SPECIAL FICTION FEATURE Ray House By: Gary Gray       I was tapping my fingers on the steering wheel as I sat in my car at a crowded stop light on Highway 60 near Clever, Missouri when I spotted the tilted sign along the roadside. With an arrow pointing right, the signs inscription read - Battlefield.       Battlefield? It has to be a Civil War Battlefield I imagined. To be certain, I pulled my car from the highway and stopped in the oil stained parking lot of a convenience store.      My visits to these sites of slaughter should have by now revealed something tangible, a clue to what I was seeking, but it hadn't. My morbid fixation on the battles of young men, brother against brother, had waned over the years to the point of irrelevance. I was on the highway, traveling from New Mexico to Kentucky. It was late in the afternoon, perhaps three or so hours before sundown and the mid-August sun was scorching.      Dragging the tip of my finger along the line on the map, I paused at the town of Republic, Missouri. Republic is about two miles from here I reasoned. Wilson's Creek Civil War Battlefield, printing in light blue letters, a beacon from the map. I wasn't familiar with this battle. Missouri was the brutal scene of many dramatic battles during and after the Civil War, that much I knew, but Wilson's Creek I couldn't recall. Still, I was curious, I should visit this place.      The road to Wilson's Creek was narrow and hilly. As I crept along, an occasional car or truck would come upon me and then pass impatiently. My eyes were focused on the roadside for a sign at an entrance. To my left across the four-way stop, I spotted it - a large stone marker nestled amongst the landscaped lawn bounded by tall shade trees, Wilson's Creek National Battlefield.       I eased my car along the narrow driveway until the welcome center came into view. The parking lot was empty except for a lone car and two lawn workers loitering in a cart nearby. I thought briefly that it may be closed, but a family exited from the museum and strolled towards me as I stood beside my car. A wizened little boy with cropped brown hair, no more than eight or nine years old stared intently at me, expressionless as he approached. I smiled. His head turned as we passed, his piercing gaze following me as I moved towards the museum entrance.       Inside, behind a large veneered counter littered with pamphlets and historical paraphernalia, sat a park ranger, a petite lady, in her mid thirties. Appearing tired and listless, she raised her head and beamed a cheerful grin as I approached.       "Welcome to Wilson's Creek National Battlefield." She said in a worn and well rehearsed but friendly Southern drawl.      "Are you still open..." I asked, observing the name tag pinned to her shirt. "...Ms. Blain?"      "Oh yes, we close at sundown. You've still got time." In her outstretched hand she held a pamphlet. I took it from her, leafing through it as she continued speaking. "It's three dollars for entry into the Battlefield. You buy your token from me and put it in the gate out there." She said, pointing to windows behind me. I pulled three dollars from my pocket and exchanged them for the token. "If you wanna to see the film or demonstration in the museum, just let me know when you're ready, I'll get'r started."       "That won't be necessary, not yet anyway." I replied. "I think I'll walk the grounds first, I'm sure this air conditioning will feel a lot better afterwards with the heat and all."       "Suit yourself. The doors are locked and the gates are closed at sundown, so don't dawdle too long out there."       "Oh, I won't. Promise Ms. Blain."       "Oh yea, the Ray House aint' gonna be open. The sitter had to leave early today, but you can poke around the outside if ya like." She added as I walked towards the museum exit.      "Okay, thanks." I waved my hand as I pushed the door open and walked to my car. I sat in my car long enough to unfold the glossy pamphlet and examine the map of the grounds. The map illustrated the Visitor Center in the far north eastern corner of the park and depicted a looping road through the grounds, first to the east, then south and again back towards the north, near the entrance; five or six miles of road at most. I should have time enough to stop and examine the battlefield along the way and have no trouble returning by sundown.       The metal pole attached to the impassive cubed box rose as the lifeless device swallowed my token. The winding narrow lane slithering through the trees was darkened by the shadows of passive long limbs of oak and walnut trees. A short distance beyond the dark leafy corridor, the roadway meandered beyond the horizon and out of my view. The quietus of the recumbent rolling fields gently beckoned me.       A few hundred feet beyond the trees, I wheeled my car into the Gibson Mill site. A small pull-off with room for half a dozen cars, it sat along a large empty field of tall grass and scattered bushes. Wilson's Creek ran through this field. I strolled along the dirt path that led from the roadway into a string of woods straddling the banks of the creek towards the south. The path, meandering through the dense woods, eventually merged with the creek at the old Gibson Mill site.      Cobwebs and insects abounded as I strolled through the thick pungent undergrowth. The enticing smell of rotted trees and green leafy plants consumed my lungs as I sat along the banks of the creek, trying as I may to visualize the tired and ragged young men fighting a desperate battle, many destined to fall dead from mortal wounds, perhaps on the very spot I was sitting. The solemn peace of the woods and the trickling flow of the creek, deafened with the sounds of gunfire and cannon. I felt kinship with this place, unlike the other battlefields. My heart pounded, the haunted emptiness of the woods engulfed me.       At first, it was a faint sound and I thought nothing of it. My imagination perhaps, but it continued to grow louder and commanded my attention; the tramping of hooves, metal rattling, dirt crunching, emanated from a distance beyond the woods. I stood to listen and returned along the path to my car as the sounds trickled into oblivion, submerged amongst the cicada and well beyond sight.      An old mans voice startled me. He had a rumpled look, a scraggy hat on his head with long frazzled whiskers dangling from his chin. Wearing dirt stained clothes; he carried a shovel over his shoulder.      "The winds a pick'n up out there." The old man said, removing the hat from his head and scratching his hair. I expected a colony of fleas to leap from his matted hair.       ""I was unaware of this place until today. I was driving through on my way to Kentucky and saw the sign out on 60; couldn't resist stopping."       "This here was a big battle. Lotta good boys died up on that there hill to your right. It don't look much like it did then though. The land has a way of reclaiming its own." He said with mournful regret, his gaze crystallized as if he were viewing the distant horizon through the woods, as though he had seen it the way it had been in times past.       "Which side won the battle?"       "The Rebs." With an unworthy glance, he lowered his head.       "So, you know the history of this place pretty well then?"       "Yes." He paused for a moment, looking into my eyes, words hanging from his lips. "I seen you here before." He stated matter-of-factly.       "No sir, never been here. Didn't even know it existed."      "Well, don't pay no mind to this old man, my mind aint-a what it used to be. Watch those clouds coming in, it may get stormy." And, with a final rub of his head, he continued on along the woody path behind me.      As I continued along the lane, the Ray house was in full view at the top of the hill in front of me. It was a small white house with a limestone foundation and a covered porch. I slowed to view it through the window of my car. 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