The Secret of Lodestar

by Tim Champlin

  As the hours of darkness dragged, he became disoriented. How wide was this playa? There was no way to tell if he was lost and walking in circles, because wind and dust filled in or wiped out his tracks in the soft crust.

  Suddenly he stumbled when his weight broke through the crusted mud and he sank over his ankles into a slushy liquid. Off balance, he struggled forward, trying not to fall as he dragged his boots through the slop. He knew the water, saturated with salts, was not drinkable. Maybe he could just moisten his tongue. He yanked down the bandanna, reached and wet his gloved fingers, and put them to his tongue. Bitter. The undrinkable liquid stung his cracked lips. He spat. What a hell he’d wandered into! He had thought he’d reach the mountains before dark, but distances were deceiving in this dry air. Perhaps the mountains contained tinajas—tanks of stagnant rainwater cupped in hollows scoured out of solid rock by rain and sandstorms over eons.

  He dragged his boots out of the muck and trudged onward, blindly, numbly, thinking of nothing. Time and distance had ceased to mean anything. The wind gusted in his face so strongly he could lean against it. The bottoms of his feet burned through the cotton socks and thin leather soles. At least his boots prevented the alkalai from reaching his blistered skin.

  Thirst grew so compelling that he paused, turned his back to the wind, and urinated into the empty canteen. Cringing, he tipped it up and drank. It wasn’t much and it was warm and salty, but it relieved the dryness of his tongue and throat. At a bare minimum, it required a gallon of water a day for a man to survive in this place. And even that might not be enough. God! What a way to die. He envisioned a future traveler stumbling across his bleached and scattered bones, skull grinning at some cosmic joke.

  Death would come within a day or so. But death would be better than being eternally damned to a place that not even Dante had described. But then, Dante had never seen Nevada.

  He opened the flap of the saddlebags and took out the two heavy boxes of cartridges and shoved them and the jerky into the pockets of his jeans. Then he dropped the bags containing the crushed field glasses, currycomb, his extra clothing, razor, and soap. Somewhat lightened, he trudged on, carrying the canteen, his rifle and belted six-gun. In his growing weakness, he considered discarding one of his weapons. The only enemies he’d likely encounter out here were not ones he could oppose with bullets.

  The deep dryness of thirst entered its next stage, where the nerve endings of his skin felt scraped and irritated by the rubbing of his clothing—as if he’d been sprinkled with sand. His mind wandered, and he lost focus and awareness. Hallucinations would follow.

  He stumbled where the ground rose slightly under his feet, jolting him back to the present. Several more steps brought him up from the soft, sandy surface onto something more solid. Had he finally reached the end of the playa?

  A strange noise arrested his attention. He paused, swaying with fatigue, the gusting wind like a chorus of rising and falling voices. Then the sharp noise again. The gong of a bell? Impossible! He strained to hear, cocking his head this way and that. “Imagining things. A ringing in your ears, you fool,” he tried to say aloud, but it was only a thought since his swollen tongue and dry lips prevented speech. An angel coming to greet me? A sardonic grin cracked his lower lip and he grimaced. Surely the devil didn’t ring a bell to announce his arrival.

  Then he heard it again—not the tinkle of a small chime, such as a goat might wear around its neck, but more like the light, mellow tone of a big brass bell. He was convinced he’d actually heard it, and he staggered on unsteady legs toward the sound, like a crippled ship blindly seeking a bell buoy in a harbor. Real or imagined, the metallic sound lured him on—not a rhythmic ring, but only a dim, sporadic bong… bong…

  He grew light-headed and dizzy. Suddenly his limbs went limp, and he felt himself falling into a black hole.

  TWO

  Marc Charvein burst awake, drowning. He jerked upright, strangling, sputtering, spraying water from nose and mouth.

  “Easy!” a voice said.

  “Huh… ?” He cringed away, still hacking to clear his throat. His tongue and lips were wet, and he managed to swallow.

  “Here,” the stranger said, thrusting a blanket-sided canteen into Charvein’s hand.

