Ghost Town

by Joan Lowery Nixon

  “I guess you're right,” Johnny said. “We have to get up early for breakfast. They're going to take us through the Castle and some of the other mansions. Do you know about the Castle? Have you seen any of the mansions? Do you know how rich some of those claims were?”

  Alan didn't feel like talking. He hurried into the bathroom to take his shower.

  He stayed in the shower so long that when he came out Johnny had fallen asleep. Alan wondered if the Tigers were safely in bed. He hoped so. For some reason he had a nagging feeling of being watched. Could they be lurking outside his door?

  “Don't be dumb,” he whispered to himself, but he opened the heavy drapes a crack to peek outside.

  The parking area in front of the motel was silent, and no one was in sight. He decided that the motel guests must be safely tucked into their rooms for the night.

  But across the walkway, just outside the small pool of light from an overhead lamp, sat a dog. His eyes reflected the lamplight's beam, and Alan could see that the dog was watching him.

  Alan leaned forward, peering into the darkness. He recognized the pointed ears, the watchful eyes. He let the drapes fall back into place, snatched up his motel key, and silently left the room. “Comstock?” he called softly as he stood on the doorstep. “Is that you?”

  The dog's ears seemed to perk even more sharply, and he rose. It was Comstock, all right, but what was he doing here?

  Alan was surprised by how large Comstock seemed. He stood much higher than a Lab or a German shepherd. He was almost the size of a Great Dane.

  Alan snapped his fingers. “Here, Comstock. Here, boy,” he said.

  As Comstock slowly walked toward Alan, Alan stretched out a fist, fingers curled down, so that the dog could sniff it. “Good boy,” Alan said as he felt Comstock's cool breath on the back of his hand. He could tell that Comstock liked him.

  Slowly Alan raised his hand and reached out to stroke Comstock's head. To his amazement, his hand moved through empty space. Comstock continued to gaze at Alan. He was certainly visible. Alan ran his hand along the space where Comstock's head and back should have been.

  Nothing was there.

  Gasping, Alan drew his hand back and pressed it against his chest. “You're a ghost! A ghost dog!” he whispered.

  The dog's tongue lolled from his mouth, and he panted. He even seemed to be smiling.

  “What are you doing here?” Alan asked. “Why did you follow me to the motel?”

  Faster than a snap of the fingers, Comstock vanished, only to reappear across the walkway, where Alan had first seen him.

  For a few moments Alan watched Comstock, and Comstock watched Alan.

  A warm, happy glow spread through Alan's body as he realized what Comstock wanted him to know. Alan had protected Comstock. Comstock was now prepared to protect Alan. It would be payback time— in more ways than one.

  Alan grinned. “We'll get those guys,” he said quietly. The Tigers had no idea what they were in for.

  “Maybe you could grow to be the size of an Irish wolfhound,” Alan added. “Or a horse. Or a bear. Ghosts can be any size they want. Right? You could eat each of the Tigers—one crunching bite at a time. Maybe start with Bert … no, Harley. Start with that finger he uses to poke me.”

  Comstock wagged his tail. Again he seemed to smile.

  Alan stood. “Good night, Comstock. I'll think of some more stuff before tomorrow morning when they come after me. Okay?”

  The dog's eyes never left Alan's face, and Alan was now sure he could see Comstock smiling. Tomorrow morning Comstock would be at his side when he had to face the Tigers. Comstock had come to the motel to show Alan he was there for him, hadn't he?

  Alan could hardly contain his excitement. Only he and Comstock knew that tomorrow was going to be the end of the Tigers and the beginning of Alan's real adjustment to his new school.

  As he entered his motel room and again locked the door, Alan couldn't help laughing. Finally he had a solution to his problem. The Tigers would make a good meal for Comstock, and there wouldn't be a crumb left. Everyone would wonder where and how they'd disappeared. They'd search the mountains and the mines and never find them. He—Alan—would be the only one who knew what had happened to them, and he'd never tell. And no one would ever think to blame him for the disappearance. Alan didn't expect to sleep much that night. There were important plans to be made.

