Ghosts of Goldfield and Tonopah

by Janice Oberding

  After seventeen hours of deliberation, the jury returned a verdict of not guilty. The sensational murder trial had also focused attention on McCarran, who had proven himself a skilled orator and attorney. He would go on to become one of Nevada’s most powerful politicians.

  Forlorn and nearly forgotten, the Old Tonopah Cemetery is silent—or is it? I was with a group of ghost enthusiasts one night, and we decided to investigate the cemetery. It was just after midnight on a chilly February night, and our plans were not to stay very long. As we wandered among the old tombstones, trying to decipher names and dates, we noticed that many of the residents at the cemetery were very young. Most of them had died of the plague, others from the mining disaster.

  “It’s too cold even for ghosts,” someone remarked. The words were no sooner said than a streak of white light rushed toward us. Only car lights from the highway, I thought—right up until I heard an angry voice hiss, “Get out!”

  “Did you hear that?” I asked.

  No else had heard it. For me, this was a good sign that it was time to go back to the Clown Motel. I’d had enough ghost hunting for one night.

  THE HAGGARD HITCHHIKER

  Occasionally, a motorist on that lonely stretch of highway near Lida Junction may catch a glimpse of a haggard hitchhiker stumbling along the roadside. A backward glance in the rearview mirror reveals nothing but an empty roadside. A trick of light, a strange mirage, boredom or imagination, no one knows for sure. But there are those who will tell you that the hitchhiker is none other than the late Howard Hughes trekking along a highway he knew quite well in life.

  Howard Hughes was connected to Nevada. He owned mining operations near the Comstock, land and mining claims in Central Nevada and several hotel/casino properties in Las Vegas. An often told story involves his purchase of the Desert Inn. Before purchasing, Hughes and his entourage rented the entire two top floors of the Desert Inn and moved in on Thanksgiving in 1966. The problem was, they never wanted to vacate. Management wanted the suites for the high-rollers (those who spent big money freely on the casino floor), but Hughes wouldn’t budge. Finally, a deal was struck. Hughes bought the Desert Inn on March 1, 1967.

  Then there is the local story of Hughes’s visits to the Cottontail Ranch brothel. He was flown in and out by private plane, and no one was the wiser. This, they say, helps explain his being in the vicinity of Lida Junction when Melvin Dummar spotted him. But I’ve gotten ahead of myself…

  When he died on April 5, 1976, at age seventy-one, Howard Hughes left an estate of $2.5 billion dollars. As might be expected, the rush was on to find Hughes’s heirs and settle the estate. Service station owner Melvin Dummar stepped forward with the so-called Mormon Will, which he claimed was that of Howard Hughes. If proven to be genuine, this will would have netted him 16 percent of Hughes’s estate.

  Dummar told a most interesting story while explaining just how he came to be included in billionaire Howard Hughes’s will. One night in late December 1967, Dummar stopped in at the Mizpah Hotel. After a quick meal, he spent the next several hours gambling in the casino before climbing into his 1966 Chevy Caprice and heading south on Highway 95. Near Lida Junction and the Cottontail Ranch brothel, he spotted a bedraggled old man lying in the sand along the highway. Thinking the old man was either very sick or dead, Dummar pulled to the side of the road and picked up the man. His passenger wanted to be taken to Las Vegas, some 180 miles south, and Dummar obliged. During the ride, the old man told Dummar that he was Howard Hughes and asked to be dropped off at the Sands. Once more, Dummar obliged. He hadn’t believed for a minute that his passenger was billionaire Howard Hughes—until a mysterious man delivered an envelope to Dummar that contained Hughes’s will, which could have made him a very wealthy man.

  Though the will could have made him wealthy beyond his wildest dreams, Dummar was scorned as an opportunist and a fraud. In 1978, a Las Vegas jury found the will to be a forgery. In his 2005 book The Investigation: A Former FBI Agent Uncovers the Truth Behind Howard Hughes, Melvin Dummar, and the Most Contested Will in American History, retired FBI agent Gary Magnesen claims to have found evidence to support Dummar’s story of finding Hughes in the desert. It’s a moot point. Dummar never received a dime. Many of the players, like Howard Hughes, madam Beverly Harrell and the Cottontail Ranch, are long gone.