  He tipped it up and poured the cool, clear, life-giving liquid into his mouth and swallowed and swallowed. He couldn’t get enough.

  “Bastante!” A strong hand snatched the canteen, sloshing water onto his shirt. “Enough for now.”

  “More,” he gasped. Charvein strained to see his benefactor, but irritated eyes could make out only a darker shadow in the dust-blurred moonlight.

  A hand reached under his arm and pulled him to his feet. He was as weak and wobbly as a newborn colt. “My rifle?” His holster was also empty.

  The unseen arm was guiding him, and he followed meekly, unable to do otherwise. With a start, he realized the bulky shapes around him were buildings. He’d stumbled into a town. But everyone must be asleep; there were no lights. He had no idea of the time.

  “Who are you?” he croaked, his voice sounding like that of some stranger. “Where am I?” Was this a dream of his fevered mind? The specter did not speak, would not answer.

  Marc shuffled along the dirt street, a sinewy hand gripping him by the elbow. Buildings on either side protested at being kept from slumber—timbers were creaking, shutters banging, a loose sheet of tin roofing rattled violently.

  He longed for more water, craved it with all his dried-up being. He would follow this man wherever he led as long as he could get hold of that canteen again.

  They walked at least a half mile while the wind seemed to tire itself out. It still gusted fitfully but was beginning to lose much of its force. Charvein looked up at the waning moon. It appeared to glow inside a dusty halo.

  The strange man was leading him toward the bulky flank of a mountain that jutted up close to the last buildings on the street. They stepped through a thick clump of mesquite, and Charvein caught sight of a small fire of coals within the shelter of a cleft in the steep hillside.

  “Sit,” the voice commanded, motioning toward the fire, where a blanket was spread. The man added a handful of dry sticks to the glowing coals, and Marc looked away from the sudden brightness as they blazed up. He collapsed, loose-limbed, onto the blanket and gazed at his benefactor, who was finally visible. Shorter than average, the man wore a light cotton poncho and a wide straw hat he shoved back to hang by its cord down his back. Longish salt-and-pepper hair swept back to frame a lean, shaven face. Shaven? Marc could see no trace of whiskers on the smooth, leathery cheeks. The thin, hawklike nose and reddish glow of his skin in the firelight hinted at a heritage more Indian than Spanish. Recalling the strength of those tapered fingers, Charvein assumed the slight figure was strung together with lean, whipcord muscle. Black eyes gazed at him from under hooded lids. Charvein shivered in the heat. Dressed a little differently, this apparition could have just stepped from an Inca temple to confront the Spanish conquistadors.

  “Water.”

  “Un poco,” the man replied, tossing the canteen to Charvein.

  This time he managed to discipline himself, rinsing his dry mouth and swollen tongue before swallowing. He repeated the procedure three times, then forced himself to cork the vessel. He placed it beside him on the blanket instead of handing it back.

  “There is more,” the man said.

  Good. He spoke English.

  “Where am I?” Marc asked when his throat and tongue felt lubricated enough to speak.

  “Lodestar, Nevada,” the man said.

  “Lodestar… ,” Marc said, searching his memory. The silver boomtown of the 1860s, long abandoned. “And who are you?”

  “Sandoval. Baptized ‘Carlos,’ but no one knows me by that name.”

  “An old, honorable Spanish surname.”

  “The name of one of the Spanish dogs who conquered the Incan empire three hundred years ago.”

  “You carry
a long hate. You don’t appear old enough to have been there.”

  “I carry a mix of Incan and Spanish blood.”

  “Nearly everyone is a mixture of something. Did you inherit nothing from the Spanish besides their seed?”

  “My belief in the one, true God.”

  “Then consider yourself fortunate.”

  “Who are you and why are you in Lodestar?” Sandoval asked, ignoring the comment.

  “Marchal Charvein—Marc.” He uncorked the canteen for another swig. “It’s a long story.”

  “I have time, Marchal Charvein.” He paused. “That is a French name,” he added.

  “Correct. But I’m third generation American. And I don’t hate the English for all the wars between France and England. Past hurts to ancestors are best forgotten. You and I are but a short time on this earth.”

