Ghost Towns

by Louis L'Amour

  Me, I’m faring well. But then, I’m a bartender. Whether a town’s flush or fold, a man needing a drink will spend his last two bits for it. Back in the day, I was considered the best in the territory. Like any good tapster, I was paid as much for listening as I was for pouring drinks. Nowadays, I’m a right chatty fella—no longer just a bottle opener with ears. My clientele seems weary of its own threadbare tales. But the old souls that hang out down here are more than just regulars. They’re loyal.

  You see, the town moved to higher ground longer ago than most care to remember, or can. Sad, though, none of those folks had the foresight to know how far they should’ve moved the place, and the new highway system bypassed the little municipality by two miles. Allowing that everybody taking to the open road is in such an all-fired hurry to get somewhere, that two miles might as well be two hundred.

  The little town was floatin’ on the fumes of post–World War Two promise, but it didn’t have much to show for ’em. It wasn’t fortunate enough to claim gold (the few veins below the streets had bled dry about the same time Custer did) and all them fancy Victorian houses people love to visit had washed away in a flood.

  Their Chinatown was a short-lived affair during the equally short-lived run of the gold mines. Once crowded with busy workers at steaming pots of soapy water by day and opium den attendants by night, it now consisted of one family that ran the town’s only dry cleaner. The bodies of a brother-sister pair said to have run the long-defunct opium den in the darkest regions of—well, everyone in Boulder Creek River had to admit that they weren’t sure where the opium den had been located—were buried in the town cemetery.

  The unsavory had settled the area, and it had taken five generations to water down the liquor, knock the plugs from the opium pipes, and build a community of people who were at least trying to earn a stamp of approval from their peers.

  Ah, if only it were that easy, or even could be done in so brief a stint of history. Valiant, though, was the attempt.

  The sad fact is this: Boulder Creek River suffers from threat of a chronic disease called extinction.

  Oh, you wouldn’t think it to look around. The state and county governments hold out their hands to collect taxes, telephone lines stretch overhead like circus wires, and living, breathing people move along its streets (though barely enough of them to keep the grass beat down that sprouts up from between cracks in the pavement).

  Sure, the town has more than its share of abandoned businesses. What struggling town doesn’t? The latest list of casualties includes the sawmill, the blacksmith, a couple of land offices, and one of the newspapers. The mom and pop café shut down after mom’s heart wore out, and Hillis and Martin Attorneys-at-Large—excuse me, Attorneys-at-Law—lit out like singed cats, leaving behind everything from a fine-looking leather-bound set of the state statutes to a partner’s desk the size of a boxing ring.

  Modern additions to the garden variety establishments (general and hardware stores, barber and beauty shops, three churches, and a gas station with a white-capped attendant) are a new Dairy Queen over on the west side, and a theater that can usually manage to get a feature within three months of its premiere. Next to The Bijou is Woolworth’s five-and-ten, so the whole block smells like fresh-popped corn. To the east, a place offering something they call “fast food” just went in across from the two automobile dealerships.

  The town meeting is held the second Tuesday of every month, and on the second Tuesday of every month the residents face the pressing task of trying yet again to fabricate a means by which to generate tourism. But, before they get down to that Old Business, the meeting always turns into a heated discussion over the name of the town. Over whose ancestors settled the place. Over whose ancestors named the place. And, over who residing here now should be granted no small amount of respect, having proved their lineage to those first settlers.

  There was just one problem with their thinking: they wouldn’t follow those thoughts through to their logical conclusion. If they weren’t so dead set on erasing the unsavory pasts of those business-savvy prostitutes and closed-mouthed charlatans that are their ancestors, they might recognize the grit and gumption of those raw and bawdy folks who defined the Wild West. For a fact, those founders had raised hell and reached underneath for an extra handful. But, they’d also offered up somethin’ that intrigued enough upstanding citizens, which in turn got ’em to move in and kept the boomtown from going totally bust. Believe me, I know. I was there.

