[William O. Stoddard, A Dead Town, Appleton's Journal, October 25, 1873]

 

A DEAD TOWN.

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            It was among the tangled ridges and ranges of the rugged region of Central Nevada, and the sun was a little more than two hours high, but getting higher and hotter every minute.

            Along the deep ruts of the old wagon road, which wound through a crooked valley there were riding two men of widely different exterior, although they both were sufficiently noteworthy, in their way. The one in front, upon whose slow movements the other was rapidly gaining, was mounted on a stout old mule, whose dull ambition he continuously assisted with hearty thwacks of what was left of the stalk and lash of a worn out "bull whip," and a curious sort of customer was he. His dress was an odd commingling of the rags and the relics of civilized clothing with articles of Indian make — not to speak of sundry rude "improvements" that spoke probable of his own clumsy handiwork. His hat, for instance consisted of a greasy and battered antelope skin stretched over an incomprehensible frame of willow twigs and rusty wire, and had such a "flap-down" behind and such a "flat-up" in front as suited admirably a way the wearer had of bearing his snub-nose high in the air, as if he perpetually discovered something unpleasant in the surrounding atmosphere. It needed no second glance of an experienced eye to determine that that man had been a long time "in the mountains." In fact he was just returning from a prospecting and mining tour of prolonged toil and peril but of a very satisfactory success ; and there is no time in his wild adventurous life when your genuine miner so thoroughly appreciates his right to carry his nose as high in the air as he pleases. And yet our miner seemed to be in no hurry for all his occasional appliances to the tough hide of his old mule, and, least of all, did he seem disposed to avoid the man behind him.

            The latter wore the uniform of a United States cavalry-officer, spick and span new, with the shoulder straps of a captain, and a general appearance of having just been to the barber's that was in strong contrast with the outward man of the mule rider in front of him. He was well mounted on a sleek-skinned and perfectly groomed fat gelding—quite too fat for use in a country like that. The captain, however, did not carry his nose in the air, but rather seemed inclined to send its long, sharp point ahead of him on a general scouting expedition of its own.

            ''Hullo, stranger," shouted the man on the mule, as he turned half round in his tattered saddle; "I say, cap'n, my name's Bing. Do you know if this 'ere's the right road to Crooked Pine?"

            "Can't say, my friend." replied the Captain; "never was here before, and I'm just riding on ahead of my men to see what I can find."

            "Wall, then, cap'n, this 'ere is the right road to Crooked Pine, and I'm gwine right into that thar city myself, sure as my name's Bing."

            "All right," growled the captain; "go in if you want to. I don't suppose anyone will try to stop you."

            "Wont they, though ?" returned the man on the mule. "Wall, I reckon you never was into Crooked Pine in yer life, and I'm just gwine right in thar, I am. Mebbe it ain't a bad place for you, with yer army-blue on and yer cavalry fellers comin' close on behind ye. I ain't got no cavalry, but this yer consarned old mule."

            "Why," inquired the captain, aiming his long nose at the man on the mule, "is Crooked Pine such a dangerous place to get into ?"

            "You bet !" exclaimed Bing. "Why, cap'n, it's just the deadest town you ever hearn tell on. It growed powerful fast, it did. Thar was only a coyote-hole thar at first, an' the city sort o' growed up around that — a little the quickest you ever seen. Allers full of human coyotes, too, arter they'd skeered off the four-footed ones. I've been thar more'n once, and now I'm gwine agin. I'm gwine right into that thar town."

            "But what do you want to go there for if it's such a dangerous sort of place ?" asked the captain.

            "Wall, you see, cap'n," said Bing, with a species of snort, "that's just whar the rub comes. You see, Crooked Pine's just the deadest sort of town, and its the only place whar the boys ever made out to get a white skeer on to old Bing. They just did that more'n a year ago. They gobbled my pile fust, and then they run me clean out of Crooked Pine, and thus I took to the mountings, and I've been thar pretty much ever since. I've had the tallest kind of good luck but I shan't be comfortable in my mind till I've been back to Crooked Pine. I'm gwine to ride this 'ere old mule right into that thar town, as sure as my name's Bing, and we're almost thar now."

            The captain's curiosity was evidently somewhat excited by what he had heard, and his long nose was now aimed pointedly up the valley which was widening out upon a sort of plateau of no very wonderful extent, and there were certainly evidences of some sort of settlement. The land around, here and there, looked even as if at some time or other an effort had been made to put it under fence and cultivation.

            "Is that the city of Crooked Pine?' asked the captain of the mule-rider.

            "No, sir-ee," replied Bing; "we ain't into Crooked Pine. Not yet we ain't but I'm gwine to ride right in thar on this 'ere old mule. This 'ere place is only the graveyard, and, I tell you, they need one, for it's just the deadest town you ever seen."

            "Isn't it a healthy place?" asked the captain, with an uneasy twitch of his nose.