  “Your time was almost very short if I had not found you just now.” His speech carried only a slight hint of a Spanish accent. The voice was husky, as if it hadn’t been used for a long time, or as if his throat was irritated by dust.

  Marc nodded. He pegged Sandoval as eccentric but not dangerous. He owed his benefactor an explanation. “I was hired to find a man who robbed a train near Virginia City and made off with a load of gold ingots. The rightful owner wants it back.”

  As he hunkered on the opposite side of the dying fire, Sandoval’s expression didn’t change.

  Charvein finished his tale of being ambushed and wandering across the playa.

  “Do you have any proof of what you tell me?”

  “Do I need any?”

  Sandoval gazed at him silently.

  Charvein reached into his shirt pocket and drew out a wrinkled, sweat-stained letter he carried from Ezra Pitney verifying that he’d hired Charvein, a former lawman, to find his gold. Marc handed over the letter, along with a worn silver badge and a card signed by the county sheriff in Virginia City appointing him a temporary deputy for one year.

  Sandoval looked at the written documents so briefly Marc wondered if the man could read English. He handed them back. “Why do you carry a badge?”

  “I’m deputized to make arrests if I need to. I was a full-time railroad detective some years ago.” When Sandoval didn’t reply, he added, “There are better ways to make a living. I’m still looking for one.” He started to grin, but a sharp sting reminded him of his cracked lips. He had to gain Sandoval’s confidence so the Mexican would return his weapons. He wiped the copious tears overflowing his irritated eyes. Most of the dust had been washed away.

  Sandoval took a short board and scraped the coals of the fire to one side. “You have not eaten.”

  “I ate two days ago.”

  The man uncovered the lid of a pot buried in coals beneath the fire. He lifted the lid with a small iron hook. The steaming aroma of cooking beans wafted to Marc’s nose, causing his stomach to grumble.

  “They are ready.”

  “You were cooking beans in the middle of the night?”

  “Mañana,” he replied. “My food for tomorrow. But already it is tomorrow. Dawn comes in two hours.”

  Charvein had lost all sense of time, but he noted that the roaring wind was now only a light breeze fanning the mesquite bushes shielding the entrance to the cave.

  Sandoval set the lid to one side, rummaged in a wooden box behind him, pulling out two tin plates, cups, and spoons. He scooped up a generous helping and handed the plate to Charvein. He dished up his own food and sat, cross-legged, on the ground to eat.

  “I did not expect company, so I have no bacon or tortillas prepared,” Sandoval said.

  As they ate, Charvein wondered what this man was doing, living in a town vacated for nearly ten years. During the War Between the States, Lodestar had boomed with silver strikes, even as the Washoe area of western Nevada was developing the mines that would eventually result in the Big Bonanza discoveries of the mid-seventies.

  Charvein finished eating and set his plate down. Though still hungry, he dared not push his body, for fear of getting sick.

  “Why are you living in a ghost town?” he asked, hoping to catch Sandoval off guard and elicit an honest answer. He didn’t succeed.

  “It is enough for you to know I’m here and saved you from turning into the dust of this place.”

  “Then tell me—where do you get food and water? You didn’t grow these beans.”

  “Verdad.” Sandoval scraped up the last of the juice with his spoon. “When I need supplies, I ride to Virginia City. I have a mule and a burro.”

  Apparently, the animals were sheltered somewhere else. “What about water?”

  “When the shafts reached fifteen hundred feet, the miners struck water. Flooded all the tunnels. The pumps couldn’t lift it out fast enough. The miners could no longer reach the heavy, blue-gray mud that was the silver ore. Without the silver, the town died.” He shrugged at the finality of it. “Now the town is mine.” A hint of smile crossed his face. “Some of the underground water was ruined by quicksilver and other chemicals. But not all. I found a shaft that contains only cold, pure water—better than any in Nevada.”

  “I see.”

  Sandoval packed a blackened pipe with coarse tobacco. He looked up as he touched a blazing twig to the bowl and puffed it to life. “My only vice since I quit drinking mescal.”

