Ghost Talker by Robin D. Owens

life and death.
    â€œAnd why are you here at Buffalo Bill’s grave?” She waved her hand at the mounds of William Cody’s and his wife’s graves. It was unlikely that Texas Jack was a phantom tied to a specific place since the man had been buried in Leadville, Colorado, and here he was. If he couldn’t move around as a phantom he’d have stayed in Leadville, ninety miles away.
    He was my pard.
Jack frowned, looked at his cigar.
Though he’s long gone
. Jack sounded wistful.
I guess I sensed that something was happening here, some distress that eddied around his name, and I followed that disruption and ended up here.
He glanced around.
Pretty place; can see the mountains and the plains.
    â€œYes, a lovely place. Do you intend to stay here on Lookout Mountain?” she asked softly. “Or will you come to Denver to talk to me? I have a comfortable carriage house I meet clients in.” She meant ghosts. She didn’t care for them in her new-to-her historic house built in the 1920s, her sanctuary and the reward she’d given herself for accepting her “gift.”
    Jack stood facing the plains—the delineation and large shadow of Table Mountain, the tall buildings of Denver jutting into the sky.
    Shaking his head and not looking at her, he said,
I think that city would be hard for me. Too much has changed as I . . . slept.
He turned in a circle, as if scanning the plains, the evergreens around them, the satellite antennas, the city buildingsbelow.
    I mostly slept all these years. Didn’t much like the nasty grayness of nothing.
Now his impassive expression faded and deep grief creased his face.
Didn’t like being without my Giuseppina.
    â€œI understand the grayness is bad.”
    Nothingness. No sensations. Yes.
The cigar disappeared from his hand and he stretched as if feeling the sunshine, turned his face toward the sun.
I can range over the land, up to Yellowstone where I led hunting parties; here, of course; down to Texas; and all along the Chisholm Trail. But nothing much west of that.
    Clare would have to look at a map. At least she’d garnered a little information from this conversation. “I hear you,” she said, hoping to keep him talking.
    He jerked his head toward the graves.
And right now, I’m riding herd on that young ’un who’s showing up. He just peeked in this morning, but left running when he saw me. Sure isn’t staying to confab.
    â€œThank you for your help in the matter of the poltergeist. We appreciate it.”
    You’re welcome.
    â€œIt may take a little time for Zach to discover the identity of the lost ghost.”
    Got nothing but time right now.
Jack seemed to contemplate the quartz crystal rocks that had been pried from the graves and tottered on the fence.
And the young, lost ghost is interesting.
He smiled.
That’s all I ask, an interesting time.
    At that minute Enzo loped up to them, barking. Clare touched the stopwatch of her phone. He hadn’t appeared at all this morning, and since she’d left her house it had been a good hour and seven minutes and fifteen seconds.
    Hi, Clare! Hi, ghost!
He nearly skidded into Texas Jack, who laughed and rubbed his head.
    Good-looking dog
, he said to Clare.
Is he a good hunting dog?
    Yes, I AM!
Enzo said, wriggling under Jack’s ghostly fingers.
    A dog that talks
, Jack said with a quirk of his mouth.
Isn’t that something.
    With a quick glance to see that no one else had arrived, Clare replied aloud, “This is my companion, Enzo.”
    I don’t recognize the breed
, Jack said. So Labs must have been introduced to the States after his death. Clare made a note to look the fact up for all her future cases. If Jack didn’t recognize the kind of dog Enzo was, not many other ghosts of her time period would either. So far no ghost had balked at working with Enzo, but that could happen.
    â€œIt’s called a Labrador. Very