Ghost Town (4 page)

More than twenty of the original buildings are still standing. Visitors can walk the streets where prominent gunmen such as John Ringo and Curly Bill once walked and explore the Stratford Hotel, where Billy the Kid washed dishes. A number of strange occurrences and ghostly sightings have been reported in Shakespeare.

In
Ghost Towns of the West
, Lambert Florin writes about eight-year-old Emma Marble, who had come from Virginia City, Nevada, with her mother and sister to join her father, who had established a home for his family in the mining camp of Shakespeare.

Emma had brought with her a prized possession—an elegant doll with a china head. Emma took her doll to a Christmas party in 1882, and Jane Hughes, the youngest daughter in the Nick Hughes family, was captivated by the doll.

Jane couldn't stop talking about the doll, even when she became quite ill a few days after the party. In her delirium she constantly called for the doll.

Mary, Jane's older sister, visited the Marble home
and offered Emma a five-dollar gold piece in exchange for the doll. The request was granted.

Even in her sleep Jane clung to the doll. Soon she grew seriously ill and died. She was buried in the Shakespeare cemetery, where her body lies to this day, the doll still clutched in her arms.

Shakespeare is privately owned by resident Janaloo Hill, who has opened the town for tourists and conducts guided tours.

To reach Shakespeare
, which is two and a half miles southwest of Lordsburg, New Mexico, take the Main Street exit (Exit 22) from Interstate 10 and drive south. Follow the signs on New Mexico Highway 494.

To learn more about Shakespeare
, contact Shakespeare Ghost Town, P.O. Box 253, Lordsburg, NM 88045. Telephone: (505) 542-9034.

Web sites:

Shakespeare
(with photos):
www.interart.net/travel/shakespeare/home.html

Publications:

Ghost Towns of the West
, by Lambert Florin, Promontory Press, New York, 1992, pages 651–654.

Then and Now, Here and Around Shakespeare
, by Rita Hill, Shakespeare Publications, Shakespeare, 1963.

“Shakespeare, the Town That Refuses to Give Up the Ghost,” by Joan Marsan,
New Mexico Magazine
, Santa Fe, February 1998, pages 60–65.

Y
ou don't know where you're going, Dub. Admit it. You're lost.” Twelve-year-old Andy Karnes slumped in the passenger seat of the old pickup truck and glared up at his cousin, who sat behind the wheel.

“Am not.” Unconcerned, Dub grinned at Andy. “I told you we were gonna take back roads up and over the mountains. Don't make no sense to run away on a highway where the law could spot us and pick us up easy.”

Andy winced as the truck bounced over a deep groove in the dirt road. Studying the narrow ruts, he said, “This washed-out thing isn't a back road. It looks more like an old wagon trail.” Once again he
wondered how and why he had hooked up with his sixteen-year-old cousin. Hadn't Ma said privately more than once that Dub hadn't been born with even a grain of common sense?

Sighing, Andy admitted to himself the reason he had involved Dub in his scheme to run away from home. Dub had wheels. Dub had this pickup truck. He hadn't been driving for long, but at least Dub was old enough to drive. If Andy had taken off by himself, he would have been on foot, hoping some farmer or kind old lady (hopefully not a serial killer) would take pity on him and give him a lift.

Mad as a hornet with a stick poked in its hive, Andy had broken down and confided in Dub on the way home from school. “I gotta get away from Mom and Dad and my bossy sisters telling me all the time what to do and how to do it. I'm gonna run away.”

Dub had nodded agreeably. “Where you goin'?”

Because Andy had just come up with the idea, he hadn't thought it through yet. He'd shrugged and answered, “I don't know. Minneapolis, maybe. Or Chicago. Some big city as far away as I can get from Montana. I'll find a place to live and get a job.”

Dub had laughed. “You're only twelve. You aren't likely to get a job.”

“I can deliver papers or cut lawns or shovel snow in the winter.”

“That's true,” Dub had said pleasantly.

Andy had given Dub a hard, questioning look and had been glad to see that Dub was taking him seriously. He should have known. Happy-go-lucky Dub took everything at face value. Cautiously Andy had asked, “Have you ever been in a big city? I mean a city bigger than Great Falls?”

“Nope,” Dub had said. “But I've seen Chicago on TV. I'd sure like to get a good, up-close look at the place.”

“Then come with me,” Andy had said.

“Okay,” Dub had said. “Chicago's this-a-way.”

Andy would have liked a chance to plan the trip a little better, to pack a change of clothes and maybe a bar of soap and a toothbrush, but Dub—who never seemed to worry about a single thing—had explained that he had gas money and they could always pick up clean underwear and toothbrushes once they got to Chicago. If they were going to leave home, there was no time like the present.

Andy had one more doubt. “I think we should tell our parents we've left,” he said, “so they won't worry about us.”

“You got your school stuff with you,” Dub had
said. “So write a note. We'll leave it in your family's mailbox out on the road. Ask them to let my parents know, too. That'll cover it.” He'd given a quick glance at Andy, who was already pulling a sheet of three-hole lined paper out of his notebook. “Don't tell them where we're going.”

“I already thought of that,” Andy had snapped. “You don't have to tell me what to do.”

As soon as Andy had finished writing, Dub had said, “What did you write? Read it to me.”

Andy had been about to tell Dub where to get off, but he'd realized they'd be traveling partners for quite some time, and it would be easier if they weren't mad at each other. So he'd read aloud, “ ‘Dear Mom and Dad, You had too many daughters before you had me, and you let them get too bossy. I can't take it anymore. I'm leaving home. Dub is with me. Please tell his parents he's okay. I know what you're going to say, Mom, but don't. See you when I'm grown up and rich. I love you, Andy.' ”

“Sounds okay,” Dub had said. “But what did you mean about that part where you tell your mom you know what she's gonna say?”