  The moment Alan awakened the next morning, he ran to his window and opened the drapes a crack. Even though it was barely light, Comstock was sitting quietly across the walkway, waiting patiently. The dog raised his head and met Alan's eyes.

  Alan raised a hand in greeting, then let the drapes fall back. To his relief, Johnny was still asleep.

  Alan dressed and slipped out of the room and onto the walkway.

  Quietly he waited for the Tigers to come.

  He didn't have to wait long. Within fifteen minutes he saw them at the end of the block, ambling toward him. When they spotted Alan, they began to walk faster.

  “Come on, Comstock,” Alan called. He ran to the far end of the walkway and around the corner. There had to be an alley behind the motel, somewhere food for the kitchen could be unloaded. He and Comstock would be out of the way where they wouldn't be noticed.

  He was right. His heart thumping, he saw that the alley was a perfect spot. The Tigers would think they had trapped him, but they'd soon find they were the ones who were trapped. He threw one quick glance over his shoulder and saw the Tigers racing after him.

  Good! They were falling into the trap—just as they were supposed to.

  Alan ran to the stained metal Dumpster at the end of the alley and leaned against it, breathing hard. He heard the Tigers pound into the alley and stop. He turned to face them.

  Harley taunted, “There he is now, and no way out.”

  Alan raised his head and let out a piercing whistle.

  “What are you doing?” Red stared at him suspiciously.

  Alan leaned against the Dumpster. “Calling my dog,” he said.

  “Oh, sure,” Bert said. He grinned at Harley. “You don't have a dog—not here, anyway.”

  “Yes, I do,” Alan said. He saw Comstock move into the alley and silently approach. Comstock had done what Alan had imagined. The dog was massive, looming over the boys like a giant grizzly, teeth bared. Alan smiled. “My dog's right behind you.”

  “Oh, sure,” Bert repeated.

  “If you don't believe me, look.”

  Harley raised one eyebrow, but tempted to look, he turned slightly. “What? What's that?” He staggered back.

  Bert and Red gave a startled glance at Harley and whirled to look, too. Bert yelled in fright, and Red backed up against the fence, as if he needed it to hold him up.

  Comstock took a big step forward, his paws crunching heavily on the ground. The growl in his throat rolled like thunder.

  “C-Call him off,” Harley pleaded.

  “No,” Alan said. “He's hungry, and he hasn't had anything to eat yet. You're going to be his breakfast.”

  Bert gasped, and Red said, “Hey, we were just kidding around. We weren't going to hurt you.”

  “Yeah,” Bert said. “In fact, we were going to ask you to join us. You can be a Tiger, too.”

  Harley began to whimper. “Don't let that dog hurt us! My mom would cry her eyes out.”

  “And my little sister,” Red said. “She's only five. She wouldn't know what to do without me.”

  “You guys certainly didn't think about my mom every time you gave me a hard time,” Alan answered. He wanted revenge but he felt uncomfortable when he thought about the consequences.

  Bert took his eyes off Comstock just long enough to glance at Alan, and Alan was surprised to see a flash of what looked like admiration. “You're a lot like us,” Bert said.

  Alan stiffened. Bert's words came as a shock. A lot like them? Suddenly he realized he would be like them—even a lot worse—if he carried out the plans he had made. Was
that what he wanted? Was that what he really wanted?

  “Good boy, Comstock,” Alan said to the dog. “Sit.”

  Comstock immediately obeyed. The Tigers stared from Comstock to Alan. “Will he do everything you tell him to do?”

  “Yes,” Alan said. “Now I'm going to ask you a question. Will you be giving me any more trouble?”

  Their words a jumble, the Tigers shouted together, “No! No more! We'll leave you alone.”

  Alan smiled at Comstock and lowered his voice. “Thank you, Comstock. You're a good boy. You can go home now.”

  In one blink Comstock vanished, and Alan was left alone in the alley with the Tigers. He knew, as surely as if Comstock had told him, that the dog had left him for good. Comstock wasn't needed any longer. Payback was over. Alan was now on his own.

  His heart began to race, but he stood as tall as he could. He thought about what Johnny had told him. “From now on you not only leave me alone,” Alan said, “you leave all the other kids alone, too. If you want to bug anyone, bug each other. Got it?”