  And yet, there is that haggard hitchhiker who wanders aimlessly along the highway near Lida Junction…

  TONOPAH’S CURSED AIR BASE

  Allen Metscher of Goldfield is the local go-to person for history of the Central Nevada area, particularly that of Goldfield and of Tonopah’s old air base. As historians and natives of Central Nevada, Allen and his brothers founded the Central Nevada Museum in Tonopah. Allen is responsible for the museum’s Tonopah air base exhibition, which includes a complete history of the Tonopah Army Air Field.

  The 1941 attack on Pearl Harbor caught the United States unaware. To ensure that this would never happen again, the military began construction at the Tonopah Army Air Field so that pilots and crews could be trained in the operation of Bell P-39 planes for overseas combat. This would not work out as expected. Within two years, twelve fighter squadrons were trained at the airfield. In that time, fifty-nine fatal accidents occurred involving 257 pilots and crew members. There would be 135 fatalities and 59 aircraft destroyed. Freak accidents were common; the strangest was a machine gun that went out of control, firing in all directions and killing 3 men. A raging fire swept through the barracks, killing 3 officers. An unfortunate B-24 crew member was killed instantly when he walked into a spinning propeller blade. When their oxygen supply was interrupted, 2 men suffocated in gun turrets.

  The Tonopah Army Air Field, which some refer to as “Tonopah’s cursed air base,” is seven miles east of Tonopah. Notables of the day came here to entertain the troops, and Chuck Yeager flew through an open hangar on the base. While the Tonopah airport is located here, the area is desolate; looking at it today, it is hard to believe that there were nearly seven thousand enlisted personnel stationed at this base as World War II wound down. Some of them didn’t want to be anywhere near Tonopah. As far as safety was concerned, this was a place with a bad reputation. The accidents and deaths had led to talk that possibly, just possibly, the base was cursed. In truth, there were many things that could have contributed to the accidents, such as the high altitude, the terrain and inexperience. And yet…

  On a recent hot afternoon in late summer, Allen Metscher was leading a tour of the air base. As he talked, participants walked along, gazing into broken windows and skeleton-like hangars. The group stopped in front of a large old building. Suddenly, a woman gasped that she’d seen a young man in uniform inside the empty building. We all peered in. Cameras and recorders were at the ready, but we saw nothing in the old building but dust and cobwebs. Still, she knew what she’d seen, and she insisted she’d seen a young man in uniform, gazing back at her.

  Had she let her imagination get the better of her? Or had she seen the ghost of a long-ago serviceman? No one can say for sure, but we do know that many ghost hunters have visited the old air base and proclaimed it haunted.

  MIMOSA PITTMAN’S REMARKABLE PHOTOGRAPH

  Out across the Nevada desert, a summer thunderstorm can come up quickly. Wind-driven storm clouds are swept across the sky, turning it ominous. Suddenly it is pouring rain, accompanied by the roar of thunder, followed by the crack of lightning. On August 10, 1904, just such a storm swept into Tonopah.

  Mimosa Pittman’s photograph of a lightning strike. Photo courtesy of Central Nevada Museum.

  Mimosa Pittman was fascinated with the new camera her husband, Key, had given her. In the raging storm, Mimosa and Key set the camera up in back of their house. Perhaps they would be lucky enough to capture the mesmerizing phenomena going on around them. At just the right moment, Mimosa clicked the camera and was rewarded with an amazing shot. Sixty-five years later, man would walk on the moon and send photos back to earth. But this was a d
ifferent time; demand was great for copies of what scientists said was the most remarkable photo ever taken. And being the astute businessman he was, Key Pittman copyrighted the photo.

  CHAPTER 5

  GOLDFIELD GHOSTS AND STORIES

  ESMERALDA COUNTY COURTHOUSE

  You wouldn’t know it today, but back in 1905, Goldfield was Nevada’s largest town, with a population of close to ten thousand. As such, its residents felt their town should be the county seat for Esmeralda County. The citizens of Hawthorne disagreed. They were happy with being the county seat and fought hard to keep it that way, even if theirs was a much smaller town. As the arguments rose up, one person even had the audacity to suggest that Goldfield would not last.

