The first bell vanished Tuesday night.
The second went on Friday.
By Sunday, Sam had sworn to catch
the ghost before next payday.
“A phantom rides through Dry Gulch streets,”
he told the gathered town.
“I fired once to warn him off.
He never even slowed down.”
On Monday Daisy checked the door.
Its bell had vanished too.
The children would return at one.
The teacher asked, “Will you?”
“With the bell,” said Daisy. “If I can.”
She searched beneath the eaves.
A strip of white cloth caught a nail.
A boot print marked the leaves.
“A ghost in boots,” said Sheriff Sam.
“These times are very strange.”
“Perhaps,” she said, “but I would like
to know its walking range.”
Pike made bells and sold door locks.
His shop stood by the square.
For months his locks had gathered dust;
now buyers lined up there.
He held a sign above his head:
NO GHOST CAN PASS THIS LOCK.
“At noon,” he cried, “the rider comes.
Come watch beside my shop!”
“How do you know?” asked Daisy.
“I found a note,” said Pike.
He waved it high. Sam read aloud,
“At noon, the ghost will strike.”
The night before, beside that shop,
Daisy had seen it pause:
a horse-shaped shadow wrapped in white,
as still as wood it was.
Yet hoofbeats kept on clopping
from somewhere near its tail.
No horse should stand quite motionless
and gallop without fail.
She took the cloth to Pike’s front room.
“Is this a sheet you sell?”
“It’s packing cloth,” he told her.
“We wrap each finished bell.”
He had a drum beside the door
with wooden clappers in it.
“For sales,” he said, and turned a crank.
It rattled for a minute.
Daisy fitted padded sticks
in place of those inside.
“Will these make less noise?” she asked.
Pike’s little smile went wide.
“Less noise,” he said. She turned the crank.
The clappers knocked in pairs:
ka-clop, ka-clop, the very sound
she’d heard behind the stairs.
“A horse for sale?” she asked him.
“No horse,” said Pike too fast.
“Just locks. I ought to close the door.
My morning’s nearly passed.”
She left. She told Sam what she’d found.
He frowned beneath his hat.
“I’ll guard the road with both my eyes.”
“Good. I’ll watch round the back.”
The teacher brought the empty stand
that held the schoolhouse bell.
Daisy set it by the rear shop door.
“You’ll have your stand as well.”
At noon, the waiting town grew quiet.
Sam faced the sunny street.
Behind the shop, a wheel began
to squeak beside two feet.
Pike pushed a horse carved out of wood
upon a box on wheels.
White cloth hung down around the cart
beneath its painted heels.
The drum was fixed behind the box.
Pike cranked it from the rear.
He crouched behind the wooden beast
before the square drew near.
He had not seen the empty stand
across his chosen track.
The cart struck hard. Its lid sprang up.
Three bells pealed from the back.
Daisy held the fallen lid.
“You’ve brought our bells along.”
Pike stared at all three clanging mouths.
The drum went clop-clop-wrong.
“A final peal to scare them,”
he said, and dropped the crank.
“They’d buy my locks. I meant to put
the bells back after. Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me,” Daisy told him.
“Tell Sam. He’s coming now.”
Sam turned to see the wooden beast.
“I warned a packing cow?”
“A horse,” said Pike. “I carved it.”
“Then you can carve no more
until we hear your buyers out,”
said Sam. “Come through this door.”
Pike walked beside him to the jail.
Daisy checked each bell.
The shop’s own, small and costly lock
went on the cell as well.
At one the school bell rang again.
The children filled the yard.
Sam sat to write a plain report.
He found that rather hard.
He wrote of cloth, a cart, a crank,
of Daisy at the back.
Then softly asked, “How many T’s
does ‘cotton’ need, in fact?”
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