was Sally Ann.”

“It didn’t sound like the one I heard when we first got here. That one sounded more like a gun shot?” Jackie recalls.

“That can’t be?” Dad replies, “There isn’t anyone around here for miles?”

“If it weren’t for the chilling winds and whirling dust and sand, I might like this place. Ha-ha.”

“Bang! Bang! Bang!”

“Not to mention the banging shutters and raggedy curtains in the windows.”

It’s just the wind, it’s just the wind, I tell myself. The wind always kicks up when the sun goes down. It’s definitely time to go.

Really loud I yell, “Neewa! Neewa! Come girl!”

“Neewa, Neewa, Come girl,” eerily echoes off the canyon wall.

My heart races as I turn and stare, searching for her, straining into the twilight. But she is nowhere in sight.

“Neewa! Neewa!” I implore.

Sure enough the canyon answers in a fading reply, “Neewa, Neewa, Neewa, Neewa.”

Where the heck is she? Seconds pass like minutes as all of us stare into the darkness.

I spot her faint image under a shadowy ledge. She’s a minute speck of white sprinting in the dark shadows.

“There she is! Come on girl, come on,” I beg her.

The canyon whispers, “Come on girl, come on.”

Crossing the rocky terrain, she glides effortlessly down the slope. Her strong body and powerful muscles carry her over the rough landscape. She maneuvers around boulders and bounces all the way through the canyon.

Neewa is strong now and weighs more than forty pounds. She is over two and a half feet tall and when she stands on her hind legs, her black padded paws and ivory toenails reach my shoulders.

“Come on Neewa, let’s get out of here, we’ve had enough excitement for one day. This place creeps me out.”

After loading up the van we begin the drive home. I sit in the darkened van thinking what a great day this has been. First the rodeo with the cowgirls, horses, bulls, and steer. Then the ghost town and the Rayburn’s story about Sally Ann and her brother. The best part was the ghost town. I finally investigated a real ghost town.

I can’t wait to get home and check the video we took in the lab. If I captured Sally Ann, I will be famous. I’m going to tell everyone back home, all my friends will think this is so cool.

Neewa curls up next to me on the seat. The van’s big seats have lots of room. But she is right next to me and rests her head near my leg like she always does. Her eyes close and she lets out a big sigh through her wet nose that shines even in the darkness.


“Christina, wake up we’re home,” Dad says.

“Oh my God, I’m too tired to do anything tonight.”

I can barely walk inside to go to bed. Neewa follows me in and I stop in the kitchen to fill her bowls, which she quickly empties.

“Good night, Dad, love you.”

“Good night, Christina, Jackie, love you.”

“Good night, Dad, love you.” Jackie says.

“Good night, Neewa.”

As I crawl under the covers just as she catches up to me and jumps up taking her spot at the foot of the bed. Carefully she turns in a tight circle and lies down for the night. Now in her familiar white fluffy ball, she groans and places her nose on her tail. Then she sighs and watches me till I close my eyes. Then she closes hers.


Sunday morning and Jackie and I pull out the cameras and all of the scientific meters. I’m downloading the video files onto my hard drive using the fire wire and moviemaker program.

“Click, capture, click, publish. I will have Sally Ann on this tape, I guarantee it, maybe even her aberration,” I tell Jackie.

She answers, “Yeah Christina, sure, an aberration. I don’t think so.”

After an hour or so of reviewing the video I tell Jackie, “See, I told you there isn’t one shutter on any of those windows at the ghost town, not one! What do you say to that? Where did that banging shutter come from?”

Watching the last ten minutes of the video of the ghost town, suddenly I hear, “%^&*($#@)&%%)@#$)(&^%$$#.”

“What’s that? Jackie did you hear that?” The hair fuzz on my arms stands up.

“No, I didn’t hear anything, just static,” Jackie replies.

“Play that back, the hotel part,” I shriek.


“Wow! Did you hear it that time?” Convinced.

“I think I heard something, Christina, but it sounds like noise to me.”

“Play it again,” I demand.


“I heard it that time, it’s static all right. Christina, you heard static, that’s all it is,” Jackie insists.

“No, that’s an EVP. We just heard a recording of the disembodied voice of Sally Ann. She was talking to us.” I jump to my feet.

