Ghost Town

by Joan Lowery Nixon

  Andy cleared his throat and tried to speak more loudly. “Jep!” he said in a voice raspy with fear. “Your friends are all ghosts! And you—you're a ghost, too!”

  Stunned as the room suddenly became dark, Andy slowly caught his breath and tried to stop shaking, “Dub?” he called frantically. “Where are you?”

  “I'm here,” Dub answered. Andy could just barely see Dub getting to his feet. “What happened?”

  “You saw them?” asked Andy. “The ghosts?”

  “You bet I saw them. Where did they go?”

  Andy glanced around the room. The ghosts had left. Even the cabin was gone. Remnants of a cold stone fireplace and chimney were all they could see.

  Overhead the sky was an overturned black bowl. Only a smattering of stars and a thin crescent moon gave light. A chill wind, swooping through the valley, made Andy shiver. At the close cry of a bobcat, he jumped to his feet.

  “Dub, we've got to get out of here!” he shouted.“Come on!”

  Stumbling over rocks and holes in the road, Andy and Dub raced down the street. When they finally reached the pickup truck, climbed inside, and locked the doors, Andy was still trembling.

  Dub turned on the ignition and the headlights at the same time. “Look!” he said.

  The buildings they had seen were gone. Only tag ends of stonework, weathered boards, and a few walls and porches remained.

  Andy clung to the door handle. “Don't look,” he said. “Don't even think. Just drive. Do you remember how Jep told us to reach the paved road to Lewistown?”

  Dub nodded and lowered his foot on the gas pedal. “Straight ahead, turn left and then right.”

  A coyote's howl drifted down from the hills. Andy didn't talk. He scarcely dared to breathe until the truck bounced from the dirt road onto pavement.

  As they picked up speed, he weakly leaned back against the seat. “When we get to Lewistown, let's not go to Chicago,” he said to Dub. “Let's take the highway back home.”

  “Fine with me,” Dub answered. “We can go to Chicago any old time.”

  “Yeah. Any old time,” Andy said.

  “What about your bossy sisters?” Dub asked. “What are you gonna do about them?”

  “I'll think of something. I'll tell them everything that happened, and who knows? Maybe, for once, I'll be able to impress them.”

  “Haw,” Dub scoffed. “You think your sisters are going to believe you? I hardly believe it myself, and I was with you!”

  Andy unclenched his left fist and looked at the shining gold nugget he still held in his hand. He smiled. “Sure they will,” he said. “I've got the proof.”

  In 1952, while doing geologic mapping in the Judith Mountains, my husband stumbled upon the ghost town of Maiden, Montana. A few days later he brought me with him to meet ninety-year-old George Wieglanda, who lived alone in the town.

  “This has long been my home,” Mr. Wieglanda told me. “I had an assay office and mining interests in Maiden, and I like it here. When the others moved away, I didn't want to leave, so I stayed.”

  He told us some of the stories about life in Maiden, including the story about the building—and the destruction—of the jail. He took us on a tour of what was left of the town, describing everything so vividly I could easily picture how Maiden must once have been. Later I found photographs taken of Maiden in 1885 in the Culver Photography Studio in Lewistown.

  Two of the mines in Maiden, the Spotted Horse mine, named after a friendly Indian chief, and the Maginnis mine, named after nearby Fort Maginnis, were heavy producers. Together they accounted for close to $10 million worth of gold.

  In the late 1880s, the population of Maiden was nearly twelve hundred, and the town was prosperous. The first school was opened, as well as a Sunday school. Although there were a number of saloons in Maiden, it was fairly peaceful for a mining town and even had elements of culture: Maiden boasted the first cornet band in central Montana.

  In the 1890s, however, the big veins were “pinching out,” and rising costs cut into profits. Finally the mines were closed, and the peak population of twelve hundred people, which had been reached in 1888, began to dwindle until the town was completely empty—except for George Wieglanda.

  Now the town is private property, most of it owned by the Wieglanda family, and visitors must get permission to visit.

  To reach Maiden, take Highway 191 north from Lewistown, Montana, for fifteen miles. At a marked intersection, take the road east for ten miles.

