There’s a place, down Independence Ks way, that isn’t what it really seems.
There’s signs and rumors, even yet all these years later, that the James gang rode this way and slept around down there, and maybe even buried treasure in the gulley’s and what not.
That’s what the signs speak of, and rumor has it. I don’t know. It is rather pretty, however. It makes one wonder, if one concerns themselves with such thing, just how is it so many bad guys had the artistic eye to discover such beauty and places of wonder, round the world, as it seems.
Now I confess I have r climbed Look Out mountain, and have never seen what the James gang saw, nor even have a clue as to what they might have been looking for while they were up there – having never had good guys looking for me with guns.
But driving about the vdalley below the moutain one gains the feeling of age, even after only a hundred years occupation or so. A couple of white houses trimmed in black and little fields separated by bits of old rock fence and rails and barbed wire. Nothing like the modern farm with hedge rows and cleared spaces.
One has a tendency to speed through the are, not entirely unjustified, that feeling, and at the same time ones head swivels rapidly to remain on the road and stilll take in every thing possible, hoping not to wreck, visualizing lying there bleeding out waiting for the help on knows will not come.
At least soon.
Outlaws, you know.
From the reaches,