EDITOR’S NOTE: This story was originally published at Richland Source in 2013.
Down by Split Rock and above the cave there is a rocky path that winds straight up the side of the cliff. A few trees hang on there and, with those roots for handholds and a complete absence of sense, a person can climb up over the very face of that stone.
Old Schrack was maybe 70 years of age but the single-mindedness of his revenge took away all the aches and scars of those years and left him as agile as on his fifteenth birthday. When his head rose over the edge of that cliff, and he spotted Jack sitting by the fire, there was a gleam in his eye.
Schrack’s Revenge
The party of thieves had subsided considerably by that time of the night, and they lay in clumps and heaps around the clearing. Jack had his back turned mostly to the cliff and the black patch over his eye showed Schrack his blind side.
On his belly in the grass like a snake, and with the slow deliberation of a stopped watch, Old Schrack entered the field and moved among the slumbering forms like just another of those, in restless dreams.
He could have taken his best shot from there, but determined to risk nothing by pulling the trigger only when the barrel was at Jack’s head. And, as he inched closer, Jack stretched out his legs and leaned back from the fire, as if to make it easier.
Suddenly it was deadly calm, and the wind and the battling leaves that had covered the sound of his approach, dropped to a hush and left only the snaps of slow flames and some hoarse snoring in the weeds.
He heard a slow guzzle of whiskey and the clink of glass and knew his chance would come the next time Jack took a drink from the bottle. He could hear Jack’s breathing, and the silence was so still that he heard the soft bristling of the man stroking his mustache. But for his own heart pounding, he might have heard Jack’s thoughts.
It’s sure Jack heard his.
When Jack tipped up the whiskey again, Schrack cocked the pistol muffled under his coat. Then when Jack cocked the bottle, in a flash, the old man bolted to his knees and fired.
There was a flash of steel in the firelight, then sparks launched by a bullet in the embers whined in a spiral upward toward the heavens and gracefully winked to ash as they settled down on old Schrack, now a dead man, a ghastly grin from ear to ear; his throat slit clear to the bone.
It’s said Jack cut him into little pieces with that knife and laid the bits onto his fire one at a time, just to listen to the old man’s blood boil.
The Battle
Everyone heard that shot. Above and below and clear out of the valley it echoed, and those who it didn’t waken, it terrified. There wasn’t anyone hopeful enough to think it marked the end of anything, but only the awful beginning.
For the men of Shady Grove, waiting below, it removed the last doubt as to whether or not to take action.
An event that is terrible enough will cast its shadows forward in time, and as if to echo the battle before it even sounded, the skies began to thunder and the forests writhed their limbs in fury.
The grim townsmen shouldered their gear and ascended through the backlands to surround the hill. Advancing toward the cliffs from the cornfields below, the Shady Grove men knew that their bullets were pointed right over the rooftops of their town and above the heads of their own sleeping children.
Risen above the debilities of fear, and the weakness of anger, they came to the heights with the calm surety of surrender to duty. Only a score of them lived to describe the tide of the battle, but none of them ever spoke of it again except maybe quietly among themselves.
Nature itself came to their side as if to blow the foul pestilence off the face of the earth as gusty wild volleys of autumn leaves rose in a phalanx to spit dirt and cinders into the eyes of the enemy. Blinding flashes of lightning, like bombs bursting in air, gave proof of heaven’s resolve to blast One-Eyed Jack and his men from the night.
Rain torrents of the storm didn’t fall, however, until after the shooting was finished, and the men of Shady Grove were certain that the only ones left standing were on their side. The rains fell then, in a wash so fierce that Jack’s campfire left the earth in a sudden steaming huff.
The Search
When the first wave of the storm had passed, the men lit a torch and began gathering the bodies in piles. Though relieved that the battle had been won, the men couldn’t be glad for life when surrounded by their dead friends. Gloom and grief tempered all their thoughts, but it shortly turned to desperation and horror as they discovered that the one body they wanted most to find was not on the hilltop.
