Ghost Towns

by Louis L'Amour

  Before Miss Ruth could answer, Moses plopped down a deck of cards between Harvey and me. “Your freedom,” he said, digging a handful of chips out of his apron.

  I must have had an astonished look on my face, because Harvey burst out laughing. “Looks like a high stakes game. Stud poker?”

  “I’m sorry, Edward. I should have told you. Gillian took the last of our prospects with her. You’re our only hope. You have to stay to repay her debt.”

  I took a deep breath, not fully comprehending the situation, other than I knew I had to play. And I had to win to repay whatever my sister’s debt was. “Stud poker it is,” I said.

  Time seemed to stand still. The light outside did not change, and I would not have noticed if it did. A man in the back walked to the piano and began to play “That Old Gang of Mine.” I had not noticed him before; he seemed to appear out of nowhere.

  Our stacks stayed even for several hands, until the luck shifted and Mysterious John Harvey hit a winning streak. I suspected he was cheating. He knew I was counting, but my marks weren’t holding, my mind foggy, so I quit the effort.

  “Take off your vest, Harvey. I want to see your sleeves.”

  Miss Ruth and Moses hovered behind me like I was giving birth to a baby. My whiskey glass was never empty.

  Harvey did not do as I asked; instead, he glared at me and dealt. “This is a fair game, Eddie.”

  My first card up was an eight of clubs. The hole card was a queen of hearts. I had no choice but to bet. I was growing weaker by the moment. The next card, dealt up, was an ace of spades. I bet half of my stack. Harvey did the same. He was showing a pair of kings. My chances of winning were slim, and we both knew it.

  The next card Harvey dealt me face up was an eight of diamonds. I bet half again, leading Harvey to do the same in kind, raising three times until I had one chip left.

  My chest heaved and my vision was beginning to blur.

  The last card dealt was an ace of hearts. Harvey was showing a pair of kings, an ace of clubs, and a two of diamonds. I did not take my eyes off him. The piano player quit playing. Silence engulfed the room when I threw in my last chip, called and flipped over my cards. Aces and eights.

  “The dead man’s hand,” Harvey whispered.

  “Take off your vest, Harvey,” I repeated, as I slid my hand under the table and grappled for the derringer in my boot.

  This time Mysterious John Harvey obliged. An ace of spades spilled onto the table out of his sleeve. I smelled a familiar aroma, iron—fear, I thought, until I saw the bullet hole and bloodstain on Harvey’s shirt, just underneath his heart. He smiled at me and nodded, acknowledging what I had feared since I had began to play. My weapon would do me no good against a dead man.

  I realized then that tuberculosis had somehow captured me, soaked my lungs one last time. I just couldn’t place when—somewhere in my wandering, along the dusty trail, before I stumbled into Miss Ruth’s saloon. Dead, even though I didn’t know it.

  Harvey turned his card over, all in all he had a pair of kings, an ace of clubs, a two of diamonds, and a two of spades. My guess was he was going to slip in the ace of spades until he saw mine. He’d done it before.

  “What is the name of this town?” I asked, trying to stand.

  “Purgatory,” Miss Ruth said. “You’re in Purgatory.”

  There was piano music in the wind as I entered Silent Hill. The opera house looked like it had received a new coat of paint, the streets were clean, free of mud, and the sky was crystal clear. Sapphire blue. The color of Gillian’s eyes. I never imagined Silent Hill would look like Heaven, if there was such a thing.

  I felt revived, free of pain, once I left Miss Ruth and Moses in Purgatory. Mysterious John Harvey was left to pay off his debt—I’m not sure what his penance was. Mine had been playing a fair game, winning, without cheating.

  I could not contain myself when I walked into the saloon. Gillian was sitting at the piano, playing Chopin. She turned and looked at me, blond curls falling over her shoulder, a glow about her I could only remember seeing when she was a child, and rushed to me, her embrace warm and happy. Tears flowed down her cheeks.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” she said happily.

  “I know. I’m sorry it took me so long.”

