The Legend of Four Winds Butte
D.T. Krippene
1905
Two prospectors tied their mules to a bush at the base of a tall butte perched on top of a desert mountain.
“Hey, Sammy,” Jack asked, out of breath. “Can I bum some of your tobacco?”
Sam finished wiping his brow from the high-elevation sun and tossed him a palm-sized leather pouch. “All I got. Nearest provision is several days’ ride from here.”
Jack rolled a cigarette the length of his pinky finger and went into a coughing fit after the first drag. He took in the valley floor thousands of feet below. “Why are we here again?”
Sam looked upward. “Heard from an old Indian the top of this rock is a holy place. Sometimes the natives leave offerings. Precious stones. Maybe some gold, too. We could use it for a new grubstake.”
“Damned thing must be two hundred feet or more straight up. I ain’t no mountaineer.”
Sam walked several yards along the base and stopped at a clump of scrub bushes. He pushed aside dry, thorny branches to find footholds leading upward. “Just like he said. Come on. Day is wasting.”
Jack took a final drag and tossed the cigarette butt into the wind. “Better be worth it.”
The butte sloped inward, which made it like climbing a ladder. They pulled themselves onto the flat, pebble-strewn top. Jutting in the center was a circular, chest-high stone monument etched with symbols wrapped around its circumference. A bed of loose stones buried the lower quarter.
They both inhaled lungfuls of air in disappointment to find nothing else. Jack spat off the rim. “Looks like that ole Injun spun a tall tale.”
Sam ambled toward the petroglyphs for a closer look. “Ain’t seen no cliff scratchins like these before.” He crouched to scrape pebbly dirt mounded around its base. “Nothin’.” He staggered to his feet and kicked the stone monument.
The wind suddenly shifted and blew from the south. In the span of several heartbeats, it shifted again, this time from the east, then from the north a few moments later. It changed again and gusted from the west. A ghostly whisper of many voices chanted in an unknown tongue.
“What in tarnation?” Sam spun about in search of its source.
Jack scrambled over the edge. “I’m gettin’ outta here.” With his boots on the top two footholds, he froze when the sky darkened. The winds gusted in a circle, drawing dust and pebbles in a cyclonic spin. Sam’s body went rigid.
A dust devil whirlwind formed above the monument. “Sam. Get away from that stone,” Jack shouted. The vortex twisted skyward.
Terrified and partially blinded by grit, Jack clambered down, frantically feeling for footholds. He almost made it, but lost his footing and tumbled down the angled wall of rock.
#
2005
Mary Aguilera slapped shut another reference book and absently pasted more lip balm on her lips. A native Los Angelean, there wasn’t enough lotion in the world to compensate for southern Nevada’s low humidity. She leaned back in her chair at the university library and ran fingers through her chin-length hair, wondering if she’d made the right choice by transferring to UNLV for a less conventional master’s degree in the obscure field of Folkloristic Psychology.
She’d always been fascinated with the origins of American folklore, specifically paranormal folktales, and how legends were kept alive even in modern times. A summa cum laude from UCLA, she had no problem finding graduate programs willing to take her on.
Mary chose Nevada because it was considered by some to be the second or third most haunted state in the country, with more ghost towns than real ones. But she had no interest in rehashing the same old legends. She stopped by Professor Peter Wilkins’ office to find her graduate school mentor still in his office at seven o’clock, surrounded by artifacts of the old mining communities that gave Nevada its signature motto, The Silver State.
“Most of Nevada’s paranormal legends are centered on deserted mining sites, abandoned graveyards, and hotels dating to the early twentieth-century gold rush.” He fingered his bushy mustache for a moment. “Have you considered refocusing your research on Indigenous people? Western tribes have a rich preternatural mysticism that goes back before Europeans arrived.”
“How do you trace the true origins of a legend passed down by word of mouth over centuries without some form of documented observation?”
Wilkins leaned forward. “Nevada has some of the oldest petroglyphs in the country.”
“Caveman drawings?”
“Not caves.” Professor Wilkins chuckled. “Figures drawn or etched on cliffs or stone ledges.”
“Sorry. I know what they are. But aren’t petroglyphs basically primitive rock art? Stick figure animals and such? Where’s the paranormal legend connection?”
“Some that date back thousands of years are believed to be observations of unearthly manifestations.”