  Anyway. Every month along this path to self-righteousness someone brings up the abandoned clapboard hotel on the south side of town, and many in attendance catch the emphasis on the word “hotel,” and in that emphasis know that the speaker really means “brothel.” That starts the same old argument all over again about the hotel’s sordid past, and the subject is tabled until the next meeting.

  Tonight’s meeting’ll be no different, and once Phase One is past, they’ll dutifully move on to the next piece of Old Business.

  Why, looka here. I’ve jawed on till I didn’t realize we’d arrived. The meetin’s in the big room upstairs, and it sounds like they’ve already started….

  The janitor had cranked up the heat against what promised to be a chilly soaker, and the radiators all but steam-dried the meeting’s attendees. This made the town hall smell like a combination of wet hound, boiled mothballs, and Burma Shave.

  Cy Harkreader, who had changed from his field-plowin’ overalls into his Sunday-go-to-meetin’ overalls, pointed out (yet again) the possibility that the apparent wishy-washiness indicated by the town’s name made people steer clear for fear of confronting a bunch of bumbleheads.

  “But, our name is part of our charm,” countered Marybelle Monroe Adams Young Brown Evans. She’d been widowed four times—one for each decade of her life—and collected the names all together like teacups on a shelf. Folks who had tired of trotting out the monikers—and usually in the wrong order, only to be corrected by the widow—began calling her by the acronym Mrs. Maybe (or Maybe Not, as the riffraff liked to add). She didn’t object to Maybe, and had seemingly never heard the “Not.”

  Harkreader said, “Well, maybe—”

  “Yes, Cy?” Marybelle touched a white-gloved hand to her throat.

  The man scowled. “Mayhaps,” he said, thwarting any notion of adding his surname to the chain and thinking how it would sour the spelling and his stomach in one turn anyway, “we should get back down to business. Those hogs won’t get theirselves over to the county fair come mornin’.”

  “You won’t get no argument from me,” said Billy Young, who was a cousin-once-removed to Marybelle’s second late husband. “I got two horses to saddle-break at first light, and”—he paused to brush thumb and forefinger along the edges of his handlebarred cookie duster as if he were parting the Red Sea—“these meetings are gettin’ harder to sit through than a picture show in The Bijou’s cheap seats.”

  A rumble of laughter came from the crowd.

  “You’re right about that,” piped Luke Whitney before the rumble faded. It was Mayor Whitney’s feeble attempt to take control of the meeting. He seemed but a lad, what with his freckled face and short-cropped red hair. In fact, he was thirty-six, and lately made it a point to add “almost thirty-seven,” obviously believing that the double-syllable number added maturity. Luke Whitney’s day job was rolling coins over at the First State Bank and Loan.

  I don’t know which is more painful, watching him try to corral coins or people. Between you and me, I can’t figure out how he got appointed mayor in the first place. Whitney’s grandfather was a cowboy, but somewhere along the line that seed got strained through pillow ticking, and out came Luke.

  The town’s latest scheme was just as weak, if you’ll pardon me for sayin’ so; though, I admit it intrigued me more than the first two because it was located darn close to my saloon. Truth of the matter, not even I could’ve predicted the sorry outcome.

  But, I’m gettin’ ahead of myself.


  First, of course, there was Scheme No. 1, and I will give them credit for effort. The enterprising citizens of Boulder Creek River threw one wingding of a rodeo. They somehow managed to book this singer by the name of Hank Williams who was getting a lot of air time on the radio. They hired Hatch Show Print out of Nashville, Tennessee, to make the posters, and the boys they paid to put ’em up didn’t miss a shop window or a telephone pole between Dallas and Denver.

  Mr. Williams’s automobile broke down the night before he was to arrive for Friday’s festivities, but his driver called ahead and assured the town they’d arrive Saturday.

  Well, Saturday never came, because on Friday night the rodeo clown was killed by a bull named Lucifer’s Ghost.