  We stood looking at each other for what seemed eternity. Death had taken her too, somehow, somewhere. She obviously had a debt to repay—it was the only way to explain her presence in Purgatory. I was burgeoning with questions about her life.

  After a moment, Gillian grabbed my hand. “Come, we must go.”

  It was then that I heard the train whistle, felt the thunder of the locomotive pulling into town.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “Home,” Gillian said with a smile. “Back to our city. Together. Forever.”

  End of the Line

  Lori Van Pelt

  On the last Tuesday of the town’s existence, Monty Long rode into Benton. As he reined his bay to a stop, a swirling cloud of alkali dust turned crimson by the fading rays of the setting sun framed the man sitting straight in the saddle, Stetson shading his face. The horse, nostrils twitching, shook his black mane, wreathing his rider in yet another powdery veil.

  The men nearby merely glanced at the stranger and then continued with their tasks. The singsong clang of hammers against spikes had not yet ceased for the day. The horseman dismounted and tied the gelding to a post at the corral. Wiping the pale grit from his sweaty face with a worn blue bandanna, he caught the elbow of a passerby.

  “I’m looking for Emil Long. Could you tell me where to find him?”

  The man shrugged but pointed toward a rail car. “Ask over there.”

  Monty pocketed his bandanna, doffed his hat, and stepped into the car.

  A small, fine-featured man sat at a plain pine table. Raising his eyes from his paperwork, he glimpsed at Monty. “We don’t have work today, but we’ll be packing up and moving out tomorrow, near as I can figure.”

  Monty nodded, rubbing the brim of his hat with his thumbs. “I’d be glad to help you, but I didn’t come for a job.”

  The man laid down his pencil and took stock of the tall, muscular man standing before him. “Oh?”

  “I’m looking for Emil Long. Do you know him?”

  The man shook his head. “I can’t say as I do. Why are you looking for him?”

  “I’m his brother.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed, and then he turned his attention back to the stack of papers on the table.

  Monty realized that his sudden presence in a notorious end-of-the-tracks town might seem odd, and his reasons for searching for Emil, straightforward though they were, could easily be misconstrued under the circumstances. He shifted his stance. “Do you know anyone else I could ask?”

  The little fellow shook his head and tapped his pencil against his papers as if eager to return to his task.

  “Thank you, then. I’ll be on my way.” Monty donned his hat and turned to go.

  Something in his courteous manner made the railroad man pause. “Wait,” he said, and stood. As he rose the chair legs scraped the floor. Monty winced at the rasping noise. The other man retrieved a metal box from a shelf. “I can check the payroll for you.”

  He lifted a hefty ledger from the box, opened it, and ran a finger along one of the columns. “Yes. Emil Long. Works as a hostler.” He gazed at Monty. “He collected his pay last week. That’s all I can tell you.”

  “I hitched my horse at the corral but no one was around.”

  The man gave this remark some thought, and then said, “Probably took fresh horses up to the front. Everything’s a little off-kilter today. We’re moving out tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Monty offered his hand, and they shook.

  “The Big Tent’s over there.” He pointed to a huge tent standing among a group of smaller, similar structures. “Some of the men gather there. They might know. Otherwise, he’ll likely be back afore long.”


  As the twilight deepened, Emil sat with Harry O’Malley, the harmonica player. Having returned early from taking fresh stock to the front of the line, he stopped in the makeshift restaurant that Harry ran. He often came and helped his friend with the cooking. Slicing potatoes and kneading bread, even churning butter, were restful tasks for him. Something about the homey chores gave him a settled feeling. In appreciation for this volunteer service, Harry played his harmonica, something they both enjoyed.

  “They promoted me, Harry,” Emil confided. “The last fellow just up and left, and since I’m a good hand with the horses, they put me in his place.” He tossed a potato peel into a bucket.

  “Aye now. Good for you. More pay, then?” He saw the wistful expression as his friend nodded. “But not enough to forget about her, eh?”

