Ghost Town

by Joan Lowery Nixon

  He chuckled, and Mike asked, “What's so funny?”

  “Just an amusing footnote,” Dr. Nelson said. “Rumor had it that in the early 1860s a sign painter was hired to paint a sign for Body's Stables. He misspelled ‘Body.' Instead of spelling it ‘B-O-D-Y,' he printed it as ‘B-O-D-I-E,' and the town has been known as Bodie with an ‘I-E' ever since.”

  Mike couldn't believe that story was funny enough to make his dad laugh. He sighed, then asked, “How long do we have to be in Bodie before we can leave for our camping trip in Yosemite?”

  “Only long enough for me to get the information I'm after,” Dr. Nelson replied.

  “How long is that?”

  “I can't be exact.”

  Mike turned and studied his father. “Dad,” he said, “we are going camping in Yosemite, aren't we?”

  Dr. Nelson kept his eyes on the unpaved road. “Of course. That's what I said we'd do, but remember, I did tell you that first I needed to do some research in Bodie for the lecture I'm preparing. We'll stay in a Bridgeport motel—it's fairly near Bodie— for just a night or two before we head to Yosemite.”

  Mike sighed. He should have known they'd be in Bodie a lot longer than a few hours. As Mike's mother often reminded him, his father, a highly respected professor of history at California State University in Sacramento, was dedicated to his work.

  As far as Mike was concerned, his father didn't live in the twenty-first century. He lived somewhere in California back in the 1800s—his period of specialization—and he only came out for meals, family birthdays, holidays, and an occasional baseball game.

  Dr. Nelson slowed the van and drove into a parking lot next to the visitors' center. “The Department of Parks and Recreation maintains what's left of Bodie as a California State Park,” he said. “There's a nice little museum in the visitors' center, and you can tour the remaining buildings. You'll find a hotel, the Odd Fellows Hall, and—”

  “Dad! Enough history, okay?” Mike said. He opened the car door and climbed out, impatient to stand up and stretch.

  Dr. Nelson shook his head in bewilderment as he joined Mike. “I can't understand why you aren't excited about history, Mike. Just look around you. This was once an active town that was filled with prospectors and miners and bandits and gamblers and dance hall girls and—”

  “Bye, Dad!” Mike said. He'd had enough. Bypassing the visitors' center, where his father was headed, he wandered alone down Bodie's main street. No one was in sight—probably because it was so late in the day.

  A few beat-up and weathered wooden buildings faced the main street, with gaps between them like missing teeth. A scattering of buildings lay beyond, where the other streets of the town must have been. It was hard for Mike to imagine anybody wanting to work and live in a dump like this.

  Eventually he strolled up to the Boot Hill cemetery, on a hill south of the town. But when he saw his father busily copying names and dates from the array of tombstones, he quickly turned away. The last thing he wanted was to hear his dad going on and on about some of the people buried there and how they'd died.

  A short, thin branch lay on the path to the main street. Mike picked it up, along with a small, rounded stone the size of a golf ball. Aiming for a hole in the dirt road ahead, Mike gently hit the stone with the branch and made his putt.

  “Hey, pretty good,” he said.

  He hit the stone over and over again, until it skit-tered into a ragged patch of weeds that lay between the remains of two wooden buildings on the main street.

  Mike knew he had plenty of time to kill until his dad would be ready to leave, so he began to hunt for the stone.

  It was easy to find. It lay in a depression just beyond a tangled clump of weeds. The ground wasn't hard packed. It was soft and still a little damp, as if there had been a recent rain.

  With the end of his stick Mike began to dig. He remembered his father's story about how Bill Body had discovered gold flakes in a rabbit hole. Who knew what he would find?

  Only a short way into the ground, his stick hit something hard, and he used his fingers to dig it up. Knocking the dirt away, he was surprised to see in the palm of his hand a thin white bone, little more than an inch long.

  His first thought was that someone had dumped the garbage from his lunch, but he knew almost immediately that he was wrong. This wasn't a chicken bone. It looked more like the pictures of human bones he'd seen in health class. He held it up, matching it to his hand. It had to be part of a finger—a human bone.