“Christina, no one will believe that noise is Sally Ann?” Jackie adds.

“We need something else, and it has to match up the with the same time line when we recorded Sally Ann’s EVP.” I’m serious.

Running to my backpack for the other meters, “Let’s get the rest of the equipment and check everything we had at the ghost town. The approximate time of the encounter was at about one hour and fifteen minutes into the investigation.”

“I’m on it,” Jackie answers, doubtful.

In the next ten minutes we take out every piece of equipment we had there and check all the readings and cross-reference everything with the time line.

“Looks like the only device with a reading is the radio frequency detector. It recorded eighty MHz (Mega Hertz), whatever that means?” I say.

Jackie answers, “I’m not sure? It must mean something?”

One thing I know, the eighty MHz of electro-magnetic radiation had to come from something. That’s why Dad’s K-2 meter was lighting up outside the hotel. Sally Ann was there.

Sometimes spirits communicate in that frequency, or so I’ve heard. It could have come from the natural magnetic field in the atmosphere or a computer screen, electric motor, cell phones, or walkie-talkies.

I nod, “I’ll prove it to you, that was Sally Ann. Hold on, hold on. I got a text from Mike. I wonder if he got the cell phone picture I sent him yesterday? Remember when I went down that hallway inside the hotel?”

I read his text out loud, “Ha-ha, pls, u r trying to trick me! U think throwing powder in the air and taking a picture of it, will make me think it’s a ghost? lol the picture you sent me is a fake.”

“What is he talking about, I didn’t throw any powder,” I scroll to the message I sent him and look at the picture.

“Oh my God look Jackie! It’s an apparition of Sally Ann in the hotel room! I caught her with my cell camera. She’s standing in the corner pointing her finger at something.”

Jackie looks at the picture. “It looks like someone threw powder into the air. How do you know that is her? It could be her brother?”

I inspect the photo. “It’s got to be her! She’s a little bit of a thing. Kind of cute, huh. First she talked to us and now I have a picture of her. I’ve got her now!”

Besides Jackie look at the time I sent the photo, it was taken at one hour and two minutes into the investigation The EVP was recorded at one hour and ten minutes in, remember? That’s around the same time.

It must have taken all of her strength to materialize and talk to us. I wonder what she is trying to tell us?

I continue checking all the meters and digital film from the ghost town, but find nothing else. “Looks like that’s it, the cell phone picture, EVP, and we got the radio frequency field strength meter that recorded the eighty mega hertz (MHz), whatever that means?” I look at Jackie.

She replies, “I kind of know, it’s a magnetic field given off by stuff, just like EMF. The RF meter measures electro-magnetic radiation given off by objects like microwave signal towers, satellite television signals, or radio signals. And it’s all measured in megahertz (MHz).”

I pitch in, “Sometimes the radiation is just hanging around in the air. But it could be a spirit trying to ‘cross over’?”

Jackie wraps it up, “Or one trying to come back?”

Dad walks in the door after returning from his Sunday morning basketball game with the guys from work.

I jump at him, “We recorded Sally Ann’s EVP. And the RF meter had a reading of eighty MHz at the exact same time we heard Sally Ann. And remember the K-2 was lighting up by the hotel?  I double-checked everything, every meter and all the stuff. There isn’t anything else. That’s everything we got at the ghost town. Oh, and we got the picture.”

Dad looks at me over the top of his reading glasses. “You got a picture?”

I reply, “Yeah, you know the one I took with my cell phone in the hotel? I sent it to Mike. He sent it back a text saying I tried to trick him by throwing powder in front of the camera. When I looked at the photo I sent him, I realized it was Sally Ann’s apparition in the picture. That proves she was there. I knew it.”

Dad motions for me to hand him my phone so he can see the picture, “Could be, could be.” He looks closer at it, “I’ll bring the picture to work and analyze it.”

I add, “I’ll send it to you.”

He answers, “I thought we agreed not to enter the buildings?”

I ignore him.