  Emil shook his head. “I should have never let her come between Monty and me.” He gestured with the paring knife like a schoolmarm emphasizing an important topic. “Our grandfather always told us that family was the most important thing in life. He lived that rule. I haven’t.”

  “We all make mistakes,” Harry said. “A man who hasn’t made a mistake ain’t tryin’ very hard. But I do agree with your granddad. Me, I’m itching to get back to my Miriam and young Tad. Meantime, she sends me letters.” He stopped and tapped his friend’s shoulder. “Say, have you tried sending your brother a letter? That might help.”

  Before Emil could respond, a group of men entered the restaurant, ready for their supper. Harry gave a plate of bread to another helper, who offered it to the workers.

  “I’ll play a last one for you,” he said to Emil, who had finished the task, “and then I’d best be seeing to this. Will you be stayin’ now or eatin’ later?”

  “I’ll come back,” Emil said. He liked Harry’s idea and had decided to return to his tent and compose a letter that expressed his feelings of remorse.

  Harry played “Woodman, Spare That Tree,” causing the men who were munching on their snack to break into raucous laughter. There were no trees for miles around, just vacant land stretching beyond them toward the mountains, and the yawning star-speckled sky above.

  The poker game began earlier than usual. Nate Hollander pulled up a chair and tossed a silver dollar—one of his last—onto the table with as much nonchalance as he could muster. This time, he was determined to beat Philippe DeVrees. His luck had run strong last night until DeVrees caught a mighty winning streak. Nate knew he should have been seeing to his job tending the stock, but the lure of the late afternoon game and the chance to defeat the haughty gambler proved a more enticing pursuit. Besides, Emil had already taken the fresh horses to the front. By the time he returned, Nate’s game would be completed. No one need be the wiser for his absence from work.

  As the afternoon waned, he found many reasons to regret his decision. The more he played, the more he lost. As evening fell, he found himself indebted to the card sharp holding a mark against his wages.

  Philippe DeVrees eyed him from across the table. “Well?” He drew the word out in an almost musical way.

  “Two,” Nate answered. The word felt like dust in his mouth. He held three queens and discarded the deuce of spades and eight of diamonds.

  DeVrees smiled and passed him two cards. He continued until each of the players had received their allotted cards.

  Nate studied his hand. Three queens. He had drawn a four of clubs and a jack of hearts.

  DeVrees laid down a flush. He straightened his shirt cuffs.

  “We’ll play again, Hollander, after we’ve eaten,” he said, gathering the money and chips. “You can square your marker and play again and try to redeem yourself. If not—” He shrugged, leaving the rest of the sentence unspoken.

  Monty nursed a whiskey at the saloon, watching people parade inside and out as they stopped for refreshments or went about their work. The stench of sweat, bitter cigars, and strong whiskey permeated the saloon tent. Two men sat on a platform in the corner, playing something classical sounding on a guitar and a mandolin. Below the musicians, a trio of scantily clad women twirled a haggard group of men in a rugged rendition of a waltz. A huge mirror reflected their movements.

  In the short time he had been sitting there, Monty witnessed two fistfights and narrowly missed becoming involved in one himself. The bartender had no information about Emil. Monty swallowed the last of his drink. He did not doubt the bartender’s word. This was not at all the type of place that his brother would frequent.

  As he turned to leave, someone shoved him aside. Surprised, he lost his balance and landed hard on a barstool. “Hey,” he said.

  Nate Hollander looked back and offered a short, “Sorry, mister,” before pressing forward through the rest of the crowd and heading outside.

  Monty rose to follow but felt a hand on his arm. “Hey, aren’t you the fellow rode in this afternoon on that fine bay? I’ve been lookin’ to buy a better horse. Yours for sale?”

  “No.” He glanced after Hollander, and then asked the man about Emil.

  That produced no information about his brother but resulted in a lengthy discourse on the nags the man had ridden during his time with the railroad. By the time Monty disengaged himself from the conversation, Hollander was long gone, and the darkness had deepened outside.

  After his discussion with Harry, Emil returned to his tent. He had intended to write the letter to Monty but the right words escaped him. After several frustrating minutes, he put aside paper and pencil and decided to take a walk. The cool air felt refreshing after the long, hot day.