  To learn more about Maiden, contact the Montana Ghost Town Preservation Society, P.O. Box 1861, Bozeman, MT 59771.

  Web sites:

  The Montana Ghost Town Preservation Society:www.montana.com/ghosttown

  Maiden—Montana Ghost Town: www.ghosttowns.com/states/mo/maiden.html

  Publications:

  Montana Pay Dirt: A Guide to the Mining Camps of the Treasure State, by Muriel Sibell Wolle, Ohio University Press, Athens, 1991.

  Ghost Towns of the West, by Lambert Florin, Promontory Press, New York, 1992, pages 426–428.

  PAYBACK

  Alan Welty raised his chin and sucked in a deep breath of the cool Mt. Davidson air. The sky was so clear he could gaze across the valley below to the blue and purple mountains in the Stillwater Range. For the first time on his school's eighth-grade overnight field trip to Virginia City, Nevada, he began to relax.

  Two tiny chipmunks scrambled out of the underbrush and rose on their hind legs to beg.

  Alan pulled what was left of a bag of potato chips out of his pocket and scattered the crumbs on the ground. “Here you are,” he said.

  The chipmunks eagerly snatched at the chips, devouring them.

  Almost hidden by the shadow of an old building, a small dog with mottled black-and-gray hair watched intently.

  “Hey, boy, are you hungry?” Alan asked.

  The dog remained still, and his gaze didn't waver.

  Alan hadn't wanted to come on this weekend field trip. He'd pleaded a sore throat, but his mother hadn't bought it. He'd limped a little—even groaned— before his class boarded the bus, but Mr. Sands, his teacher, had just smiled encouragingly. “There's no need for you to miss the trip. Resting your foot on the bus ride should give it a chance to heal,” he'd said.

  Giving a hopeless sigh, Alan had climbed into the bus, taking a seat right behind the driver. He knew that his parents, his teacher, and even the school counselor were all in agreement that he hadn't made an easy adjustment to his new school. He could tell they thought he wasn't trying and didn't care, but they were wrong. They didn't know about the Tigers.

  The Tigers were the three biggest boys, Bert, Harley, and Red, in Alan's class. They were all a year older than the others in their class, and they had banded together. Alan was sure they had only one purpose—picking out one kid at a time and making his life miserable.

  Alan saw himself as an easy mark. New kid, unsure of himself, no friends to back him up.

  “Hey, Mr. Sands! Better not tell the little kids about the ghosts in Virginia City,” Bert had shouted as he boarded the bus. “Boo!” he'd yelled at Alan. “Ghosts in the ghost town. They're going to get you!”

  Harley, following in Bert's footsteps, had jabbed Alan so hard in the shoulder that Alan had had to fight back the tears that burned his eyes. “Dead miners. Gunfighters. They'll all haunt you, Alan,” Harley had said.

  “Spooks! Watch out, Alan,” Red had yelled, and doubled over in laughter.

  Aurora and Georgia, who had been sitting near Alan, had glanced at him and giggled. “Mr. Sands,” Aurora had asked, “are there really ghosts in Virginia City?”

  Mr. Sands had smiled and shrugged. “I've heard stories of hauntings. But that's to be expected. Towns with exciting—even violent—pasts seem to generate ghost stories. I wouldn't let the stories worry you.”

  “Ooooh! Ghosts!” Georgia had said, and both girls had broken into laughter.

  The Tigers had hurried to claim the back row just as the bu
s took off. Their frequent bursts of raucous laughter were as jarring to Alan as bumps in the road.

  “Don't mind those jerks,” the boy seated next to Alan had said.

  Alan had turned to his seatmate with surprise. It was Johnny Wilson, the shortest boy in class. “When Harley laughed just now, you made a scrunched-up face like you just ate something awful,” Johnny had said.

  Embarrassed, Alan had mumbled, “The way my face looks is none of your business.”

  Johnny had just shrugged. “If that's the way you want it. I was just trying to tell you not to care about the Tigers. They gave me a bad time until they started bugging somebody else.”

  “Who?” Alan asked.

  “You,” Johnny answered.

  Alan had scowled again as Johnny added, “They'll leave you alone, too, when they find another kid to bother.”