Dad says, “I’ll count up the electro-magnetic radiation given off by the stuff we had at the ghost town. Hum, let’s see, three cell phones, that’s five MHz and the cameras are about ten MHz. We have to add the radio frequency EMF and light meters, they’re about six MHz, so that’s twenty-one MHz. And the Altimeter, that’s another three, total twenty-four. That’s nowhere near eighty MHz, we have fifty-six MHz unaccounted for.”

Dad states, “I have to bring the EVP recording to work and see if I can enhance the file on the equipment we have there. I’ll give it a forensic audio treatment (FAT) and an acoustical signal analysis (ASC). The FAT will tell us any characteristics of the recording—for example distortion, excessive noise, speed of the sound, if the tape is demagnetized or if a dropout is present. The ASC will decipher hard to hear inaudible speech signals through forensic phonetic experimentation. If it is a recording of speech, the graphical representation or spectrogram can be printed out. That will give us a voice picture of someone or something. Its kind of similar to a photographic picture of a person.”

“Dad, I double-checked everything, every meter, and all the files on the cameras. There isn’t anything else. We got the EVP recording of Sally Ann, the radio frequency reading of eighty MHz, your K-2 readings, and of course the picture.  That’s everything from the ghost town.”

I continue, “I think it proves there was something there? It’s conclusive. I know it. I know we recorded Sally Ann or maybe her brother.”

Jackie adds, “I think it was her brother, Simeon.”

“Dad, ya know I’ve been meaning to ask you, what do you do at work anyway?” I ask.

“Oh, I just test stuff, different equipment, that’s all.”

“I’ll bring this recording of Sally Ann’s EVP to work and analyze it when no one is around. You and Jackie check the Internet for information about anything paranormal that gives off fifty to sixty MHz of electromagnetic energy. See what you can find out. And remember, not a word to anyone.”




Chapter 14 - Chester’s Gifts

Unexpectedly our friend Chester arrives at our house. He waits outside, doesn’t knock on the door or anything. He just stands there leaning against his car, waiting.

Neewa who is outside on her chain, barks a few times and then sits down and watches Chester.

My Dad and Chester work together over at the government building. Sometimes they go fishing in the canyon outside of town. They walk up the canyon, in the water, fishing the pools as the water flows down through the rocks and gorges to the valley.

Dad took me horseback riding in the canyon once. It was so much fun, my horse was named Rosy. We rode across the desert and then up into the canyon. Rosy stopped and drank water from the stream. She pulled the reins right out of my hand so she could reach down to the water. I was almost knocked right off of her into the river.

The water is so crystal clear and clean you can drink it.

Everywhere in the canyon are quaking aspen trees with leaves that shake in the wind, as if they are dancing. That’s why they call them quaking aspen. The sun reflects off of them making the leaves shimmer like stars shining in the night.

Chester is a Native American and he has a home in town. He’s tall, with long straight black hair down to his shoulders. Usually he wears blue jeans with cowboy boots and a nice shirt with a collar, which is left hanging out, never tucked in. His stomach hangs over his belt buckle. Chester is an artist. He paints pictures of desert scenes and Indians doing stuff, worriers, and chiefs too.

His mother lives nearby in one of the oldest homes around. Heather is her name, and she is the tribal Medicine Woman.

Their Indian word for Medicine Woman is “newe pohakanten.” The Medicine Woman is very important in Indian culture. She gives remedies made from herbs and roots. If someone is really sick, she summons help from spirits to cure them. She also uses the same herbs and roots to protect you from evil.

I join Chester outside and let Neewa off her chain so she can run around.

He looks around at the yard, “Look at all the holes.”

Neewa is running around. Chester picks up one of her toys and throws it. In no time she brings it back to him and drops it on the ground near his feet.

“Smart little pup you are,” Chester acknowledges as he throws her toy again.

Chester watches Neewa go down into one of her holes to get a soup bone to chew on.

Looking at me, then at Neewa again he exclaims, “She’s a coy dog, must be a coy dog, look at those holes. I never saw a dog dig holes like that. Those holes are more like coyote dens. Look at that, she can go down into it and turn around inside, just like a coyote.”

He laughs watching Neewa closely, “You got a coyote there.”

“Hey what’s that pink thing in her mouth?” He reaches out to grab it.

Before he can get close enough to touch Neewa’s tongue, I shout, “It’s her tongue!”

The words came out of my mouth quickly from all the practice I have had.

