Free Five Days of the Ghost by William Bell Page B

shriek or a wolf howl.
    But a big grin split the man’s face, lighting up his eyes.
    â€œYep, that bag, she’s mine all right.”
    His voice was rough, like pebbles scraping around in a pail. And it seemed to come from miles away.
    He held out his hand and I dropped the bag onto his wrinkled palm. He slipped one of the bag’s drawstrings up under his belt and tied the bag on. His belt was decorated with quills and coloured beads, just like the bag.
    His grin disappeared and his face was like a carved wooden mask again.
    Silence.
    I stood there shaking, holding the cross out, keeping it between me and the spooky figure on the gravestone, wondering if it would do any good.
    John’s voice sounded strained. “Uh, do you live around here?”
    Boy, could he come up with stupid questions sometimes!
    â€œYep.” The man’s body seemed to relax a bit. He pulled at his earlobe.
    More silence. It’s hard to think of something to say when you’re in a forbidden graveyard at midnight and you’re standing across from an old, half-naked man you think might be a ghost. He didn’t look cold, but I was freezing.
    John and Noah were shivering like they’d been tobogganing in their underwear for the last two hours. And the man had that sort of glow that he’d had two nights ago. I could tell now that it wasn’t from the moonlight.
    â€œWould you mind telling us your name?” Noah asked politely.
    â€œNope. I’m Chief Copegog. How ‘bout you?”
    I looked at the gravestone. Behind the man’s leather leggings I could make out part of the name Copegog carved into the marble. Was he the ghost of the guy buried there?
    â€œI’m Noah, this is John and this is Karen. We live across the lake there, in town.”
    â€œUh, huh. Haven’t bin that place in a long time.”
    Noah kept going. “Do you live on the Chippewa territory?”
    â€œNope. Right here.”
    Boy, I thought, talking to this guy is like pulling teeth.
    Noah pointed to the medicine bag hanging from Chief Copegog’s belt. “Nice bag.”
    The chief slid from the gravestone and the three of us jumped back. I held out the cross with both hands, stiffly, the way the cops on TV hold their guns. I was surprised at how short the man was—a little smaller than John. But he had a wide chest and powerful shoulders and arms, like my dad. He turned to go.
    â€œNo, Chief Copegog, don’t go!” John shouted.
    The chief turned back.
    â€œUmmmm,” John was frantically trying to think of something to say. “Can we come and visit you again?”
    â€œFree country, I guess.”
    â€œUm, would you like us to bring you anything?”
    Chief Copegog creased his brow and thought for a moment. “Got any tobacco? Sure could use a smoke.”
    â€œUh, sure, we could get some,” John answered.
    â€œChief Copegog, how long is it since you had a smoke?” Noah asked.
    Another stupid question, I thought. Then I realized what Noah was getting at.
    The chief pulled at his ear some more. No wonder they were so big.
    â€œMust be … what’s the year now?”
    Noah told him.
    â€œYep. Hundred fifty years or so since I had a smoke.”
    â€œA hun—”
    Noah cut John off. “What kinda tobacco would you like?”
    â€œRegular kind, she’s okay.”
    He turned to go again. Then he slowly turned back.
    And looked right into my eyes, as if he could see into my mind. His eyes were like two red flashlight beams in there, looking around at my thoughts.
    â€œMight be you got too many troubles for one girl.”
    I could feel my jaw drop as he began to walk away, rolling his body from side to side, like a sailor. He was pigeontoed. But he sort of floated over the ground. When he got to the trees he disappeared like a faint light blinking off.
    I stared after him, lost in my thoughts. What did he mean by what he said to me? How