Alastor Denton & Hototo: Ghosts of the Frontier

Origins of the Ghost

Northern Texas Frontier. 1871.

Gunshots ring out in the darkness. Men yell. Some scream in pain, others from the death of family members.

Alastor Denton bolts up from his cot. A bugle horns blasts out from the other side of his tent. Without thinking, one hand grabs his black Stetson, the other his revolver. He's an imposing figure. The rugged lines across his unshaven face show his rough lifestyle as a militia member that assists the Texas Rangers. The stress is aging him before his time. The cot creaks almost as loud as his back does as he stands. Is he in his mid-thirties or his sixties?

The flap of the tent parts as Alastor steps out into the commotion of the camp. Members of Captain Bryme's militia scatter around. Captain Bryme, a thin, lengthy, too clean looking to be doing this type trots by on his horse. He eyes Alastor as he passes. Another group of a dozen men, a rag-tag group, half drunk, stagger past.

Alastor stops one of the men. "What's happened?" His voice is harsh, almost hoarse.

"They sayin' the Indian's shot up Kindvall's ranch. Stole horses," the man said.

"It's the Indian's that will eat ya!" Another one said as they continue towards the main line of the militia.

Out from the pack of drunkards appears Sonny Bryme - the middle son of the Captain's. He's crooked - his hat, his teeth, one eye, his mind. Something has been off about him since birth. He'll never live up to the politicians, lawyers, educators and smooth talkers like the rest of his family. He's barely riding the good side of the law being daddy's ruthless enforcer.

"You better saddle up, we ridin' out 'head of the main. Indian's run off into the badlands. We gonna get'em no question asked," said Sonny.

"It's not the Akokisa people. They don't raid like that. Not on the edge."

"Kindvall's line rider's gone. Dinner I'm told."

Alastor pulls the black bandana up from his once white shirt. He stares down Sonny as he buttons his black coat. The buttons are the only colorful part of his look - large, shiny silver heart-shaped buttons clasp the coat closed.

"You's an yer momma's buttons." Sonny laughs. "Brings me to tears, boy."

* * *

Through the darkness, two horses race off into the badlands of the frontier. Alastor leads Sonny. Both in black, both masked by their bandanas, roaming the land like unseen ghosts.

They enter a forest area. The hooves of the horses lightly tap against the ground, tip-toeing through the beaten down trails. Alastor stops his horse. He looks back to Sonny and gestures to hush. Nearby, someone whistles - it's melodic, enchanting, mesmerizing. They dismount their horses and tie the reins to a tree. Sonny pulls a shotgun from his saddle. Alastor cocks both of his revolvers. They creep towards the whistling sound like they are in a trance and summoned by it. It's coming from a small clearing up ahead. A campfire burns. As the two move in closer, Alastor spots four men, one whistling. One of the men stands and looks. Alastor can see right away that the men are Indian warriors.

"It's dem," Sonny whispered.

"Not who we're lookin' for," Alastor said. "These are Yomani. Let's get out of here."

"They are Indians and we are getting dem. I'll take da left, you take da right. Go on my shot."

Sonny sneaks out to the left flank of the campsite. Alastor moves to the right. Twigs snap around somewhere in the darkness. Alastor ducks and waits, he's hidden in the blackness. One of the Indians walks past him.

BOOM! The shotguns fired. An Indian yells out. Sonny yells to the Indians to get down. Alastor arrives at the camp. One of the Indians lays dead, his face blasted off. The other two are kneeling before Sonny. Sonny raises his revolver to the head of the first Indian.