Any number of them knew they had hit Jack. And every one had seen him fall on one field of the battle or another, and they all knew no one had broken through their line to reach the safety of the cornfield … which left only one alternative: Jack had gone over the cliff.
The battle-shocked townsmen scurried down to the river and searched the shore, hoping he had landed on the rocks, for with the rising current racing in storm waters, his body wouldn’t be found for days, and miles downstream.
Numb and bloody, they pooled their despair at Split Rock, until a fresh downpour swept over them, and they all backed into the mouth of the cave for shelter. With the torch in the dark they stared in amazement at the rain puddled at their feet.
It was red.
The Cave
Before you could say Jack’s Alive, they all leaped out of the cave in one movement. In the pelting rain they quickly devised a plan and two men ran up into town to bring the bloodhounds.
They called them bloodhounds because they were ravenous at the scent of blood; but they weren’t hounds and they weren’t really even dogs. They were one part wolf and probably two parts bear, and Harly Davison had been breeding them since the end of the war in case the South ever decided to rise again.
They snarled and snapped at everything in sight, and when they caught the scent of Jack’s blood they bounded into the cave with nary a sound.
Peace settled over the men again and the rain pattered to a close, so they gathered some driftwood and sat down by a small fire to wait.
After 10 minutes by the Sheriff’s watch they all grew a little anxious and, after 20 minutes, Harly stuck his head in the cave and made a couple of weak calls.
When another 20 minutes had passed, everyone decided that either the cave was much deeper than they’d imagined or else the hounds were warming up leftovers for a midnight snack. Each of them made a joke. No one laughed.
The rain came tentatively, then lurched into gear and as they scrambled back into the cave to get out of the downpour, they heard a scuffle and a scrape … and then out rolled the dogs’ heads.
The Sheriff
The men were going to draw straws, but it seemed rather pointless since there was only one of them who didn’t have a wife and children to think of; and he just happened to be the only one who was actually paid to do this kind of work. As the Sheriff turned to go into the cave, he handed out his watch and instructed the boys to fetch some explosives, and if he wasn’t back in one hour, to dynamite the cave closed.
The rain poured steadily for 50 minutes and, when an hour was gone, it was still too wet to lay a fuse. When two hours had gone, the rain ceased for good and stars filled the dark with hope.
It was nearly dawn when they finally laid in the dynamite, and the sun was coming over the ridge — when the Sheriff’s head rolled out of the cave.
After that, there was nothing left to do but grant the Sheriff his last request. It was a mighty explosion, and a ton of rock, that sealed the end of Jack and his story.
Epilogue
We would like to say it’s over. But, the truth is, no one knows. Three days later Mary and Maggie went up to the cave to lay a wreath, and the stone had been rolled away.
We are only local folk, and if there were any further tales of depredations carried on out farther West by a one-eyed demon, the news never made it back to Shady Grove. No one in this place would have minded if his afterlife were carried out anywhere but in this here.
But there are those living in this town who swear they have seen that man in black even today — generations after his story ended. A shadow across the face of the cliff on a night when there is no moon to cast a shadow, or a light reflected on the river when there is nothing but dark on the other side.
This is Part 2 of a 4-part series about the Legend of Horse Thief Jack—A Richland County ghost story.
Parts 1 & 2 tell the story itself, and Parts 3 & 4 are an exploration to determine how the story originated, and what possible basis the legend may have in documented local history.
The story of Jack has been told since 1933, so naturally it has grown, changed, and evolved, as do all tales that capture the imagination.
This is the way I heard the story, but I have heard variations that differ—sometimes in detail, sometimes in substance.
If the version you know has something different about it than what you read here—let me know. I am interested to hear how the story differs, and when you heard it.
Contact me: mckee@richlandsource.com
This is so crazy to me because I went to this camp called hidden hollow that they told every year about the legend of horse thief jack and the actual cave weee it happened and this brings so much nostalgia to hear.