  It took nearly two years, but Goldfield didn’t give up. The Nevada legislature authorized the county seat to be moved from Hawthorne to Goldfield on May 1, 1907. The only problem was there was no courthouse. That was solved when John Shea of Salt Lake City was awarded the $79,833 contract to build the new courthouse. Shea was no slouch. The courthouse was completed and ready for business in May 1908.

  The courthouse is an interesting structure, very different from any of the state’s other courthouses. Like some of the other county courthouses in Nevada, the Esmeralda County Courthouse is rumored to be haunted. One of the resident ghosts is that of a longtime judge. His honor has been seen in and around the courtroom many times since his death. A woman told of accidentally bumping into a judge while photographing the court:

  The dedication of the Esmerelda Courthouse with county officials on June 18, 1907. Courthouse 0350 0130, the Boomtown Years Special Collections, University Libraries, University of Nevada–Las Vegas.

  I was just finishing photographing the judge’s bench when I stepped back and collided with something. It startled me when I saw that I had bumped into a judge in his black robe.

  “I am so sorry.”

  He looked at me kindly and nodded.

  “Your honor, may I—” But I before I could finish asking him if I could take his picture, the judge walked up to bench and was gone. He just…disappeared.

  A local took a photo of the judge’s bench one night and was surprised to see the face of a former judge staring back at him.

  Then there is the haunted chair. If a house can be haunted, why can’t a piece of furniture? Is a chair in the Esmeralda County Courthouse actually haunted? That depends on who you listen to. According to some courthouse employees, a chair on the first floor seems to have a ghost attached. The chair will move on its own accord whenever it is removed from its spot at a certain desk. An ordinary straight-back chair made of wood, there is nothing ordinary about the stories told about it. The chair has been locked in a vault and somehow managed to return to its rightful spot at the desk in the hallway. Is it the work of ghostly prankster or a living breathing person who enjoys perplexing those who investigate ghostly happenings? Who can say?

  The courtroom of the Esmerelda County Courthouse, where a ghostly judge is seen. Photo by Bill Oberding.

  If you’d like to photograph or test the chair, be sure not go to the courthouse during busy nine-to-five business hours. Visit in the wee hours of the morning. Things are quiet in the old courthouse at that time and employees are more apt to talk about the ghostly goings-on. Then, too, the chair is less likely to be occupied by a live person.

  HAUNTED JAIL

  As in many smaller communities, the Esmeralda County jail is housed within the courthouse building. Ghosts are free to come and go throughout the building; inmates are not. Over the years, inmates at the jail have reported hearing strange noises and seeing a shadowy figure walk past the cells. The cell at the end of the row is considered especially haunted.

  The Esmerelda County jail, where a ghost is sometimes seen. Photo by Bill Oberding.

  There have been a few deaths in this hundred-year-old facility located in back of the courthouse. Perhaps some of those who died here have chosen to stay on. After all, some paranormal experts believe jails and prisons are among the most haunted locations there are. But the question is, if a ghost can haunt anyplace on earth, why would it choose to haunt a place where it was most unhappy?

  One of the earliest deaths in this jail was the suicide of Edward Hughes in 1908. After having been convicted and sentenced to life imprisonment for the murder of his wife’s lover, Hughes escaped punishment by hanging himself in his jail cell. If he is in residence, the ghostly Hughes is serving a longer life sentence then even the judge and jury could have foreseen.

  Over the years, a few ghost hunters have even spent the night at the jail—as inmates. The young men were caught trespassing in the Goldfield Hotel, and for their troubles and their crime, they were guests of Esmeralda County until bail could be arranged. Trespassing is never a good idea, especially at the Goldfield Hotel. You may encounter more ghosts than you bargained for, because you will also go to the haunted jail.

  The grave of Edward Hughes, the suspected ghost of the Goldfield Jail. Photo by Bill Oberding.

  The author with an orb in Goldfield Hotel lobby area. Photo by Bill Oberding.