  Mike dropped the bone into the pocket of his jeans and dug in the hole some more. What if he found a whole body? Would there be a reward? Would they put his picture in the newspaper?

  Mike dug a sizable hole, but his work didn't turn up a thing. All he had was one small finger bone. The mystery nagged him. How had the bone gotten there? Who had lost part of a finger? And what had happened to the rest of him?

  There were no answers, and Mike wasn't planning on staying in Bodie long enough to try to find any. He sighed and wished they could head for Yosemite soon. He sat on the steps of the visitors' center and yawned, waiting for his father.

  When Dr. Nelson arrived he smiled at Mike with satisfaction. “I'm getting even more material than I'd hoped for,” he said. “Come on, hop in the car. It's close to five-thirty, so you must be getting hungry.”

  It wasn't until they had left the gravel road and picked up speed that Dr. Nelson asked, “How did you like the museum?”

  “I didn't go to the museum,” Mike said.

  He caught the flash of disappointment on his father's face. “They present some very interesting relics,” Dr. Nelson said. “For example, there are some of the remnants of the miners' lives—their tools and the equipment they used in their homes.”

  “That kind of stuff doesn't really interest me,” Mike answered.

  Dr. Nelson thought a minute, then suggested, “You might want to talk to one of the rangers who staff the park. They could tell you some interesting stories about the people who once lived in Bodie.”

  Mike's only answer was a shrug.

  He could see his dad struggling to come up with the right thing to say. Finally Dr. Nelson smiled. “I think the best thing for us to do is check into the motel and get some dinner. How about it, Mike?”

  “Sure,” Mike said.

  They found a good diner, and later they watched a movie on the TV in their motel room. Mike forgot all about the bone in his pocket.

  But in the middle of the night he awoke, his feet cramped because something heavy had settled on them.

  In the dim light coming from the crack under the door and the hotel's neon light shining between the drapes, Mike saw a dark figure on the end of his bed. It was sitting on him.

  “Dad? Is that you?” he whispered, but he realized it couldn't be his father. He could hear his dad's soft, rhythmic snoring coming from the other bed.

  Mike's heart began to pound. He tried to sit up, but whoever was on his feet wasn't about to let him move. “Who are you?” Mike whispered.

  The figure leaned closer, grinning at Mike. “Take a good look at me,” he said.

  Greasy strands of hair fell to his shoulders from under a dirty felt hat. The skin on his nose was red and blotchy, his teeth were stained, and his breath stank. “I was known far and wide as the Bad Man from Bodie,” he said. “I was the baddest of the bad. I was the roughest and toughest of them all—and there were plenty of bad ones in Bodie, let me tell you.”

  Mike shivered with fright, but he managed to ask, “What do you want, Bad Man from Bodie? What are you doing here?”

  “You can call me Jack,” the man said, adding smugly, “I was also known as Rough and Tumble Jack.”

  Again Mike tried unsuccessfully to pull his feet out from under Jack. “Why are you here?” he asked.

  Jack slowly held up his left hand, spreading out his fingers. The top third of his index finger was missing, and the second knuckle down was a shattered, bloody mess.

&
nbsp; “One night a dirty, lily-livered coward called me a liar—right there in the saloon in front of everybody. Challenged me, that's what he did, so we went outside in the street to see who was right. Drew our guns at the same time, all fair and square. My shot shattered that feller's arm, and I thought he'd learned his lesson. But danged if he didn't shoot off the end of my finger.”

  Mike gulped. “Ouch,” he said.

  “At the time I didn't know it was gone. Shock, I guess, and there wasn't a moon, so it was too dark outside to see the blood. I went back inside the saloon, ready to brag that I'd put that no-good in his place. Then along he comes with his gun he'd reloaded by holding it between his knees. Shot me right there in the bar and killed me dead.”

  “Dead?” Mike stared in disbelief.

  Jack sighed. “When they put my body in a coffin, nobody noticed that part of my finger was missing. Or if they noticed, they didn't care.” He sighed again and added, “Only a couple of folks came to the funeral. The blacksmith's wife was there. Somewhat unkindly, she said she could rest a lot easier makin' sure I was dead and gone far away from Bodie. At least Mad Molly showed up and shed a few tears. A might tawdry Molly was, but she had a kind heart.”