  He stopped at the corral. The horses had been watered and had plenty of hay. As he walked south toward the ridge, he heard the hum of conversations and laughter and the general din of the townspeople going about their evening activities.

  Emil stayed quiet, the sounds of his footfalls lost in the background noise but the motion stirring puffs of dust behind him. He shoved his hands in his pockets, caressing the smooth case of Grandpa Long’s pocket watch. If his grandfather were here, Emil felt sure he would be proud to learn of his grandson’s promotion. He reached the top of the ridge. Proud, yes. But disappointed too that the boys he had raised as sons had fallen out over a woman.

  Emil turned and looked down at the town of Benton. A variety of canvas tents, some large and some small, spotted the flat landscape. From this perspective, the town laid in a line along the edge of the railroad tracks as if some thundering locomotive had scattered its freight while speeding west. The flickering of lamps inside the tents cast a golden hue against the pale canvas, creating eerie shadows and strange spectral patterns.

  The place was named for a United States Senator, Thomas Hart Benton, a man who was a passionate supporter of the westward movement. But the town’s hell-on-wheels reputation surely did not suit a lawmaker. Scarcely any laws existed down in that mass of tents and degenerate humanity.

  The forlorn yips and howls of a pack of coyotes increased Emil’s feeling of melancholy. He longed for a place he could call home. He realized that he must overcome his anger at having lost Celinda to Monty. He was the one who should make the first move toward reconciliation. He pinched off a piece of minty-smelling sage and rolled the leaves in his palms, breathing deeply of the stringent scent. With renewed resolve, he headed back to town.

  Nate stood alone in the middle of the small tent he shared with Emil Long. He had nothing of value to present to DeVrees as payment for the sizable debt he had incurred. He fingered the worn wool blanket covering his cot. That, plus the clothes he wore, were the only things he had left. The more he thought about his situation, the harder his heart pounded in his chest. Outside, the clamorous noises of people partying grew louder. He dropped to his cot and covered his face with his hands. Staring at his worn brogans, he watched a tiny black spider crawling through the alkali soil of the tent’s floor. The spider reached the leg of the small table that held a single coal-oil lamp and Emil’s books.

  In an effort to distract himself, Nate
picked up the top one, Plutarch’s Lives, disinterestedly thumbing through the well-worn pages. Emil still had things. This book, his Bible. What might they be worth, he wondered, replacing the book on the table. As he did so, he realized that Emil, who still had books, likely still also had money. Emil had everything, and the more he thought about it, the angrier he got. He had introduced Emil to the hostler in Laramie City and that’s how Emil had gotten this job. Even so, Emil refused to lend Nate money when he came up short before payday. In a way, then, Emil owed him. If Nate could find Emil’s money, he could take some of it with a clear conscience.

  He stood and rifled the blanket on Emil’s cot. He threw his pillow in the air and clapped his hands against it. Feathers fluttered about the small room. Perplexed, he stood in the deepening twilight. Perhaps Emil was clever like some of the other men he had known who had kept their money in their shoes. One couldn’t be too careful in a place like Benton.

  A displaced feather lit on the black cover of the Bible. Nate had almost grown to hate that book, so often did Emil insist on reading it late into the night when he should have been asleep instead. Whenever Nate complained, Emil said, “Some folks value sleep, but I treasure reading.”

  As Nate recalled his words, a wicked grin spread across his face. He grabbed the Bible. Holding the book by the spine, he spread the covers and let the pages splay out like the wings of a clumsy bird in flight. Out fell money—mostly National Bank notes—but a few wildcat notes and three coins. Nate shook the book some more and then tossed it onto the bed. He picked up the half-eagles before kissing them and stuffing them in his shirt pockets. He jammed the papers into his trouser pockets.

  “What are you doing?”

  Nate whirled to see Emil standing inside the tent’s flaps. Despite the dimness of the tent’s interior, his gaze traveled easily to the disheveled Bible lying on the bed.