  Although Charvein smoked an occasional cigar, he felt no desire for tobacco now. His mouth and throat still suffered from extreme dryness.

  “What will you do?” Sandoval asked.

  “I have lost the robber for the moment. Now I’ll try to pick up his trail or return to Virginia City.”

  “How will you do this on foot?”

  “I was hoping I could use or buy one of your animals.”

  “Lupida and Jeremiah are my friends, my family. They are not for sale or rent.”

  “Then it appears I’m at your mercy.” Charvein doubted he could survive afoot in the mountains, even with all the water he could carry. Game would also be scarce.

  “Perhaps you can ride to Virginia City on my spare beast—next time I go.”

  Charvein didn’t want to push the tentative offer. “How far is it from here?”

  “Two days’ slow ride.”

  Charvein nodded. Evidently, Sandoval wasn’t wanted by the law in Virginia City. No telling when he was due to make another run for supplies. I could be stuck here for weeks. “What about my guns?”

  Sandoval eyed him sharply, hesitating. Then he reached under his poncho and withdrew a Colt, handing it over, butt first. “Your rifle is near where I found you.”

  Charvein shoved the Colt into its holster, assuming it had been unloaded.

  Water and then hot food, along with his earlier ordeal, were all having their effect on him, and he felt his eyelids growing heavy. “Thank you for saving my life,” he said and bowed slightly with a formal courtesy. “And for your hospitality. But now I have to sleep.”

  “The livery stable still has much dry hay,” Sandoval said. “I’ll show you.”

  He got up and led the still weak Charvein out of their partial shelter and back toward the main street.

  The abandoned buildings were now dimly visible in the graying light of approaching dawn. The air still smelled of dust, but the wind had died with the night.

  “I remember hearing a bell just before I blacked out,” Charvein said. “It led me here.”

  “From the church of San Juan—that stone building over there.” He pointed. “A strong wind can ring the brass bell. When I first came here, I climbed the bell tower to muffle the clapper. But the rotten wood of the stairs collapsed, and I almost broke my leg. Some night, in a great windstorm, it will come crashing down. Meanwhile, the sound has become a companion, like my animals.” He turned to Charvein. “Think on that sound as a miracle from San Juan, guiding you to safety.”

  Was his tone more mocking than pious? Charvein couldn’t tell.

  “Does the wind always blow at night like that?”

/>   “No. Only in spells.”

  “Strange.”

  “The heavy wind blows from the southwest through a canyon in this range of mountains. Something in the bend of the canyon and the rock formations makes the winds howl like a tortured ghost. The Paiutes believe it is the spirit world calling. The Lodestar residents used to call it Nightwind Canyon.”

  Sandoval detoured to the boardwalk in front of a store, retrieved Charvein’s rifle, and handed it to him. Charvein knew without looking that it was empty.

  A half block farther brought them to the partially collapsed stable.

  “You will not need a light now,” Sandoval said, pointing. “The ladder to the loft is sturdy if you want to rake down fresh hay.” He turned and walked away without another word.

  Charvein, relishing his solitude, made himself a comfortable nest in the corner, wondering if he might be sharing his bed with mice or rats. But he didn’t care, as he pulled off his boots and ruined socks and massaged his sore feet, wishing he had some alcohol to douse the three small blisters he found.

  He reloaded both his rifle and pistol from his cartridge belt and placed the weapons within easy reach before he curled up in the hay. It was like sleeping on a cloud.

  Two hours later he was deep in exhausted sleep and didn’t hear the hooves clopping along the street outside.

  THREE

  “Marc!”

  Charvein’s eyes flew open at the urgent whisper of his name. He found his mouth firmly clamped with a calloused hand and Sandoval’s dark face above him.

  “Sshhh!” He pointed toward the street. Sandoval removed his hand, and Charvein carefully reached for his gunbelt, then crept barefoot toward the wall of the stable, where he applied his eye to a crack between the warped boards.

  Two mules stood tethered to a sagging hitching rail across the street. miners’ EXCHANGE BANK was engraved in the stone lintel over the open double doors. From within came the hollow clumping of boots on a wooden floor.