  The blacksmith's wife had the right idea. Mike, too, wished Jack had gone far away from Bodie.

  Jack suddenly stopped reminiscing and waggled his hand in Mike's face. “You've got my finger, and I want it,” he growled.

  “You can have it,” Mike said eagerly. “I mean, you can have what's left of it. Part is missing—like the flesh and the blood and the dirty fingernail. All I have is the bone, and it's in the pocket of my jeans.”

  Jack looked startled. Furtively he examined his fingernails, then shook his head. “You had no call to point out the lack of a manicure. They weren't to be had in the likes of Bodie. The bone's all I want.”

  “Then take it!” Mike cried.

  “No. It's not that easy,” Jack snapped. He scowled at Mike. “What I need you to do is—”

  The bedside light flipped on. Dr. Nelson squinted at Mike, then put on his glasses to look at him more closely. “You were talking in your sleep, son. You yelled something. Were you having a bad dream?” he asked.

  Mike stared down at the end of his bed. Jack had vanished. “Yeah, I guess,” he answered. Then he sat up in bed. “Dad,” he said, “you told me that the rangers at Bodie would know all about the people who lived there. Could I talk to them tomorrow? Will they be able to answer my questions?”

  Dr. Nelson's eyes opened wide in pleased surprise. “Of course they will. May I ask what you have in mind?”

  Mike wasn't about to tell his father about the bone he had found or the visit by the Bad Man from Bodie. But he had to give him some kind of explanation. “All of a sudden I kinda have this interest in history, Dad,” he said.

  “Wonderful, Mike!” Dr. Nelson beamed. “You don't know how much that pleases me.” He glanced at the clock, then reached for the light. “It's two-sixteen A.M., so we have four hours and forty-four minutes left to sleep. Let's make the most of it.”

  At nine-thirty the next morning Mike's father led him into Bodie's Miners' Union Hall, which had been turned into a visitors' center. They passed a large bulletin board, which displayed letters and drawings from kids who had visited Bodie, and went to the desk. There Dr. Nelson introduced Mike to a ranger named Susan. Giving Mike another happy smile, Dr. Nelson left to continue his own research.

  “Your father said you had some questions,” Susan said. “Anything in particular you want to know?”

  “Yes,” Mike said. “Have you ever heard of somebody who called himself the Bad Man from Bodie? His real name was Jack.”

  Susan smiled. “A lot of outlaws liked to claim that they were the Bad Man from Bodie, but I bet you're talking about Rough and Tumble Jack,” she said. “He was a real tough character. There's no telling how many men he killed before someone shot and killed him back in 1878.”

  Mike gulped. He didn't want anything to do with a murderer. The sooner he could give Jack his bone, the better. He wished his dad hadn't interrupted before Jack had spelled out exactly what it was he wanted Mike to do. “Did everybody call him the Bad Man from Bodie?” Mike asked Susan.

  “As I understand it, Rough and Tumble Jack was what he was usually called, although you could certainly say that Jack was first to fit the title of the Bad Man from Bodie.

  “There were plenty of bad men from Bodie during the late 1870s and early 1880s. Any one of them could have been known by that name, and some of them liked to claim it. Over and over, outlaws robbed the Concord stagecoaches that carried gold and silver bullion through the canyon to Aurora, and there were so many shootings that took place in Bodie, I doubt if anyone bothered to count them.”

  Mike interrupted. “Do you have a picture of Jack?”

  “No, I don't. Sorry.”

  “Some of his stuff ?”

  “Stuff ? No. Nothing in our museum collection has any tie to Rough and Tumble Jack.”

  Mike thought a moment. “Can you tell me this about Jack—was he buried here in Boot Hill?”

  “Yes, he was,” Susan answered.

  Mike remembered Jack's description of his burial. “With only Mad Molly to cry at his funeral,” he said.

  Susan raised an eyebrow. “You must have read something I didn't. Who's Mad Molly?”

  “A citizen of Bodie,” Mike said quickly. He couldn't tell anybody about Jack's visit. “I'm going to—to look at some of the buildings now,” he said. “Thanks for the information.”

