[James W. Gally, Ghosted, The Overland Monthly, August 1886]

 

120 Ghosted. [Aug.

 

GHOSTED.

            WHEN I first looked upon the scenery of Nevada, after living half a life-time among the broad leaves, great trees, wide waters, and grand prairies of the Mississippi Valley, I seemed to be for a long time in a ghostly country. In my former home, vegetable life was sappy, full, and varied in its green and flowering stages ; while in the autumn, the whirl of the yellow, brown, and red dry leaves, dancing in the wind, gave life and change to all the year round. But in Nevada, the change in the vegetation, if it changes at any time, is not perceptible to a stranger's eye ; everything betokens silence, lack of motion, and perpetual hush.

            In the Mississippi Valley, animal life is full, robust, and noisy in all its departments, accustoming the eye and ear to its universal presence. But in Nevada, among the rugged silence of the sage-brush and the scraggy trees, the animal life is so light that the starting of a hare, the "swith-swith " of a raven's wing, or the "caw-caw" of a blue-jay is the event of the sunlight hours ; while the shivering howl of a coyote after sundown makes the dead silence of the night hours deader still.

            Back home (as we fondly call the old States), there is snow or there is not snow ; but here, one stands at night on the dry sand in the valley, or lies on his blankets among the dusky gray of the bushes, while a little way from him, on either hand, the snowy peaks, white as the ghostly warders in a fairy tale, keep stern and shrouded guard upon the scene.

            These characteristics of Nevada impressed me, when I first came upon these scenes, with a lonesome sense of something pending in the air—a haunted feeling.

            If I have made plain by the foregoing paragraphs the peculiar impression made upon me by this strange country, my reader will see how the relation of the following circumstances was calculated to strengthen such an impression, particularly, when I say that it was made to me out of doors in the desert, by a brother teamster (albeit, he was a "bull-whacker "), as he and I sat smoking by the flickering, uncertain light of a sage fire.

SLIM SIM'S STORY.

            I CAME to Nevada in 1863, in the fall. My name is Selim Simpson, and, being spare in flesh and six feet two inches tall, I suppose it was very easy for some low and not very bright jokist to corrupt my name into Slim Sim, which I am now generally called by the miners and bull-whackers of these mountains. In fact, I am come to be so accustomed to that sort of a name that I am compelled, sometimes, when I sign a freight bill or some such paper, to pause a moment and consult my memory as to what I ought to write—whether Slim Sim or Selim Simpson.

            When I first came here, or pretty soon after, a man named Tod Wotters and myself followed " Old Tannehill" out of Austin about to the place where, at this time, is Eureka District, on a prospecting tour. We thought we found good mines, and Tod, who was an old miner, said the rock was "bully." We made two trips to our claims, and spent most of the winter of '63-4, prospecting and riding. We took specimens to the assayers in Austin ; but they pronounced our rock mostly lead, with considerable silver, but too refractory to be worked profitably. I was an emigrant from the States, and these things discouraged me ; but Tod never lost faith, for he was more on the believe than I ever was.  Tod was a pretty smart fellow, with a good education, and wrote a good hand. He was one of those spiritualists; and at night in camp he used to talk to me for hours about spirits, and noises, and manipulations,

1886.] Ghosted. 121

until I got so sometimes that a coyote, howling away out in the dark, from the light of the fire, would give me cold shivers up my back. Some people are not superstitious and I do not know that I am, naturally ; but I was reared in the old-fashioned school of ghost stories, and I guess a little superstition was ground into me with my small dose of learning. However it is, I am not stuck after spiritualism out of doors at night, in the sage-brush wilderness ; particularly in winter, when the coyotes are howling and the wind is blowing that lonesome whisper through the sages and pines. So, when Tod would keep on with his long talks, about spirit influence being a part of the atmosphere which is around us, the same as the air is a part of the water we drink ; or as the awful lightning lives in the innocent air until it finds a medium to strike through— as he would keep on bringing things which I supposed to be true, to prove the likelihood of his spiritual doctrine, which I did not want to believe—I had to tell him at last that he was crazy, and just had learning enough to make a fool of himself.

            This made him about half angry one night, as we stood out in the wilderness on opposite sides of a camp fire, and he said to me, as the light shone up in our faces—looking straight into my eyes, and shaking his fingers at me—" Sim, if I die before you do, I'll make it my business to show you that I know what spiritualism means; now you mind if I don't."

            And several times along toward the spring of 1864, he repeated his threat, or promise (whichever it was). But about that time he went to San Francisco, to be doctored for some sort of heart disease—a kind of cramp he had in his left breast—and as I went to work in Austin, I saw no more of him for some time.

