Ghost Town (11 page)

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?”

“Sure, Dad,” Mike said, “but later. Okay? I've got stuff to do.”

He ran down the route he had taken, stopping when he got to a large trash bin. Jack had no right to make him bury that finger bone. It wasn't Mike's fault that Jack hadn't kept track of his finger. Unearthing Jack's coffin would be impossible. The more he thought about Jack's demands, the angrier Mike got.

Once again he pulled the bone from his pocket. This time he dropped it into the trash.

“You shouldn't have done that.” A raspy voice spoke behind him.

Mike whirled around to see Jack leaning against a nearby post. “I can't dig up your body!” Mike insisted.

Jack scowled. His face grew even darker and more sinister. “I hope you don't mind missing your sleep,” he said. “Until you do the right thing by my finger bone, you and I are going to spend a lot of time together.”

Mike sighed and turned back to the trash bin. Leaning into it, he pulled out sticky soft-drink cups, greasy paper, and used tissues, searching more and more frantically for the bone.

He gave a sigh of relief as his fingers touched the bone and closed tightly around it.

“Mike? What in the world are you doing, son?” he heard his father ask.

Mike straightened. He slipped the bone into his pocket and brushed himself off. “I was doing a little archaeology, Dad. You know—studying people by what they leave behind.”

“That's not quite—” Dr. Nelson began.

But Mike hurried to return the trash to the bin. “I'm still exploring directions, Dad,” he said.

Dr. Nelson glanced at his watch. “I'm going to the visitors' center, Mike. I should finish my work within the next twenty minutes or so. Then we'll drive directly to Yosemite.”

“Great,” Mike said, but he had a hard time sounding enthusiastic. He had to figure out what to do with this bone.

He sat under the shade of the tree against which Jack had leaned. Mike frowned as he thought about Jack. Even though he'd been the baddest of the bad, probably nobody knew it. An idea began to come to him.

“Jack?” he asked quietly.

“Right here,” Jack said, and appeared. His face was uncomfortably close to Mike, who winced at Jack's blast of bad breath. “I told you I'd be haunting your very footsteps. I'd be—”

“You might as well,” Mike said. “At least I know who you are. None of the other visitors to Bodie will ever learn anything about you.”

Jack drew back, startled. “What? Are you daft? Not know about Rough and Tumble Jack, the Bad Man from Bodie?”

Mike looked Jack straight in his bloodshot eyes and said, “There's not a thing in the museum about you.” He shrugged. “I suppose you already know that a whole bunch of stagecoach bandits, claim jumpers, and gunslingers have claimed the name ‘Bad Man from Bodie.' ”

Jack shook with anger, disappearing for a moment. But he returned, his face drawn and somewhat pale. “That can't be,” he said. “
I'm
the Bad Man from Bodie. I belong in that museum. The rangers can't leave me out!”

“It's not the rangers' fault,” Mike explained. “You didn't leave anything behind that they can put in their exhibit, and none of the kids who've visited Bodie have written about you.”

Mike waited quietly. He watched Jack scowl and fume, then suddenly pause as the idea struck him. “I did so leave something behind,” Jack said in wonder. “I left part of my finger.”

Mike pretended to be surprised. “Hey! That's right.”

“And you can write, can't you?”

Mike nodded.

Jack, whose breath was worse than ever, leaned toward Mike. Trying not to breathe, Mike scrunched up his nose. “So do it!” Jack shouted. “Hurry up. Write something about me to put in the museum.”

Mike didn't move. He looked at Jack a long moment.“If I do, will you leave me alone? Will you get out of my life forever?”

“It's a deal,” Jack said. “Some people may not consider me an honest man in certain ways, but to me a deal is a deal, and I'll honor it.” His lip curled up in a sneer. “Besides, I'll be as glad to get rid of you as you'll be to get rid of me. You don't have much of a life—at least by my standards.”

“Okay,” Mike said. “Wait here. I'll be right back.”

He quickly found his father and asked for a pen and a sheet of paper. “I want to write something about Bodie to post on the museum's bulletin board,” Mike explained.

Dr. Nelson smiled broadly. “I'm delighted, son,” he said as he handed him the paper and pen. “What is your topic?”

Mike didn't hesitate. “The original Bad Man from Bodie,” he said. He left his father looking puzzled but happy.

At the visitors' center, it didn't take long for Mike to write what he had in mind. At the top of the paper he sketched Jack's scowling face, and at the bottom he fastened the bone with a piece of Scotch tape from a roll on the ranger's desk. Then he returned to Jack and held up the paper.

Jack studied it for a moment, then said, “So that's what I look like. I never had much call to look in a mirror. Never had a mirror, for that matter.”

It was easy to see that Jack liked his portrait, but Mike asked, “What about what I wrote? Is that okay?”