Mary took the next few days to research it. Petroglyphs, as expected, were mostly simple pictographs. A few etchings depicted what some researchers thought could be crude renditions of flying saucers and alienish creatures. Must be what Wilkins considered “unearthly.” Then her eye caught an obscure footnote referencing a little-known petroglyph monument Native Americans called Four Winds Butte.
Located in the remote wilderness ranges of northeast Nevada, its story began with a 1905 prospector who wandered into a mining camp after days of hiking with a bloody cloth wrapped around his head. He ranted about a native curse that killed his partner before dying on the spot from his injuries. Another reference was a local newspaper clip about a naturist hippie couple in the sixties who stumbled onto the site and disappeared. The only evidence left behind was their backpacks in a chasm thousands of feet below the ridge. Rumors spread of a powerful curse from on top of the Butte, which attracted curious hikers over the years willing to negotiate treacherous terrain to investigate, only to vanish like the others. The last reported disappearance was over two decades ago.
For years, the local tribal council had taken umbrage at any non-natives trespassing on their sacred places. After the last reported disappearance over a decade ago, the tribe convinced the Bureau of Land Management to declare the place off-limits and fenced off the ten-thousand-acre area surrounding the Butte.
Mary had always thought buttes were steep-sided desert mountains formed by the gradual erosion of a larger plateau or mesa, like the famous ones in Arizona. A topographical map of the area revealed barren mountains separated by deep ravines resembling a kicked-up carpet. Though an experienced hiker on rugged terrain, the absence of dotted lines illustrating trails gave her a momentary pause.
Smack in the middle of the mountainous terrain was a nine-thousand-foot peak called Neai, Shoshone for wind. A two-hundred-foot flat-topped rock spire jutted skyward from the summit. As for the petroglyph monument cited to be on top, the reference source contained only drawings. No photographs.
Bingo.
#
Professor Wilkins hemmed and hawed when Mary mentioned Four Winds Butte. “Given the history of disappearances, approval to visit the Butte requires a permit from the BLM and the tribal council whose reservation it’s located on.”
“Is it possible to get approval?”
“Highly unlikely.”
Mary opened a scanned copy of the hand-drawn pictographs. “The author of this study was a guy named John Monroe in 1986. He was the last person to do a write-up on the Butte. Other than this, there wasn’t much else.”
Wilkins sighed. “John Monroe is a retired BLM agent I got to know years ago. He also happens to be a member of the Western Newe Shoshone.” The professor’s chair groaned as he rose to open one of ten dark wood cabinets that had to weigh more than all the packed file folders inside it. He slid a dog-eared manila folder across his desk.
Mary gingerly opened the folder to find pages containing more details. Why was this not in the reference library? “Is there a way I can contact him?”
Wilkins twitched his nose in thought for a moment. “He volunteers for the tribal council and has the final say on any requests to visit the Butte. It’s pretty remote out there. I’ll give him a call, but don’t get your hopes up.” He placed his palm on the file. “Make all the notes you want, but I expect this file back by the end of tomorrow.”
#
Even Wilkins was surprised at Monroe’s permission for an interview. After he gave her a stern warning not to enter the site, Mary headed toward one of the most remote terrains in northeast Nevada. She first had to register at the BLM station in Elko, then drive to a small town near the border of Idaho on a road that barely met the definition of a highway. Checking in at a cheap hotel that doubled as a small border casino bar, she studied the route faxed to her that was not listed on normal maps to where John “Redfeather” Monroe volunteered on the edge of the restricted wilderness area.
Next morning, navigating the boulder-pitted trail with cratered gashes from washouts, Mary worried at times if her Jeep four-wheeler would make it to a paint-peeling double-wide trailer near a chain link fence. The landscape was nothing like the popular desert buttes of Arizona. Sparsely vegetated mountains obscured any view of the Butte.
Monroe was seated behind a scratched, sheet-metal desk. Aside from his well-trimmed black hair, his olive-toned face bore the weathered lines of someone who spent most of their time outdoors. She wrinkled her nose at the pervasive presence of desert dust and the metallic taste of rusting file cabinets.
Monroe scratched an ear and set aside Professor Wilkins’ recommendation. “Pete must think you’re something special.”
“I hope I can live up to that.”
“I get a lot of interested people who only want to add the Butte to their climbing bucket list. Can’t say I’ve ever been interviewed by a Folkloric Psychology major interested in a ghost story.”