            About the time Tod left for San Francisco, there was much conjecture about the geographical location of some rich prospects, away south of Austin. Colonel Dave Buel and party had been down that way looking for prospects, and as his party nearly perished, of course others were talking about " going after it," and wanting to bet they could get through and find "the Lost Mine."      

            This Lost Mine was, in 1863-64, and is yet, believed by many to be exceedingly rich; so rich that the raw ore was beaten out for gun-sights by the lost, wandering emigrants, who found and picked up the ore, while seeking their unfortunate way to California.

            Now, the fall of 1864 was a very hard one for miners in Reese River; no money, no work, flour twenty-five gold dollars per cwt., and other things in proportion. I was soon out of a job and wandering about the camp, when whom should I meet, one cold day, as he got out of the stage, but Tod Wotters, well dressed and looking well.     

            " Why, halloo, Sim ! Old boy, how are you?" 

            " Never had less or felt heartier!" I replied.

            " What'r you doing for yourself?" said he.

            " Nothing," said I.       

            " Well, I've got a 'lay out' for you," said he. "The doctors at the Bay say I'm to stay in the mountains and live out of doors, and I'm now come to 'go for' the Lost Mine, and I want you to come along. Just you and I. If we can't find it with the information I've got, then I'm fooled."         

            " How did you get your information ?" I asked.          

            " Why, we had a big meeting of spiritualists down at the Bay—two of the best mediums in the State,—and when it came my turn to ask questions of the spirits, I said :

            "' Is there any spirit present which, while in the body, was with the lost emigrant train in Eastern Nevada and Death Valley.'

            " The answer was Yes!'

            "' Does the spirit remember of the company finding silver on the trip ? ' The answer was Yes ! '      

            " Will the spirit communicate what he remembers to a prospector now present from that country ?' The answer was Yes ! '        

            "Then I asked the spirit if he preferred to write or talk, and the answer was, Write.'

            So, as one of the mediums was a writing medium, she got into communication, and the

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spirit wrote out where it is, and directions how we are to go there from here, and where we will find grass and water. I've got money enough for the oufit. Will you go ?"

            " Yes," I said, " Tod, I'm ready to go anywhere with you, partly because I'm not able to stay where I am. But I don't go much on that spiritual story."

            " Ah, well !" said Tod, " mind what I told you, old fellow, last winter."

            Nothing more was then said about spirits, but I knew mighty well that as soon as we got out into the wilderness, Tod would get on to his old string with new power ; yet I did not suppose he would carry the matter as far as he eventually did.

            In a few days we were ready. Tod bought two smart mules—one to ride, one to pack—and I rode my faithful, tough old cayuse. When everything was ready, we started ; up Main street, to Austin ; over the granite summit of the Toi-ya-be, bound out east and south for a six week s' trip. It was then December, and already the snow lay on the higher summits.

            Our spiritually written instructions were, to ride "nearly due east from Austin, over three ranges of mountains, until we came to the foot of a very high, steep range" (that which is now known as White Pine); then we were to "coast the west foot of that range for about seventy-five miles, until we came to some red bluffs in the valley, where there was a spring; thence, we were to bear more to the east, passing through the great range into another valley, by way of one of two adjacent cañons."

            Up to this point, we would find plenty of water without difficulty ; but after passing the great range we were to carry water in two kegs, to use in case we missed the Indian Springs. After passing through the great range, we were to "look for the trail of the lost wagons, and follow that southerly to a low reddish mountain, where there was a dug spring, and base, antimonial metal. Then follow the wagon trail in its meanderings until we come to a lone, dark, oblong peak or reef, and on the west by south face of that hill was ' The Lost Mine.'"

            The second night out, we camped at our old camp at Eureka, where Tod complained of a "bad cold" and his old cramp, so we laid by one day. The following day we crossed the Diamond Mountains, and on the next day we camped among the float quartz, on the west side of what is now White Pine District, Tod still complaining of his cramp and talking spiritualism every evening. In three days more we passed many fine large springs, and arrived at the red bluffs.

            At this point, Tod became feverish and delirious; so I moved next morning up into the mountains, where wood was plenty and grass better. Tod still raved about spirits and mediums, and elements inside of elements, and sphere within sphere, until midnight of that first day in the mountains, when, all of a sudden, he stopped his ravings. From that time until morning, he seemed to live only by spells, and about day-break he died ; right there, out of doors, by the camp fire.