  “Passing them off to someone else won't help,” Alan had told him. But in spite of what he'd just said, he felt a surge of hope that the Tigers might someday lose interest in him and bother someone else.

  “You're right. It won't help. Nothing can help,” Johnny had said matter-of-factly. “Nothing's going to change the way those guys act. Nothing and nobody.”

  “Somebody has to,” Alan had answered.

  “Right. Like you? Are you going to take all three of them on?” For a moment Johnny's eyes had lit up. “Do you know karate or something?”

  “No,” Alan had admitted, but he didn't say anything more. He didn't want Johnny to know that when Harley poked him in the chest, or Bert grabbed his backpack and threw it into the mud, or Red knuckled the top of his head, he didn't have the courage to stand up for himself.

  Johnny had hung around Alan as their class began their tour of Virginia City, but Alan had slipped away from him and the rest of the group when they split for their lunch break. Johnny was a nice guy who was trying to be friendly, but Alan still felt new and apart and didn't want to work to make friends. He would rather be by himself.

  He had wandered away from the main part of the town, past chipmunks fearlessly darting toward dropped crumbs of food and past the crowds of visitors touring houses, eating hamburgers, and heading off to explore the mines.

  Finally he had stopped before the last old building on B Street. He leaned against the trunk of a sprawling cottonwood tree where it was quiet and peaceful. He gazed across to the Stillwater range and gave a deep sigh. Somehow he'd get past the Tigers and through this school year.

  Alan turned his attention back to the dog in the shadows. The dog's ears were pricked, as if he were ready to listen, and his gaze was steady.

  Alan patted his pockets. “I'm sorry, fella. I don't have anything for you,” he told him.

  The dog continued to stare at Alan. His dark eyes didn't blink.

  Uncomfortable at the dog's intent gaze, Alan glanced down at the chipmunks. He was so lost in the peaceful silence that he jumped when he heard Harley yell, “The one on the left!”

  “Hey! What are you doing?” Alan shouted. He saw Harley pull back his right arm. “Stop!” Alan yelled.

  A small stone whammed into the ground just inches from the chipmunks. Terrified, they abandoned the few crumbs that were left and vanished into the underbrush.

  “You threw a rock at them!” Alan yelled.

  “Smart guy. You figured that out, did you?” Red taunted.

  “They're little and helpless. You could have hurt them. You could have killed them.”

  The Tigers laughed.

  “Whaddya gonna do about it?” Harley asked.

  Alan stared down at the ground. The Tigers laughed again.

  Leaves crackled near the edge of the old building. Alan glanced in the direction of the sound and saw the dog take a few steps forward. The dog stopped, watching Alan.

  The Tigers turned to see what Alan was looking at.

  “There's a bigger target for you, Harley,” Red said.

  Harley picked up a small stone.

  “No! Stop it!” Alan yelled. He jumped between Harley and the dog just as Harley let the stone fly.

  It stung Alan's leg with such a sharp pain he gasped aloud. “Cut it out,” he commanded, “It's your own fault you got hit,” Bert told him. “You got in the way.”

  Alan's leg hurt so much it was hard for him to speak. He took a long breath and said, “Anybody who'd hurt a dog is a stupid jerk.”

  The Tigers looked at each other in surprise. Then they grinned and began moving toward him.

  “Want to say that again?” Harley asked.

  Alan wanted to get as far away from the Tigers as possible. He was a pretty good runner. Maybe, even though his leg hurt, he could run fast enough to make it back to the crowd of tourists—and to safety—before the Tigers could catch up with him.

  But what would happen to the dog? The Tigers were bound to take out their frustration on the dog if no one was there to protect him.

  Alan stood as tall as he could. “Leave the dog alone,” he said firmly.

  To his surprise, the Tigers stopped. The grins slid from their faces.

  Close to his side he heard a low, menacing growl. He glanced down, amazed. The dog seemed much larger than he had earlier. He was surely as large as a Lab. The dog stared at the Tigers, baring his teeth, and the hair rose on the back of his neck.

  Harley took a step back. “Let's get out of here,” he said.

  “Stupid dog. He looks vicious,” Bert said.

  The Tigers turned and ran.