“That’s her tongue?” He pulls his hand back just in time.

“Oh, I thought she had something stuck in her mouth,” he says laughing and shaking his head in disbelief.

“Chester, the distemper almost killed her, it rotted out some of her teeth. Now her tongue falls out,” I explain.

He laughs and Neewa looks at us. She tilts her head with her tongue hanging out the side as if to say, “What are you guys laughing at?”

Chester knows all about dogs and coyotes. He hunts deer and all kinds of wild game. He’s lived here all his life, he must know what he is talking about.

I ask him, wanting to know what the future might hold for Neewa and I. “Will she get vicious and bite? Or run back to the desert to be wild again?”

Chester says with confidence, “You don’t have to worry about Neewa. She will be a good pet. You’d have known by now if she were mean or vicious.”

“Most coy dogs are friendly and make good pets. My aunt has a coy dog and it’s good with kids and other pets too.”

 “Are you sure she isn’t going to go back to the desert?” I ask him again for reassurance, even if it might annoy him.

“No, I don’t think so, but anything can happen.”

Chester shrugs his shoulders and then adds, “I brought Neewa a charm for her collar. Can I put it on her?”

“Sure, what kind of charm is it?”

Chester laughs, “It will protect her from evil.”

I look at Chester with questions written all over my face, trying to judge his seriousness. My mind flashes back to Doctor Cuthberson’s office and the Indian Medicine Man’s mask and the artifacts. Then I think about the orbs we captured on video at his ranch the day we went to pick Neewa up.

My thoughts wander back to the dream I had about Neewa’s family watching over the murdered gambler found in the desert, next to the old Indian tomb.

Why does Chester want to protect Neewa from evil? He did say evil, didn’t he?

Finally Chester says laughing, “The evil dogcatcher, that’s who.” Now serious he continues, “I don’t want Neewa to be caught by him again. The charm is kind of a tribal ID tag, most of our dogs have them.”

“With this charm on her, the dogcatcher won’t take her back to the pound again. He will recognize the tag and know Neewa is an Indian dog. Look, it makes a sound too, so you can hear her far away now.”

He shakes the charm, “Jingle ding, jingle ding.”

I breathed a sigh of relief, “Oh cool, I don’t want her going back to the pound.”

I talk to Neewa, “Did you hear that Neewa? You’re officially an Indian dog.”

“Where did you get it?” I asked Chester, wondering about the charm.

“Doctor Cuthberson gave it to me for Neewa. He told me to tell you that Neewa doesn’t have to come back for her follow-up. But she should wear the charm so she doesn’t go back to the pound.”

Chester pulls a painting from his car. “John, I almost forgot why I came here. This painting is for you and your family.”

Forgetting about the charm, ghosts, evil, orbs, the dogcatcher, Doctor Cuthberson, and Indian Spirits, I look at Dad.

Dad looks at Chester, then at the painting, and back again at Chester.

Dad is noticeably surprised and shocked.

It is a beautiful painting. Its a black and white desert landscape done in acrylic paint.

Dad does not know what to say as he blurts out, “Chester, thank you, how can I ever repay you?”

“I want you and your family to have this painting. I don’t want you to forget us when you move away. We will not forget.”

Chester knew that most government workers move away after about a year. They go back home where they came from.

He adds, “John, Christina, I got to go, see you guys.”

I say, “Good-bye Chester, thanks for the charm.”

Chester replies, “Indians don’t say good-bye. The word good-bye is not in our language so there is no good-bye for Indians. We believe that when we die, we pass into the next life. We all see each other in the afterlife, the Spirit World, no need to say good-bye.”

He gets into the car and says to Dad, “Oh you have to bring your kids over to my Mother’s.”

Dad replies, “Sounds like fun, my kids know your sister, Diane.”

Chester adds, “Mom wants to meet all of you, Neewa too. She has some herbs to give you.”

“See you guys,” Chester waves and drives off.




Chapter 15 - The Tribal Historian

Jackie and I are grocery shopping downtown at the market. Dad is running some errands and will catch up with us later.

Unexpectedly, Chester and Marvin are over by the frozen food section. Jackie and I walk over to say hi. I met Marvin a while ago through Chester.

