The Supernatural characters belong to Kripke Enterprises and the CW, not me. No money is being made from this story. It is for entertainment only.

Real Ghost Stories

Chapter 3

Warriors on the Hilltop

The wind stirred the tall dry grass on the top of a modest hill in Northwestern Nebraska. There was nothing to see; a half dry stream ran at the bottom of the hill and the vistas of clear blue sky went on forever, as the sky had a tendency to do on the plains. There were no buildings, no people; nothing to indicate that it wasn't 1775 or 1875 or any particular date at all. The prairie lay peaceful under the sun,

Nothing had changed since the buffalo had gone away a long, long time ago, along with the pony riders who followed the herds. The thunder of the bison's hooves had faded away a hundred years before. Now there was only the wind and, at night, the hoot of hunting owls, looking for mice in the grass.

But if you sat at the top of the hill, overlooking Warbonnet Creek, or Hat Creek, as it was now known, and you stayed until the moon was up you could hear the whispers of men, volume now rising, now falling, masked by the noise of the wind blown grass. Like a radio with bad reception those voices from the past traded secrets throughout the night.

XXXXX

Winchesters in their natural habitat, that was the atmosphere inside the Impala. Driving straight through the night they had come out of the West; from the northeast edge of Colorado to a road straight as the proverbial stick, stretching across the prairie state of Nebraska. The morning sun bounced off Deans' sun glasses.

He yawned and reached over to poke at Sam. "Hey, bitch, feel like breakfast?"

Sam woke and yawned. Stretching his arms out, he accidently punched the car roof with one hand while the other reach out the window. Dean saw him pet the roof of the car, sort of an apology for hitting the roof inside. Dean smiled. He loved his car but it was also about the only permanent home Sam had ever known. Dean had always suspected that Sam knew that the 'pala had feelings.

Dean wondered how the hell his brother had grown so large. He was also pleased that it had happened on big brother's watch. He had done a good job raising the kid and he was proud of it.

"Sam, do you remember when you were little that you called the car 'pala?

Sam's lips twitched with a small smile. "No, I don't really remember that. How old was I? Five? Six?

"Old enough." Dean smiled. "She has always been a big, black security blanket, for both of us. It's OK to apologize when you hurt her."

"So you saw that, did you?" Sam actually blushed.

God, the kid was so easy, Dean thought to himself. "So, breakfast sound good?"

"Absolutely. Let's find a diner," Sam reached in the back and pulled some papers out of his duffle. "Since we're so close I thought we might go see Warbonnet Creek. I want to show you some stuff about it. We need a table."

"Sam, we can't go wandering off on every side road that attracts your attention," Dean shook his head. "We'll never get where we're going."

They pulled into a rest area with a diner, parked and continued bickering on their way to the door.

"Dean," Sam went on. "It's just a day and a night. That poltergeist is still going to be there on Thursday. Besides it's our civic duty to go see this place. It's haunted. We should go mop it up and make sure no one gets into trouble."

The hostess came forward to seat them and was knocked back on her heels with the power of a full-on Dean Winchester smile. He winked at her and poked an elbow into Sam side at the same time.

"Oof." Sam responded. "Look at that, you're multi-tasking. I knew that brain cell of yours had a friend. Two thoughts at once! You make me proud, big brother."

"Shut up, Sam."

Dean found out that the hostess's name was Bonnie and he worked his magic. They were quickly seated at a large table that Bonnie's boss liked to reserve for families and groups but Bonnie was convinced that Dean needed room to go over maps of the property he wanted to buy, right here, in this very town. The poor girl was dizzy with expectation.

"Dean." hissed Sam. "Can't you keep it in your pants for at least one meal?"

Dean smirked back at Sam. "Why should I? Never know when you might need a backup plan."

Sam pushed all the hardware on the table top aside and spread out a couple of maps and a bright, shiny tourist's brochure.

"Looks like the Chamber of Commerce puked on the table." Dean said, pushing at the brochure with a finger. "What's the story here, Sam?"

The story of the Indian wars," Sam responded. "The same old story; an indigenous people pushed out by another culture that was more violent and greedy; grasping for land to maintain its own ever expanding population. "

"Whoa, National Geographic much?" Dean sipped his coffee and smiled a thank you at Bonnie.

"Ok, I know," Sam responded. "I'm beating a drum for a long lost battle. But the Cheyanne had lived in Minnesota as farmers and fishermen for thousands of years and their world crumbled around them. Pushed ever further Westward they became a warrior culture. They became a hunting culture. Mounted on tough native horses they learned to hunt the buffalo over the grasslands. Then the hated settlers always followed them and the buffalo began to disappear."

Bonnie dropped plates of food in front of them, almost dumping Sam's in his lap since she could not take her eyes off Dean.

"Oh, so sorry," she muttered insincerely, ineffectively flapping a dish towel at him.

"It's all right. No harm done." Sam responded.