“Not so much the story itself, but how legends began, what events led to it, and how its interpretation changes over time. What struck me as unique is the possibility of two legends that intertwined. The first being a legend of a curse supposedly spawned by the disappearances of people beginning in the early nineteen hundreds. Then there’s the petroglyph monument itself, of which very little is documented outside of your research.”
Monroe pursed his lips. “With Four Winds Butte, my knowledge came from my maternal grandmother, passed down through the ages by her ancestors.”
“Then let’s begin with that. According to the archived data you provided the BLM, what struck me was the absence of any photographs. I had to rely on your drawings, which showed the intricacy of the patterned lines and shapes that seemed much more complex than simple Indigenous pictographs typical of this part of the world. Do you think a lost Indigenous civilization of some kind erected it?”
“Sounds like you’re suggesting a civilization like the Mesoamericans. If that were true, there’d be more physical evidence to support that theory, like archeological ruins. A couple of articles hypothesized it could be the work of Indigenous shamans influenced by a dream or vision.”
Mary tapped a pencil on her notepad, deciding to focus on the folk legend of vanishing trespassers. “What can you tell me about the origins of the curse?”
“I was a lad when my grandmother told me a story of powerful wind spirits who resided inside the Butte and took offense at anyone who disrespected or defiled the land, particularly those not of the people.”
Ouch. He just described everyone who wasn’t an Indigenous American. “Did your grandmother say anything about a particular time or inciting event that led to the observation of a spiritual presence?”
“For us, history isn’t necessarily tied to a specific event. It is the land and sky that foster our beliefs.”
Mary scribbled in her notebook. “Was there any legend of others who disappeared before the prospector in 1905?”
“My grandmother never mentioned prior incidents. Keep in mind in this harsh environment, any remains, animal or human, would likely disappear beneath desert sand, if not eaten by wildlife first. I’m speculating the prospector might have been the first non-native to visit the Butte.”
“So, would I be wrong to conclude your people get a hall pass from the curse? When you researched the butte, did you . . . touch the monument?”
“Shamans were known for many generations to visit the monument and honor the wind spirits. Not so much anymore. I doubt any of our people have been up there in years.” He chuckled. “Though I’m honored to bear the middle name Redfeather, I’m only part Shoshone. European blood has diluted my heritage, so I didn’t care to test the theory. As part of my work with the BLM, I volunteered to take pictures and sketch the symbols. But I never touched the monument itself.”
Mary’s jaw dropped. “Wait. You took pictures? There weren’t any photos in the references. Not even the file Professor Wilkins shared.”
Monroe opened a drawer, extracted a moth-eaten folder, and spread photographs of the monument on his desk. “That’s because all negatives taken of the monument itself come out blurred.”
She scrutinized the photographs, all of which were slightly out of focus. “Are all the pictures you took like this?”
“Unfortunately, yes. When I went to photograph the site, I had scanning equipment that registered an electromagnetic pulse at the base of the butte. When I got near the monument, the field was much stronger and my compass needle spun like a fan blade. The quality of the negatives was probably affected by the field.”
None of this was in his report.“Any other unusual facts you can share?”
He scratched his chin. “Though I didn’t see any evidence of it when I was last up there, my grandmother claimed a new petroglyph etching would appear for every soul taken by the wind spirits.”
That’s new information. That Monroe would share it hinted that he might be open to an idea she had. “I brought a good digital SLR with me. What’s the possibility of climbing to the monument and trying again?”
“Permits would be required from both the Shoshone tribal council and BLM. Even if you were allowed to tag along, you’d still need a qualified native guide to get access to the base of the Butte, and they won’t let you climb to the monument itself.”
That wasn’t going to yield much of a perspective. Unless . . . “You wouldn’t happen to be qualified, would you? If I stay at the base of the Butte, you can climb to the monument and use my camera.”
Monroe stared in thought out the only window opaqued by crusted dust. “Half of me thought about trying it when digital came out. The other half thought to leave the site in peace.” He shook his head and smiled. “Something tells me it’s a bad idea, but you’ve got my curiosity going.”
Monroe moved to a BLM map of the wilderness area hanging on the wall. Deep chasms weaved between numerous tight whorls depicting steep, high-elevation hills and cliffs that pocked the topography like a bad case of acne.
“The area surrounding Neai Mountain is a dangerous terrain of narrow ravines that dead-end against unclimbable cliffs.” Monroe pointed to a peak near the middle of the wilderness set aside. “Four Winds Butte sits on the summit. Three sides of the butte drop straight down nine thousand feet, accessible only on its western-facing edge.”