Marvin is the Tribal Historian, a Piute and Shoshone Indian and a cousin of Chester’s. He is not the outdoorsman type. He doesn’t hunt, fish, or camp out. But he does want to be a lawyer.

Marvin works at my school doing I don’t know what. And he is a student at the local community college. He’s short and stout with short hair and a bubble butt.  He always wears dress slacks, a pressed shirt, and a tie. The tie is always loose around the neck and the top button of his shirts is always left undone. He always wears a blazer even if it too hot.

When we get closer to Chester and Marvin, I realize they are in a heated discussion. Marvin’s round face is bright red and his mouth is going a mile a minute. He is mad about something, and he is telling Chester about it.

Marvin has kind of a different way about him. I don’t care what people say about him, he’s been nice to my family and me. But he always looks like he’s in a hurry, or working frantically to meet some deadline or complete a very important project.

Jackie and I step up to hear what they are saying. Marvin turns toward us to include us in the conversation.

“Hi you guys, how you guys doing?” Marvin asks in his usual sultry whining tone.

Marvin and a lot of other people out West always say, “You guys”. It is the way people talk out here. Its always you guys this, and you guys that.

“Good, good, what’s up?” I reply.

Marvin answers in a harsh and disgusted tone, “My professor at college is stupid.”

“What happened?” I ask.

“This teacher is giving me a hard time about me not knowing what a word means,” Marvin whines. He always whines.

“I never heard this word before. Where was I supposed to hear it? I don’t even know what that word means, and I’m the Tribal Historian. We don’t even have this word in our language.”

Marvin is so mad and he continues talking, spewing little drops of spit from between his oversized lips.

“Who does he think he is?” Marvin adds.

Jackie whispers to me, “Ask him what the word is.”

“No shush.” I look at Marvin.

Marvin continues, “That teacher makes me so mad, he didn’t believe me. He said I was lying and that I got the question wrong on purpose. I would never do that, lie like that. I could just scream.”

I can see that Jackie really wants to know what the word is. She cannot resist speaking up and asking Marvin.

“Marvin, what is the word?” Jackie asks with an impatient tone.

Marvin looks at us and then at Chester, then back at us again.

“That professor is wrong.” He is angry now, you can see it in his face.

“What is it? What is it?” Jackie says annoyed with the whole thing now.

Finally Marvin blurts it out, “Pedestrian, pedestrian!”

“Pedestrian?” I repeat, not knowing the meaning of the word either. “Never heard that word before either.”

Bewildered and at a loss for words, Jackie looks at me.

Marvin just shrugs.

“Marvin, I don’t know what that word means either, never heard of it,” I empathize.

Jackie whispers in my ear, “Someone crossing a street or walking.”

How would Marvin know what the word “pedestrian” means? Most Indians his age have never left this area except to go away except to go away to high school in Arizona.

I talk with Marvin for a while longer, trying to calm him down.

Chester finally adds, “That teacher is wrong, and not considering that we are different, we are not White People like him.”

Chester and Marvin start walking off into the market. Each says with a smile, “See you guys later.”

I reply, “Good-bye.”

Chester laughs, “Indians don’t say good-bye.”

Marvin raises his arm and hand as if to say wait a minute. “Christina, I almost forgot, how is that puppy of yours doing?”

I reply smiling, “She is doing really great, completely recovered. I thought we were going to lose her, but thanks to Doctor Cuthberson, he saved her.”

“Oh, I know Doc Cuthberson, he is a great doctor,” Marvin adds. “I want you to bring Neewa to our Tribal History meeting on Thursday night at seven o’clock. Give a little talk about how you adopted Neewa at the pound. It will encourage others to adopt animals. Coy dogs played an important role in the protection of our villages hundreds of years ago. They alerted our people to bears, wolves, and intruders approaching the villages. Come early so the kids can play with Neewa.”

“The meeting is for all ages, anyone can get up and give a presentation. It’s like show and tell, and everyone there is interested in our history or they wouldn’t come,” he laughs.

“Okay, I’ll bring her early. Dad will probably drop me off,” I answer, uncertain why they want me to give a talk?

Chester and Marvin are talking about something as they walk off.