"Get a move on, Sam." Dean waved at the maps "before she pours your coffee refill on your balls."

'You've heard of Custer's Last Stand and the Battle of the Little Bighorn, right?" Sam lectured.

"Who hasn't?" Dean replied. "What does that have to do with this Warbonnet Creek haunting? I suppose it's a haunting, you haven't exactly got that far yet."

"Oh, it's a haunting alright," Sam went on.

"What is not generally mentioned, or published in school books is that the Cheyanne had been massacred twice in the preceding decade. The Sand Creek Massacre of November 1864 killed 150 to 200 Cheyanne, predominately unarmed women and their children. The Cheyanne, Sioux and the Arapahoe joined together and in January of 1865 they attacked the army's Camp Ranken with about 1,000 warriors. "

"Four years later, on November 17, 1868, George Armstrong Custer and his troops attacked a band of Cheyanne at the Battle of Washita River. The thing was, the Washita River camp was a defined Indian reservation. Custer and his men killed more than 100 peaceful Cheyanne, most of them, again , women and children.

The anger grew in the tribes. These men lost their world. They lost the prairies their fathers and grandfathers before them, had ridden as Kings. They lost the buffalo, killed off by Europeans not for food but for furs, leaving behind prairies full of denuded carcasses. They lost their wives and their children to armed men who regarded their loved ones as mere animals. No wonder Little Big Horn happened.

The Cheyanne, the Sioux and the Arapahoe gathered on June 25, 1876 and killed Custer and much of his 7th Calvary. That was Custer's Last Stand. The Indians saw it as revenge, the American government saw it as aggression and responded with another General and another Army."

"Sam." Dean said. "Take a breath. Your eggs are congealing."

Sam stopped and shoveled food into his mouth. Dean kept an eye on him in case he choked trying to get it down as fast as possible. Dean really enjoyed it when Sam became passionate about a subject. The warmth spread from one bother to the other and Dean felt like his world took a breath and became something precious again, something to be guarded.

Sam stopped shoveling and continued with his story. "After Little Bighorn the Cheyanne broke up into smaller bands and gradually they were swept up by the Army and placed on "reservations".

"These reservations were poorly maintained and poorly stocked. It was cold in Nebraska and the tribes had no nourishing food, or firewood or ways to protect their broken families. In the summer of 1876 about 200 to 300 hundred warriors made a break for the Black Hills of South Dakota where their allies, the Sioux, could protect them."

The government ordered Colonel Wesley Merritt and the 5th Calvary to intercept these breakaway Cheyanne and return them to the reservation. Along with Merritt was someone you'll recognize, the Indian Scout, "Wild Bill" Cody."

"I know him,' Dean crowed. " He was cool."

"Oh, yeah," Sam growled. "He was really cool". "The 5th Calvary intercepted the Cheyanne at Warbonnet Creek, our ghost site, and a supposed "duel" occurred between Wild Bill and a young warrior called Heova'che or Yellow Hair. Cody killed Yellow Hair with his Winchester carbine ( Dean made a small cheer) and then pulled out his Bowie knife and scalped Yellow Hair. "

"This scalping was the first "Scalp for Custer" incident and set off a wave of scalpings in "revenge" for Custer's death." Sam stopped to breathe and regain his temper. "Cody kept Yellow Hair's scalp and feather war bonnet, knife, and saddle and used them as props in his Wild West shows."

"The U. S. Government gave Cody the Medal of Honor for his service in the Indian wars. Today both he, and Custer, would be regarded as war criminals."

"A little harsh there, Sam."

"When someone says to you 'it won't matter in a hundred years' this is what matters a hundred years later; lives lost, families broken and ruined. History washed in Cheyanne blood. It is best to remember that the Victors in war write the history books, the defeated lose their voice."

Dean's hand paused above the tip tray. He dropped the money on top of the check, gave Bonnie another brilliant smile and said "Ok, I guess we're on our way to Warbonnet Creek, You call fill me in on the haunting in the car. Thanks for the history lesson and for completely destroying one of the few historical figures that I admired."

"Sorry, Dean." Sam replied. "It's always better to know the truth."

XXXXXXX

Back in the Impala Sam continued with his findings on the ghost.

"I just don't understand where this ghost or ghosts come from," he complained. "Yellow Hair was the only recorded death in this 'battle' and I don't know what he would be doing up on the hill."

"Tough one." Dean answered just to sympathize.

"I'll tell you what, I may not have any idea who is up on that hill but I might have an idea what do to about it. As we go through these little towns keep your eyes peeled for a market and some kind of tobacco shop. I need to buy some stuff.

"Ok, Mr. Mysterious." Dean responded. "Do you have any recent sightings of these supposed ghosts? We could just be chasing a local legend."

Sam started, "In September 1983 two men, John Grant and Lester Barton were participants in an historical reenactment of the bivouac of the Fifth Calvary. In these "living history "reenactments they go pretty far. Acting as Calvary men or Indian scouts the re-enactors dress the part and even follow the rules of a military encampment of a hundred years ago. They even had guard duty rotations which lead to first Grant and then Barton pulling guard duty on the top of the hill overlooking Warbonnet Creek."

