The Demise of Chief Thunderhead, Chapter Three: Who is Buried Under the Petroglyph

Chief Thunderhead's Journey from Exile to Legend

As Chief Thunderhead neared his village, heart brimming with hope, he expected drums of welcome — the warmth of home. But instead, the elders met him with heavy faces and cold decree.

There was no celebration. No embrace. Only banishment.

He was cast out from the tribe, told never to return. The U.S. government had outlawed the Ghost Dance, branding its leaders as threats. To shield themselves from retribution, the tribe turned their back on Thunderhead — once a spiritual guide, now a liability.

Crushed beyond measure, he wandered south, following whispers of safety to a remote Mormon settlement — St. George.

But grief consumed him, and alcohol became his only companion.

He drifted through downtown like a shadow, slurring stories for scraps. Locals mockingly called him “Chief”, tossing him bread only if he told them a tale. But even as they laughed, Thunderhead watched — he saw everything. The alleys. The whispers. The comings and goings no one else noticed.

When the police began a crackdown on beggars in 1910, Thunderhead always vanished just before they arrived. He’d learned every shadowed corner, even the secret tunnel beneath the town, remnants of a forgotten time. In one of those tunnels, he even carved out a small hidden cave, camouflaged with a flat rock door he could roll away like a tombstone.

Then came 1914.

During one of his wanderings below, Thunderhead heard faint groans under a cave-in. Digging through the rubble, he rescued a man — half-dead, bones splintered. He nursed him back to health, shared his hidden cave, even trusted him with its secrets. But something had broken inside the man. Something dark. Twisted.

Soon after, people began disappearing downtown. whisperings of evil in the shadows. Thunderhead said nothing, but he knew.

He saw what others didn’t. He heard what others feared. He remembered it all.

One man believed him — John Cottham, a local writer. John spent hours listening to the Chief’s tales, transcribing his memories of the underworld and the town above.

Thunderhead never begged from him. They were friends — two men holding different kinds of truth.

When Thunderhead died — alone, cold, and crumpled in the street — it was John who ensured he wasn’t forgotten. He laid him to rest on the southeast corner of the courthouse courtyard, a sacred patch of earth in the heart of the town he’d both haunted and protected.

Years later, John’s descendants placed a petroglyph stone where the old Chief’s body lay — not with a name, but with a symbol. Because legends like Thunderhead aren’t buried with words. They’re buried in stone and story.