Andy had meant what she'd say about Dub, but of course, he couldn't tell his cousin that. He'd thought
fast. “I meant what she's going to say about my running off.”

Dub had pulled across the road and stopped by the Karnes family's mailbox. He took the folded notepaper from Andy, opened the box, and shoved the letter inside.

Gulping, trying to ease the tightness in his throat, Andy had given a last glance at his house, which lay some distance from the mailbox. Nestled among the wheat fields, it had appeared even smaller than it was— too small, with all those pushy big sisters living in it.

Dub had closed the mailbox, rolled up his window, and driven off, the wheels of the truck churning up clouds of dust. “Okay, Andy boy,” he'd said. “We're on our way.”

Now, as the back road grew rougher, Andy held tightly to his seat. “I don't know where this old road goes,” he complained, “but I sure as heck know it doesn't go to Chicago.”

Dub leaned forward, peering through the wind-shield. “We're north of Lewistown. I been there once. I think this road cuts through.”

“Well, maybe it doesn't,” Andy began, but he sat upright, gripped the handle of the door, and yelled, “Look out! Stop! There's a man in the road!”

Dub must have seen him at the same time, because he stomped on the brake pedal so hard only Andy's seat belt kept him from slamming into the dashboard.

The man was tall and lean, with skin just a shade more brown than the khaki shirt and pants and straw hat he was wearing. He nodded and smiled at Andy and Dub as he walked toward the driver's side of the car. Close up, Andy could see that the man was far from young—probably even a lot older than Grandpa Karnes—but he walked with long strides, his back straight and his head held high.

As the man leaned toward Dub's open window, he smiled. “Are you boys lost?” he asked.

“Nope,” Dub answered easily, not the least insulted as far as Andy could see. “We're just cuttin' through.”

The man shook his head. “This road won't cut through to nowhere. I don't know how you even found it.”

“Are we still in Montana?” Andy asked.

The man nodded. “Just around the bend is the town of Maiden. This road dead-ends there.”

Dub shrugged. “Is there a place up there to turn around?”

“Sure, but there's a paved road out of Maiden that
goes on to Giltedge, and from there to Lewistown. You'd be better off using that.”

The man glanced up at the sky, then back at Dub. “It's getting late. Night comes on real quick in the mountains. Suppose you boys bunk here tonight and get an early start on your way tomorrow. I can fix you up with supper.”

Dub looked at Andy for an answer.

The man seemed kind and friendly, Andy thought. He could practically hear his mother say, “Don't talk to strangers,” but he was on his own now. He didn't have to take orders. “Sure. Thanks. Why not?” he answered. “We have to stop somewhere for the night. Might as well be here.” Andy realized that the only cash he had was what was left of his lunch money for the week. Thinking of lunch made him so hungry his stomach growled.

The man stuck his right arm through the open window and shook hands with Dub. Next he waved at Andy. “You can call me Jep,” he said.

“Hi, Jep,” Andy answered. “I'm Andy Karnes, and this is my cousin, Wilton Haslip.”

Dub spoke up. “Nobody calls me Wilton. They call me Dub, for the ‘W' in Wilton.”

“Just follow the curve ahead, Dub,” Jep said, “and park your truck anywhere.”

Andy clamped his teeth together as the truck jounced along the narrow, rutted road, but when they reached the clearing, his mouth flew open in surprise.

There before them lay the main street of an old Western town. Some of the buildings were built of unpainted, sawed lumber, some of logs. All of them were in near-perfect condition. A few of the false fronts that rose above the pointed roofs bore painted signs: Assay Office, Miners' Exchange, Bank Exchange, Berlanger General Merchandise, Drugstore, Feed Store, Jep Jenks's Barbershop—Caskets Made in Rear. But in the late-afternoon shadows, all the buildings stood empty. Not a single person besides Jep was in sight.

As Andy and Dub climbed from the truck, Jep strolled up to them. “You can see that you've stumbled across a ghost town,” he said. “No one lives here anymore. No one but me, that is.”

“You live in a ghost town? All by yourself?” Andy asked in amazement.

“Nothing wrong with that. I happen to like it here,” Jep said. “I came to Maiden as a barber and casket maker and had a nice little business for myself—especially with the coffins. Lots of coffins needed. When the mines dried up and people left, I made my decision to stay.”

“All by yourself ?” Andy repeated.

“Look at those mountains,” Jep said. “Ever seen anything prettier? It's always quiet enough to hear the birds talking to each other. It's real peaceful.”

“No TV,” Dub said. He shook his head in wonder. “No Nintendo. No Internet. No music.”

Andy stared at Jep with admiration. “Nobody always telling you what to do.”

“Yeah,” Dub said, warming up. “No crime. No danger. No violence.”

“Oh, there was plenty of crime and violence when Maiden was a thriving mining town from the late 1880s on into the very early 1900s,” Jep said. “We even had to build a jail.”

Dub looked at both sides of the street. “Where's the jail?”

“We didn't have it for long,” Jep explained. “The carpenter who was hired to build it was so pleased with his handiwork that he went on a bender and tried to shoot up the town. So he was its first inhabitant.” Jep smiled. “He was its last inhabitant, too. The next night, soon after he was released, the jail mysteriously burned down. People took it as a kind of sign, so the jail never got rebuilt.”

“How did the carpenter take that?” Andy asked.