"As Grant told the story, it was a cold night and the view was spectacular. The moon appeared and disappeared behind the clouds as an approaching storm lit up the horizon with lightening. There was only wind, dark clouds and sporadic lightening."

Sam took a breath and went on. "He then heard men whispering. He couldn't make out what they were saying but it was definitely men's voices and the whispering was all around him. He stood and circled the monument built on top of the hill and when he came back around to where he had been sitting there was a greenish mist "boiling" along the ground and moving upward towards the monument. "Boiling" was his word. It was his best attempt to describe the movement of the mist."

"He had a half an hour left in his rotation but he just took off. He ran to the duty tent and met Lester Barton coming out to replace him. Grant said nothing to Barton."

Den glanced over at his brother. "Spooky, Sam. A lovely crawling mist. You take me out to all the best places."

"Shut up, jerk. Early the next morning Grant and Barton got together. They found that they had both seen the same thing and they were both completely freaked out. They reported the sighting and the sounds to their University's history department and the story got out. That why we are heading to Warbonnet Creek. Actually, it has been re-named. It is now Hat Creek, and lies just northwest of Hayes, Nebraska." Sam fell silent.

It wasn't too long before they passed through a fairly large town and Sam spotted a smoke shop. He had Dean drop him off and he sent Dean to go find a market and buy some sugar, a cloth bag for the sugar, if he could find one, and maple sugar candies. "Any description of candy, Dean. But it must be pure. No processed candy. If you can't find anything like that forget it and just get the sugar."

They met back together in front of a Starbucks. "See, Sam," Dean snorted. "Civilization even deep inside rural Nebraska. "

It was late afternoon when they set off to the "Hat Creek State Historic Site", now maintained by the State of Nebraska, a proud memorial to the destruction of the Cheyanne. They pulled up about a half mile from the Park Ranger's building and waited for the rangers to leave.

In the early twilight they gathered together a duffle bag with some blankets and weapons, just in case, and Sam's shopping list of items. They hiked up to the top of Monument Hill and looked out over the prairie. Just like the night of John Grant's re-enactment it was cloudy and windy. They didn't get the lightening display but the night was young. They spread out their blanket under the lip of the monument and huddled together.

"Great, Sam," Dean grumbled. "A picnic in the dark. Here, give me some more of that blanket, you pig. You're hording it. We got anything to drink?" He propped his feet up on their duffle, ankles crossed.

"I didn't bring you out here to get drunk like a couple of teenagers in a graveyard," Sam grumbled right back. "Quiet down. Remember? We're listening for whispers." Sam grudgingly let Dean steal more of their blanket and sat with his back against the cold stone monument, his eyes closed, straining to hear whispers.

"So, Sam," Dean spoke. "You have any ideas about who these ghosts might be?"

"Yes, I do. You have to remember these men had been held on a reservation all winter with very little food, in most likely insanitary conditions and without heat. The diseases the whites brought with them swept through the Indian populations. They were desperate to reach the Black Hills and the Sioux but they were malnourished, weak from ill-treatment and most likely sick. Some of them many have simply died here from natural causes and their companions buried them. "

"I'm pretty sure it's not Yellow Hair although he would have a perfect right to haunt. Cody shot him from a coward's distance, then scalped and looted his body. Somehow, though, I just don't see him up on this hill whispering. I'd think he'd be out there trying to kill himself some Park Rangers."

"Good point." Dean agreed. "So what are we going to do about it?"

"Well, we have no hope of finding bones, I can't talk to them because I don't know their language and I doubt very much if they will lay down for Catholic prayers so I'm going to try and buy the hill from them."

Dean laughed. "You're going to buy the Hill?"

"I brought these bags of loose tobacco to pay for the ground. We brought sugar for their wives and I had some bracelets in the car made of quartz. We brought candy for their kids. If I set this stuff up like an offering some of them may re-connect with their wives and kids. It's the best I can do." Sam set out with his hands full to look for a safe place to leave his offerings.

Dean watched his brother and wondered how it was that Sam could connect so easily with the dead.

When the whispering started there was no need to strain to hear it. Dean looked around automatically and there was nothing there. He was about to call out to Sam when he noticed that his brother seemed to be walking through a green mist that collected around his legs below the knees. The mist rolled and bubbled just like boiling water. Dean ran after Sam.

"Sam, don't look now but you're walking through a boiling green mist." Dean said when he caught up..

"Good," Sam responded. "Good to know that they're here." He found some loose rocks and hid his gifts under of pile of them. "Let's go, Dean. It's all I can do for them."

XXXXXXX

The brothers gathered their things and headed down the hill, back to the car. Behind them the Nebraska wind still carried the sound of men whispering but now there were also women's voices and the laughter of children.