  “Check that large bulletin board near the door,” Susan suggested. “Sometimes the kids who write to us include what they've learned in class about our historical characters. I don't remember anything written about Rough and Tumble Jack, but it wouldn't hurt to check.”

  Mike thanked Susan and walked to the board to have a look. Most of the postings were letters from kids who'd visited on school tours. Some wrote about the schoolhouse and the Boot Hill cemetery. Some had illustrated their letters with drawings, and a few had taped things to the letters: wildflowers, a horse made out of Popsicle sticks, a row of tiny cardboard tombstones.

  Suddenly Mike saw the words “Bad Men from Bodie,” and he bent to read the letter. There was another letter tacked nearby. Both writers told about the rush of bad guys to Bodie to rob the stagecoaches carrying gold from Bodie to Aurora; the claim jumpers, who stole each other's mining property; and the gunslingers wanted by the law. Neither of the letters mentioned Rough and Tumble Jack, who didn't seem to be nearly as famous—or infamous—as he himself thought.

  Mike left the center and strolled down the street, past a few scattered groups of visitors. Looking for somewhere to hang out, Mike turned on King Street and walked into a livery stable.

  “There you be,” a deep voice growled.

  Far back in the shadows Mike saw Jack sitting on a bale of hay. Jack pushed his grimy hat from his forehead and held up his mangled left hand. “I want my bone,” he said. “You wouldn't deny me the right to be all in one piece, would you?”

  Mike pulled the bone from his pocket and held it out. “Here it is. You can have it. Right now.”

  “Just what am I supposed to do with it?”

  “Well, you said—”

  “You have to bury it. I can't.”

  “Okay,” Mike said. He sighed with relief. All he had to do was put the bone back into the hole where he'd found it and cover it with dirt.

  “It has to be buried in the cemetery,” Jack said.

  “Well… okay.” “With the rest of my body.”

  Mike gasped. “How am I going to do that?”

  “Simple,” Jack said. “You dig up my coffin, put my finger bone in with the rest of my bones, and bury the coffin again.”

  “I can't,” Mike said.

  Jack sniffed and looked down his nose. “When I was a lad, I was taught never to say ‘can't.' ”

  “Be reasonable,” Mike said. “I'm just a kid.
How am I going to dig up your coffin?”

  “With a shovel.”

  Mike shook his head and took a step back. “No way,” he said.

  Jack's face grew dark. He scowled. He glowered. “I forgot to say what I should have said—you bury it right…or else.”

  Mike slowly took another step back. “Or else what?”

  Now Jack grinned wickedly. “You don't want to find out.”

  Mike backed to the edge of the stable door; it pressed against his back. “I'll think about it,” he shouted, and dashed out of the stables.

  He found his father in the graveyard, still copying information from the tombstones. Dr. Nelson looked up at Mike in surprise, as if he wondered for a moment just who Mike was and what he was doing there.

  He seemed suddenly to remember, and his eyes lit up with pleasure. “Did you find the answers to your questions, son?” he asked.

  “Yes, but now I have another question that you can answer,” Mike said. “How do you get somebody who's been buried in a cemetery dug up and then buried again?”

  Dr. Nelson dropped his pencil. “Is this a hypothetical question?” he asked.

  “No, the guy's really dead,” Mike said.

  “Suppose you tell me why…”

  Mike tried to think of a good excuse. Remembering something he'd heard on a television show, he answered, “I'm interested in—uh—forensic science. You said to explore ideas, Dad. Well, right now I'd like to see some old bones. Do you think we could dig up some old bones, so I could see what they were like?”

  Dr. Nelson's mouth opened and closed a couple of times before he could speak. “Mike,” he said, “I appreciate this newfound interest of yours. In fact, I applaud your ingenuity. However, some actions just aren't feasible, and exhuming a body is one of them. Do you understand?”

  “Everything except the big words,” Mike said. “But I get what you mean. The answer is no.”

  “Correct,” Dr. Nelson said. He cocked his head and studied Mike. “There is a direct correlation between the study of history and forensic paleontology. Archaeology, as well. You know—the study of mankind through what has been left behind. Many of the earth sciences are linked. Would you like me to tell you more about it, son?”