I hear Chester say, “Neewa has spirit,” or something like that.

Marvin answers, “Does Christina know?”

Then they disappear down one of the aisles talking in their Native language.


Jackie and I are looking for Dad, he’s around here somewhere.

“Dad, what are you doing by the dairy products? I got all this stuff already, look.” Aggravated, I point into the shopping cart.

We finish getting our supplies and go through the check out.

On the way home, I tell Dad about Marvin and his problem, and Neewa’s invitation to the Tribal History meeting on Thursday night.

Dad says, “I agree with Chester. Indians are different. Their culture is not the same as ours.”

“I’ll tell you a story about different cultures,” Dad begins.

I interrupt, “Dad, I don’t want to hear one of your long boring lectures. I’m not in school.”

Jackie sighs, “No stories please, Dad.”

Dad continues his story about different cultures. He begins, “It was about two months ago, I had a talk with the Tribal Chairman, Jake.”

“No, No,” I yell putting my fingers in my ears, “I don’t want to hear your lame story.”

Jackie has a change of heart, just to annoy me, “Go ahead Dad, I’m listening, but make it quick.”

Dad continues with his story, “I saw the Tribal Chairman sitting in his pickup truck so I walked over to him.

“’Jake,’ I nodded, ’Monday is Columbus Day.’

“Jake is his White name, most Indians have a White name and an Indian name. They only use their Indian name when they are with Indians.

“’Yeah, so what does that have to do with anything?’ Jake laughed at me with a peculiar smile.

“Jake continued, ’Columbus is the one who started all the trouble for Indians.’

“I stumble over my words a little taken back, but I finally say, ’Tomorrow is a federal holiday and I want the day off, I’m a federal employee.’

“’You want the day off?’ Jake laughed out loud.

“’Some guinea (gi-nee) gets lost at sea and you want the day off?’ Jake laughed a belly laugh. And he continued to laugh and laugh, and I started laughing too. We laughed together.

“Then Jake said, and I’ll never forget his words, ’John, you can take off any day you want.’ And he drove off without saying another word.

“Now that is a cultural difference,” Dad grins.

I interrupt, “Oh my God, I’m so bored. If you don’t stop with your dull stories I’m going to scream.”

Jackie pats Dad on the shoulder, “Dad, you are done with the history lesson, too much is no good.”

I hate listening to Dad’s stories. He thinks he is cool. I tell him, “Dad you are not cool.”

Dad sighs, “I felt a closeness with Jake for those few moments as we laughed together. I think he felt the same way.”

“The next week I heard that Jake had died in a car accident. Too many accidents happened around here.”

As we drive home, I think about Jake. It’s sad to see families missing a loved one.

Jake was the Tribal Chairman and he was always making me laugh and tickling me. I hung out with him at one of Dad’s “bring your family to work” gatherings. He was always playing pranks on people and making everyone smile. He was so much fun to be with.

The Tribal Chairman of an Indian Nation is just like the Prime Minister of England. We are studying England in History. Both are the leaders of their governments and elected by the people. The Tribal Chairman is the leader of the Tribal Council just like the Prime Minister is leader of the Parliament.

The government of England and governments of Indian Nations have a lot in common. In England the Parliament makes the laws. On the reserve the Tribal Council makes the laws. They are also similar because the Parliament is made up of elected members and the Tribal Council is also made up of elected councilmen and councilwomen.

But the biggest similarity is that the Chief of the Indian Nation is just like the King and Queen of England. He’s a figurehead and has no official power, yet he has influence on everything. The Chief is a descendant of previous Chiefs of that Nation and has the same family bloodline. Similarly, the King and Queen of England have little official power, but lots of authority. The King or Queen of England also has the bloodline of the previous monarchs of England.

Finally we are home. I fly out of the car. “Dad, I’m taking Neewa for a walk, be back in a little while.”

“Ok, don’t go too far, it’s late and you have school tomorrow,” he agrees.

I laugh, “You worry too much, I have Neewa now.”

Dad always used to say, “Don’t walk anywhere alone.”

Now he says, “Take Neewa with you wherever you go.”

Neewa and I love to stroll around town looking at everyone’s flower gardens and pretty homes.