            I sat and looked at him, then at the brown, dry valley, and the tall, snowy mountains, until the sense of loneliness and weak humanity came so strong upon me, that, for a moment, I looked upon my loaded revolver with a desperate interest. But the sun was rising bright, just as he used to do in my boyhood home, and I became singularly cheered by the presence of the glorious old orb, for he was the only object that looked at all natural or familiar to my sight—except poor Tod, and, alas ! he was too natural.

            During that day I dug a grave to bury Tod, and yet, even while I was digging the grave, I kept contradicting my own action by keeping up the camp fire where he was lying, as if I did not know that he was dead and did not need any fire. Along in the afternoon I had him all ready to bury as decently as I could. Just then an Indian came to camp, but as soon as he saw a dead man he left without parley, spoiling my hope of his help at the lone funeral.

            It was about dark when I got through covering up the grave and marking the stake at the head, which was only a few yards from

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the camp fire, so I pitched the pick and shovel over by the fire, and, taking the axe with me, went to a dead tree near by to get more wood. When I stopped to rest, in my chopping, I looked toward the fire, and, Great God ! there sat Tod on the ground, with his knees drawn up and his hands clasped around them, looking as natural and life-like as if he had not been buried.

            My hair went up with my hat! All the superstition of all the Simpsons, clean back to the Dark Ages, broke out on me, and I sweat ice water.

            Then I said, " Pshaw ! I've got a touch of fever, and anxiety has made me a little delirious ! I'll chop this wood and build a fire, cook supper, eat, look up the animals, and go to sleep. This is no time for old woman's fears and child's play."

            Then I chopped away like a chopping machine—never looking toward the fire, nor elsewhere.

            When I had finished chopping, I gathered up an armful of the wood, again turning my face toward the fire—and sure enough there he sat ; Tod Wotters—no mistake—looking so natural that confusion of mind came over me as I stopped and stood, thrilled and chilled with a nameless horror. Either I had dreamed of burying a dead man, or else I was now dreaming ; or spiritualism had something in it, and Tod was proving his doctrine.

            I shook off the spell of terror, and making a shade with my hand above my eyes, started around the camp-fire, at some distance off, in a circle, keeping my eyes on the figure as well as I could, at the same time taking care not to stumble and fall over the stones and bushes ; and though I tried to get a full face view, by going around as I have just related, I could not get such a view, for the side, or rather the back, was always toward me.

            At last I said, "This will not do ! I can't freeze, if the devil was at the fire." So, gathering all my courage, I walked straight to the fire. There was no one there ! No mark, sign, or token, except the sad reminders in the equipment for two when one only remained.

            Then I built up the fire in silence and solitude, but I did not look—did not look anywhere, except right at what I was attending to. The solitude was awful ! I have heard that some great man wrote a book in praise of solitude. I have my opinion of him. I will not say he was a fool, but I will say that if he or any other man travels alone in Nevada, far out of the way, for a few days, he will vote against solitude all the rest of his life. Solitude ! Pshaw ! The greatest criminal, the meanest, the lowest scummer, could he speak my language, would on that night have been as welcome to me as an angel ; —he could have had the half—yes ! all I had. Solitude is a bilk !

            But to go on with my story. I cooked and ate a sad, sickening, melancholy supper ; unrolled my blankets, and then without looking, back, walked straight out into the brush to hunt up the animals ; because come what might, anything was better than a loss of the stock and being left on foot. I found the animals a short distance from camp, quietly feeding, and after securing them for the night with hobbles, I returned towards the fire.

            When I got near enough to see distinctly, there he sat in the same attitude as before, and just as I caught the first glimpse of him a coyote not far behind me put up his half-laugh, half-howl, startling me until my heart beat against my ribs, and I halted. But it was no use—I could not freeze nor starve ; so, pulling my hat down over my eyes I blundered rapidly straight up to the camp fire ; and once there—no sign of any one !

            Piling more wood on the fire, I soon laid down, and pulling the blankets over my head, tried to sleep ; but I could not.

            Neither could I think of the day's occurrences ; and at last I fell into a train of thought, in which all the acts, fights, scenes, and faces I had ever done or known came to mind with the utmost clearness. Faces long dimmed in my memory came up clear in every line, trick, and lineament. Thus following back my line of life, I came to early boyhood, and there, amid scenes of wading in cool brooks, nut-gatherings in

124 Ghosted. [Aug.

gaudy autumnal forests, romping with the house dog, or trudging off to school, I fell asleep, dreaming myself in a cold winter's night, tucked warm in bed by the dear, kind hands that now molder far away by the great river. I slept soundly until the yellow sunlight mellowed all the sky, and my first waking thought was Tod Wotters ; but there was his grave in full view; that was a fact.