  As with most rodeos, that night’s grand finale was the bull riding event. I’ll swear, those bulls were shipped here straight from hell, that’s how mean they were. Now, a rodeo clown ain’t just there to tickle folks. He’s also got the job of protectin’ the contestants from hoof and horn.

  Before Lucifer’s Ghost came outta the chute, a rider from up in Missoula got hisself in a pickle with an old Brahma called The Devil’s Assistant, and this same rodeo clown seized up and left that cowboy to fend for hisself. Lucky the rider was seasoned, and thus able to save his own bacon—no thanks to the low-belly with the big red nose who was hiding in the barrel.

  Most of the folks who saw what happened after that fiasco were heard saying that they didn’t even like clowns, and that this particular example hadn’t been a good clown to begin with. The AP had gotten wind of the dead clown, so I’m sure it appeared in newspapers all across the country. The town got ribbed some, but it seemed to boil down to this: The real tragedy was in the public nature of the whole thing and what it did to tourism.

  For Scheme No. 2, the fair citizens created a full-fledged pony express stop. Mind you, they did not unearth, they did not dust off, they did not discover: they created. A traveling salesman whose home base was here in town had bought up memorabilia from a real stop in a Kansas town that was going belly-up. They used one of the abandoned land office buildings, and in no time they had the place looking dang near authentic. All they had to do was sit back and wait for the pigeons to flock in.

  There was just one thing that the enterprising citizens hadn’t taken into account. The mobilizin’ of America had fueled more than its economy, it had fueled knowledge. America was doing its homework before striking out for points unknown. And the first batch of tourists who ventured off the beaten path to check out Boulder Creek River’s Authentic Pony Express Stop started asking questions practically before their kids had time to climb up on the plow horse tethered at the side of the building.

  The tour guides (really no more than shills) stuttered and stammered those folks right back into their automobiles, which they in turn drove to the next town. There, those lost prospects used their refunded tour money to buy lunch, fuel up, shop for souvenirs, and help put that place on the map.

  Strike two for Boulder Creek River.

  Things had never looked worse for our little town. I had to hand it to them, though, because they looked the third pitch right in the face, and came up with their next swing for tourism: the Lucky Lady Gold Mine Tours, complete with a real nugget of fools’ gold at the end of every tour!

  So intent were they upon cashing in on the upcoming summer vacation season (as well as on erasing any memories of the previous failed attempts at tourism) that they shifted their efforts into high gear.

  They unboarded one of the old shafts, hung lanterns on the original timbers, and opened for business. That’s all they figured they needed: Bring ’em in, usher ’em out, easy as pie, quick money. They cut corners six ways from Sunday so they could be up and running by Memorial Day. They blocked off a second shaft without giving it a second thought—no need to tempt curious little spelunkers into getting lost—and, in so doing, blocked a treasure the likes of which they could not have dreamed up.

  Now, it seemed that one more misstep and they might as well drive a stake through the town’s heart (which, if anybody could pinpoint that faint-beating thing, the community might actually have a fighting chance).

  Tsk, tsk. Makes me sigh, don’t it you? However, we must bear in mind: This is the town that won’t quit, no matter how misdiagnosed, no matter how anemic its veins, no matter how broken its back, the capillaries that are its citizens course blindly on.

  Watch.

  Mayor Whitney said, “I went over to the hospital in Hallston City earlier today. The Chastains are showing much improvement.”

  The crowd responded to this piece of good news with a round of applause.

  “Furthermore, I am happy to report they have agreed not to sue Boulder Creek River.”

  More applause, louder this time and with whistles.

  “We dodged a bullet there,” Whitney added. “And, we were lucky to have Jupiter Briggs as our tour guide. He’s done enough mining in his life to have learned some rescue procedures, and emerged with only a few bumps and scrapes besides.”

  A couple of men slapped Old Man Briggs on the back, and he waved off the attention.

  “We need to learn from this experience,” Whitney continued, his tone serious. “Why, if the Lucky Lady cave-in had killed anyone….”

  Aurora Graham cringed. Talk of death always made her cringe.