  Alan let out a long breath. His legs trembled, and for a moment the earth seemed to rock under him. As he watched the Tigers racing down the street, he said, “Thanks, dog. Those guys are bullies. They would have hurt you. Someday they're really going to hurt me—unless I can think of some way to stop them. And I can't.”

  To his surprise, the dog was nowhere in sight.

  Alan whistled, but the dog didn't return.

  Poor old dog, he thought. He's not vicious. The Tigers scared him so he's gone somewhere to hide.

  Alan looked at his watch. It was past the time his class was supposed to meet in front of the old Fourth Ward School. They were going as a group to visit one of the mines in the Comstock Lode. He ran all the way to the school.

  Neither Mr. Sands nor the chaperones scolded him for being late. Stragglers were still arriving.

  But Johnny came up to Alan and said, “I wanted to eat lunch with you, but you weren't there. Why weren't you there? Where'd you go?”

  Alan just shrugged. He didn't want to tell Johnny—or anybody else—about the Tigers or the dog.

  On the way to the mine the guide informed the class that Virginia City had once been the richest city in the United States, and that the Comstock Lode had yielded more than $1 billion worth of silver and gold. Gold had first been discovered in the Virginia City area in 1848, and the big silver strike had followed in 1859.

  Intrigued by everything the guide said, Alan eagerly studied the opening of the mine into which they were led. Tunnels extended in a number of directions. The guide pointed out an old cage elevator. The miners had followed the veins of silver and gold, the guide explained, sometimes many levels down into the depths of the earth.

  Alan found himself at the outside edge of his group. He glanced down the nearest tunnel, which was roped off and out of bounds. He shivered as he wondered what it must have been like to be a miner working for hours to carve out a passageway under the earth, with only a flickering headlamp to light the way.

  To Alan's surprise, in the dim shadows of the tunnel he saw the dog with the pointed ears staring at him.

  “You're squinting. What are you looking at?” Johnny poked his head around Alan, trying to see.

  “The dog in the tunnel.”

  “What dog?”

  Alan looked back at the spot where he'd seen the dog, but the dog wasn't there. “He's gone,” Alan said.

  “Whose dog is it? Where did he come from? What's his name?” Johnny asked.

  Alan smiled. Th
ere was no way he was going to try to answer those questions. “He comes from around here, and his name is Comstock,” he told Johnny. Comstock. From the mine? Is that why I thought of that name? It didn't matter, Alan decided. It was a perfect name for the dog.

  Here, Comstock, he thought. Come on, Comstock. That's a good boy.

  He thought about the way Comstock had protected him from the Tigers, and he wished he had a dog like that. He wished Comstock could come home with him.

  During dinner that evening at the motel's restaurant, Johnny talked on and on about every single thing he'd done all day. And in spite of everything Mr. Sands and the chaperones tried to do to keep things under control, the Tigers laughed and shouted and annoyed everyone in the room.

  Alan kept thinking about Comstock. The dog had such a strange way of staring, as if he could see right through skin and skull into people's minds. What kind of a dog was he?

  Later, when Alan headed for the motel room he was sharing with Johnny, the Tigers suddenly stepped in his way.

  Harley jabbed Alan with a sharp poke to his collarbone. It hurt so much Alan flinched, in spite of his determination not to. “We got something to talk about,” Harley said.

  “Yeah,” Red said. “About those chipmunks.”

  “And your thinking you could tell us what to do,” Bert added.

  Alan took a step back, and the Tigers crowded forward, even closer.

  “Boys! Time to head for your rooms. Lights out in half an hour!” Mr. Sands called from down the walk-way.

  The Tigers stopped and looked at each other.

  “Okay,” Harley said quietly. Jabbing Alan's collarbone again, he said, “We'll see you tomorrow morning. Early. You can expect us.”

  The Tigers disappeared as fast as they had come. Alan ran to his motel room, unlocked the door, and dashed inside. Quickly he dead-bolted the door.

  Johnny looked up from the twin bed he was sitting on. “What's going on?” he asked.

  Alan shrugged. “Nothing.”

  “Want to watch some TV?”

  “Not now. I'm going to take a shower and grab some sleep.”