Jack cleared his throat. “I never had much need to learn to read, neither. You read it to me.”

“Okay,” Mike said. “I wrote it sort of like a Wanted poster. The big letters say, ‘WANTED: ROUGH AND TUMBLE JACK, THE ORIGINAL BAD MAN FROM BODIE.' Then it says, ‘Meaner than mean, badder than bad, armed and dangerous.' And down at the bottom I wrote, ‘The Bad Man from Bodie's authentic fingertip. Do not touch.' ”

Jack wiped his eyes and blew his nose on his sleeve.

“That's downright beautiful,” he said. “I have just one question. What does
authentic
mean?”

“My dad uses that word a lot,” Mike answered. “It means
real
, but it sounds more official.”

“I never was on a Wanted poster before,” Jack said. He blew his nose again. “Go ahead. Put it in the museum.”

Hesitating, Mike asked, “And you'll never bother me again?”

“Never.”

Mike ran to the museum and tacked his poster at the top of the bulletin board. He had fulfilled his promise to Jack, and he'd found a place in the museum for the bone—at least for the present.

“Mike?” he heard his father call. “Are you ready to leave?”

“Right away, Dad,” Mike said. He walked out the door whistling. He and his father were going camping in Yosemite, and the Bad Man from Bodie was going to remain in Bodie. As Rough and Tumble Jack had said, “A deal is a deal.”

An altitude of well over eight thousand feet and frequent snowstorms made Bodie, California, a difficult place in which to prospect for gold. But in 1878, the success of the Bodie Mine, which yielded $600,000 in gold ore in just one month, drew prospectors and miners from all over the West. In four years the Bodie Mine, and other mines around it, gave up well over$25 million worth of gold and silver ore.

Adventurers, gamblers, grocers, barbers, and bankers came, too, and a thriving town was built.

But Bodie was rough and tough, and its citizens bragged about it. With the exception of the few honest people in town, they jumped each other's claims, robbed stages, and engaged in deadly fights between
unions. Some of them were known for shooting with little provocation, and vigilante committees did little or nothing to bring order to the town.

The stage carrying gold and silver bullion out of Bodie was robbed regularly, and Bodie's many saloons did a booming business.

Many outlaws headquartered in Bodie claimed the title of Bad Man from Bodie, but most historians agree that Rough and Tumble Jack was probably most deserving of that dubious distinction.

The citizens of Bodie were an impulsive lot. In 1879 a committee was formed to pay honor to the remains of Bill Body, buried in a Boot Hill cemetery, and a handsome headstone was ordered for his grave. When it finally arrived, in September of 1881, President James Garfield had just been assassinated. The committee voted to forget Bill Body's memorial and use the stone as a monument to President Garfield instead.

Although close to $75 million worth of gold was removed from Bodie's mines, they began to fail, and in 1883 Bodie mining stocks crashed.

The town rapidly fell into disrepair as its citizens abandoned their houses and rushed to find the next big strike.

In 1932 a fire destroyed two thirds of the town, but
many interesting buildings remain. The town is maintained by the California Department of Parks and Recreation as a California State Park, and rangers are on hand during the summer months to answer questions.

It has been estimated that as much gold remains under Bodie and the area around it as was taken from the mines, but many of the mine shafts have collapsed, and the cost of removing the gold would be more than the gold is worth.

To reach Bodie
, drive six miles south of Bridgeport on California State Highway 270 and take the turnoff to the east that begins as a paved road. Continue for thirteen miles on a dirt road.

To learn more about Bodie
, contact the Bodie State Historic Park, P.O. Box 515, Bridgeport, CA 93517. Telephone: (760) 647-6445.

Web sites:

Bodie, State Historic Park, Its Life and Times:

www.redmondwa.com/bodie

Bodie, A Ghost Town That Lives On:

www.yosemitegold.com/yosemite/bodie.html

Publications:

Ghost Towns and Mining Camps of California: A History and Guide
, by Remi Nadeau, Crest Publishers, Santa Barbara, California, 1999, pages 202–203 and 228–236.

Bodie—Boom Town of California
, by Douglas McDonald, Nevada Publications, Reno, 1988.

Ghost Towns of the West
, by Lambert Florin, Promontory Press, New York, 1992, pages 167–168.

J
osh Peavy made a last halfhearted sweep with his broom at a corner in Fort Griffin's powder magazine.

Scarcely a speck of dust flew up. Once again he'd done a good job of keeping the old, drafty, sawed-lumber buildings clean, readying them for the new day's group of tourists, who were bound to leave a scattering of litter before moving on.

Helping to keep the fort clean was a boring, lonely job for a ghost, Josh thought. But at least he had a job, and for that he was grateful. There weren't many jobs around an army post that a ghost of only thirteen years could be trusted to do. At least, that's what the ghost of Sergeant Bart Holter had pointed out.