It’s warm tonight and I want to walk a while, just to get away from everyone. Neewa and I hike around ten blocks before we decide to turn back.

I tell Neewa as we pass a charming white Cape Cod, “I love that one. We had a house like that back home, but that was before Mom moved away. We had to sell it. I wish we never came out West. I miss my friends, Grandma, Grandpa and most of all, Mom.”

“Oh, Neewa, you look so silly with your tongue hanging out the side of your mouth,” I chuckle.

Before I know it, we are back home and it’s time to go to bed.


Thursday already, and I forgot all about the Tribal History meeting tonight. Lucky thing Dad reminded me at breakfast. I have that English report to do, too. I’ll worry about the Tribal History meeting later, after I do my report.

Meanwhile, I’ve got to get the bus. “Bye Dad, love you.” I shout running out the door.


That night after dinner Dad is driving Neewa and me to the tribal building. As I get out of the car I tell myself not to worry, it’s just like ”Show and Tell.” Anyway, I love talking about Neewa. But I don’t like getting up in front of a group of people and talking.

One good thing, this presentation will get me an extra credit grade in History. My History teacher, Mrs. Bats, is a Washoe Indian. She told the class she is going to give extra credit for any presentation about history outside of school.

To qualify for extra credit my presentation has to be about history. Since Neewa is a coy dog, and coy dogs protected Indian villages hundreds of years ago, my talk about Neewa qualifies. I’ll get an extra credit grade, not just a few points.

Right now, my History average is seventy-seven. If I get it up to an eighty, I can get a B. Dad pays three dollars for B’s and five dollars for A’s, nothing for C’s. Get a D; you lose your laptop until you bring up the grade. Don’t even think about getting an F.

The Tribal History meeting is in the new two-story building on the reserve. My eyes light up as I walk into the foyer. To my left is an enormous eagle in a glass case. Its wings are spread out and span five feet from wing tip to wing tip, showing all the beautiful feathers. Other displays of Indian artifacts, ancient tools, hunting points, and spear heads line the other side of the entrance. And original paintings of Chiefs, early villages, and warriors on horseback are hung on the walls.

A beading display with a loom and pictures of techniques are in the corner.

According to this directory I am looking at, offices make up the second floor, with offices for the Tribal Chairman, Tribal Council, a meeting room, and a recreation room. The other half of the second floor is a jewelry workshop where they make silver jewelry with turquoise and coral stones.

In another corner is a diagram with the Chiefs Family Tree. It displays the bloodline that starts around the 1400s and depicts all the descendants down through the generations to the present.

On another wall in big bold letters is, “Tribal Historian Members Project.” It is more like a tribal family tree, with the names of all the members that ever lived. The list dates back hundreds of years, showing all the different families.

Some of the living members have their White name under their Indian name.

Each member that is dead has a gravestone symbol and the words, “At Rest” or “Not At Rest.” What that means, I don’t know? Seems to me if you’re dead you’re at rest, like it or not, ha-ha.

I see Marvin who is in charge of the project.

I ask him, “What does the ‘At Rest’ and ‘Not At Rest’ mean?”

Marvin pauses, hesitating before he speaks. “’At Rest’ means that the tribal member’s body is here on the reserve and therefore their spirit is here ‘At Rest.’

“After an Indian dies, we believe that the spirit lives on in the Spirit World. Members of our Nation who have died must be brought back here to our Indian burial ground to enter the Spirit World.

“If someone dies far away, or their body disappears, turned to dust, or was never found, their spirits are ‘Not At Rest.’ Those spirits ‘Not At Rest’ wander the earth trying to return to us.”

I remark, “Oh, I get it, you have to be buried here to be ‘At Rest.’”

“Yes,” Marvin nods, “but if your body is not returned here, it is possible for your spirit to come back in another living thing or being.”

“Oh cool, I get it.”

Mrs. Bats, my History teacher, walks over to talk to Marvin and me.

She pets Neewa, and Neewa wags her tail.

I blurt out nervously, “I don’t really know what I am supposed to say.”

Marvin replies, “Just tell that wonderful story about Neewa. Start with when she was a puppy, how you went to the pound and found her. Explain to everyone what the dogcatcher said when you were leaving the pound. Then let everyone know how she got the name ’Neewa’, and what it means.