            "Healthy !" exclaimed Bing, "Did you ever bear of an onhealthy place among these mountains ? Crooked Pine's a healthy place, you bet, on'y fellers don't seem to live long thar, that's all. It's just the deadest place you ever seen, and I tell you they scared old Bing, they did. But I'm gwine to ride right in thar, I am."

            "Thought you said this place was the graveyard," remarked the captain, veering his nose slowly around the compass.

            "Wall ! an' so it is," said Bing, "but over yonder's the only patch that 'pears to be well planted. Look at them sticks! Lots of 'em ! Them with a hole bored into 'em means a revolver. Them that's notched so deep all 'round says how the fellow himself got notched, over to Crooked Pine. Thar's some on 'em looks as if the boys didn't know what hurt 'em. You see, cap'n, Crooked Pine is just the deadest town, but I'm gwine to ride right in thar onto this old mule."

            And now, as they rode somewhat more rapidly forward, the captain's nose became more pointedly inquiring than ever. Houses there were, scattered here and there, with some wild sort of reference to a possible street, and some of them were even of that ambitions sort where one story tries to climb to the dignity of two. There were frame-buildings, with marvelously sprawling signs — most of them "hotels," "halls," "shades," and miners' paradises of that sort ; but some were apparently intended for legitimate business — "dry goods emporiums," and the like, not to speak of three of four "banks," and a Crooked Pine branch-mint and assay-office."

            "Thar thar's whar they used to keep the tiger," said Bing. "It was right about thar that the skeer took me. But whar in earth are all the boys gone to?"

            Well he might ask, for although the captain's nose had pointed everywhere, not the first sign of an inhabitant had as yet made its appearance.

            "What can be the matter?" exclaimed the captain. "Are you sure that it was such a healthy place?"

            "Health?" said Bing. "Wall, now, you kin just bet. Anyhow I've come and rid right straight into Crooked Pine. Hullo, if thar ain't somebody stirrin' ! Tell ye what, cap'n, I was beginning to get a little skeered agin, everything looked so consumed lonesome."

            Even as he was speaking, a battered, grizzled, unkempt, unwashed specimen of elderly humanity came limping toward them bearing in his hand a rusty old double-barrelled shot-gun.

            "Look out," whispered Bing to the captain; "thar's no counting onto these yer Crooked Pine boys. They're most likely layin' low for somethin'."

            Then he added, aloud:

            "I say, stranger, whar hev all the boys gone ter? What's got inter Crooked Pine?"

            "Is that you, Bing?" drawled the man with the shot-gun. "Why, whar hev you been ?" Nothin' ain't got inter this yer place — that ain't what's the matter — but every livin' soul 'cept me has got out if it. Old Bing, I tell yer, Crooked Pine is a dead town."

            "You don't say !" exclaimed Bing, with what the captain took for a groan; but the latter aimed his nose at the man with the shot-gun, and asked him:

            "What did the town die of, and what made you stay here after it was dead?"

            "Die of ?" drawled the shot-gun man — "die of ? Why they've made another town, twenty mile away, over onto the new roloraid ; and they do say it beats this yer city all holler. What made me stay ? Why, stranger I never seen a roleraid, and I don't want to; and so, when the boys began to clar out for that thar new city I just bought that thar improvements. I got some on 'em powerful cheap, I did and I won three hotels at one raffle, I did. Biggest luck you ever seen ! And I kep' on and on, buyin' and winnin', till I reckon I own the whole town, and the graveyard too. It's a fine graveyard and it's got an awful good start ; but its just the deadest town you ever seen. What do I stay for ? Why, what should I go for ? Don't I own the hull of Crooked Pine ?"

            "Cap'n,'' said Bing, mournfully, "I reckon he's tellin' the truth. I've known this yer sort of thing to happen before. Do ye know what I'm gwine to do?"

            "No, I don't," said the captain.

            "Wall, you kin wait for yer cavalry men, if you want ter. I'm gwine to ride right on down into that thar other town, on this old mule. I'll ride right in thar. Mebbe I kin find some of the boys, and anyhow I want to see if that thar roleraid kin put another white skeer onto old Bing. Cap'n, Crooked Pine's just the deadest town I ever see."

            "Whack" went the stub-whip on the tough hide of the old mule, and on went Bing, as if he knew his way and disdained further information ; and, while the old man with the shotgun stood looking dreamily and wistfully after him, the captain wheeled his horse, gave him a sharp dig of the spur, and galloped briskly away down the valley, from the lower end of which there came just then the faraway, ghostly notes of cavalry-bugle. It was as if even music refused to be lively in so dead a town as Crooked Pine.*

W. O. STODDARD.

 

 

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* There are scores of such "dead towns" as Crooked Pine among the Nevada ranges.  Some of them were killed by the railroad, but quite as many died gently in their beds — a natural death. – W. O. S.