Mary remembered the flat caprock on top of the Butte that was accessible by footholds supposedly carved thousands of years ago on the west side. “Is there some kind of trail that leads up to it?”
“I wouldn’t call a trail. Last time I climbed up there, it was a switchback path of loose rocks and boulders marked by a symbol of wind and seasons, many of which have eroded over time.” Monroe leaned against the wall and smiled. “It’s not for the faint of heart. Sure you still want to do this?”
“I can handle it.”
#
While she waited in the cigarette-infused walls of her casino-hotel room, Mary checked in with Professor Wilkins and reread her notes. Three days later, Monroe texted her directions to the only entry to a fire road that led to Neai Mountain, warning her not to proceed beyond its base without him. Elated that she might be the first permitted non-native person in ages to stand in front of the mysterious Four Winds Butte, she barely slept that night.
Leaving well before dawn to meet Monroe at sunup, Mary expected a guard shack to verify her permission slip, but found the fenced entry deserted with only a simple lift bar blocking the road. Butterflies tickled inside her stomach when she studied a posted warning with bold red letters in all caps. “No Trespassing. Protected Native American Heritage Site. Permit required to access from the Western Shoshone Tribal Council.”
It took her a good hour to reach Neai Mountain via winding, deep chasms that made her drive to Monroe’s backcountry station seem paved, stopping to snap photos of the Butte when it came into view. The poor excuse for the road ended at a faded sign: No Trespassing. Dangerous peak susceptible to sudden high winds.
Two hours passed. “Where are you?” she muttered. Mary wandered around in search of a trail upward and eventually spotted a faded symbol of a diamond divided into two equal segments on a boulder. Symbol of the four winds. When the sun reached high noon, Mary realized he might be a no-show. The permit was for only a day. She had to be in class the next day, and she might never get another chance.
After a few minutes of mental debate, she grabbed her knapsack and made for the trailhead. I’ll say I misunderstood that Monroe meant to meet him at the base of the Butte.
More of a rock-scuttling climb than an actual path, the trail slowed her progress. Though she was in good shape, climbing to the nine-thousand-foot summit did no favors to someone raised at sea level. She dropped her knapsack, sat on a rock to catch her breath, and took a deep draw from her dwindling canteen water to study the Butte. According to her notes, the base was roughly a hundred and eighty feet in circumference and shot skyward like a smooth rock toothpick. She took a few wide-angle shots and close-ups of the shallow footholds. So far, the resolution was sharp.
By midafternoon, she concluded Monroe wasn’t coming. Other than a few tidbits of new information for her thesis, she’d return with little to show for her effort. So close, yet so far away. The legend of Four Winds Butte centered on the monument itself, and reaching it meant trespassing on a sacred Indigenous site.
Mary exhaled a deep breath. “What if I just peeked over the top for a few camera shots?” she muttered, needing the sound of her voice to summon courage. With echoes of Monroe’s explicit warnings, she shouldered her camera and began to climb the final two hundred feet.
Pulling herself onto the flat caprock, she knelt near the edge. Mary’s first impression of the four-foot-tall, reddish granite monument was its perfect cylindrical shape. She zoomed in, snapped a few pictures, and checked the resolution. Though still sharp, she only got one side of it.
She carefully circled the outer edge of the caprock, clicking photos. Unlike primitive shapes and animals typical of petroglyphs she’d researched, these had the complexity of ancient runes or hieroglyphics. A glint caught her eye from the rocky gravel piled several inches high around the monument’s base. She got on her knees to squint. A fragment of a different marking peeked from beneath the pebbles.
Mary edged closer until she was a foot from the monument. She used her pocket notebook to scrape away the gravel and expose what appeared to be a humanlike stick figure. She scuffed more pebbles to uncover a second alongside it. Then a third. She unearthed fifteen figures before it ended. One etching for every soul taken.
She got on the balls of her feet to photograph, then attempted to stand and back away. A loose rock wobbled beneath her boot, causing her to lose balance. The momentum pitched her sideways and forward until her palms slapped against the monument. The petroglyphs glowed with a silver light. Snatching back her hands as if burned, Mary slowly backpedaled with a sickening sensation burbling in her gut.
She squeaked and inhaled sharply when the sky and surroundings darkened like a full eclipse. She scrambled to find the footholds down when a gale-force wind pushed her away from the edge. Loose pebbles flailed her body. The wind shifted from different directions, carrying many ethereal voices chanting in an unrecognizable tongue. A funnel of dust corkscrewed above the monument. The tornadic spiral rose skyward.