  Harley took a step closer. The color had come back to his face. “You're telling us what to do again.”

  Alan took a deep breath. He felt good. “Yes, I am,” he said.

  Harley looked surprised, but Bert sneered and said, “All that big talk. Your dog was going to eat us, right? So what happened? Did he lose his appetite?”

  Alan raised his right hand in the air, ready to snap his fingers. “Want me to call him back so you can find out?”

  “No! Wait,” Red said. He turned to the others. “I don't want to see that thing again. Leave him alone. Who cares about him anyway?”

  Grumbling, the Tigers walked out of the alley.

  The moment they were gone, Alan leaned against the Dumpster for support. The muscles in his legs trembled, and he had to take a few deep breaths before he could stand upright. He'd never been so scared.

  Alan snapped his fingers and gave a low whistle, but just as he'd expected, the dog didn't come. He'd protected Comstock, and Comstock had returned the favor.

  “Thanks for everything, Comstock,” Alan said.

  But as he walked out of the alley, heading toward the motel, Alan began to smile. The problem of adjusting to a new school had suddenly become a whole lot easier.

  Close to the top of Mt. Davidson, Virginia City is Nevada's most famous mining town. Though the town has never been completely abandoned, it is still classified as a ghost town.

  Virginia City once had a population of nearly thirty thousand people, and the nearby gold and silver mines were responsible for the establishment of many great fortunes. Quite a few prospectors, who came hoping to find rich veins of the precious metals, went from near poverty to great wealth when their claims proved valuable.

  Virginia City is commercially operated. It has a visitors' bureau and a chamber of commerce information center on the site.

  Much of the written history of Virginia City and of the huge Comstock Lode has been saved and is available to visitors, as are many relics of the mid-1800s. Mines can be toured, and many buildings—including some of the mansions of prospectors who once struck it rich—have been restored and are open to tourists.

  At one time there were 110 saloons in the city. Now a few of them, including the Bucket of Blood Saloon, have been restored and are available for tourists to explore.

  To reach Virginia City, drive south from Reno, Nevada, on Highway 395. Then take Highway 50 west to South Lake Tahoe. Virginia City is about fifty-five miles from Reno.

  To learn more about Virginia City, contact the Virginia City Chamber of Commerce, P.O. Box 464, Virginia City, Nevada 89440. Telephone: (702) 847-0311.

  Web sites:

  History of Virginia City, Nevada, and the Comstock Lode: www.vcnevada.com/history.htm

  Modern Virginia City Scenes (with photos): www.calneva.com/ghosts/ghosts05.htm

  Publications:

  A Kid on the Comstock: Reminiscences of a Virginia City Childhood (Vintage West Series), by John Taylor Waldorf, University of Nevada Press, Reno, 1991.

  Ghost Towns of the West, by Lambert Florin, Promontory Press, New York, 1992, pages 595–596.

  the

  MAGIC EYE

  Ashley Banks tugged at the full, heavy skirt of her costume. “It's too tight at the waist,” she complained.

  Mrs. Dacy, on her knees in the motel conference room designated as the wardrobe department, shrugged and ran her fingers through her orange-red hair.

  “Get used to it,” she said. “They wore 'em tight— corsets and all—back in the 1800s. Even the little kids like you.”

  Ashley rolled her eyes. “I'm not a little kid, Mrs. Dacy,” she said. She shoved her hands into the pockets of the skirt, touching the weird little stone she had found earlier. “I'm fourteen, and I wish this costume fit better.”

  Suddenly, to Ashley's surprise, the waistline eased. “There you go,” Mrs. Dacy said. “I found two darts basted in and pulled the threads. Better?”

  “Yes. Thank you,” Ashley answered. She laughed. “I guess wishes do come true.” Was it her imagination, or did the stone feel warm to her touch? Glancing into the full-length mirror before she removed the dress, she realized just how becoming the dress was. The faded blue cotton print made her eyes seem even bluer than usual and set off the spirals of blond hair that framed her face.

  Ashley still couldn't believe she was going to be in a real movie, even if it wasn't a big role. Word had spread that a Hollywood company would be shooting a film on a set constructed in the ghost town of Grafton. Kids of all ages who lived in southern Utah had been invited to audition for parts as extras.