  The old woman knew more of Boulder Creek River’s history than anyone currently living there. She’d watched as the last of the Indians were subdued and herded onto reservations, she’d witnessed the first motor car jostle through, she’d seen presidents perched on platforms of steam-belching locomotives, and she’d seen presidents glance out windows of escorted limousines, giving the little town an indifferent glance.

  Indifference. That was what she felt she received from the youngsters currently running town politics.

  Despite this feeling, she was about to attempt once again to raise the attention of the city council when the mayor interrupted his speech and peered toward the back. “Ladies, would you care to share?”

  A hush swept over the room. Gladys Roberts glanced about, and found all eyes watching her and Dottie Winters.

  Dottie blushed, and focused her attention upon a spec of lint clinging to her sweater.

  Gladys sat up, a position that seemed to help her put on even more airs than she’d shown up with. The effect, of course, was heightened by a new dress and matching hat. “I was just telling Dottie that it takes too long to get products way off out here, and I had to go all the way to Hallston City for the latest Roy Rogers line for Little Roy’s bedroom. I originally ordered from Carson’s General Store—as you know, I always advocate supporting local business, particularly since my husband, Big Roy, owns the Chevrolet dealership—but, it was back-ordered—twice. The Roy Rogers bedding, that is.” She spent a smile that said nothing from the dealership ever had to be back ordered, then continued. “At that rate, I was afraid Little Roy would outgrow the notion before he had a chance to sleep one night on those sheets.” She shrugged. “I had no choice.

  “Besides,” she went on, “who can resist those new department stores with seven floors, attendants in the elevators, and restaurants overlooking the capital.”

  Oohs and aahs echoed throughout the room, mostly of feminine voice.

  Cy Harkreader said, “You’re either loyal to Boulder Creek River, or you ain’t, Gladys. You can’t paint both sides of that fence.” This was followed with hey-hou’s and guffaws from all the men.

  “Cy Harkreader,” Gladys said, “you’ve got a lot of room to talk. Isn’t the real reason you want to wrap things up early tonight is so you can drive your harvest to Hallston City tomorrow in your Ford?”

  “If you want to complain about something, talk to your sister over at the café. Her coffee gets any weaker, and she’ll have to rename it Lorena’s Tea Room.”

  The mayor slammed gavel against oak.

  (Everyone knows that Cy and Gladys have a history going all the wa
y back to high school.)

  Byron Knox (known as Mr. Lorena’s Tea Room among the riffraff) said, “Trying to talk to that woman is like catching smoke. You’ll just stir things up, and come out empty handed every time.”

  Gender wasn’t particular over this one, and everybody laughed.

  Everybody, save Aurora. The old woman sighed and dropped chin to chest. It had happened again. The townsfolk were so caught up in their own selves that they had once again failed to hear the cracking, old voice of the ragged woman leaning for support against the back wall. She chewed over ways to get them to notice her, to give her the floor, to make them listen. It seemed to her that the more frustrated she became, the more they ignored her. She wanted to cry out, “You were so close! The other shaft, the big one, will never cave in!”

  Not only that, she thought, it leads to a tourist draw to beat all tourist draws. But, first, you have to quit treating me as if I’m invisible.

  She glanced out the window. The rain was picking up. She remembered a time when the citizens of Boulder Creek River worried something fierce over the rainy season.

  The dam had changed all that. Flooding was no longer a concern. As a matter of fact, water was no longer their enemy. Just about the time farmers like Cy Harkreader were nigh on to giving up, God would smile down upon the land, provide just the right amount of rain, and the crops would prosper. In turn, those farm families would win blue ribbons at the county fair, the wives entering jars of jelly, canned tomatoes, bread and butter pickles, and doodads with stitches so straight they’d gone near blind sewing them. The men would choose the biggest and best from vine and stalk: pumpkin, ears of corn, cukes, watermelon. They’d crate chickens, load hogs—anything that fit a judged category made the trip to the fair. Prize and pride usually helped homestead them through another long winter.