  VIRGIL EARP, ESMERALDA COUNTY DEPUTY SHERIFF

  The most famous person to live, and die, in Goldfield was probably Virgil Earp. Earp and his wife, Alvira, known as “Allie,” came to prospect the area with his brother Wyatt, whose stay in Tonopah lasted but two years. By the time Virgil and Allie Earp settled permanently in Goldfield, Wyatt and Josie had moved on. The Goldfield that Virgil and Allie Earp arrived at on a cold day in January 1905 was very different from the place they had visited a few years earlier. Where there had been only a couple dozen people, there were now thousands. Miners and their families still huddled in tents, crude rock houses and temporary leantos, but even in the snow one could see that a flurry of building activity had been taking place. Hotels, saloons, shops and houses were being erected as fast as the necessary lumber could be hauled in. Telephone and telegraph poles dotted the landscape; the rest of the world was now that much closer.

  It hadn’t been that long since Virgil and his brother Wyatt prospected around Tonopah and not that long since Wyatt ran the Northern Saloon there. Like silver had on the Comstock fifty years earlier, gold had changed everything. Well past his prime, Virgil was old enough to realize nothing ever stayed the same.

  He was sixty-two with a crippled left arm, the remnant of a late-night ambush in Tombstone, and now his fast-draw days were well behind him. He might well have died a young man on that long-ago December night in 1881. The doctor had wanted to amputate his mangled arm, but that was something Virgil could not allow. Instead, four inches of bone was sawed away from his elbow.

  Old and tired, Virgil came to Goldfield hoping to open a saloon like Wyatt had done in Tonopah. Instead, he took a job as a deputy sheriff for Esmeralda County. He had been a lawman most of his life and knew the job. If his health had held out, he might never have come here to Goldfield. He might have ended his days as the sheriff of Yavapai County in Arizona. In 1900, when he accepted the Republican party’s nomination to run for sheriff, he said, “I was nominated, and if elected you can count on it that I will, as in former years, stand for good government and the protection of property.”

  But it wasn’t to be. Virgil was slower and frailer than in his younger Tombstone days. Time had finally caught up with him. With his health deteriorating, he had no choice but to withdraw from the race.

  Five years later, he was in Goldfield, pinning on a badge. This town had its share of killings and robberies, but nothing like Tombstone in the old days. There were no rowdy shootouts in the streets; the job was relatively easy for him. And so he went about the task of being a deputy sheriff, an old man keeping the peace.

  That spring, Wyatt and his wife came to Goldfield for a short visit. On February 11, 1905, the Tonopah Sun announced his arrival:

  Verge Earp, a brother of Wyatt and one of the famous family of gunologists is acting as a deputy sheriff in the National Club, Goldfield. Verge
is a mild looking individual and to the outward view presents none of the characteristics that have made the family a familiar one in the west…

  Wyatt is expected in Goldfield shortly. He is coming overland from Los Angeles with his wife, dog and trusty rifle…In a recent letter to his brother…Wyatt asserted that he would “Never shoot at a man unless he tried to shoot at me first.”

  Early Goldfield, circa 1907. Library of Congress.

  Even as the brothers reminisced about the old days, of Morgan and the others they had known and loved who were dead and in their graves, time was running out. Virgil contracted pneumonia that fall, about the same time that electricity was brought to Goldfield. The town was lit up like never before.

  A week later, the train rolled into Goldfield for the first time. It was September 15, 1905, and the future had arrived. Goldfield was jubilant. Three days of celebration followed. Although he was witness to it, Virgil was too old and too sick to celebrate the progress that was happening all around him. Try as he might, he could not shake the cough, the chills and fever. Every breath was tortuous. Soon he was bedridden. His wife, Allie, knew the truth; he would never get any better.

  She took him to the county hospital, where he was given a bed and made as comfortable as possible.

  “Light me a cigar, Allie,” Virgil said.

  She handed Virgil the cigar and watched him try to puff on it without coughing. “Sit here awhile, Allie, and hold my hand.”

  Virgil died of pneumonia on October 19, 1905. The October 20 issue of the Goldfield News carried the following obituary.

  Makes Final Camp