  Being picked was pure luck, Ashley cheerfully reminded herself. And luck was something she never stopped looking for. Rabbits' feet, shamrocks, horse-shoes—Ashley had tried all of them, and she was convinced they worked. Now she had found a stone that seemed to bring good luck. Hadn't her dress immediately felt better as soon as she'd wished it would? She took the stone from the pocket of the costume. Looking at it again, she realized how strange it was.

  It was small, oval, and as smooth as glass. What made it truly unusual though, were its deep red, yellow, and white markings, which resembled a wide-open eye.

  The night before, as Ashley and her mother had climbed into their twin beds in the motel near St. George, Ashley had placed the stone on the table between their beds.

  “Where did you get that thing?” her mother had asked. “It looks like it's staring at me. It's creepy.”

  Ashley had giggled. “It was in the cemetery.”

  “What?”

  “Really, Mom. I found it between rehearsals yesterday, when I was looking around the old ghost town. The stone must have been lying right next to a tombstone. It rolled against my shoe like a gift. As if someone wanted me to have it.”

  Mrs. Banks had shivered. “If I were you, I'd give it back.”

  “No. I'm going to keep it,” Ashley had answered. “It's so weird it must be lucky.” She had reached to turn off the light.

  “That's just wishful thinking. People make their own luck, not charms.” her mother had grumbled. She'd rolled onto her side, pulling the thin blanket and sheet up to her ears.

  Ashley didn't give another thought to her mother's opinion. She had touched the stone, made a wish, and her dress suddenly fit. Didn't that prove she had found a lucky stone? It was more than lucky. It had to be magic.

  Now, as she placed the stone in the pocket of her jeans, she once more felt a strange excitement. Something interesting was bound to happen to the owner of a stone like this one.

  A few steps down and across the hall from the wardrobe department, a door stood open. Ashley paused to glance inside the room, which was cluttered with odds and ends that were surely movie props. Who else would want a moth-eaten bear rug, two Indian war bonnets, a bunch of spears, and a pile of worn saddles?

  She lifted her gaze to the wall at her right and gasped aloud. There, in a cheap, tar
nished frame, was a photograph of the best-looking boy she had ever seen.

  Even though the black-and-white print was grainy, it couldn't disguise high cheekbones, a strong, square chin, and dark eyes that seemed to stare right into her own. A broad-brimmed felt hat was pushed back on the boy's head, and long gleaming black hair skimmed the collar of his denim shirt. Under his collar hung the rawhide strip of a bolo tie. It was fastened with a scrolled silver clasp set with polished blue chips that looked like turquoise.

  Entranced, Ashley gripped the stone in her pocket as she stared at the photo. The boy must be somewhere between sixteen and eighteen, and he certainly looked like a star. I wonder if he's in this film, too, she thought. In her mind she spoke to the face in the photograph. I wish I could meet you.

  She smiled as she suddenly imagined the two of them, alone under the stars. He'd put an arm around her shoulders, and his lips would lightly touch hers … “I wish,” she whispered.

  “What are you smiling about?”

  Ashley whirled around. There sat the boy in the photograph. He was perched on a stack of large cardboard boxes, grinning at her.

  “N-Nothing really,” Ashley stammered. “That is …I mean…I was looking at your photograph, and I wondered—” She felt herself blush. “I wondered if you were cast in the movie, too.”

  She almost groaned aloud. Why couldn't she talk straight or make sense? And why hadn't she said “film” instead of “movie”? She'd sounded so dumb.

  But the boy said, “Hi. I'm Luke Danvers. And you're Ashley Banks.” His broad smile nearly took Ashley's breath away.

  “How did you know my name?”

  “Easy. The studio people take roll call every time they go out on location.”

  “Oh. Of course.” Desperately searching for something to talk about, Ashley blurted out, “Do you know what the film is about? I haven't seen a script. The casting director said extras wouldn't need one. We'd be told what to do.”

  She stopped, embarrassed again, but Luke seemed interested in her question.

  “They're making what they call a classic Western,” he said. “You know—settlers against the spring floods and the uprisings of the Native Americans.”