            As I cooked my solitary breakfast, I ran over the scenes of yesterday and the situation generally, and finally concluded I was not afraid of spirits nor anything else. You see, it was the warm, bright, glorious sunlight stimulating me, and giving me life and courage. The sun is one of the things I believe in, and I go a good deal on those ancients who worshiped the sun. Those old fellows were not so far wrong as one might think they were.

            After breakfast, I concluded to go on and try to find the Lost Mine according to directions---at least, to try to go on. So I gathered the animals, saddled up, and packed the load upon the mule. Then, drawing the reins of Tod's mule around the horn of the saddle, so that he could not put his head down to grass, I mounted my horse, leading the pack mule, and leaving the other with an empty saddle upon him to follow, and away I went over the great White Pine range toward the southeast. The day was splendid, cold—but not so very cold—and the air clearer than any air in the world, but so still, so silent—so very still that the jingling of a Spanish spur seemed noisy as the ringing of cymbals.

            I made a long day's ride, for the stock was rested, and night came down upon me while I was still riding higher up the hills searching for water. I was beginning to feel annoyed about water, and was riding steadily along, thinking over matters, when I heard Tod's mule snorting behind me, as if alarmed, and turning to look, I saw the mule, with Tod riding him, passing me at full gallop up the hill, and still snorting. I had surmised from the signs that water was no great way off, and now the two animals had quickened their paces, following the mule with the spiritual rider. I tried to hold them back, but it was no use until they came to the other mule, standing quietly under his vacant saddle, endeavoring to get his head down to water in a spring.

            I arranged camp as usual, still keeping a shy lookout for the strange shadow of my dead and buried companion ; but it troubled me no more that night, and I sat by the fire a long time, thinking over the doctrine of the spiritualists, until I began to conclude perhaps it was just as reasonable for a disengaged spirit to dwell in the atmosphere as for a disorganized body to dwell in the earth—one becoming ethereal, the other earthy, and both retained in the universe for future combination when the proper media shall occur to recall the ethereal to inhabit the earth. Then I regretted that I had not studied the modus operandi of spiritual communication, for now, if I knew how, I might talk to Tod Wotters ; but I did not know how to begin the tricks.

            I traveled two more days without annoyance from any visitor, and early in the evening of the second day, I came to the Dug Spring in the antimonial hill. The antimony is bulky and nearly pure metal, and the spring is almost in the edge of the metalic deposit.

            At Dug Spring I camped for the night, and being lonely and not very well, I determined to go no further southward, but made up my mind to return to Austin.

            After I had made this conclusion my spiritual visitor never left the camp fire, except when I came to it, for five consecutive nights ; but now, instead of sitting at the fire, he stood with his back toward it and one hand always pointing south. Whenever I was ten yards from the fire, I could see him standing, his back toward me, on the opposite side, pointing his outstretched hand south—always south.

            I tried many devices to get him to go away. I first built another fire and moved over to it, thinking he would stay by the old one. But no I he would not. Then I built a fire for him and carried such of his things as were not needed to bury his body in, and

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laid them down by his fire. But he would not stay there. Would not stay anywhere but by my fire, whenever I left it to go ten yards for any purpose. At last, on the fifth night at camp, near a big springs about fifty miles south of White Pine, I stood off from the fire while he stood by it, pointing south as usual, and I shouted to him these words: "Tod Wotters, for God's sake ! don't drive me crazy by haunting me in this way ! I've done the best I could for you. I always did. If I can't see into spiritualism, I'm willing to say you could. Don't haunt me this way. It's no use. I will not go south. No ! not if you bring all the spirits of the air, I will not go ! By the Holy God of my mother's faith, I will not !"

            When I had finished this speech, which I uttered with the distinctness and energy of agony, the form faded from the fire, and I saw it no more ; but a low, clear laugh seemed to suffuse the night air, the wild wind sighed through the long reeds about the spring, and the stillness of dry, scraggy Nevada fell upon the scene.

            Some portion of that country is now thoroughly prospected and traveled over. "The Lost Mine" is not yet found—but I have no inclination to ride that way again.

            As for spirits and modern spiritualism, I still do not know what to make of them ; like many wonderful things I have read of, they require either more brains to believe with, or less to reason with, than belong to Slim Sim.

            HERE Mr. Simpson knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and putting it in the breast pocket of his coat, arose to his feet, dusted the sand from the seat of his pantaloons, and remarked, " It's a fine, clear night," and guessed he would "turn in "—which guess he soon converted into a fact, and as I followed his example I said :

            " Good night."

J. W. Gally.