A little to the right of where the old “Kenzie” Trail winds around the
head of Presslar’s Draw, on the — C Ranch in Dickens County, Texas,
stands a lone cottonwood tree that has for many years been a landmark.
Just below the tree, one of the most beautiful springs of the western
country empties out, and a short distance from the bank are the remains
of a dugout—once the home of the first settlers in the country. By some
miracle, the spring and the land immediately about it have escaped the
ravages of progress and are as wild today as they were when the
McKenzie Trail was dusty with travel. Only now, so the people say, the
grass grown trail near by, with its rain-washed ruts cut deep, and the
ruins of the long ago abandoned dugout, with broken bits of domestic
utensils still strewn about, have become the habitation of phantoms—the
haunt and the haunted.
Years ago, Ben —— and Burl —— squatted here and made what they called
the Cottonwood Claim. They were firm friends and shared alike the joys
and hardships of frontier life. Travelers came but seldom, and in their
lonely seclusion the two men came to know each other and to depend on
each other for human understanding as few brothers ever know or
understand one another. When the cottonwood Burl had planted reached a
height of some twelve feet, the country began to settle and land values
to soar. Ben wanted to hold the claim, while Burl wished to sell out
and return to the East. Their differences developed into a dispute that
ended in a tragedy.
The dispute came to the point that neither of the men spoke to the
other. For weeks they lived in sullen silence, wrath and hatred damming
up for some terrible outbreak. It came one evening when Burl was
digging out a grub with his spade. Ben was standing by, the ax that he
had been chopping with in hand. Suddenly, while Burl was bent over
almost to the ground, Ben swung the ax with a great choking cry and
curse and at one blow cut his head off. Then he buried the body under a
small cliff not far from the spring.
A few months afterward Ben became crazy, driven, it is said, into
insanity by the ghost of his dead partner, which was constantly
appearing before him as natural as in life—except headless. Of nights
as Ben sat by his fire the ghost of his partner would steal in and take
the vacant chair. As soon as he had done with supper and had sat down,
Ben could hear a horse coming up the trail; he could hear the creaking
of the saddle; he could hear the whir of the spurs as the ghost came in
from the darkness; and then seated in his old chair, it mattered not
whether the room was lighted or in darkness, would appear the murdered
squatter. Sometimes when Ben was riding far out on distant ranges he
would suddenly hear the galloping of a horse, and there alongside him
would be coming the same apparition, headless, always headless.
Thus hounded, Ben finally told the story of his deed to a sheriff. But
he had already acquired the reputation for being “cracked” and the
sheriff paid no attention to him. Then one day a rider found the
bloated body of Ben hanging from a limb of the cottonwood. Beyond all
doubt he had killed himself.
The folk of the country still tell this tale, and they say that at
night the phantoms can be seen crossing the old Trail or stealing about
the dugout. Some say that they have heard the cry of “O-O-O, Ben” come
as from far away and then a cry of despair answer back from the
cottonwood tree.