“Chester told me about the holes in your yard. Everyone will laugh when they hear that story. You could explain how Neewa got sick with distemper, and how you found Doctor Cuthberson.”

Marvin laughs, “Then give them some time to ask questions. That’s all, it will be fine.”

As I enter the room with Neewa everyone applauds. I am sure they are applauding Neewa. The little kids call Neewa to come by them and she meanders through the aisles getting pats on the head and smiles from the kids. She goes around the room to everyone in the hall as I speak. Everything is going just like Marvin said it would, and Neewa is a big hit as usual.

Standing at the podium in the front of the room, I talk about Neewa’s life. I start with when I got her at the pound and how I found her name in the book and what it means. Everyone laughs when I tell them about how she digs holes in the yard. And a few “Wows” come from the audience when I tell them about her close call with death, the disease distemper.

When I stop talking, I ask if anyone has any questions.

One person wants to know, “Where did you get the book on Shoshone Language? What is the name of the book?”

“I don’t know,” I say, “but I will ask my Dad and we will give the information to Marvin to give to you.”

A boy asks, “What is that sticking out of her mouth?”

Having forgotten the part about her teeth, I explain how distemper caused her to lose some of her teeth. I tell everyone that Neewa lost many of her teeth in the middle of the jaw. And that is the place where her tongue falls out the side of her mouth.

A little girl asks, “Do you know Neewa has a spirit?” Everyone laughs.

I answer, “No, I don’t know she has a spirit.”

An awkward silence hangs over the room for a moment.

With no other questions, everyone applauds. All the kids have already gotten up and begun calling and petting Neewa.

The presentation is over and it seems to have gone well. I finished the story in about ten minutes.

I wonder if anyone knows that I want to be a writer, I think to myself.

I can feel the cool air as Neewa and I wait by the door to be picked up by Dad and Jackie.

Marvin hurries from an office on the first floor and comes over to thank me. “Thanks for coming and speaking Christina. That was great! I am so glad you came. I have been so very busy with all my projects, school and the meetings.” He runs off directing someone to do something as he turns the corner and swaggers out of sight.

Mrs. Bats, my History teacher, comes over to Neewa and me as we wait at the front door.

She says, “You gave a very good presentation. Would you like to give the same presentation in History class tomorrow?”

I answer, “I don’t know if they will let me bring Neewa to school.”

Mrs. Bats laughs and says, “Without Neewa will be fine.”

As Dad and Jackie pull up to the front door I say, “Good-bye, Mrs. Bats.”

“See you, Christina,” she replies.

I get in the car and we drive off.

“Christina, how did it go?” Dad asks.

Annoyed to have to talk any more, “It went fine Dad, I don’t want to talk about it. I just want to go home, take a hot shower, and go to bed.”

“I just want to be left alone,” I tell him one more time hoping this will be the end of the conversation.

“One funny thing did happen. A little girl asked me, ’Did I know Neewa has a spirit?’”

Dad replies, “Yeah, that is a funny question. What did you say?”

I said, “No, I didn’t know Neewa has a spirit.”

Looking at Neewa, both Dad and I ask her at the same time, “Neewa, do you have a spirit?”

Neewa looks at me, tilts her head with her tongue hanging out, and then barks, “Roooof.”



This book is free. How to download ebooks to e-reading devices and apps.

Available ebook reading formats for Neewa the Wonder Dog and the Ghost Hunters.
 Volume One: The Indian Medicine Woman’s Mystery is Revealed!

Format Full Book
Kindle (.mobi for Kindle devices and Kindle apps) Download
Epub (Apple iPad/iBooks, Nook, Sony Reader, Kobo, and most e-reading apps including Stanza, Aldiko, Adobe Digital Editions, others) Download
PDF (good for reading on PC, or for home printing) Download
RTF (readable on most word processors) Download
LRF (Use only for older model Sony Readers that don't support .epub) Download
Palm Doc (PDB) (for Palm reading devices) Download
Plain Text (download) (flexible, but lacks much formatting) Download
Plain Text (view) (viewable as web page) View
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Copyright © 2011 Neewa the Wonder Dog and the Ghost Hunters!
Last modified: August 31, 2014