“No, no,” Mary shrieked. “I didn’t mean to. I tripped. I’m sorry. It was an accident.”
She jerked when an invisible force clamped around her body and pulled her toward the monument. Prickles of static danced on her skin. Dust melded with her tears to form muddy rivulets on her cheeks. “Please don’t take me,” she wailed.
Suddenly, a strong male voice behind her sang in a native dialect. The song rose and fell in timbre. The static prickling lessened. The winds abated. A few moments later, the invisible force released her body.
She collapsed in a heap, choking. Dizzy and nauseated, she vomited until nothing but bile drooled from her lips. Strong hands gently helped her to a sitting position. John Monroe’s face appeared when her vision cleared. Mary fell against his chest and bawled like a terrified child.
“I’m sorry,” she wailed between gasping hiccups. “I didn’t mean to touch it.”
“Easy now,” Monroe comforted. “It’s over. Just breathe.” Rocking her until she cried it out, he handed her a handkerchief when she lifted her head. “Let’s get off this rock.”
Monroe went first, staying two footholds below while Mary descended on wobbly legs. He handed her a water bottle when they reached the base of the Butte.
“That song of yours,” Mary said, after drinking the whole bottle. “What was it?”
“A little native prayer my grandmother taught me should I ever find myself at odds with spirits.”
“It saved my life.” Mary honked again into the damp handkerchief. “Your grandmother was right. There are fifteen stick people etched on the rock. I almost became number sixteen.” My soul scattered to the four winds.
Monroe scrutinized lengthening shadows. “Let’s keep moving before it gets dark.”
How she made it off Mount Neai without collapsing was lost in a daze of physical and emotional exhaustion. Mary stumbled to her Jeep, then sat on the running board, still quivering from shock.
“You shouldn’t drive. Let me take you back,” Monroe offered.
“How . . .” Then Mary spotted a dust-covered motorcycle with knobby tires leaning against a rock and handed him her keys.
After securing his motorcycle in the Jeep, Monroe leaned back in the driver’s seat. “Now, you understand why we don’t allow outsiders here.”
Mary nodded and swallowed hard. She flicked on the camera display and scrolled through the pictures she took. Blurry. All of them. Until now, she’d considered folklore to be more mythical, traceable to a singular event, and kept alive by legends that often changed over time. “Those etchings. Have there been any estimates of how long they’ve been there?”
Monroe shook his head. “Nobody has been brave enough to chip off a piece of the monument for dating. Some shamans believed it to be as old as the mountain itself.” He must have deciphered her train of thought. “If you’re suggesting alien origins, there have been some theories of otherworldly roots from before mankind walked these lands.”
Alien or not, Four Winds Butte possessed an unearthly, lethal power.
Monroe started the engine. “I will get in a lot of trouble if anyone finds out what happened today. Plus, if you publish what you’ve experienced here, it will likely attract adventure seekers and oddballs seeking to unravel its secrets. I don’t think you want their possible disappearances hanging on your conscience.”
Mary lowered her head. Fresh tears flooded her eyes. If Professor Wilkins learned of her transgression and near-fatal result, he’d probably kick her out of the master’s program as well. “Of course.”
“I’ll make you a deal. I know of a few other petroglyphs hidden from view.” Monroe shifted into gear. “Nothing as dangerous as Four Winds, but they have legends of their own, some of them quite unique and not well documented.”
Smudges streaked her face when Mary wiped it with her palm. “Thank you.”
Monroe patted her arm. “I think you’re going to find Three Hands Chasm very interesting.” He winked. “No curses. I promise.”
DT ‘Dan’ Krippene writes mystery, science fiction, paranormal, and
alternate-world fantasy. His short story, “Hell of a Deal,” appears in the2019 Killer Nashville Finalist, Untethered; the 2021 Best Indie for Fiction, Fur, Feathers, and Scales with “Man’s Best Friend”; and the 2023 Finalist Indie Award-winning, An Element of Mystery with “The Lost Gold of Rhyolite”. He’s been a featured author with the Bethlehem Writers Roundtable with “Snowbelt Sanctuary,” “In Simple Terms,” “Hot as Sin,” and “Desert Buzz.” You can find Dan on his website, dtkrippene.com, and his social media links on Facebook, Instagram, and Pinterest.